Alma 17

As Alma headed from Gideon south to Manti, he was shocked to see Mosiah’s sons heading for Zarahemla. Yes, the same sons that had seen the angel with him. He was jazzed at the sight and even more to notice that they were still talking like believers, you know, that coy but confident God-talk peppered with scripture verses. They looked skinnier, though, from lots of fasting. But their eyes had that creamy look of visionaries and mystics. Alma couldn’t imagine what kind of reaction they’d get in a revival service—amazement or fright.

As it turned out, they’d been preaching to Lamanites for fourteen years and had a regular circuit of altar-calls and proselytes. Bigtime evangelism with an unlikely congregation.

But they were still their crazy selves in lots of ways, always going to extremes in hikes, late-nights, and miscellaneous self-denial. (Did I mention the fasting?) Here’s a bit of their itinerary and logbook of setbacks and victories.

First year of the judges: they quit their dad’s kingly court, left Zarahemla, and armed themselves to kill and eat in the wilds on the way to preach to the Lamanites in Nephiland. Along the way they fasted—sometimes of necessity—praying God would use them to torque their distant cousins away from their dark culture (no pun intended).

God spoke to them appreciatively: Be comforted, he said. Just the right words at the right time—a Yahweh specialty.

He went on: Speak authoritatively to the Lamanites, but be extra patient because it’s that kind of behavior that converts people better than words. Do that and leave the rest to me.

Well that bucked up their hearts.

They got to Nephiland and split up, expecting tides of conversions, despite the ferocity of their prospective converts. A recap: murder, theft, and general disrespect for private property. They obsessed about getting rich and let nothing get in the way of that goal. Except maybe an honest day’s work.

I know this is stereotyping and you’ll resist the one-sidedness of my description. But I’ve just not seen people so lazy and crazy for idols, which school kids had probably carved and painted in art classes. Some gods.

Clearly, though, Mosiah’s sons loved Lamanites. Look at what they’d given up to save them.

Itinerant preaching was an art. Ammon, the oldest brother among Mosiah’s sons, showed the way. He booked one trip after another, speaking on the streets, in homes, in gardens and fields.

But when he got to Ishmael’s turf, the jig was up: people shoved him into a chain of ropes and tightened it till he couldn’t move his arms. (This was standard practice for Nephite captives.) They dropped him off at the palace, knowing the king could kill, jail, or deport him at will. That king? A great-great etc. grandson of Ishmael named Lamoni.

“So, do you really want to live? Here, I mean,” Lamoni said.

“Sure,” Ammon said, “maybe till I die—not to give you any ideas.”

Lamoni was, as we say, tickled with that answer. “Untie him. Oh, and then have him tie the knot—I mean with one of my daughters.” Two can play this word game, Lamoni thought.

“I’ll go you one better,” Ammon retorted. “I’ll trade that ball and chain for a different one: I’ll be your volunteer slave,” wondering if such a thing existed.

Lamoni liked that idea and immediately sent Ammon to his pastures to tend sheep—a nice bit of poetry, Ammon thought. “I’d be a good shepherd,” he said.

He worked three days with Lamanite co-workers—sticking out a bit because of his skin color—as they walked the flocks to the well at Sebus, a popular watering hole. On the third day, though, some Lamanite bullies (gangsters) came up and started yelling and stomping, chasing Lamoni’s flocks in every direction. Lamoni’s sheep tenders started to cry, fretting the king might kill them for poor supervision.

A golden opportunity, Ammon thought, to show how much supernatural power he really had. He’d bring back the flock, spare his fellow slaves, and get some real respect from everyone. For God, of course.

“Brothers, buck up,” he said. “If we work together we can catch them all.” He began pointing directions and making running assignments till they had gathered all the sheep back at the well. Then Ammon decided to confront the bullies.

There were lots of them. This was gangster territory. They laughed at this weakling—not knowing that God could be a bigger bully than any one of them, if he chose.

Ammon skipped the diplomacy and started slinging rocks at them. His accuracy and dead-on pain power surprised them. After he’d actually killed a few—remember, this was Old Testament ethics—the rest naturally wanted vengeance. They were poor slingsmen, couldn’t hit Ammon once, and so rushed him with clubs.

Ammon, however, had brought a sword to the fight, grabbed it and, like a swashbuckling pirate, sliced off every arm raised to club him, dismembering their owners in grand, gothic style. As they ran away blood shot from the severed arteries, spraying onto the tall grass. (Sorry for the graphic language. Just trying to convey the divine horror of the scene.)

Technically, Ammon didn’t kill anyone outright with his sword. Well, except one. In addition to the six he’d killed with his sling before that.

As the stumpy-torsoed bullies ran till they dropped in the woods, Ammon’s co-workers calmly collected the arms from the grass and took them to Lamoni as proof of their astute shepherding. (The original arms race? Sorry—just playing.)