Is a deliverer a hero?

A hero might be the concept in the popular thinking that is closest to a deliverer, someone who frees us from oppression or danger. In fact, popular culture isn’t satisfied with mere heroes, and moves on to superheroes, characters who are endowed with abilities that make them perpetual heroes, always able to save the hapless and helpless individual some external difficulty (but somehow never from the individual himself). The superhero’s life is almost reduced to a series of episodes in which they save people over and over again — often without really addressing the underlying causes of the dangers.

The book of Judges is like this. Israel has to be saved over and over by a series of “judges”, often through war or physical violence, and also without resolving the issues that led to the need for Israel to be saved. There is never lasting peace with the Philistines, nor are the divisions and failures of Israel itself solved. It seems Israel will always need a new deliverer.

In contrast to this model, the sections of this lesson actually emphasize our personal involvement, and the things we need to do to be delivered. Unlike the passive victims in most hero narratives, we must act ourselves to use the power of our Deliverer to be saved in a more lasting way.

 

The Lord forgives as often as I repent.

Also unlike most hero narratives, the source of the problem is usually ourselves. Ultimately, isn’t Christ our superhero and the atonement our salvation? And if the Lord is forgiving us, and providing this salvation, shouldn’t we be helping others to do the same?

J. L. Townsend, who converted to the Church in the 1870s, wrote 10 of the hymns in our current hymnal. In this poem he explores how we should help others to forgiveness and salvation.

 

Though oft you’ve stumbled down, brother,

Though oft been spurned by men,

I’ll take you by the hand, brother,

And lift you up again.

The great heart of the Master,

With love so kind and true,

Is ready to forgive, brother,

Is yearning now for you.

 

I’ll take you by the hand, brother,

When ship-wrecked in life’s storm;

The haven of the Lord, brother,

Has hearts both true and warm.

Oh, come where friends can greet you,

Let me not plead in vain!

I’ll take you by the hand, brother,

And lift you up again.

 

Come while we wait for you, brother,

Come, gather to the fold;

There’s hope and joy for you, brother,

There’s love and peace untold.

Think how the Savior loves you,—

His call is to all men,—

I’ll take you by the hand, brother,

And lift you up again!

1914

 

I can inspire others to have faith in the Lord.

In addition to giving others a hand, our speech and actions can serve as an inspiration for faith in the Lord and, through that, salvation. There is something important about what others do, humans naturally imitate and compare their lives to others as a way of understanding how to live—and any problems arise when we follow poor examples. But a lot of encouragement and inspiration comes from seeing the success of others who we think are similar to us.

Perhaps the most prolific LDS poet, Joel H. Johnson (who is believed to have penned more than 1,000 poems), here provides an elegy to an unnamed example, someone who had recently died (before 1882). In this poem he suggests how this man’s example influenced others.

 

Our brother’s work is done,

For which he now is blest;

His battle’s fought, the victory won,

He’s gone into his rest.

 

As bowed by sudden storm,

The rose has lost its bloom,

So death has changed his manly form,

And laid him in the tomb.

 

No more his voice we’ll hear,

The Saints to faith inspire;

He’ll in the dance no more appear.

Nor chant the joyful lyre.

 

Triumphant in his death,

Eternal life he’s won.

Peace reigned with his expiring breath,

To think his work was done.

 

He labored with his might,

The work of God to aid;

In it he took supreme delight,

While on the earth he staid.

 

His body in the ground

In silence must remain,

Till Michael’s trump, with joyful sound,

Shall bring it back again.

1882

 

The Lord can work miracles when I trust in His ways.

Trust is one of the words associated with the concept of faith and belief. Trusting in the Lord is very similar to having faith in Him. We often demonstrate Faith simply by doing the things that have always worked in the past—although that doesn’t require as much faith as trusting in things that have not happened in the past. We plant our crops or flowers expecting that they will grow, we raise our children expecting that they will grow up—and sometimes a threat comes along to disrupt that idea, requiring more faith. That’s often when trust and faith and belief are challenged the most.

