Posted by:
pewsitter
(
)
Date: April 20, 2013 06:52PM
When I was a teenager, we had a Bishop who was an agent for the FBI. He had a cool last name since it was the same thing as the weapon he carried. I remember one Mutual night the Bishop walked up behind me, grabbed me by the neck, marched me out the front door, picked me up and threw me about 10 feet whereupon I landed on a concrete sidewalk. I felt my hands and knees burning from the blood pouring out of them and saw my new jeans and been destroyed. We were poor and having new clothes to wear to school was important. Most of the time, I had out grown my clothes and the bottom of my pants would be above my ankles.
I remember looking up and seeing the Bishop, his counselors, the adults that were there and most of the youth (my friends) looking at me as he yells for me to never return to church. I am hurt, dumb founded and have no ideal why I was so viciously attacked. No one came to assist me as I sat there and watched everyone follow the Bishop back into the building.
I later learned the Bishop had attacked me because one of the girls in the ward had confessed to being on drugs and would not give up who she was getting the drugs from, just she got them at church. The Bishop was inspired that I was the Ward Drug Dealer. At least that is what I was told the Bishop had announced to those that witnessed this attack on a child by a big man with a gun.
The truth is I have never taken drugs, know very little about drugs. The ward drug dealer was actually the President of the Priest Quorum whom the inspired Bishop claimed he had been inspired should be an example to the other youth of the ward. The President of the Priest Quorum would drive the other kids in the ward to seminary every morning and on the way back to school he would sell the kids that rode in his car their drugs. I went to a different high school so I was unaware of this activity.
I made my way home and I must have been quite a sight to my parents. I looked like I had been mugged with my clothes torn up and blood everywhere. All I could think about all the way home was calling the police and having this Inspired Bishop arrested.
My parents upon learning it was the Bishop that had attacked me; forbade me from calling the police either that night or ever. Their reason was the newspaper might learn of the attack and the church would be cast in a bad light. I was also told I could not call the police since the inspired bishop was a FBI agent and he might lose his job and hinder his career.
The following Sunday, I was not getting dressed for church and my father told me I had to go. I so wanted to not go and face that man.
The inspired Bishop never spoke to me or apologized for what he did. He was finally transferred and we got a new Bishop.
The greater trauma for me was my parents had not protected me but sacrificed me on the altar of their beloved religion.