3 Nephi 27

As the twelve and other fresh zealots traveled to spread the word and baptize, they came together at sunset, fasting and praying. And suddenly, an encore appearance from Jesus, who apparently is always waiting in the wings if we gather, stay hungry, and distract our minds from the everyday.

His first words this time were a question: “What would you like? My treat.”

And one of them spoke up, preempting the deep-thinkers in the group: “Lord, please tell us what’s the right name for this church. Because not everyone’s satisfied. The one we have sounds a little blasé.”

“What?” he said. “You’re joking, right? On the one hand this matter is trivial. On the other, it’s fundamental. Ask anyone who questions the name as it stands if they recall me and others in the past saying that you are to be called by my name. That doesn’t mean just a derivation, say, ‘Christian’—not that there’s anything wrong with that. It means a very sacred linking of your identity with mine, Jesus, or, to not casualize my Christian name, the Anointed One. So the church collectively should have that name too. And what kind of church would it be if one skewered the name? You call it “Church of the Anointed One” and that’s simple, that’s direct. Obviously, if you called it ‘Nephi’s Church,’ for instance, it would be all about Nephi. And, no offense, Nephi, I don’t think many people would join. The foundation is me; the name should follow.”

He continued [transcription:]

Let me go a little deeper to the foundation of the church itself. It’s all about behavior, doing the works I did, except the getting killed part, though that happens, of course. The message is a change of attitude, yes, but also of behavior. “Doing the works of my Father.” That’s the essence, with the works in question, of course, being the generous, non-judgmental ones.

This is what “good news” means: bold actions that change the world. If that’s not the foundation, the church has veered into Devilville. Sure, it’s a fun ride, but in the end the touring car crashes and burns.

The absence of good works can only mean the presence of bad works. They’re in inverse proportions. So keep piling up the good ones to bend the ratio in the right direction, tilt the behaviorometer skyward.

This is the good news, which I alternately define this way: I come here to do what my Father asked me to do. Because I’m only here at all by his graceful nudging.

And I needed nudging, yes. Because I came mainly to get hoisted onto that Roman cross, to get nailed up and suffocate, my arms dripping with blood. The point being to draw people toward me, to replicate the best they see in me, and then to be hoisted themselves, not to a cross, but to stand in front of me in the fiery judge’s chambers I call my part-time office.

I judge on simple things, as you know, including whether you’ve shaken off your transgressive habits, gotten baptized, and hung on till you die, because it’s nothing if not a bumpy ride. This is the freeway to liberty from guilt.

You can’t arrive dirty or stained. You have to wash your souls in my blood—a paradoxical image about which your ancestors had some questions, as I recall.

You have to believe in the absolutely senseless sometimes. Because reason tells us there must be true things beyond reason.

Do what you’ve seen me do, for example, except the things you can’t, like some of the healings, I suppose, and definitely not the floating down from the sky. Don’t get snared into that one, as Satan tried to do to me before I had my flight credentials.

Write down what you’ve seen and heard, except the forbidden parts, about which people will just have to trust you.

Write down the people’s history. Because God actually will use the books to refresh his memory as he’s judging people. So many names in common, so many cycles of redundancy, people’s intersecting lives bleeding into patterns.

God has his own books, mind you. He’s got angel monks aplenty to take notes and synthesize, harmonize.

Furthermore, you twelve will judge the people you’re from. You have to be fair. If you ask, what kind of men can judge fairly? The answer: men like me. So emulate, literally to your hearts’ content.

I’m heading back to my Father for good next time. Once I’m gone, it’s up to you to at least pray to God for help, though not slacking on personal work. Seek, knock, dig, champion, fight when you have to—these are all part of the Big Plan.

May I say, you’ve made me so very happy. My Father too. The angels—some of them dead warriors—the same. Happy not just for you individually, but for how you have begun to torque your generation back into a semblance of worthiness. And there are actually a lot of this generation who are now past the possibility of being lost again. Total metamorphosis. Total transformation into earthbound divinity.

I’ve seen the future, as you must know. And in four generations—I know that’s a vague term, and I’m not even sure what I mean by it, but want to leave the details open—in four generations, I say, the devil will lead many of your great-grandchildren away like dogs on leashes. How? These dogs will salivate for gold and silver. Why, I have no idea. You can’t eat it, you can’t learn from it, it doesn’t help you to sleep. But you can buy, buy, buy with it. And that’s a punishing addiction.

I plan a huge intervention when the time comes. But I wanted you to know, just so you don’t get cocky at all the good things I’ve said.

One final word, especially for the twelve: the gate to the life I’ve picked for you is so narrow it’ll scrape your shoulders just going through it. Let that pain remind you how hard it is for anyone to follow you. If the gate is wide, that’s too comfortable. At some level the good news has to leave at least mild abrasions. If people don’t get hurt along the way, they went through the wrong gate. It’s true: Dad works in a mysterious way.