Chapter 13
An Undying Knowledge
In early May 1971, Darius Gray entered the University of Utah’s Marriott Library. His friend Eugene Orr, who worked in the library copy center, had invited him and Ruffin Bridgeforth to meet him there. Lately they had been wanting to talk about the challenges of Black Latter-day Saints. Each of them had been fasting and praying to know what to do.
When Darius met up with his friends, they found an empty study room and started talking. Many of their concerns related to the Church’s priesthood and temple restriction. Why had some Black men held the priesthood in the early days of the Church? And when would Black men be able to hold the priesthood again?
As they discussed these questions, more questions arose. They knew Black Saints struggled to understand the restriction and stay active in the Church. What could be done to help them attend their meetings more often? Could the Church organize a branch specifically for its Black members?
And what about the younger generation of Black Saints? As fathers, both Ruffin and Eugene yearned to know how to answer their children’s questions about the restriction.
After writing down their questions, the friends knelt and Ruffin offered a prayer, pleading for the Lord’s guidance. When they finished, they had the powerful impression to take their questions personally to President Joseph Fielding Smith and other senior Church leaders. But how could they set up such a meeting?
Knowing Eugene was persuasive and full of energy, Darius and Ruffin told him, “Why don’t you get in touch with them?” If anyone could speak for the group, it was Eugene.
A few days later, Eugene met with Arthur Haycock, the personal secretary of President Smith, at the Church Administration Building. “Whatever concerns you have,” Arthur told Eugene, “I can resolve them for you.”
“OK,” said Eugene. “My biggest concern right now is that we would like to see the prophet.” He showed Arthur the questions he had drawn up with Darius and Ruffin. “Blacks want to hold their heads up and be important and active in the Church,” he said. “They don’t want to just sit on the back row.”
Arthur read the questions and agreed the list was valid. “I’ll take it to the brethren and see what they decide,” he said.
Eugene heard nothing from Church headquarters after that, so three weeks later he returned to the Church Administration Building. This time Arthur told him that President Smith had appointed apostles Gordon B. Hinckley, Thomas S. Monson, and Boyd K. Packer to speak with them. A meeting was arranged for June 9.
When that day arrived, Darius, Eugene, and Ruffin met with the three apostles in Elder Hinckley’s office. The Church leaders had been acquainted with Ruffin for several years, and they knew Darius from his work with KSL. None of the apostles had met Eugene personally.
“We are seriously concerned over the problem in which we, our families, and our people find themselves,” Darius and his friends told the apostles. Ruffin spoke of his sons losing interest in the Church after they had grown older and could not hold the Aaronic Priesthood. It pained him that they no longer attended.
During the meeting, Eugene asked most of the questions:
“What do we tell our children when they ask about our baptizing them, when other children in Primary say that they will be baptized by their fathers?”
“Can we attend priesthood meeting?”
“Can missionary work be done among our people?”
Elder Hinckley, Elder Monson, and Elder Packer listened sympathetically, and they agreed to meet again with Ruffin, Darius, and Eugene to discuss these and other questions. As the meeting ended, they acknowledged that the Church needed to do more for its Black members.
“We have faith. We have testimonies,” the three friends told the apostles. “We want the blessings of the gospel extended more actively to our people, regardless of the priesthood.”
In Tokyo, Japan, meanwhile, Kazuhiko Yamashita had basketball games every weekend—and very little time to study with Latter-day Saint missionaries. The elders had started visiting him not long after the world’s fair, and he liked meeting with them. They were Americans, and he enjoyed talking with foreigners. But he often made appointments with them only to cancel later.
Religion had simply never been a priority in his life. His Buddhist parents venerated their ancestors by visiting their graves, but the family did not pray, meditate, or study the teachings of their faith. Buddhism was a tradition Kazuhiko had inherited, but it did not greatly influence how he lived his life.
The missionaries, in contrast, represented a church that met several times a week and encouraged its members to study scriptures and keep commandments. Becoming a Latter-day Saint was not just a significant time commitment. It was a major life change.
Kazuhiko was impressed by the missionaries’ message, though. When he learned about Joseph Smith’s First Vision, he was amazed. He had no questions about it. He immediately believed it. If only he had more time for the Church, maybe he would take its message more seriously.
One day, Kazuhiko stopped by the missionaries’ apartment and apologized for being careless with his appointments. “Brother Yamashita, I’m sorry,” one of them said. “I’m going home.” His mission was coming to an end.
The news surprised and saddened Kazuhiko. He resolved not to waste the elders’ time anymore. “I will study harder,” he told himself. “I will read the Book of Mormon.”
