The Ward Mission Plan

The Chelm ward, being full of the world’s greatest fools, was unlike other wards throughout the Church in every respect—except for the functioning of its ward council, which was exactly as efficient as every other ward council anywhere. Like its counterparts, the Chelm ward council met regularly to discuss matters that could benefit from confusion among the ward’s organizations. On the rare occasions when they had not yet wandered farther than the children of Israel from a given meeting’s original purpose, they also made sure to fulfill the rote tasks members of ward councils the world over stoically endure. 

The tedium of these tasks was required by scripture itself. “For ye receive no witness,” the Book of Mormon said, “until after the trial of your faith.” And so, week by alternating week, they puzzled together over forms sent from the stake, talked circles around plans for activities, and generally repeated themes and variations of the same stale conversations until they felt tested enough to be very nearly worthy of a visit from an angel. Of all the tests of faith the Chelm ward council faced, however, the most Abrahamic was undoubtedly the annual creation of a ward mission plan. 

The need for the exercise escaped Bishop Levy. The greatest missionary Chelm had ever known was Heshel, and he had never successfully planned a thing in his life. For Heshel, things simply happened. So far, he had survived them all. One of them, for which Bishop Levy remained thankful on days when the ward council did not meet, had been introducing a new religion to a ward’s worth of people. Why couldn’t they consider the Heshel of the field and leave this particular form as blank and white as any lily? 

But he knew his council had reason to defer on this topic to the experience of others. To Bishop Levy’s knowledge, no ward in recent European memory had grown as quickly as the Chelm ward. If it is true that we learn the most from our failures, that meant every single ward in Europe knew more about missionary work than the poor people of Chelm. It couldn’t be helped. In Chelm, they assumed that missionary work consisted of mostly talking absently with one another, exchanging books and barbs in the process, until perhaps God’s finger intervened and someone decided to change their life. Or not! Everyone in the Chelm ward had plenty of friends who had found totally different strange things to believe in. But what did the Mormons of Chelm know? Wards with a greater mass of instructive experience were sure that missionary work needed to begin with imagining a generic list of outcomes and then proceed by carefully counting what one had imagined. Like numbering sheep to put oneself to sleep. 

Without fail, the outside authorities seemed to agree that the counting was the important part. Counting made the imagination feel less like child’s play and more like business. Bishop Levy had noticed early that playing business was deeply comforting to people born further west. They liked the rhythms of accounting. They liked playing dress-up with dark suits and ties. It was their reflexive response when managing the chaos of community. 

Most converts in Chelm had grown up riding the chaos of community more than managing it. If they had any strategy at all, it was telling the same very old stories every year at set times so they would at least have a shared language to argue in. Then again, this strategy had worked just well enough to shield them from the most instructive failures. So they had a lot to learn about playing business if they wanted to catch up with the West. 

When he was first called to lead the Chelm ward, Bishop Levy had attended a training on the subject. Because the details of how to count counter-factual future events escaped him, Bishop Levy had asked what the underlying purpose of ward mission plans was. If he understood the theory, he reasoned, he might be able to develop a simpler version the people of Chelm would be able to grasp. 

Perhaps hearing more sharp challenge than simple question in his Ashkenazi tone (as Gentiles almost universally did with Jewish mannerisms and accents), the other Saints in the room rushed to defend the sacred practice. Several explained, in different words, that a ward mission plan was important because a person wearing a suit had said it was important. But Bishop Levy already understood that the plan was part of the game. He didn’t need to know it held authority—he just wanted to understand why and how it worked. 

Finally, a German brother had spoken up to clarify. “The underlying principle is simple,” he said. “If you fail to plan, you plan to fail.” 

Hearing that, Bishop Levy nodded his head enthusiastically in recognition. “That’s us exactly!” he had said. “We plan to fail as much as we can. Starting as soon as possible!” 

It was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. As a direct result of this comment, Chelm had not been given permission to develop a simpler version of the ward mission plan. They were invited instead to submit their plans for an extra check so Church authorities could monitor their progress in assimilation. 

And so it was that Bishop Levy and his counselors met with Fruma Selig, President Gronam, Mirele Schwartz, and Yossel the Fisherman to once again pass through the ordeal. In the year Church was shortened by an hour (but ward council, tragically, was not) Clever Gretele, who had just been made Primary president as a much-needed redirection from Sunday School, joined them for the first time. 

In theory, Heshel was also supposed to come. Since things just happened to him, he had seemed well-suited to the role of executive secretary. But ten minutes after the stated starting time (which was when ward council traditionally began) he had yet to arrive. Bishop Levy asked Gretele about her husband’s absence, but she had little light to cast on the subject. “He’s in some stage of being on his way,” she said. “And it’s also possible he will arrive. In any case, I reminded him just before I left.” 

What was then to be done? President Gronam felt that holding one’s breath waiting for Heshel was a good way to pass out, so everyone agreed to start the unpleasant task before them even without Heshel there to mourn with those who mourn and so forth. 

Bishop Levy decided to get the worst over with first. “As you know,” he stated flatly, “the Church asks us to set a goal for baptisms each year.” 

Everyone shifted uncomfortably. If it were permitted to call the immersion required to enter God’s earthly kingdom anything else, they would have done so. The word “baptism” still conjured collective memories of forced conversions, whether by armed mobs or the pressures of a discriminatory job market. It was hard to get excited about the word. 

Each member of the Chelm ward had found a way to reconcile him- or herself to the ordinance. For many, the experience itself had been fine. For some, it had even been spiritually profound. But sorting out how to accept the notion of baptism had been a very personal thing. Setting an annual goal for baptisms was different. It felt so Christian. In a late medieval, inquisitory sort of way. 