While the myth of the crickets and the seagulls has been challenged in recent years, the story itself is a story like the above, and I think it can still help us have faith in God when our expectations are put at risk—when our children are ill, or another danger happens. Regardless of the seagulls, the crickets were very real, and most, if not all, farmers lost crops as a result. Any salvation of those crops is a kind of miracle.

Here Ruth May Fox tells the story of the seagulls and crickets in verse. Fox, an activist, a sufffragist and the 3rd president of the YLMIA (now known as the Young Women), was also well-known as a poet and promoter of  LDS literature and culture.

 

Within a high and olden wall

There stands a temple holy;

Erected by brave, willing hands

To Him who loves the lowly;

Where prophets stand, and Saints repair

To worship in the House of pray’r.

 

Where falls the shadow of its spires

‘Mid spruce and elm trees balmy,

There lies a fount—a lily pond

Where floats the broad leaf calmy;

While gold-fish sport beneath the wave

And searching eyes, sad, gay, or grave.

 

Up from the center of the fount,

Where flowers sly are peeping

At their fair shades within the pool,

Their pulses proudly leaping,

There tow’rs a snow-white monument

In mem’ry of an incident.

 

An incident? A miracle!

Oft told in song and story;

And graven deep on loyal hearts

Who witnessed the wing’d glory;

‘Tis written, too, on plain and hill—

The Lord saved modern Israel.

 

The granite base, the pedestal,

The round shaft nobly rising,

Surmounted by a perfect sphere

On which two gulls are poising,

In shining gold from tip to bill,

Declare: The Lord saved Israel.

 

The metal tablets tell the tale:

Into a desert dreary,

There came a few—a gallant few,

All travel-stained and weary;

They pitched their camp within the vale—

The vanguard ’twas of Israel.

 

They broke the clod, and sowed their seed

For winter-snows to nurture;

They toiled and praised the Father for

His promise of the future;

Anon with joy the mountains ring,

Their broad, green fields adorn the spring.

 

How soon their joy is turned to grief,

The crickets come, devouring

The tender grain—their hope of life,

The strength of man o’erpow’ring;

But One can save from direst ill,

It is the God of Israel.

 

Behold! in answer to their pray’rs

His messengers come flying,

With rav’nous haste they clear the fields

Beneath the black plague lying.

The stone, in rare artistic skill,

Tells how the Lord saved Israel.

1913

 

God strengthens me as I am faithful to my covenants.

When we have the kind of faith that leads to miracles, we find strength in the teachings of the gospel, and in keeping our covenants, come what may. While the story isn’t well known, Eliza R. Snow is a good example. In 1856 Snow found herself bankrupt, in a time when not being able to pay your bills was something to be ashamed of, and which could even lead to jail time. But Snow held up her head, and delivered the following poem to one of the nascent cultural groups in early Salt Lake City, the Literary and Musical Assembly.

Knowing that she had done nothing wrong to put herself into this situation, Snow talked back to those who criticized her for her debts. And, she points out that we should all recognize the strength and “wealth” we receive merely by being children of our Heavenly Parents. I love the final three stanzas of this poem, which I will put here separately from the entire poem below:

I boast of wealth and richer streams than flow

From the most fruitful sources here below;

Mine is not wealth that stimulates with pride,

‘Tis wealth that will eternally abide:

If l in faithfulness and patience wait,

I’d hold an heirship in a God’s estate;

And even now, I’m richer, wealthier far

Than those who dip in Mammon’s coffers are.

My Father’s rich—I am his lawful child—

Not one by silly, fond caressing spoil’d,

I’ve through bereavement, not indulgence, grown

In strength, tho’ woman never stands alone.

Who are my friends? Your worthy selves, I trust,

Whom I esteem wise, noble, good and just:

As such, each one I estimate a treasure;

In friendship, then, I’m rich in ample measure.

