An Open Letter from Orson Scott Card to those who are concerned about "plagiarism" in The Memory of Earth
While most Latter-day Saints who have read my novel The Memory
of Earth (the first in a five-volume series called Homecoming)
have immediately understood that I was retelling the story of
the Book of Mormon in a science fiction context, some have also
leapt to the conclusion that this constituted plagiarism.
Some have written or telephoned me directly, which I appreciate,
since it allowed me to lay their concerns to rest without embarrassing
them. Others have written to my publisher and (I have no doubt)
to general authorities of the Church in an attempt to "expose"
my "crime" and, presumably, get me punished, without
any attempt to contact me directly beforehand. This has caused
me to spend a bit of time apologizing ruefully to my publisher
for the ignorance of Church members, and has no doubt stolen some
of the Brethren's time as they may have had to deal with an issue
which, with the tiniest bit of research, need not have been an
issue at all. That tiny bit of research would have told these
helpful watchdogs:
1. You cannot plagiarize history.
2. There is a long, distinguished history of fiction writers retelling
stories from history, legend, myth, and sacred writings.
3. There is no obligation to inform the reader of the source of
the retelling or that a retelling is going on at all; quite the
contrary.
4. Even if the Book of Mormon were fiction, retelling the story
in completely different words is not plagiarism.
5. Even if I were using the exact words of the Book of Mormon,
the copyright ran out long ago.
6. A careful examination of The Memory of Earth will show that
not only am I using the Book of Mormon as my source of story events,
but I am also being very careful to treat it reverently and respectfully
even as I use it as a springboard to my own thoughts, ideas, and
concerns.
With your indulgence, I will explain a bit more about each of
these points.
You Can't Plagiarize History
Either the Book of Mormon is a true history, written by ancient
writers and translated by Joseph Smith with divine aid and under
divine direction, or somebody made it up. If you believe that
somebody made it up, you can skip this section. But if you believe,
as I do, that the Book of Mormon is exactly what it purports to
be, then the events depicted in it really happened.
Therefore, retelling those events as part of a work of fiction
is fair use and the issue of plagiarism simply doesn't come up
at all. The principle in the law is that you can't copyright facts.
For instance, the phone book can't be copyrighted, insofar as
it represents a faithful account of the names, addresses, and
telephone numbers of the subscribers to telephone service. Only
if you made up names and numbers wo uld it be copyrightable.
(I've heard that because of this, publishers of atlases include
in every map some made-up town or geographical feature, so that
they can catch competitors who are copying their map instead of
going back to the original source.) When I wrote my novel Saints,
every event in the story was based on some event in the historical
record. The readers of serious historical fiction expect nothing
less than thorough research. No one raised a question about plagiarism
because I "stole" factual information from various old
documents or from more recently published histories and biographies.
If I had lifted whole word-for-word passages from recent original
writings, plagiarism might have been an issue. But instead, starting
from the source material, I then freely adapted it as fiction,
explaining the characters' motives and responses according to
my own imagination and understanding of them. No one has had the
slightest trouble understanding that this is the proper relationship
between a fiction writer and his sources. I have done exactly
the same thing with The Memory of Earth. Of course, the Book of
Mormon remains the only source we have for the actual plotline,
which means I can hardly draw on alternate accounts. Nevertheless,
I did study Hugh Nibley's commentary Lehi in the Desert, which
will be quite obvious to anyone who has read both Nibley's book
and mine. And in later volumes, careful readers will easily see
the influence of John Sorenson's and other writers' thinking about
the Book of Mormon. Am I therefore stealing from Nibley and Sorenson?
Hardly. Rather I am using their writings as helpful guides into
the true history of the Book of Mormon, which is exactly what
they set out to create.
Even some quotations from history are fair to use, by the way.
For instance, Nephi, in recording that he himself said, "I
will go and do the things which the Lord has commanded,"
witnessed that the speaking of that sentence was a real event.
Even though he himself said it, he offers it as a historical fact
that that was what he said on a particular occasion. Thus that
sentence itself can be freely quoted within the context of the
same story without fear of plagiarism. (Nevertheless, I paraphrased
that sentence to place it within the cultural and linguistic context
of the rest of the novel.) To the degree that you believe that
the Book of Mormon is true history, you cannot accuse writers
of plagiarism for using it as the source of their fiction.
