by God.
In Laura’s Bible, the text was even clearer: For her hair is given to her instead of a covering.
That Jehovah’s Witnesses used an entirely different version of the Scriptures—the New World Translation—brought up yet another layer of doubt. I knew that translations of the Bible often varied widely in their language—and thus their meaning—but Westboro had declared the King James to be the only acceptable text. All others were tainted by human hands and desires. The arbitrariness of this claim now seemed apparent to me—a judgment my grandfather had made long ago on the basis of his conscience, but then denied all others the right to do likewise. At Westboro, when outsiders reminded us of the many contradictions among the various versions of the Bible and questioned our use of the KJV, I instinctively avoided answering their positions directly. “Because Gramps said so” would seem not to be a very convincing argument.
No better than “The Bible is true because my wicked heart says so,” I thought, remembering the paradox that had caused me to doubt the Bible’s infallibility in the first place.
I had hoped that Brother Alt’s sermon would shed some light on this question, but the longer I listened, the more fragile his case seemed. Perhaps because the speaker was not my beloved mother or grandfather or relative, I listened to his sermon more critically than I ever had at Westboro.
He began with a quote wherein the Bible describes the Bible’s goodness. All Scripture is inspired of God and beneficial for teaching, for reproving, for setting things straight, for disciplining in righteousness, so that the man of God may be fully competent, completely equipped for every good work.
In my head echoed the dry words of the BBC’s Louis Theroux, who refuted this sort of circular logic in his second documentary about Westboro: “Well, the Bible would say that, wouldn’t it?”
Brother Alt continued. “Some people say, ‘Experience is the best teacher.’ No. The Bible is the best teacher.”
I surreptitiously glanced around at the faces scattered throughout the hall, rapt and nodding. His words rang hollow in my ears—as if simply asserting such a thing could make it true—but I knew that only months earlier, I would have accepted this idea without doubts, as this congregation now seemed to.
“Human advice leaves something to be desired, but not so with the Bible,” he said. “It provides the best guidance in the world.” I couldn’t dispute that the Scriptures were filled with practical advice, meditations on human nature, and beautiful sentiments that I could never imagine rejecting.
Love your enemies.
Better is a little with righteousness than great revenues without right.
He that answereth a matter before he heareth it, it is a folly and shame unto him.
Hatred stirreth up strifes: but love covereth all sins.
But what of the tale of the Levite and his dismembered concubine? And God’s commandment to put disobedient children to death? His threat to punish idolaters by causing them to eat the flesh of their sons, of their daughters, and of their friends? I listened to Brother Alt extol the virtues of the Scriptures without qualification, and I felt resistance growing inside me. As I had for weeks now, I kept coming back to the image of the Almighty that my mother had first explained to me as a child holding a Barbie in the backseat of our old Camry: the divine Potter of Romans 9, fashioning a tiny group to join Him in Heaven, while sentencing the teeming billions to pass the eons of eternity in exquisite, ever-increasing torment for sins He caused them to commit—simply because it pleased Him to torture them.
Could there be any clearer portrait of evil?
I simply could not believe that this was good in any sense of the word. More important, I simply did not believe it—however fearful I was to declare it plainly, even in my own mind.
Regardless of what the Bible said.
At the conclusion of the sermon, Laura introduced Grace and me to several cheerful women who welcomed us with warmth and genuine interest, and then she led us to the cabinets filled with Witness publications. There were dozens of stacks of books and Bible tracts, but she found what she was looking for—a small yellow book with “What Does the Bible Really Teach?” emblazoned on the cover—and offered to go through it with us back at the inn. I nodded. “Please.”
I didn’t want to offend my new friends by launching into a critique of Brother Alt’s talk, so I was vague