Deists, Unitarians, Universalists—the theological forces in post-revolutionary war America were as diverse and divisive as the forces which led to the rebellion against Great Britain. Rationalism and secularism swept through all levels of society. By the late 1700s fewer than ten percent of the population attended formal church services. The universities could hardly boast an enlightened student who still belonged to a church.
It was into this climate of religious turmoil that Benjamin Steed was born. Jacob Steed was a hardheaded Connecticut farmer and veteran of the revolutionary war, including Valley Forge. He was a true theological eclectic, picking and choosing from the various movements of his day the concepts which fitted his own nature most comfortably. Deeply influenced by the “enlightened skepticism” of the age, he largely rejected formalized religion as exploitive and out of touch with the spirit of the age. Being of the common people and not from the intellectual elite populating the cities, his theology was also mixed with a generous portion of good old-fashioned folklore—water witching, divination, spells to ward off bad luck, and the like—and he saw no fundamental conflict between the two. While this might have been confusing to the more academic-minded theologians, one word really summed up the core of values which motivated—if not drove—Jacob Steed. That word was
duty.
It embraced many things—hard work, integrity, commitment, honor, respect for the rights of others, loyalty, patriotism. These constituted his theology, and he held to them as fiercely as any Bible-thumping churchgoer. And he had indoctrinated his children with them as religiously and thoroughly as any catechism. Of organized, formalized religion; of preachers, Bible study, baptism, and communion; of Sabbath worship in some man-made structure—well, there had been more than a few solemn warnings from Benjamin’s father about the hazards which lay in those directions.
Born in Massachusetts about seventeen months after Benjamin, Mary Ann Morgan was also a product, albeit of a different kind, of the religious forces sweeping America. Her father, the youngest son of an arch-conservative Congregational minister, did not undergo any deep intellectual processes related to his faith. By his teen years he had broken out in open rebellion against his father’s draconian code of behavior, and when he reached adulthood he simply abandoned all commitment to the church.
Mary Ann’s mother came of Quaker stock. The Quakers had always stressed the importance of religious experience over formalized sacraments or worship services. When she married Mary Ann’s father, it was not surprising in the Morgan home that there was no commitment to any one church or participation in organized religion. In the first seventeen years of her life Mary Ann had never attended a formal church service, though just prior to her marriage she and her next youngest sister had, out of curiosity, attended a camp meeting or two as they came through the area.
But that did not mean the Morgan home was one filled with secularism. Religion was still a powerful force in the lives of both parents. There were few days when Mary Ann and the other children had not sat at the feet of their mother and father and read together from the Bible. With equal frequency she had been taught that the Savior was the perfect model upon which one could pattern a life of honor and joy.
When Benjamin Steed met the young girl who worked like a man alongside her father on the turnpikes, there was little talk of religious matters during the brief courtship. One might have thought the religious differences between Mary Ann Morgan and this down-to-earth New England farmer were deep enough to eventually bring conflict to the marriage. But such was not the case. Mary Ann felt some disappointment that her husband did not take the lead in spiritual matters, but he had never balked at her attempts to carry on the traditions she had experienced in her own home.
For a time, when Joshua and Nathan were small, she had gone to several churches, trying to find one which suited her. Though he made his feelings about organized religion clear, Benjamin had never tried to stop her. And while he chose not to lead out in the morning Bible reading, he always joined the family without complaint or resentment. She knew he found her unshakable faith a little quaint, but he also readily admitted a person could do worse than model his or her life on that of the Carpenter of Galilee.
So while they could hardly be described as being one in their spiritual outlook, she and Benjamin had few conflicts over the matter. Most important, he loved his wife deeply and seemed to admire her steadfast determination to teach their children things of value. And that counted for a lot with Mary Ann Morgan Steed.
It was Easter morning, 1827. The fundamental religious differences between Mary Ann and her husband were clearly illustrated by the fact that Benjamin still slept heavily in their bed while Mary Ann was outside in the spring sunshine, the Bible open on her lap. That was due, in good measure, to the ale he had drunk the night before. Normally he was up at first light and out milking the cow or doing the other chores. But Mary Ann had quietly done what needed to be done, then got her Bible and slipped out of the door again.