The Literary Tradition of Fiction Based on Sacred Writings
Like many Latter-day Saints, I believe that the Book of Mormon
is a sacred writing, on the level of the Bible in its authority
and truth. But to most people in the world, the Book of Mormon
remains closed precisely because of the fact that it is the sacred
writing of a particular religion. Because they are not Mormons,
people refrain from reading the Mormon book, in much the same
way that non-Muslims generally do not read the Koran. And when
they do read it, people must make a decision about belief. That
is what Moroni 10:4 is all about. If you come to believe the book,
then you read it from "inside" the story and it can
have a powerful shaping effect in your life. If you do not believe
it, then you remain "outside" the story; it has little
transformative power over you, and you cannot therefore truly
understand what the story is, what it does, what it's for. This
is true of all sacred literature. You are either inside it or
outside it. You either give it power over you or you remain a
detached observer (including, of course, the snide critic). That's
what "higher criticism" of the Bible was all about,
and why it has always made believers so uncomfortable: It is obviously
written from "outside" the Bible instead of inside it.
And the result is always the same: Sacred writings lose all power
and truth when studied from "outside." A fiction writer
is in the unique position of being able to take a sacred story
and retell it in such a context that it can be received with some
of its transformative power by those who remain "outside"
the original. When you sit down to read the Book of Mormon, you
know you must make a decision about whether it is true or not.
However, when you sit down to read The Memory of Earth, you already
know that what you are reading is a work of fiction. It is, prima
facie, "not true." Nevertheless, in our culture at least,
most readers approach fiction quite open to the possibility of
personal transformation. We give the fiction writer the opportunity
to put real-seeming scenes, characters, ideas, and events into
our memories, and when the events seem to us to have particular
truth or importance, those memories can havesome transformative
power in our lives.
This is precisely why, I think, Milton wrote Paradise Lost. For
Puritans, the Fall of Adam and Eve was the central defining myth
of their religion. (I use myth, not in the sense of "false
story," but rather in the sense of "transcendent story.")
Yet the account of the Fall in Genesis is short and, to those
who did not understand the Puritan view of the story, who were
not "inside," the story simply didn't have the power
to move them as it did the Puritans. So Milton took his powerful
gifts as a storyteller and poet and retold the sacred story. He
made no claim that the surrounding material the various angels
and devils, the conversations, the scenery was anything but fiction,
his own imaginative interpretation and extrapolation of the story.
Paradise Lost was offered as a fictive work. Nevertheless, there
was a core of sacredness and, despite the fact that our language
and our manner of storytelling have changed in the years since
Milton wrote it, the poem retains its ability to give those who
are "outside" the Puritan belief system some taste of
the transformative power of their fundamental myth.
While I do not bring anything like the gifts of a Milton to my
project, I nevertheless had in mind one of Milton's goals: To
make the central defining myth of my own people available to those
who do not believe it as scripture but might nevertheless respond
to it as story. People who read The Memory of Earth do not have
to decide whether they believe in the Book of Mormon or not, and
yet they can receive some aspects of that powerful story into
their memories, where it has the possibility of influencing the
way they view the world. This remains voluntary, of course. Those
who feel no sense of harmony with the portions of the Book of
Mormon story in The Memory of Earth will remain uninfluenced by
it; but those who are predisposed to respond favorably to it are
given some taste of it without (at that point) having to make
a belief decision. I offer, not the real thing, but perhaps a
taste of it, a hint of it, and insofar as that taste or hint has
the power to do good in the world, then my story will do that
much good.
Milton is hardly the only example. Archibald Macleish's J.B. is
only one\of many retellings of the Job story. Countless novels
and plays have been based on the gospels, many of them "disguised"
rather than being historicals. The stories of Gideon, Moses, Samson,
Esther, Ruth, and many others have found their way into fiction.
