Two talks in Sacrament meeting today about tithing. Count them-two. Each followed a fairly predictable pattern: repeat the law, citing appropriate scripture and authorities, tell stories illustrating the fulfillment of promised blessings, bear testimony. I can't help but hear these talks within the louder din of recent church purchases of downtown Salt Lake real estate and the commitment of $500M to its development. And I can't help but evaluate those financial enigmas in the brighter light of New Testament words: "Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world. And to make great and spacious buildings so there shall be no blight before my house." (James 1:27, d'apres.)

So I'm thinking about money today. And I'm thinking about Breno, a bus driver I taught while a missionary in Brazil. He earned about $35 per month for his labor, and believed everything two sets of Elders had taught him and wanted to be baptized. But there was an obstacle: he was not married to his current mulher, Claudia. They lived together and had children together (the oldest was 10), but were not legally married, a very common family arrangement in Brazil. One day while talking with him, we learned that he could not marry Claudia because he was still married to another woman in another state, and could not afford to go there to get a legal divorce. He was near tears-he wanted so badly to do what he believed was right and to get baptized, but there was no way he could bring his life into the order that our American religion would impose upon it. We sat on the curb in front of the large house his "wife" took care of. Breno, Claudia, and their three children lived in a one-bedroom house at the back of the property. The owners of the house were gone for the season, so there was no problem with us sitting on the curb while his children played in the dirt and wiped their noses on their sleeves. The ocean was less than one hundred yards away.

"How much would it cost to go to Santo Alegre and get a divorce?" I asked.

He thought for a moment, "Well, there's travel money, an attorney, licenses and documents." He gave a figure that amounted to about 90 US dollars, and we talked no more about it. But he continued coming to church and all branch functions and was reading his Book of Mormon daily.

After consulting with my mission president and parents (all of whom gave me carefully worded warnings), I cashed a check for $100, changed it to Brazilian currency and dropped in to visit yet again with Breno and Claudia. I even set him up. I asked, "If money were not an obstacle to your taking care of a divorce and marriage, would you do it?" They both said that they would.

I opened my scripture tote (the kind that all good deacons and beehive girls carry) to reveal a wad of cash that just barely fit inside; it was more money than they had ever seen at one time-almost three months' salary. I said something about how money was not now an obstacle and hoped we could baptize them all soon. Claudia's eyes widened and her chin dropped. Breno was speechless, but managed to thank us emotionally. We made an appointment to see them in two days and left. I felt very proud of myself. As I look back now, I think how apropos it is that instead of scriptures, my bag contained cash. That $100 would have a bigger impact on them than any doctrine of the Restoration, it turned out. And like the $500M real estate development project, it stood as a more powerful symbol than Moroni of what the church was all about.

At our next appointment, Breno didn't meet us in the street as we were accustomed to him doing. We walked to the rear of the property and knocked on their door-the whole family was inside waiting for us. Breno was clearly uncomfortable; he was not his usual chatty self and kept his face and eyes averted. Claudia, however, usually a passive and occupied participant, stopped what she was doing and regarded us intently. Soon Breno could avoid the subject no longer and confessed with a full measure of humility that he would have to give the money back. And he was prepared to do so-still had the wad, undisturbed, as far as I could tell. But would we mind if he used it for some things his children needed instead of for his divorce?

What kinds of things? (That I even had to ask shows I was just a punk kid who had no business meddling with this good man's life).

Shoes, clothes, medicine. Prescriptions are very expensive, you know. Some food.

Of course, I was trapped, and more effectively than I had tried to trap him. No, no need to give the money back. Certainly, use it for whatever you need. And we never spoke of it again, nor could we ever speak of baptism again. But the next time I saw them, his kids had new shoes and clothes. I imagined that they looked healthier.