He began meeting regularly with the missionaries, going to church, and learning more about the restored gospel. He enjoyed attending MIA activities on Thursday nights and made friends with the local Saints.
It was an exciting time for the Church in Japan. In the twenty-five years since the end of World War II, membership in Japan had grown from a few hundred to more than twelve thousand. Like Brazil and other countries where the Church was growing quickly, Japan had its own Church translation and distribution office. General authorities visited the country regularly, while day-to-day Church ministry was overseen by local leaders. There were now four missions in Japan and a stake in Tokyo. Soon the Church would also open an institute of religion for university students and enroll younger Saints in the home-study seminary program.
Many people in Japan were still unfamiliar with the Latter-day Saints, but the Church’s pavilion at Expo ’70 had increased its profile in the country. The exhibit had drawn tens of thousands of visitors every day, far surpassing the attendance at the Church pavilion at the New York World’s Fair five years earlier. By the end of the expo, more than 650,000 people had filled out comment cards at the pavilion, many requesting visits from the missionaries. And some 50,000 copies of the Book of Mormon had been sold.
As Kazuhiko studied with the missionaries, he did not understand much of what they taught. But their lives and good example were like a message from God, and he wished he could be more like them. While offering his first personal prayer, following instructions given by the missionaries, he felt the presence of the Lord surround him. When the missionaries invited him to be baptized, he accepted.
His baptismal date was July 17, 1971. The branch did not have a baptismal font, so the missionaries had fashioned one in the meetinghouse kitchen from some scrap wood and a large vinyl sheet. The font was not very deep, but there was just enough water to immerse him.
Afterward, as one of the elders confirmed a woman who had also been baptized that day, he stopped midway through the blessing, his voice choked with emotion. Kazuhiko opened his eyes to see what was the matter, and he saw tears streaming down the missionary’s face.
At that moment, he could feel the missionary’s love—and God’s love—for everyone in the room.
After becoming acting president of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, Spencer W. Kimball was busier than he had ever been. He often worked from early in the morning until 10:30 or 11:00 in the evening. And sometimes he awoke in the middle of the night to work. He tried to change his habits in small ways to make his days less hectic, but he struggled to see where he could cut back.
Before long, he began feeling sharp pains on the left side of his throat. At first the pain would come and go, but eventually his neck and throat hurt constantly. He experienced frequent chest pain, and even light physical exertion fatigued him. Exercise did not improve his condition. Soon his wife, Camilla, noticed that his breathing had become more labored.
In September 1971, he spoke privately about his symptoms with Dr. Russell M. Nelson, the newly called general superintendent of the Sunday School and a renowned heart surgeon. Dr. Nelson listened carefully and suggested that Elder Kimball see an expert immediately.
Not long after, Elder Kimball consulted with Dr. Ernest Wilkinson, a heart specialist and son of the former president of Brigham Young University. Dr. Wilkinson reviewed the reports from Elder Kimball’s earlier medical exam and conducted more tests. As the doctor studied the results, the apostle could tell he was concerned. “Be frank,” he said.
“Aortic stenosis,” Dr. Wilkinson replied. He explained that Elder Kimball’s aortic valve, which allowed blood to leave the heart, had hardened and narrowed. His heart was wearing out as it strained to pump blood through the diseased valve.
Elder Kimball asked how long he had to live. The doctor said he might have one or two years more, but it was also possible that he would die without warning at any time. Surgery could prolong his life, but at Elder Kimball’s age, he had only a 50 percent chance of surviving.
The news was devastating. Elder Kimball had always thought of death as something vague and far away. Now it felt like the end of the world—or the beginning of the end—had come.
The next day, Elder Kimball walked to the Salt Lake Temple for a meeting with the First Presidency and his fellow apostles. During the meeting, he found himself praying for strength to serve well despite the looming possibility of death.
Soon the meeting ended, and the men began leaving the temple. Elder Kimball noticed the others walking in groups of two or three, and a dark thought came to him—perhaps these same men would soon be walking in twos or threes as his pallbearers.
Elder Kimball knew the Lord could heal him. But why would He do that, the apostle wondered, when He could call other, more qualified men to serve in the Quorum of the Twelve?
“My leaving would make about as much stir,” he mused, “as blowing out one of many candles.”
One day, around this time, Ruffin Bridgeforth, Darius Gray, and Eugene Orr were invited to the office of Gordon B. Hinckley.
Since June, the three men had been meeting with Elder Hinckley, Elder Monson, and Elder Packer every few weeks. Difficult questions about the priesthood and temple restriction usually dominated their discussions, yet Ruffin always brought a calming spirit to the room.