And it isn't just the writings sacred in our own time that have
been used as sources. How many thousands, perhaps millions, of
literary works have been based on Greek and Roman myths, for instance,
often retold in modern or futuristic or fantastic settings far
removed from the original Mediterranean cultures? Tolkien used
Norse sagas and sacred tales as a powerful source for his work;
Evangeline Walton and Lloyd Alexander have both written from the
Welsh Mabinogion.
Legends, too, which are more of a folk history than a sacred one,
are another kind of "inside" storytelling which can
be shared through a fictional retelling. When Mallory wrote his
Morte d'Arthur the old Arthurian tales had long since become culturally
foreign, and since that time how many retellings of the Arthurian
legends have there been including many that transformed or disguised
the setting?
Within the community of science fiction and fantasy readers and
writers, it is quite a common thing to research the sacred or
legendary writings of another culture and then retell those stories
as fiction in a way that will make them accessible to the contemporary
Western reader. Indeed, I am not the only one to have looked at
the Book of Mormon as a possible story source, and if Philip JoseFarmer ever does produce his novel based on Mormon's book, I for
one will be delighted to see what he has made of it!
The fact remains, though, that a writer who is "inside"
a community of believers in a sacred story has a unique opportunity
(and responsibility) to present that sacred writing in fictional
form to those who remain unbelievers but who might nevertheless
find value in the tale. I take that opportunity and responsibility
quite seriously.
There Is No Obligation to Inform the Reader
Some of those who have been upset by my Homecoming series have
felt that my sin lay in not informing the reade r of what I was
doing. Remembering their high school and college term papers and
the importance of listing their sources, they pounce on the fact
that I did not as proof that I did something "wrong."
What they don't realize is that the rules for fiction are different
from the rules for term papers.
When Shakespeare retold story after story based on classical and
contemporary sources, he never once, that I'm aware of, referred
within the body of his play or poem to the original source. Why
not? Well, for starters, there are few ways within a work of fiction
to refer to an external story source. In a novel, play, or film,
the storyteller tries to create a convincing milieu, to catch
the audience up and rush them along without anything that would
jar them and remind them of the real world. Any device within
a story that would give "credit" to a source will either
be missed by the audience, in which case it was useless, or will
make the audience stop and think, Ah, that's where this story
comes from, which kills the forward momentum of the tale.
Admittedly, in Shakespeare's time there was a great deal less
concern over "originality" than there is now he had
no qualms, it seems, about taking the storyline from a play by
a contemporary and retelling it in his own brilliant way, thereby
eclipsing permanently the original source (just try finding a
production these days of the forerunners of Hamlet or Romeo and
Juliet). But I don't have to go back to Shakespeare to find examples
of retelling older stories without citing the source. Perhaps
the best example in recent times is Isaac Asimov's original Foundation
trilogy: Foundation, Foundation and Empire, and Second Foundation.
The project began at the suggestion of Asimov's editor at Astounding
(now Analog), John W. Campbell. Why not retell Gibbon's Decline
and Fall of the Roman Empire, only make it science fiction by
setting it at the end of a galactic empire?
Nowhere in Asimov's original volumes is there any overt reference
to Gibbon's monumental work. Why not? The reason is simple. For
those who were educated enough to know Gibbon, no overt mention
was necessary. Indeed, one of the pleasures of the book was the
dawning realization that this was a fictional retelling of the
Decline and Fall. And for those who did not recognize the work,
it simply didn't matter. Why distract them from a wonderful story
by nudging them and saying, Look where I got this bit! Look how
I worked in that one!
The Memory of Earth and its companion volumes function exactly
the same way. One of the pleasures (I hope) for readers familiar
with the Book of Mormon is the dawning realization that this is,
event for event, a precise retelling of First Nephi, and my naming
of Nafai for Nephi and the physical shape of the Index my stand-in
for the liahona were meant to be dead giveaways. Yet for those
who don't know the Book of Mormon, there was no reason to distract
from the story by making them aware of a connection with a book
that they haven't read. You don't have to know the Book of Mormon
to read The Memory of Earth, because if fiction works at all,
it works as a story in itself without the reader resorting to
specific knowledge of other literature.