I don't regret the loss of $100. It was the best-spent money ever to have passed through my fingers. But it pains me to think of how I emasculated this man; I imagine the internal conflicts he must have gone through and what he must have endured from Claudia. I think of the cruelty inherent in forcing him to make a choice: eternity or today, faith or shoes. Not that eternity wouldn't be worth any cost, were eternity truly in the balance, but that I set him upon a path of certain failure because I asked him to ignore urgent needs in favor of distant promises of castles in the air. Through my actions I demanded that he be superhuman, when all he could be was human, and that should have been enough.

So when I hear about tithing I think of Breno, that's all.

I was transferred away from the area where we met and taught Breno, and had no contact with him for the rest of my mission which was slightly over half way finished. But I had word of him through other missionaries at conferences and at transfer times--he remained a steadfast member of the branch, except that he was not and could not be baptized. They even wanted to give him a calling but he didn't have the right credentials. No Holy Ghost, you know. But everyone loved him. Shortly before I was to go home I received a letter from Leonora, a member of the same branch whom I had baptized. She was going to the temple and knew I was about to go home and would want to know-- Breno was in the hospital with metastasized stomach cancer and had expressed a wish to see me.

I got permission to travel back to the old area for one of my final p-days in Brazil and went to the hospital where he was being treated. "Treatment" was a euphemism and everyone knew it; it meant he was being given drugs to ease the pain but that there was nothing else to be done for him. He would die soon, leaving a widow to whom he was not married and three small children with no means of support. Life insurance was unheard of. We talked around the subject during my visit, with my closest approach being my lame greeting, "How are you feeling?" when I walked in the room and said hello. I may also have muttered some things meant to be comforting, about the plan of salvation and the love of God.

But he knew the lessons too well. "Yes, but I'm not baptized," he reminded me.

"No."

"So what hope is there?"

I don't remember what I told him or where I looked when I said it, but it must have been at the ground. The me that watches the scene now in my memory looks at the ground; I am embarrassed for the punk kid with all the answers. I hope I was wiser than was likely; I hope I said something compassionate, perhaps about grace and rest and letting God decide.

In the face of death, chatter becomes hollow. If we were lovers or brothers or father and son, we could perhaps have found something to say that would match the occasion--its utter majesty and it universal banality. But such pathos is rare and our conversation dwindled. I did the only thing I could do--said I had to leave to catch my bus back.

"But is there anything I can do for you before I go?"

He smiled and said, "You know what I want."

I did, but hoped he would not say it. He wanted a blessing. He wanted to live and had been taught--maybe even by me--that priesthood found in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints was the very power of God and could heal the sick. So I stalled. "No I don't. What is it?"

"A blessing." And he stopped smiling so there was no way out for me.

I prayed hard and fast for inspiration, for a miracle. If anyone deserved it, Breno did. But then the script took over. Did I deserve it? Was I worthy? Who am I--I've never had that kind of faith. I never believed in my heart of hearts that this man would be healed. But I couldn't tell him that, of course.

My companion anointed while I wondered if I would dare promise him life while having no faith in the promise. What if the Lord needed him on the other side of the veil? Maybe that's why he had cancer in the first place. Then it was my turn and the time was now. I waited for the inspiration I was taught would be forthcoming; I put myself in the hands of the spirit and waited to be the mouthpiece of God's will for this man. I wanted badly to be undeniably inspired to rebuke his illness and command him to take up his bed and walk. But all that came was blankness. I said something about him having the chance to finish his work, whether it be in this life or the next, and told him that God is just and his just will would be done. Which of course is to say I copped out. Then I finished the blessing and shook Breno's hand and read disappointment in his eyes. Did he read it in mine? I wonder if his testimony waivered in that moment, as mine did? For in that moment the standard answers with which I was equipped ("we just can't see the whole picture") showed themselves supremely small. They smashed against the fact of death like driftwood under the bow of a tanker and we were both cast into dark waters.

I went home, enrolled in school, got engaged, as indeed I must, and Breno never left the hospital. He died, as he must, some 4 weeks later. Sometimes I think about him and the power of belief, the power of priesthood. But mostly when I think about him, it's about the power of death and fear and the cruel blinders we place on our eyes to hide us from them.