On New Year’s Day she had promised herself she would read all four Gospels through once again by Easter time. The day had arrived and she had the last three chapters of John to go if she was to finish her commitment.
She sat on a log near the creek, the sun lighting her hair and warming her back. It was another glorious spring morning. Beads of dew dimpled the grass, and the newly developed leaves had a softness to their green that would not be seen again. The whistling call of a cardinal floated up from the trees which lined the stream. A sense of happiness and peace filled her soul, and sudden tears sprung to her eyes. How good was life! How good was the majesty and grace of God!
There was still some lingering guilt about not being in a church somewhere with her family on this sacred day, but when she had suggested it to Benjamin two or three days earlier, he had flatly refused. If she wanted a special worship service at home, there would be no objection, but crowding into a pew to hear some mortal expounding on the divine seemed pointless.
She had once thought she might raise the issue again when the day arrived, but the disappearance of Joshua clinched that. When the activities in the village finally began to break up about nine-thirty the previous evening, they had searched for Joshua to no avail. At first Benjamin had only been irritated. But when a young boy reported seeing Joshua with the Murdock boys, and another added they were half-drunk and still drinking, Benjamin was furious. When he saw the pinched mouths and heard the whispered clucking of the women lingering around the fire, he came as close to a rage as she had seen in a long time. They had finally come home without him. That was another thing which had driven her to get out of bed and come outside with her Bible. There was an ugly confrontation brewing, and this might be the only ray of spiritual light she would find today.
About thirty yards away the cabin door opened and closed softly. Nathan was on the narrow porch, still tucking his shirt into his trousers, squinting into the bright sunshine. Mary Ann straightened and waved. Surprised, Nathan blinked again, then came toward her.
“Hello, Mother. I didn’t know you were up.”
“Yes. It was such a beautiful morning, I couldn’t bear to stay in bed.”
He sat down next to her, glancing at the Bible, then moved enough so he could lean against another tree. He raised his face to the sun and closed his eyes. “It
is
a beautiful day.”
She smiled at him, feeling a quick surge of affection. How like Nathan, of all her children, to leave the comfort of his bed to enjoy the simple bounties of nature! She touched his arm briefly, then turned back to the Bible.
“What are you reading?”
She answered without looking up. “The twentieth chapter of John. It is dawn of that first Easter morning. Mary has just come to the tomb to see if there is anything more she can do for the crucified Master.”
Nathan murmured softly. “That’s appropriate reading for this morning.”
“Yes. I could have finished it three or four days ago, but I wanted to save it for today. Do you want me to read it aloud?”
“Yes, I would like that.”
She read softly: Mary had come to the tomb only to find to her horror it was empty. She raced back to Peter and John. “They have taken away the Lord,” she cried. The two—chief Apostle and beloved disciple—also came, and stooped to go in. Seeing the burial clothes folded neatly and laid aside, John said simply of himself, “And he saw, and believed.”
Now Nathan’s mother came to the account of Mary, tearful and stricken, lingering still at the garden tomb. Her voice slowed and deepened. Nathan opened his eyes, startled by the sudden realization that this woman was his mother’s namesake. Strange, he had never made that connection before.
“‘And when she had thus said, she turned herself back, and saw Jesus standing, and knew not that it was Jesus.’”
Nathan leaned forward, peering at her. Completely engrossed in the words, she took no notice of him. He marvelled at the beauty which lit her face. The sun was behind her, but her skin almost seemed to glow, as though the light came right through her body.
“‘Sir,’” she continued, “‘if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.’”
At that moment tears welled up and spilled over, tracing glistening tracks down his mother’s cheeks. She stopped, then took a breath, fighting for control. Nathan felt his own eyes suddenly burning. “ ‘Jesus saith unto her,’…‘Mary.’ ”
And there it was. A single word, and in one blinding, glorious instant grief was turned to joy, shock and horror to exultation. For the first time, Nathan had the tiniest glimmer of how Jesus must have spoken Mary’s name—the tone of his voice, the depths of his love, the expression on his face.