Furthermore, stating the source material can often drive off readers
who might otherwise enjoy the story. If Asimov's Foundation had
first been published in book form with the heading "based
on that great work of Roman history, Gibbon's Decline and Fall"
emblazoned on the cover, many a reader who had no interest in
history, or at least in Roman history, would have been put off
from reading the book. Their negative attitudes toward "history"
would have deprived them of a story that they might well have
enjoyed. Likewise, if The Memory of Earth had proclaimed its connection
to the Book of Mormon, many people who have enjoyed the story
in itself would have assumed, wrongly, that you had to be a Mormon
or interested in Mormons to read the book.
So I'm following in distinguished footsteps when I don't overtly
inform the reader of the source of the Homecoming books. And to
those who assumed that I was trying to pull a fast one, let me
just point out that if I was trying to fool anybody, I certainly
did a bad job of it, didn't I? I mean, if you recognized the Book
of Mormon story, then who exactly did you think would not catch
the connection, apart from people who simply didn't care?
Retelling a Story in Different Words Is Not Plagiarism It is language,
not story, which is copyrighted, and therefore it is only if you
copy the language, not the story, that you have committed plagiarism.
When you think about it, it's obvious why. There are no new stories.
Basic relationships crop up again and again, in culture after
culture. And not just an event here and there: Whole series of
events in different and supposedly unrelated stories resemble
each other rather closely. Should I, as the author of Ender's
Game, have the right to sue or prosecute the producers of The
Last Starfighter or Toys because they use the device of having
a videogame turn out to be the real thing after all? I wouldn't
have a leg to stand on in a copyright action. Only if they used
the same language would copyright laws apply.
Think back on the famous plagiarism stories in recent years accusations
concerning Senator Biden, for instance, or some insufficiently
documented quoting and paraphrasing in some early writings of
Martin Luther King. These cases dealt with copying of specific
language, not just ideas or events, and even these cases were
on somewhat uncertain ground. The accusation of plagiarism is
a serious one, and those who make it have an obligation to make
sure they know what plagiarism actually is before accusing someone
of committing it. There is no plagiarism in any of my work, period,
and I am quite naturally annoyed at those who, calling themselves
Latter-day Saints, go about accusing me of such a crime without
bothering to educate themselves at even a rudimentary level about
the subject.
Perhaps those who have written to my publisher to try to "expose"
my wrongdoing (my editor was fully informed that the Book of Mormon
was the primary plotline source all along), or who have wasted
the time of General Authorities by plaguing There is a short list
of sins murder, theft, and lying for which the Saints are instructed
to deliver up a sinner into the hands of the civil law. If you
think plagiarism falls under the category of theft or lying, and
that my book was a crime under those laws, then your action should
have been to take the matter to the civil authorities, whereupon
you would quickly have learned that I had not committed plagiarism,
and therefore you would have known not to accuse me of such a
thing. Or you might have thought that this particular case should
be treated as a dispute internal to the Church, in which case
you might have followed the admonition of verses 88 and 89: "And
if thy brother or sister offend thee, thou shalt take him or her
between him or her and thee alone; and if he or she confess thou
shalt be reconciled. And if he or she confess not thou shalt deliver
him or her up unto the church, not to the members, but to the
elders. And it shall be done in a meeting, and that not before
the world." It is well known, especially to those holding
a copy of The Memory of Earth, that I live in Greensboro, North
Carolina. A quick consultation with directory assistance at (919)
555-1212 would provide anyone with the information that my telephone
number is listed. Even if you got my answering machine or my assistant,
you may be sure that if you left a message about your concern
that I might have committed plagiarism, you would have had a quick
response from me. If you made the slightest effort to follow the
admonition of the scripture that you not accuse until after you
have made an effort to speak with the offender personally, you
would have avoided wasting a great deal of time your own and others'.
And, if these watchdogs hadn't enough interest in the matter to
make contact with me, by what right did they go about accusing
me to others of such a crime? Perhaps they might do well to remember
D&C 42:27: "Thou shalt not speak evil of thy neighbor,
nor do him any harm."
Of course, some who have been concerned about this matter have
done exactly what the scripture advises: They have written to
me or called me, and have thus given me a chance to explain the
context of literature of the kind I am writing, so that they can
understand that while they are correct in recognizing that The
Memory of Earth is based on the Book of Mormon, there is no wrongdoing
at all involved in the endeavor.
