Several years ago I heard a popular song that
contained the line “I’d rather laugh with
the sinners than cry with the saints.”
My immediate reaction was anger.
The next day I heard the song again, and I
laughed at myself because in the interim I
had figured out why the line made me so mad.
It was because it sounded so true!
In grade school, while others went to the
movies, my parents made me go to church.
In junior high school, I collected fast offerings
while others slept until noon.
In high school, I passed up working on Sunday
and earning double time at a grocery store
so I could keep the Sabbath day holy.
During my mission, for two years, I walked
down the streets on Saturday nights with my
companion while everyone else our age drove
past us with their dates, laughing, pointing,
and asking, “What’s with those guys?”
As a young married couple, we attended church
with our squirming children.
On Super Bowl Sunday, while the world ate,
drank, and cheered, we could be found pulling
the hair and flipping the heads or ears of
our children and encouraging them to listen
to the words of a member of the stake high
council.
While traveling in our old clunker of a station
wagon, we would pull up alongside a Mercedes-Benz.
The occupants, with their
national average 1.7 kids dressed in designer
jeans, would point and laugh at my six kids
dressed in their Toughskins.
Now do you see why that line made me so mad?
My frustration peaked last year when my college-age
kids prevailed in getting me to attend a concert
in this very facility (no sacrifice is too
great for my kids).
When the singer announced the song from which
this line is taken, the crowd went wild.
He said, “I’m not trying to convert anyone,
I just want to provide you with an alternative.”
I thought the roof was going to come off this
place.
I wanted to race down the steps, grab the
microphone, and give my opinion on the subject.
Of course, my kids would have been horrified,
and you would have thought me tacky.
The statement “sinners laugh and saints
cry” is a simplistic generalization at best.
We Saints definitely have our share of laughter,
and some sinners leave a trail of broken lives
and buckets of tears.
For saints as well as sinners, all that is
meaningful in life doesn’t have to be funny.
However, to brush aside the meaning of the
line in the song with this equally simplistic
argument would be to ignore a reasonable question.
At a given point in time, don’t many who
make no effort to live the Church standards
appear to be enjoying life more than those
who do?
Our lives seem to be controlled by inhibitions,
constraints, service, sacrifice, guilty consciences,
and financial obligations.
In the world we see people with none of these
so-called restrictions who are home with their
kids on more than just Monday night.
And they have ten to fifteen percent more
of their gross income to spend.
By the time we meet our financial obligations,
it seems we can’t afford to do anything
wrong.
Let’s be honest with ourselves: the Saints
do a lot of crying.
However, nothing worth having is free.
The celestial happiness we seek does not come
without a price.
We obtain celestial joy the old-fashioned
way—we earn it.
The voguish phrase “no pain, no gain”
applies equally well to things of the Spirit.
Sometimes we cry out, “What have I done
wrong to deserve this?”
Often trials and tribulations are allowed
to come into our lives because of what we
are doing right.
We are striving for the purification and sanctification
that will lead us to exaltation.
We all must pass through a certain amount
of sacrifice that makes our spirits pliable
in the hands of the Lord.
Joseph Smith’s life helps us understand
this principle somewhat.
By all outward appearances, there was probably
not a darker period in his life than the winter
of 1838–39 when he was imprisoned in Liberty
Jail.
The Saints were being persecuted, robbed,
and murdered, and there were dissension and
apostasy in the ranks.
We may be inclined to underestimate Joseph’s
suffering.
I don’t speak of the coldness and dampness
of the jail, but of his discouragement.
We may think his anguish would be mitigated
by his memory of seeing the Father and the
Savior, by his memory of the visits from Moroni,
John the Baptist, Peter, James, and John,
and a host of other heavenly messengers.
In reality, this knowledge may have intensified
the pain.
After all, he had a perfect knowledge that
God could free him.
It was in this setting that Joseph cried unto
the Lord, “O God, where art thou?
And where is the pavilion that covereth thy
hiding place?."
To this agonized plea came the Lord’s answer,
“My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity
and thine afflictions shall be but a small
moment."
“Know thou, my son, that all these things
shall give thee experience, and shall be for
thy good."
For thy good?
What possible good could come from that experience?
B.H. Roberts gave his insight when describing
Joseph’s reaction to a similar experience
in 1842.
But what is most pleasing to record of this
period of enforced seclusion while avoiding
his enemies, is the development of that tenderness
of soul manifested in his reflections upon
the friends who had stood by him from the
commencement of his public career.
. . . No act of kindness seems to go unmentioned.
No risk run for him that is not appreciated.
Indeed he gathers much benefit from those
trials, since their effect upon his nature
seems to be a softening rather than a hardening
influence; and the trials of life are always
beneficial where they do not harden and brutalize
men’s souls; and every day under his trials
the Prophet seems to have grown more tender-hearted,
more universal in his sympathies; his moments
of spiritual exaltation are superb.
No one can read them and doubt that the inspiration
of God was giving this man’s spirit understanding.
