Alma 31

Korihor was dead. But Zoram had started people bowing down to statues. And the Zoramites broke away from the main stem of Nephitism. This made Alma sick. He got sick a lot these days.

The new Zoramite homeland was at Antionum, east of Zarahemla, close to the ocean, where idol-worshippers tend to congregate. They were also close to Lamanite territory, making more than a few Nephites worry about an alliance between the groups.

Alma had this idea that preaching beat fighting any day: it not only had fewer hazards, it got better results. So he got his posse of preachers—Ammon, Aaron, Omner, and two of his sons, Shiblon and Corianton—then picked up Amulek and Zeezrom at Melek. The eight of them headed for Zoramiteland. His oldest son, Helaman, stayed home.

When they reached Zoramiteland, they saw the people had built synagogues, even though they’d ditched the commandments, rituals, and most everything else about Judiasm.

Their worship services were unique. In the middle of the synagogue they had a tower that held just one person at a time. A lone worshipper would mount it, stretch his arms up, and shout these words:

“Holy, holy God. You are holy. And you are God. To be more specific, you are the Great Spirit, which means you were, are, and always will be a spirit. We believe you have carved us out of the masses, enlightened us with the knowledge that nothing anyone else believes is valid. We are your chosen people. And we are quite sure that Jesus is bunk. Our ancestors were like children: they were nice but stupid. We’re the adults in this country, free from traditions (except the new ones we are making up) and free from mental constraints (except the ones in everyone’s brain, which amount to a lot). Being chosen as the only legitimate religionists: that’s our calling. Thanks, Lord!”

Alma, et al., noted that every person who went up the tower said the same thing: a formulaic ritual monologue in the service of rejecting formula and rituals that were otherwise standard.

They called this weird perch “Rameumptom,” which means “holy turret.” Everyone who mounted it said the same prayer above. After services, people went home and never mentioned God till the next week, when they did the same thing.

This bugged Alma, but not so much because of the holy turret. It was how gussied up they got to do it. Holy bling, if truth be told. The perfect decoration for their swollen hearts. Alma, in one of his loudest prayers yet (so people around could hear it, no doubt), said, “I can’t believe you’re making us watch this, Lord. What’s the expiration date on this kind of crap in the name of God? They yadda yadda and blah blah their alleged praise, but their emotions are drowning in lust for the almighty senine. And their clothes and jewelry, rings, hoops, necklaces, bracelets—this is where their money goes. Forget about the poor. All they think is, ‘We’re number one!’ But as for the Anointed One, he’s a phantom.

“A few questions, if I may, Lord. How long will you allow this? It’s wearing me down and I can’t believe that’s in your best interest. If you won’t stamp out their conduct, will you at least give me strength to keep watching it? Let’s just agree on the latter. Oh, and then, make us successful in our quest to convert these people away from their bogus churchiness and into something morally authentic.”

He finished, then patted the shoulders of his colleagues. That turned out to be a powerful psychological trigger: they all felt God’s spirit kick like a baby inside them when Alma touched them. They went into a lowlevel trance for days thereafter, skipping meals, not bathing—well they did precious little of that anyway—and spending lots of time alone (cf. the not bathing). Euphoria set in, too. They lost all hunger, yes, but they were giggling about it. What we think of as pangs became in them twinges of joy.

They all agreed this was how God had answered Alma’s prayer.