Those who go about accusing me behind my back, however, whether
to Church authorities, my publisher, or just your friends or acquaintances,
should be aware that a false accusation of criminal or immoral
behavior is slander or libel, and because I am not guilty of wrongdoing,
they are. It is a requirement, not only of decency but also of
law, that when you accuse someone you make some reasonable effort
to make sure your accusation is correct. I suggest that those
who have carelessly accused me ought to examine their own conscience
with at least as much rigor as they applied when searching for
deficiencies in mine.
The Copyright Has Run Out
If I were a plagiarist and were taking the actual words of the
Book of Mormon and trying to pass them off as my own writing,
then, while this would be unethical indeed, it would not violate
the copyright protection on the Book of Mormon because, in fact,
the Book of Mormon has no copyright protection. Rights in a literary
work are not permanent. Copyright eventually expires. The copyright
on the Book of Mormon ran out years ago. Anyone can publish an
edition of the Book of Mormon, altering it in any way, adapting
it to any form, without requesting the permission of any person
or organization and guided only by their own sense of responsibility
to the original material. And since what I published is not the
very words of the Book of Mormon, but instead is a free adaptation
of the storyline, interspersed with a far larger amount of my
own imagined story, character, milieu, and ideas, my work falls
under the category of free adaptation of a literary work that
is in the public domain. You can write your own adaptation of
Book of Mormon stories if you like, and many others have done
so and are doing so even as we speak, producing plays, children's
versions, fictional adaptations, and so on, freely adding their
own invented material and language as they see fit.
Reverently and Respectfully
Finally, having dismissed all the quasi-legal questions, we come
down to the matter of whether my adaptation of the story told
in First Nephi is good or not. I don't mean "good" in
the sense of "literarily excellent" there will be varying
opinions on that and it's a fundamentally uninteresting question
since it is really up to the individual reader. What I mean to
ask is whether, as a Latter-day Saint with a commitment to our
community and therefore a responsibility to those fundamental
beliefs and experiences we share, I have acted with decent reverence
and respect toward a book whose divine origin is one of the primary
tenets of our faith.
There are those, of course, who start from the assumption that
science fiction is a trivial literature and therefore any treatment
of sacred matters in a science fiction context is disrespectful
on its face. There's nothing I can do or say that will satisfy
such judges, since they don't recognize the value or seriousness
of a literary community in which I have chosen to take part. However,
I can say that for those of us who do work and read regularly
within the community of speculative literature, there is nothing
trivial or debasing about the storytelling that we do.
Indeed, I believe that speculative fiction is the one literary
tradition available today to writers who would like to deal seriously
with great moral, religious, cosmological, and eschatalogical
issues without confining themselves to members of a particular
religious group. That is, if I want to write about the end of
the world, and I do it in a specifically LDS context, then I will
only be able to speak to other Latter-day Saints because my work,
avowedly religious and tied to just one religion, could only be
published within and for the LDS community. But when I deal with
such issues in the context of science fiction or fantasy, the
issue of belief is sidestepped and the ideas can be developed
as thought experiments which a much wider audience can take part
in, so that my speculations and explorations can be shared with
and responded to by a much wider spectrum. Stupid people don't
read science fiction, and few closed- minded ones either, with
the result that by writing stories dealing with issues that I
care about and believe in, I can get a much more serious reception
from the science fiction community than I would ever get were
I treating such issues in the so-called "mainstream."
When I do deal with Mormonism explicitly, as in the mainstream
novels Lost Boys and Saints, I am required to avoid all but the
most rudimentary exploration of doctrine, precisely because if
I force the reader to decide whether he or she believes the doctrine,
I will eventually limit my audience to believers. Instead, in
these books (and in Folk of the Fringe and a handful of other
explicitly LDS writings offered to the world at large) I am writing
with one hand tied behind my back so that I can remain accessible
to the non-Mormon audience.
