Stolen Innocence - Lisa Pulitzer [135]
Nothing like this had ever occurred in the church. A banishment on this scale, and in this public manner, was unprecedented. What had begun with Jethro Barlow’s exile the previous year came to fruition that day. It was a slippery slope that Warren was bringing us down, and few of us had the courage to say anything about it.
“The work of God is a benevolent dictatorship. It is not a democracy.” We all sat frozen as he addressed those now standing and elicited votes on their own fates. “If you go along with this, raise your hand,” he said, watching as twenty-one hands went up in unison.
Uncle Warren next called upon the people of the congregation to raise their hands in favor of the will of God. He watched carefully to see if there were any dissenters among the hundreds of raised hands. I felt horrible as fear forced me to lift my own hand in the air to be counted.
“Does anyone oppose?” Warren asked. “Raise your hand and stand up if you do.”
Looking back, I wish that I and the other members had shown the courage to stand to defend these men. But as we exchanged terrified glances, everyone cowered; no one wanted to be the only one.
“I am calling for a fast for the next two days,” Warren instructed. “All of the families are to keep to themselves.”
Warren brought the meeting to a close, asking the entire congregation to kneel as he gave a lengthy prayer. As we recited “Amen” in unison, a sudden movement on the pulpit caught my attention, and I looked up to see Uncle Warren literally racing from the stage. It was not clear why he was in such a hurry, but in retrospect I have wondered whether it was fear of an uprising. Whatever dissent there may have been in the hearts of the people, they bit their tongues and said nothing.
I hadn’t been out of the meeting for more than an hour when a text message popped up on my phone. It was Lamont asking that I call him. When I reached him later that day, it was the first time I’d ever heard him sound so angry. “What the hell is going on?” he asked me. “If my grandfather is screwed, then I’m screwed.” Lamont hadn’t been at the meeting that day, but one of his relatives was and he had immediately called Lamont to tell him what had happened. Lamont told me how he’d arrived at his grandfather’s house feeling like this whole thing was his fault, and he tried not to be seen as he listened to his grandfather address his family.
“He was weeping and destroyed,” Lamont told me. “He told his family to turn to the prophet. He said he was submitting to the will of the prophet. He had a testimony and was going to prove his faithfulness during this test.”
Lamont knew that something wasn’t right. Warren’s words came as a shock, but his motives had been in place long before. This latest action, however, pushed things too far. It was hard to believe that such a drastic and unprecedented step was actually the will of God. I could hear frustration and anguish with Warren and the FLDS way of life hiding in Lamont’s voice that day.
In the months since Lamont and I first met, I had been slowly learning that he possessed a history of challenging the priesthood that was as colorful and fraught as my own. Like me, Lamont had been raised in an FLDS home that was marked with turmoil and dissent. Like me, he had asked some difficult questions with difficult answers. Like me, his road to our meeting in the desert had been paved with hardship and doubt.
He was the oldest of eight children and grew up aware of problems in his parents’ marriage. His mother, Daleen, was just sixteen when she was placed by the side of Lamont’s father, Grant Barlow, a staunch FLDS follower who had been raised to respect and abide by the teachings of the priesthood by his father, George. Their union went smoothly at first. They were both very young and had enjoyed many good times together. But aspects of the religion began to challenge their love. Daleen was not the kind of woman to submit when she felt she was in the right. Broad and big-boned,