After the Lord told Joseph, “These things
shall give thee experience, and shall be for
thy good,” he said, “The Son of Man hath
descended below them all.
Art thou greater than he?."
Part of the reason for the Savior’s suffering
in Gethsemane was so he would have infinite
compassion for us in our trials and tribulations.
He also qualified himself to become the perfect
judge.
Not one of us will be able to approach the
Savior on Judgment Day and say, “You don’t
know what it was like,” because he “descended
below them all.”
As a loving Father in Heaven viewed his beloved
son suffering in the Garden of Gethsemane,
the Savior cried out to him: “O my Father,
if it be possible, let this cup pass from
me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou
wilt."
Can you imagine the tears in the eyes of the
Father when he had to deny his son’s request?
Can we comprehend the sacred tears shed by
the Father when he had to abandon the Savior
on the cross and then hear him say, “My
God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
And yet, even as God the Father and his son
Jesus Christ wept, the sinners laughed.
So that we can know the Savior, each of us
must pass through our own Gethsemane.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox wrote a beautiful poem
by that name:
In golden youth when seems the earth
A Summer-land of singing mirth,
When souls are glad and hearts are light,
And not a shadow lurks in sight,
We do not know it, but there lies
Somewhere veiled under evening skies
A garden which we all must see—
The garden of Gethsemane.
With joyous steps we go our ways,
Love lends a halo to our days;
Light sorrows sail like clouds afar,
We laugh, and say how strong we are.
We hurry on; and hurrying, go
Close to the border-land of woe,
That waits for you, and waits for me—
Forever waits Gethsemane.
Down shadowy lanes, across strange streams,
Bridged over by our broken dreams;
Behind the misty caps of years,
Beyond the great salt fount of tears,
The garden lies.
Strive as you may,
You cannot miss it on your way.
All paths that have been, or shall be,
Pass somewhere through Gethsemane.
All those who journey, soon or late,
Must pass within the garden’s gate;
Must kneel alone in darkness there,
And battle with some fierce despair.
God pity those who can not say,
“Not mine but thine,” who only pray,
“Let this cup pass,” and cannot see
The purpose in Gethsemane.
There is probably no greater Gethsemane for
saint or sinner than the grief felt over the
death of one’s child.
I am going to read a portion of a letter written
by a father to his ten-year-old daughter just
minutes after he learned of her accidental
death.
Note how this good man’s Gethsemane became
a sanctifying experience because of his knowledge
of the gospel and because of the gift of the
Comforter.
Contrast his reaction with what it may have
been without the light of the gospel.
I read it with his permission.
If you may be permitted to listen, these are
some thoughts your “Dear Ol’ Dad” would
like to express in his and your mom’s hour
of joy and sorrow.
You have been an angel of light in our home.
Even in your passing you have sanctified the
experience by the sweet sorrow of this temporary
parting.
As I sit in this hotel room many miles from
home and only moments after hearing of your
passing, I have confidence that you are really
home.
It’s pleasing to know that you are now unencumbered
by the mild, but troublesome physical limitations
you accepted and lived with in such an adorable
noncomplaining way.
Mom and I and your seven brothers and sisters
are better because you came to our house.
Soon after your day of birth you helped us
to accept fear and the unknown; to better
love others with physical, emotional, or mental
challenges; to accept the disappointment accompanying
an unknown prognosis and to query and plead
with our Father, who today you know better
than we do.
As you grew older, we learned determination
from you, who had every right to spill your
milk but never did, who royally beat your
mom and dad in tetherball, who averaged ninety-seven
percent in spelling for an entire year and
by sheer grit struggled with math, and who
without ever a complaint sat with your mom
every night—summer and school months—to
read and understand what you had read.
Yes, we did our best to help you learn, but
what we learned from you cannot be printed
in books—cannot be written because it is
almost too sacred to rehearse.
We pray for all of us who the Lord expects
to stay here on the job for yet awhile.
Our prayers are that we will be worthy to
be reunited with you and to see you whole
and perfect.
Oh, how we would have loved to have you stay.
How we would love to hear your ever so spontaneous
“I love you.”
How we’d thrill to feel that clinging embrace.
Oh yes, especially today.
As you shed your tears in Gethsemane, while
others laugh with the sinners, don’t curse
the purifying mold in which you have been
placed.
Your crucible is divine and will lead you
to perfection and ultimate exaltation.
We don’t seek the unpleasant things of life.
We don’t look for pain
and suffering.
However, we recognize the sanctification that
occurs when the trials and tribulations of
life are met and turned into spiritual stepping-stones.
We have been speaking of tears of sorrow and
pain.
I shall now speak of a different type of tears.
They are unique to the Saints and will never
be shed by the sinners.
I speak of the tears of spiritual joy.
In an elders quorum presidency, we worked
with several less-active families.
In a personal interview with one couple, I
asked, “Isn’t it about time you went to
the temple with your family?”