In fact, the more the men counseled together, the more they learned to love and respect each other. Darius was impressed that President Smith had thought their concerns important enough to involve three apostles. As they continued to meet, the Lord was with them, and they often cried on one another’s shoulders.
Today, Elder Hinckley opened the meeting with good news. “After prayer and consideration,” he said, “President Smith and the brethren of the Quorum of the Twelve have been led to establish a support group for Black members of the Church.”
Church leaders had been talking about organizing such a group ever since Darius, Eugene, and Ruffin first proposed organizing a branch for Black Saints in their list of questions for the prophet. Elder Hinckley explained that the group would operate as a part of the Liberty Stake in Salt Lake City. Members of the group would continue to attend sacrament meeting and Sunday School in their home wards. But the group would have its own Relief Society, MIA, and Primary. Its purpose was to provide community and outreach for Black Saints, especially young people who struggled to find a place in the Church.
The apostles had already called Ruffin to serve as president of the group, and Ruffin had recommended Darius for his first counselor and Eugene for his second. Elder Hinckley now extended the callings to them, and they accepted.
A short time later, on October 19, 1971, Darius sat on the stand of a Salt Lake City meetinghouse. It was a Tuesday evening, but the chapel was full of people dressed for church. A few of the faces Darius saw were Black, but most of them were white.
Everyone had gathered to witness the start of what Darius, Ruffin, and Eugene had decided to call the Genesis Group, the first official Church organization for Black Latter-day Saints. Elder Hinckley, who conducted the meeting, introduced the group and its purpose. Then Ruffin Bridgeforth, as group president, called for a sustaining vote for its officers, including Lucile Bankhead as Relief Society president. When he finished, he bore his testimony.
“Genesis, as you know, means beginning,” he said. “This is a beginning.” He spoke of his love for the restored gospel and his gratitude for Church leaders and everyone in the congregation. “The Lord is on our side. We will succeed,” he testified. “I will strive more than I have ever strived before to make this succeed.”
When President Bridgeforth sat down, Elder Hinckley invited Darius to bear his testimony, catching him off guard. Darius approached the pulpit and said, “I wasn’t going to say anything this evening. It feels presumptuous.”
Looking into the congregation, he saw members of the Felix family, who had introduced him to the gospel seven years earlier. “They could have easily passed over me, but they didn’t,” he told the congregation. “It was important for me to have an opportunity to hear the gospel. They were persistent in offering it to me.”
He paused for a long time and then said, “I’ve often heard some men stand in sacrament meeting or fast and testimony meeting, men who bear the priesthood, and they stand and say I believe the gospel is true.”
Now he too wanted to bear his testimony. “I know the gospel’s true,” he declared. “And that’s an undying knowledge.”
After graduating at the top of her class from the secondary school at Benemérito, Isabel Santana returned to her hometown of Ciudad Obregón in northern Mexico. She was not sure what she wanted to do next. She could go back to Benemérito and enroll in the three-year preparatory school, which was designed to ready students for university. But she was seriously considering staying home and attending the local public preparatory school instead.
Isabel’s father was content to let her make her own decision about school. Her mother, however, was not keen on her going to school in Obregón, worried she would get caught up in some radical student movement in the area.
“If she stays here,” her mother thought, “she’s going to become a revolutionary like everybody else.”
Still uncertain, Isabel asked Agrícol Lozano, her civics teacher and the director of the preparatory school at Benemérito, for advice. He encouraged her to return and take the entrance exam.
“Come immediately,” Agrícol told her. “Here you have a place.”
Isabel returned to Mexico City, passed the exam, and was accepted. But she was unsure if she had made the right choice, especially after an aptitude test revealed that she was suited for social work—a career she had no interest in pursuing.
“I’m leaving,” she announced to Efraín Villalobos, her trusted mentor, one day. “I don’t want to be in the preparatory school.”
“No, no, no,” Efraín said. “Your place is here.” He encouraged her to try Benemérito’s teacher training school. Rather than prepare students only for university, the three-year school was also designed to prepare them for teaching at Church-operated schools in Mexico. That meant Isabel would immediately have a job when she completed her coursework.
Efraín’s words persuaded her, and she switched schools.
She quickly came to like the courses and her teachers. During the first years, she took general education classes as well as courses on teaching techniques, educational psychology, and the history of education. Her training was in educating children, and during her last year at teacher training school, she spent a week teaching at a Church-run elementary school in Monterrey, a city in northeastern Mexico. Isabel had never felt a strong nurturing instinct, and she worried that she lacked the patience to work with children, but the week went well.