When I write in a science fictional context, however, I have the
luxury of setting my stories in places far away and in another
time like the planet Harmony and the city Basilica in the novel
The Memory of Earth. I can invent cultures that clarify moral
issues about which I am speculating. I can invent alien species
whose life cycle highlights particular social concerns. In short,
while never overtly talking about religion at all, I can deal
with religious, theological, and moral issues with greater clarity
in science fiction than anywhere else, precisely be cause science
fiction allows the writer to set these issues at one remove, freeing
writer and reader from biases and issues relating to particular
religions or philosophies in the present world.
And, in fact, most science fiction writers are doing exactly the
same thing, whether consciously or not. Ursula K. LeGuin deliberately
used a semi- alien species in The Left Hand of Darkness to explore
the idea of a culture in which no one knows what sex they are
going to be from month to month or year to year: What then, she
asks, would the roles of men and women be, if you were not permanently
a member of one or the other group? Isaac Asimov, though an avowed
atheist, consistently wrote about people caught up in fulfilling
(or flouting) the will of a quasi-divine character who has plansand purposes for the human race in other words, God. Whereas academic-literary
fiction has largely shunted aside religion and religious issues,
treating religious characters as either charlatans or dupes (Anne
Tyler's Saint Maybe being a marvelous exception), all the great
questions and issues are still available within the field of science
fiction.
To my mind, then, retelling the Book of Mormon as a science fiction
story is the best way to give the great moral and religious issues
within it the respect and reverence that they deserve.
And, in fact, anyone who closely examines The Memory of Earth
will realize that, while I insert a vast amount of my own speculations
on every issue under the sun, those parts of the story adapted
from the book of First Nephi are rigorously faithful to the original
meaning. That is, I don't have Nephi kill Laban by accidently
hitting him too hard in the head, or tripping and cutting his
head off by mistake; on the other hand, I don't have him kill
Laban as an act of personal vengeance. I am guided by the Book
of Mormon at every point, and my character Nafai, as he contemplates
the drunken, supine figure of his enemy Gaballufix, goes through
exactly the same moral arguments that Nephi shows us in his written
account.
But that is not all. Since I believe that the Book of Mormon is
true, and that an older Nephi was still concerned enough about
the moral issues involved in his killing of Laban to take a great
deal of time, writing on metal plates, to explain exactly his
process of reasoning that led up to an act that will always carry
tremendous moral weight, I also showed my character Nafai being
deeply troubled by what he had done, for even though he knew it
was "right," this does not remove the fact that a helpless
man died at his hands. He could not escape culture or conscience
so easily, as the Book of Mormon clearly shows Nephi himself did
not. And while some would have us believe that whenever prophets
are acting in obedience to the Lord they are untroubled, I think
that the stories of Abraham and Isaac, Nephi and Laban, and even
Joseph and Emma Smith in relation to the question of plural marriage,
clearly troubled the prophets greatly. How else would these be
tests of faith? W hy else would we honor them as moral heroes,
if the acts were easy and the questions simple?
I have loved the Book of Mormon from childhood on, as I graduated
from Emma Marr Peterson's children's version to the book itself,
and as I read the book over and over again, each time for a different
purpose. When I started writing plays it was the Book of Mormon
I worked with first and to which I returned most often as the
source of my storytelling. I felt that when I was called upon
to write the new script for the Hill Cumorah pageant, I had been
preparing to produce that work all my life. And, when I came to
my work on Homecoming, you can be sure that I bring to it the
same love for the book, the same respect for it, the same reverence,
and the same sense of passion and vitality that I have drawn from
the book since I first heard those stories at my parents' feet.
At every stage in my treatment of the Book of Mormon in these
novels I have devoted great thought to what I was doing to the
story as I trans formed it into my own fiction. I felt it was
important, in my version, to make the story just as real and rich
for women readers as for men, and therefore I caused the prophetic,
spiritual role to be shared equally among characters of both sexes.
I felt a need to show a morally and politically decadent city
in terms that nonmembers of the Church, living in our poisonously
licentious society, will recognize as sick without necessarily
recognizing it in terms of the so-called Judeo-Christian ethic.
And, of course, I also had to develop plausible and interesting
(to me, at least) extrapolations of the future I was inventing
so that the novels would work as science fiction.