I couldn’t believe their answer—they said,
“Yes.”
We cried.
They were asked to speak of their “conversion”
in a Saturday evening session of stake conference,
and as they expressed their love, I cried.
I thought I was all cried out by the time
we went to the temple—until I saw them with
their beautiful daughters kneeling at the
altar, being sealed for time and all eternity.
Shortly after my call to the Presiding Bishopric,
I received a letter from one of my uncles.
“Dear Glenn: I saw you on television last
Sunday.
Do you realize what an accomplishment it was
to get your old reprobate of an uncle to watch
general conference?”
That summer he and his wife celebrated their
fiftieth wedding anniversary.
After the reception I walked them to their
car and said, “You know, with this calling,
I have received the sealing power.
If you will commit to a temple marriage, I’ll
tell you what I’ll do for you.
I’ll perform the ceremony for free.”
A year passed, and as I arrived home late
one night, a message awaited me.
“Please call your uncle no matter what time
you get home.”
I called and he said, “Glenn, I’m calling
to collect on your golden wedding anniversary
offer of a free marriage sealing in the Salt
Lake Temple.”
I asked, “Are you serious?
When?”
He said, “My bishop thinks I can be good
enough by December.”
A year ago I sealed them to each other and
then sealed two of their sons to them.
After fifty-one years of marriage, my uncle
and aunt received their crowning glory and
blessings.
The entire family cried.
Just ten days ago President Ezra Taft Benson
stood before the General Authorities of the
Church in the monthly temple meeting.
He has been ill, and this was the first time
we had been together with him since general
conference two months ago.
He expressed his love to us and said, “Brethren,
it is so good to be with you again.”
And then, the prophet cried.
At the conclusion of the Savior’s visit
to the people of Nephi, he felt their love
and faith and was deeply touched.
He had just announced that he must leave,
but as he looked at the people he
Beheld they were in tears, and did look steadfastly
upon him as if they would ask him to tarry
a little longer with them.
And he said unto them: Behold, my bowels are
filled with compassion towards you.
Then he healed the sick, and those who were
now whole did “bow down at his feet, and
did worship him; and . . . bathe his feet
with their tears."
And then Jesus “commanded that their little
children should be brought.
So they brought their little children and
set them down upon the ground round about
him," and he said,
Blessed are ye because of your faith.
And now behold, my joy is full.
And when he had said these words, he wept,
. . . and he took their little children, one
by one, and blessed them, and prayed unto
the Father for them.
And when he had done this he wept again.
Elder Bruce R. McConkie spoke of tears in
general conference just a few weeks before
his death.
In one of the most powerful testimonies I
have ever heard, that special witness, with
full and complete knowledge that his passing
was near, said,
I testify that [Jesus Christ] is the Son of
the Living God and was crucified for the sins
of the world.
He is our Lord, our God, and our King.
This I know of myself independent of any other
person.
I am one of his witnesses, and in a coming
day I shall feel the nail marks in his hands
and in his feet and shall wet his feet with
my tears.
Those of us who witnessed the delivery of
this magnificent address can testify that
those tears were flowing even as he stood
at the pulpit.
They were not tears of sorrow relative to
leaving this mortal existence, but tears of
joy at the anticipation of the blessing awaiting
him.
Just one day before Elder McConkie’s address,
I received my call to the Presiding Bishopric.
One day after his address, on Easter morning,
at 5:00 a.m., I was writing my remarks to
be delivered that afternoon.
As I reflected on Elder McConkie’s beautiful
oration, I was overcome with the knowledge
of my own weaknesses and inadequacies.
However, as I began to comprehend what had
taken place in my own life, self-doubt was
replaced with peace, confidence, and eternal
joy.
I wept.
I penned the words that seem appropriate to
repeat at this time: I love the Lord Jesus
Christ.
I love the transformation his atonement has
wrought in me.
I once was in darkness, and now see light.
I once lost all of my confidence, and now
know all things are possible in the Lord.
I once felt shame and now am “filled . . . with
his love, even unto the consuming of my flesh."
“I am encircled about eternally in the arms
of his love."
I feel the same at this Christmas season as
I did on that Easter Sunday two and a half
years ago.
That knowledge brings tears.
Would I rather laugh with the sinners than
cry with the saints?
Not for one moment.
Once one has felt the joy of the gospel there
is no going back to a frivolous world.
Try as we might, travel where we may, there
is an emptiness all the laughter the world
has to offer cannot fill.
That emptiness can be filled only by placing
ourselves in tune with eternal truths and
living according to the prescribed laws of
God.
As our understanding increases, we realize
that tears of sorrow can be exquisitely beautiful,
and they ultimately give way to tears of eternal
joy.
Throughout the world at this season, congregations
will sing, “Joy to the world, the Lord is
come."
Little does the world know of true joy.
I thank God for the restoration of the gospel
which gives that understanding.
I pray that each of you will discover the
majesty of crying with the Saints, in the
name of Jesus Christ.
Amen.
