Travel does a marvelous thing—it shows you the world… and then quietly informs you that you are not the center of it.
In 1964, I came home from a two-year mission in New Zealand, where I had been attempting to convert the Maoris to the LDS faith—while also trying to figure out if the whole thing was actually true.
At 84, I can report: still working on that.
These days, I estimate there’s about a 97.4% chance I end up as stardust. The extra .4 is important. It suggests precision. It’s also completely meaningless—but I stand by it.
Most religions, of course, claim they’re the right one. There are about 7,000 of them, all making that exact point. So either one is right and the rest are wrong… or we’ve all been confidently guessing for a very long time. Not that religion hasn’t done some good—if you overlook the occasional crusade and thumbscrew.
On my way home, I stopped in London and wandered over to Hyde Park, where people stand on boxes and explain the meaning of life to strangers who didn’t ask.
One older gentleman—about 80, standing on a step ladder—caught my attention. He was absolutely certain he had everything figured out: religion, life, the whole package.
Then he stopped and said, “Any questions?”
He looked straight at me.
“There’s a young man here who wants the truth—and I can give it to him. He’s dressed like a Mormon missionary. I get a lot of those. Even a few sisters. That church started by the scoundrel Joe Smith.”
Then he said, “Are you a Mormon?”
I thought, I’d rather not say.
But I also thought, I can outsmart this old guy on a ladder.
After all, if there was one thing we could explain, it was where we came from, why we’re here, and where we’re going. I had dazzled people with that before.
So I said, “Why are we here, old timer?”
He smiled.
“I don’t know about the rest of the crowd,” he said, “but you’re here because you ain’t all there.”
The crowd loved it.
I’ve been adding .4 to my estimates ever since.
When I got home, my father—who loved me deeply but didn’t take life all that seriously—started introducing me to his friends, most of them highly educated and highly skeptical doctors and dentists, like this:
“This is my son, Jaron. He’s just returned from New Zealand. He’s a world traveler… and a lecturer.”
I suspect he enjoyed that more than I did at 22.
I miss him more than I miss going to church.
And, I’d say there’s about a 3.4% chance that anyone reading this understands that most of us are here…because we ain’t all there.
