"Who am I? "

Last week the Bishop called me to be the Sunday School Pres. of the Laie sixth ward. For someone who tries to avoid most forms of participation, this is the best calling ever. You don't do anything and people still have to call you 'President.' Just fill in for someone when they don't show up for their class, and remember to push the warning bell on time. It's a far cry from planning an activity every Tuesday night, organizing the occassional scout camp, and dealing with irate parents when their son gets left at the church. So I wasn't too worried about living up to expectations this week when I was sustained in Sacrament meeting. How could I have know this calling would present me with a moral dilemma that would cut me to the quick.

I was sitting in Gospel Doctrine at the end of the second hour counting down the last few minutes like a kid on the last day of school, when the teacher snapped me back to attention by saying:

"Well, I'm not sure how much time we have left. The bell hasn't rang, and I see the Sunday school Pres. sitting here in class, so..."

And I was thinking, "Hey, Poindexter! Get up and push that bell, son. The sooner we finish up here the sooner I can get back...wait a minute..."

I jumped up and headed out the door, trying to ignore the judgemental glances you only receive when you're derelict in your calling. I didn't even know where the bell was located, and by the time I reached the clerk's office it was already five after.

And then I was confronted with the Gordian knot of Church calling decisions. I had been sustained this morning, but I wouldn't be set apart until after church. Technically, I was not yet the SS Pres. Did I actually have the authority to push that button? Or was I usurping someone else's power in some act of unrighteous dominion?

I hesitated and look around for confirmation, but the clerk's office was empty. I knew if I didn't push the button the second hour would go on and on. What would happen then? Sunday school teachers would run out of material, their voices would grow hoarse as they kept telling unrelated personal experiences, their arms would grow weak as they played game after game of hangman until the kids eventually revolted and they collapsed from exhaustion. Did I want that on my conscience?

The seconds ticked by. The red button stared back at me. I felt like I was on the bridge of a nuclear sub deciding whether to authorize a launch. Where was the handbook when you needed it? What mattered more : people or protocol? Should I be Gene Hackman or Denzel Washington? It was all so confusing.

Then I remembered great literary examples who faced similar dilemmas. Huckleberry Finn placed his soul in jeopardy by helping Jim to escape. Carton changed places with Darnay in the Bastille. And Jean Valjean revealed his true identity to the court, freeing an innocent man. I would follow their examples.

I pushed the button.

Did I make the right decision? I'll let history be the judge of that.