While in teacher training school, Isabel became good friends with Juan Machuca, a young man from Mexico’s western coast who had recently served in the North Mexican Mission. Some of their classmates teased them about being a couple. Isabel laughed and said Juan was the last man she would marry. “He is my friend,” she insisted. “I’m not going to marry my friend.”
After graduation, however, they were both hired to teach seminary and institute at Benemérito. They shared a classroom, and before long, they began going to the movies and spending more time together. In early 1972, as Isabel and Juan chatted in her living room, Juan suddenly asked, “Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she replied, no trace of hesitation in her voice.
They married civilly in May, during the summer holidays. A few weeks later they traveled fourteen hundred miles with other Church members to the temple in Mesa, Arizona, to receive their temple blessings. The three-day bus ride was stifling as they sat on plastic seats and had no air conditioner.
But the discomfort was worth it. Mesa was the first temple to offer ordinances in Spanish, and at the time it was the closest temple to Church members in Mexico and Central America. For these Saints, the journey was long and required them to make great sacrifices. They often made the trip to take part in an annual conference of Latin American Church members hosted by the stakes in Mesa. These conferences lasted several days and blessed participants with a sense of belonging and spiritual community.
Once Isabel and Juan arrived at the temple, they received their endowment and then were sealed together for time and eternity. As they worshipped there, they felt the temple enrich their perspective on life and deepen their commitment to the gospel of Jesus Christ.
By early 1972, Billy Johnson’s congregations in and around Cape Coast, Ghana, had grown to include hundreds of faithful members. Among the most devoted of them was Billy’s mother, Matilda. Jacob and Lily Andoh-Kesson and their children, who joined the group soon after Billy’s arrival in Cape Coast, were also committed members and friends.
As his congregations grew, Billy had found an old building that had once been used to store cocoa beans. Now the space was filled with benches, a few small chairs and tables, a pulpit, and a long pew against a wall. Some people around Cape Coast mocked Billy and his followers for meeting in the rundown building, calling them “the cocoa-shed church.” But the growing number of believers did not mind meeting there, even when rain leaked through holes in the roof and everyone had to bunch together or use umbrellas to stay dry.
Billy did his best to make the humble building welcoming and comfortable. He hung a sign between the two double-door entrances that read “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormons).” A mural of Christ on the cross graced one wall, while a mural on another wall showed the Savior with arms uplifted and the words “Come unto Me” above His head. Pictures of Joseph Smith, the Tabernacle Choir, and other Church scenes dotted the walls, which were painted a light blue.
Lily Andoh-Kesson kept the building clean. She arrived there early in the morning to prepare it for meetings. She saw angels there, she told her daughter Charlotte, and she wanted the angels to have a clean place to be.
Billy’s congregation met morning and evening three times a week for worship services, which were filled with hymns, dancing, clapping, prayer, shouts of praise, and sermons. Sometimes Billy preached with his young son Brigham sitting on his shoulders.
When he preached, Billy taught the principles he had learned from reading Church materials, like the thirteen Articles of Faith, and shared stories of Latter-day Saint pioneers. But most of all he loved teaching from the Book of Mormon.
Billy believed that missionaries would come someday from Church headquarters, yet he feared that his followers would grow discouraged while waiting for them. Some people had even left the group after critics of the Church told them that Latter-day Saints did not like Black people and would never send missionaries.
Occasionally, Billy’s tireless preaching got him in trouble with local authorities. He was accused of spreading falsehoods because he testified that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the only true church on the earth.
One time the police arrested him, but before they could take him to the station, he looked around, hoping to see a familiar face—someone who would go with him and the police. At first, he saw no one. But then he spotted a young bystander named James Ewudzie, a family friend.
James was weeping as he approached Billy. He was not a member of Billy’s congregation, but he placed a hand on him and called him “Sofo,” the Fante word for priest. “Do not worry,” he told Billy. “I will go with you.”
After being led to the station, Billy quickly engaged James and the police in a religious discussion. Four of the police officers warmed to his message and believed his words. The head of the police also struck up a friendship with Billy, and before long, the officers released him and James. Later, the head of the police invited Billy to teach gospel lessons to the Cape Coast police force every Friday morning.
James, meanwhile, had a dream that he met Billy at the meetinghouse. Billy asked him to kneel, and after he did so, light shone through the roof. James closed his eyes, but the light still illuminated him. Then he heard a voice slowly call his name.
“I want to bring my Church into Ghana,” the Lord said. He urged James to join with Billy. “If you help him, I will bless you and I will bless Ghana.”
James knew what the Lord told him in the dream was true, and he followed His command.