At any of these endeavors there is always the chance that I have
failed, that you will disagree with my thoughts, that you will
find my choices artistically or morally wrong. But what you cannot
find, because it is not so, is that I have ever, in the writing
of this book, treated the Book of Mormon itself with anything
less than deep reverence or respect.
My own personal standard is this: There is nothing I have written,
in my entire career, which I would not gladly place in the hands
of the Savior, knowing that he will understand the intention and
meaning of all that is in my work. That he might chide me for
this or that error of judgment is possible, but I am not afraid
to be corrected. What he will know is that in every case my intention
was one that I promised long before I was ever asked to do so
formally: that all my work, in one way or another, will contribute
to the cause of good in the world. I can now look back on earlier
work and see how I could have achieved that purpose better had
I only been a better writer or a wiser person, but I also look
back on the self that created those works and know that what I
created then was the best that I could do at the time; and I know
that what I am creating now is the best that I can do at this
time. I ask no more of any other human being than that.
There are many times in our lives within the Church that we come
into conflict with other members, when both parties in the dispute
are trying their best to do what they think is right. Only when
one or the other (or both) attempts to force his will on the other
instead of working by persuasion and meekness and with unpretended
love is there any transgression involved.
Thus when I write my books, I offer them to the world and to the
Saints. No one is forced to read them, or, having read them, to
like them or approve of them. You are free to review them, to
critique them, to labor to undo any harm you think that my books
are doing, and to write your own books that present your own vision.
The Saints and the public at large will sort between you and me
quite readily and may surprise us by finding that the differences
between us are nowhere near as important as our common ground.
We may find this ourselves, in time. But what crosses the line
is the attempt to silence me by personal attack, by slander, by
secret letters to General Authorities, by efforts to get me fired
or otherwise punished for having dared to write or say that which
you thought should not be written or said. This bespeaks a desire,
not to teach, but to compel, and it falls clearly within the category
of unrighteous dominion. Those who have attacked me anonymously,
clandestinely, furtively, when was it that they intended to show
forth an increase of love toward me, lest I esteem them to be
my enemy? How was it that they intended to show me that their
faithfulness was stronger than the cords of death? There is an
unfortunate tendency among some members of the Church not many,
but enough to cause great grief to many to think that their obligation
as Saints is to spend their time watching for and stamping out
all incorrect actions or incorrect opinions. This is a human tendency,
of course, and I have run into it in many guises. I have been
attacked by the American religious right because my writings are
"obviously" attempts to propagandize innocent readers
with subliminal Mormon doctrines. I have been attacked even more
vigorously by the fascists of the left for not being sufficiently
in line with their list of "progressive" values which
are to be tolerated and for adhering too much to unfashionable
ones which are to be obliterated in their supposedly "free"
utopia.
Painful and annoying as these attempts at coercion and punishment
may be, they do not gall as much as attempts at unrighteous dominion
by fellow Saints. I suppose I have the naive notion that we should
know better, that we should teach and persuade each other as the
gospel directs. And, in the main, we do a pretty good job. But
the spiders remain among us, weaving their invisible webs, biting
their poisonous bites, and sucking the lifeblood out of the community
of Saints whenever and wherever they can. Others have suffered
from such people a great deal more than I have, but more important
is the harm they do to the Church at large. They foster the illusion
of uniformity, but that has nothing to do with creating real harmony.
When we find ourselves in disagreement with another member of
the Church particularly when we think they are doing something
harmful or wrong in relation to the Church itself then we should
act with courage and patience and generosity and vigor. Courage
enough to face the offending person directly and name our disagreements
clearly; patience enough to listen to their views of their own
actions or statements; generosity enough to grant them the possibility
of finding ways of supporting the gospel and the Church that are
different from those you might prefer; and vigor enough to take
the time to do all this rather than lazily leaping to conclusions
and speaking ill of our brothers and sisters behind their backs.
It is one of the joys of my life that, in partaking of the community
of the Saints, most of the people I encounter live as if D&C
121 were written in bright letters in their hearts. If you are
one of those and I know who some of you are, because, troubled
by what they thought of as my wrongdoing, you wrote or called
me directly and spoke to me with courtesy then I'm glad to count
myself your brother.
Sincerely,
Orson Scott Card
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