His mother had stopped and now wept openly, too moved to continue. He slid over and took the book gently from her. “Let me go on, Mother.”
She nodded, brushing at her cheeks, smiling at him through the tears. “I’m sorry. I just love that part so much.”
“I know. It’s beautiful.” He swallowed and continued on. And suddenly they were no longer words on the paper for him either. He was there in the upper room, marveling at the power of the resurrected Christ. He dropped to his knees with Thomas, burning with shame for doubting the disciples’ testimony and demanding to see for himself. He was on the shores of the Sea of Galilee, and the words of the Master to Peter burned into his mind: “Feed my sheep.”
He finished quietly, then closed the book, and leaned back. For several minutes they sat there, neither wanting to break the spell which had fallen over them. Even the bubbling of the brook and the trilling of the birds seemed muted and reverential.
With one finger Nathan traced an aimless pattern on the cover of the old family Bible. His mother finally leaned over and placed one hand over his. “Tell me what is in your thoughts, son.”
He looked up, a little startled at the question and at where his thoughts had taken him. “If the Savior was resurrected, does that mean he still lives?”
“Of course.”
“As a real being?”
She was peering deep into his eyes now, puzzled. “Yes. Thomas felt the wounds in his hands and feet. That seems pretty real.”
“But that was two thousand years ago.”
She leaned back, eyebrows lifting a little. “What has time got to do with it?”
“Could he still appear to people?”
“Yes.”
He finally turned to her. “Think about it, Mother. I mean the Savior himself. Do you think he could appear to someone today? Now?”
Mary Ann took the book from his hands and set it in her lap, looking down at the cover. “If he lived then and appeared to men, I suppose he could—”
“I know he could,” Nathan burst out, “but will he? Does he?”
“I…” She stopped. “I’ve never thought about it in those specific terms. But yes, I guess he could.” She looked at him again. “Why?”
For several moments Nathan did not respond, just frowned, lost in his own thoughts. Finally she could bear it no longer. “What, Nathan? What is it?”
“All right.” He sighed. “Joshua told you about what happened the other day in town with Joseph Smith.”
Mary Ann frowned. “Yes, but you know we don’t hold with gossip, Nathan.”
“I know. But…” He was struggling with his feelings. Finally he decided to plunge ahead. “The other day, when I walked part of the way home with Hyrum and Joseph—”
“Yes?”
“Well, I kind of asked Joseph how come people were saying those kinds of things about him.”
“Nathan, you shouldn’t have. It’s not our affair.”
“I know, but…” He shrugged. “I wanted to know.”
He looked away, staring at nothing as he began to rub idly at his trouser legs.
“Well?”
Nathan turned, then straightened. Slowly he began, starting with Joseph’s account of his troubled quest for which church to join. To his surprise, his mother nodded at several points, as though understanding exactly the frustration Joseph had gone through. But when Nathan moved on to tell of Joseph’s experience in the grove of trees near his home, she fell silent. He had been tempted to tell all of this to Joshua that night after he had talked with Joseph, but something had held him back. Now after learning Joshua had been with the Murdocks, he was glad he hadn’t. And somehow, Nathan also knew he could not share it with his father. But now with his mother, on this beautiful morning, the time seemed right, and he unburdened himself of it all. Throughout the entire narrative she never said a word, just watched him intently, only glancing away for a moment now and then, as though trying to comprehend it all.
Nathan finally finished and sat back. Still his mother did not speak. “So, there it is,” he said.
“That is an incredible story,” Mary Ann said softly.
“I know,” he responded, unable to keep the glumness out of his voice. “I’ve never had anything leave me in such confusion. As I listened to him, one part of me believed—” He stopped, the very word giving him pause. “Yes, I guess I wanted to be-lieve every word Joseph was saying. Before he told me, I would have fought any man who called Joseph a liar.”