It's Not a Trick Question

In one of the shortest books in the Book of Mormon, Enos is out hunting when he develops a sudden need to speak to God. He kneels down and pleads for forgiveness of his sins.

We don’t know very much about Enos other than he is the son of Jacob, son of Lehi, and that he was raised in the faith, so it’s unclear what kind of life he’s led up to this point. Did he sow wild oats, like Alma the Younger, or was he more of a Joseph Smith type, not guilty of anything great, but nonetheless committing “many foolish errors, and display[ing] the weakness of youth”? Either way, Enos characterizes his conversation as a “wrestle” before the Lord. He pleads for himself, then for his people, and then for the enemies of his people.

Jacob Wrestling with the Angel, Alexandre Louis Leloir. I recognize that this is not Enos, but all the paintings of Enos annoyed me, and this is wrestling in the scriptures, so.

There’s a lot of things that we could say about Enos. In the Maxwell Institute’s new series, Enos, Jarom, Omni: A Brief Theological Introduction focuses on how the book explores themes of covenants and inheritance. In my scripture study group last year, we spent some time discussing Enos’s characterization of the Lamanites as "a “wild, and ferocious, and a blood-thirsty people,” a generalization that we were uncomfortable with, especially given the racial overtones of the passage.

This week, though, I’ve been thinking about the bit early on in the chapter when Enos repented of his rebellions and hears a voice saying, “Enos, thy sins are forgiven thee, and I shalt be blessed,” and Enos’s immediate reaction is, “I . . . knew that God could not lie; wherefore my guilt was swept away” (Enos 1:4-5).

I’ve really struggled with writing this post, because it’s difficult to communicate amazement as something that should be completely obvious. God forgives Enos’s sins. And then—then! Enos believes Him and doesn’t worry about it anymore.

This is so foreign to me, I can’t even communicate it. Though God promises that after we repent, “I, the Lord, remember [your sins] no more” I still remember them (D&C 58:42). Even after I’ve repented, even after I’ve done absolutely everything I can to make the situation better and I’ve gone to God on my knees, asking Him to forgive me and make me better, my guilt waits for me behind my eyelids. I’m always one memory away from thinking about everything I’ve ever done wrong.

I don’t necessarily think that we are supposed to forget our sins when God does. I think we are supposed to learn from them, and even when He forgives us, that doesn’t mean that the consequences of our mistake are wiped away. (In an absolutely fabulous moment of O Brother Where Art Thou?, Everrett reminds his recently baptized fellow convict, "Even if it did put you square with the Lord, the State of Mississippi is more hardnosed.”)

We might not be meant to forget everything bad we’ve done, but I don’t think we’re supposed to carry them with us, either. There is magic in Enos’s conviction that God had forgiven Him. He believed God meant what He said, and I would love to be better at that.

Here’s what I really respect about Enos’s ability to take God at His word: it means He doesn’t keep thinking about himself. He prays for his own salvation and then, when the Lord says, “We’re good,” moves right on to everyone else. His faith lets him act, where my doubt, my wordsplicing, sometimes paralyzes me.

Recently, as a lot of you know, because it’s all I talk about lately, I’ve been praying about what to do next. I could get a PhD. I could decide to go into editing or academic publishing or technical writing. I could go down to the bookstore at Coolidge Corner and plead with them to take me on, even just as a volunteer. All of these options have far reaching effects that I am absolutely incapable of tracing into a future I can’t see, and trying drives me crazy.

When I pray about this, I get the same cosmic shrug that I’ve received when I’ve prayed about so many other things. God hardly ever tells me what to do. Most of the time, He lets me stumble through. All of those things are fine, He seems to say. Pick something.

“How could it possibly not matter?” I say back. “You don’t want to give any guidance on this?”

Earlier this week, I had an unusually strong impression: This is not a trick question, I felt the Spirit saying. I am not setting you up to fail. I meant what I said.

As I told someone recently, I study English, which means I majored in how to make things more complicated. I like this about me. I like that I can see the beautiful complexity, that I always have questions—I think, most of the time, it takes me closer to God. But here, in this instance, I want to remember how to have Enos-like faith.

It’s a not trick question. God is not setting me up to fail. He said what He meant.