I think this not only shows the kind of comfort we should have as His children, but also the relative importance of money itself. I wish more of us really saw the truths here.

 

Some “self-styled” critics have pronounced it weak

Of one’s own self to freely write or speak;

I court no critic’s censure: yet I will

Write of myself and my late bankrupt bill:

That I’d no money, was no fault or crime,

But I contracted debts—without a dime;

Which I acknowledge frankly should not be,

And I’ll henceforth avoid insolvency.

In this as well as ev’ry other land

Some entertainments call for cash in hand;

If empty handed I perchance to be,

The law of circumstance demands of me

To unreluctantly the card resign

To one whose funds are less cashier’d than mine.

And by th bye, to all I fain would say,

Create no bills when you’ve no means to pay;

To live within our income thus, will spare

Us many a fest’ring thought and servile care.

To our young friends l’ll give a key whereby

All future wants and wishes to supply—

Control yourselves, your passions all restrain,

Learn to want nothing which you can’t obtain,

Then as no odds of circumstances—be

Faithful in duties and in feelings free;

Thus you’ll create your heav’ns where’er you dwell

Want to—and can’t, you know, is Mormon hell.

‘Neath the perverted sceptre Mammon wields,

Virtue and truth to gold’s base influence yield:

Men are respected if in gold they’re wealthy

Whether they gained it honestly or stealthy.

Not so in Zion—works and Godly fear

Preponderate o’er filthy lucre here;

Unyielding virtue—firm integrity—

Love for the Priesthood—careful industry—

In the true mint of heav’n will pass for more

Than all on earth that’s coined from glitt’ring ore.

The Saints may sometimes suffer want, ’tis sure,

But yet, a real Saint is never poor—

One in whose soul the holy fire of God,

The light of Truth is fully shed abroad:

What tho’ he cannot claim one foot of land,

Nor yet one dime of currency command?—

Altho’ no gold and silver, he has got

A costly pearl the purse-proud world has not.

That heavenly foretast of a glorious rest,

The peace of God abiding in the breast,

With power the gift of endless lives to gain—

Henceforth our own identity retain—

Is wealth, and wealth which holds a promise rife

With ev’ry comfort that pertains to life.

That very gold the gentileslil madly crave

Will yet our streets, the streets of Zion pave.

Among the Saints, is gold and silver wealth?

We might as well call food and clothing health;

Brain, bone and sinew here are prov’d to be

Both capital and lawful currency.

In Babylon, where money is the test,

Who has the most is honor’d as the best;

Or rather, he who vainly seem to have,

And thus he’s honor’d most who’s most a knave:

How it is elsewhere, matters not: with us—

Worth is not reckoned by the weight of purse.

Show me a Saint that’s poor, and once for all

I’ll show you one that is no Saint at all

He maybe moneyless—who has not been?

That, here, is neither poverty or sin.

Leanness of soul, and meagreness of thought,

An empty barrenness of mind, is what

I should call poverty: and even worse

Than Mammon’s vot’ries think an empty purse.

Methink I hear one softly whisper, “Hush—

To say you have no money makes me blush.”

I have no money—blush again—to me

That kind of blush bespeaks degeneracy;

Crime, wickedness and folly bring disgrace—

For these shout blushes mantle o’er the face:

I could name many things that figure worse

In life, than total absence of the purse.

I boast of wealth and richer streams than flow

From the most fruitful sources here below;

Mine is not wealth that stimulates with pride,

‘Tis wealth that will eternally abide:

If l in faithfulness and patience wait,

I’d hold an heirship in a God’s estate;

And even now, I’m richer, wealthier far

Than those who dip in Mammon’s coffers are.

My Father’s rich—I am his lawful child—

Not one by silly, fond caressing spoil’d,

I’ve through bereavement, not indulgence, grown

In strength, tho’ woman never stands alone.

Who are my friends? Your worthy selves, I trust,

Whom I esteem wise, noble, good and just:

As such, each one I estimate a treasure;

In friendship, then, I’m rich in ample measure.

1856