“What about Hirsh?” Fruma Selig asked. “He was interested.” She looked to Bishop Levy. “Sometimes, he still mentions you.” 

Bishop Levy winced. He appreciated the spiritual mantle that came with his calling, but some parts of it were a terrible burden. “No need for fresh salt on old wounds,” he told her. 

After a long silence, Yossel the Fisherman spoke up. “Shall we cast lots again like last year?” 

Though the proposal was good, Bishop Levy’s heart sank. “We can’t,” he admitted. “The executive secretary has them.” And who knew if he would ever arrive? 

But President Gronam smiled. “Then the lot is already cast out,” he said happily. President Gronam loved lots, and he loved casting out. “The same authority acknowledged in scripture by the kings of Israel, the eleven apostles, and the sons of Lehi makes clear that this year’s goal for baptisms should be zero!”

Everyone quickly nodded or mumbled their agreement. Bishop Levy suspected he would be getting a call from outside authorities over this. Still, he supposed that zero was a number and that it would be all right if he did his best to look businesslike as he wrote it down. 

“Let’s move on then,” the Bishop said with what he hoped was a controlled corporate briskness. “We are also asked to set a goal for reactivation.” He looked around the room. “Now,” he asked. “Does anyone here remember what reactivation is?”  

Once again, Fruma Selig spoke up first. “If we are trying to make someone active again, perhaps we could think of a way to wake up Israel Lewensztajn? He certainly is the least active member of the ward.” 

Gretele immediately objected. “It seems like such a pity,” she said, “to keep the old man from getting his sacrament meeting rest.”  

Bishop Levy did not want to discourage the council’s newest member from commenting, but felt he should use the opportunity for training. “By way of clarification,” he explained, “the purpose of the ward mission plan is not necessarily to do a thing, but simply to imagine it for counting purposes. There will be no need to disturb Brother Lewensztajn just because he may happen to be part of a goal.” 

“We could try to make the Cohens more active,” Yossel the Fisherman said. “Perhaps they could be persuaded to come to Church on the same week.”

“They do bicker very actively,” Mirele Schwartz added. 

President Gronam shook his head. “The chapel is cold enough without their frosty glares,” he said. “We should commend them instead for being such wise stewards over their irritability.” 

Bishop Levy had to agree. “The purpose of Church meetings is to increase people’s faith,” he noted. “Not their blood pressure.” Still, imagining a change in the Cohens had been useful. Between them and Israel Lewensztajn, the ward council could both put down three for their goal—and feel immensely relieved when they failed to achieve it.

“What about Beynish Finder?” Gretele asked. “He was talking about wanting to be more active. I’d be happy to help him develop an exercise routine, though it’d be easier to follow up on that if he ever came to church.” 

Bishop Levy considered this. Four would be a very impressive goal. But since it was Gretele who brought it up, he should probably remind her not to get any crazy ideas. “I’ll put him down. But let’s not put our own schemes in the way of the Lord’s timing. At the moment, I think Brother Beynish Finder is enjoying being lost.” 

Gretele looked at the clock, and then toward the door. Beynish wasn’t the only one.  

“I would like to bring up another point of discussion,” Mirele Schwartz said next. “In the past, our ward mission plan has been made up of these goals, but on some websites I read in English”—Mirele felt there was a special authority to anything about the Church written in English, whether she understood all the words or not—“a ward mission plan also ought to involve choosing a ward mission theme.” 

President Gronam scratched his head. “I thought the theme was always missionary work,” he said. 

Mirele was all too happy to elaborate. “A theme,” she said, “is a quote—perhaps a verse of scripture or a line from a hymn—that helps members truly focus on their missionary responsibility.” 

Clever Gretele reluctantly lifted up her scriptures. “I can look for something,” she said. “Isn’t the book of Jonah about missionary work?” 

Just then, Heshel walked into the meeting. He collapsed at once onto an open chair. His chest heaved as he sucked in air hungrily. 

“I started taking the notes without you,” Bishop Levy said as he passed them over. “We were just beginning to discuss the ward theme.” 

“Went the wrong way this morning,” Heshel gasped in response. 

“That’s not bad,” said Mirele Schwartz, “but the quote we’re looking for should ideally come from the scriptures or a hymn.” 

“On the way to the meeting,” Heshel confessed between breaths. “Went the wrong way on purpose. Knew it was mission plan week. But then I got chased back. By a big dog! Could almost have swallowed me.” 

Clever Gretele closed her Bible. “Maybe not Jonah after all.” 

 “What if we chose a theme that is more about who we are as a ward,” Bishop Levy proposed, “like Jacob 7:26? Something about wanderers cast out?” 

“We need something motivational,” President Gronam countered, “like Judges 5:2.”  

Yossel shrugged. “I’d take anything about fishing,” he said. 

Fruma Selig raised her hand and began speaking at the same time. “We haven’t talked about our efforts to reach out to others in friendship,” she said. “The ward mission plan is not complete if we don’t talk about friendship.” 

President Gronam groaned. “If missionary work were about friendship,” he snapped. “I would never have joined this Church.” 

“Friendship doesn’t necessarily mean you have to like people or get along with them,” Fruma Selig reminded him. “Only that you are willing to pass through a piece of this life together.” 

Yossel the Fisherman nodded in agreement. “We could make the ward Purim Party part of the ward mission plan,” he suggested. 

There was a moment of silence in the room once again. The council’s inherited gratitude for the salvation brought about by Queen Esther was not enough to offset the anxieties that had grown up around the ward Purim Party. 

“We still haven’t chosen a ward theme,” Mirele Schwartz said. 

President Gronam spoke up at almost the same time, his voice hard. “Let’s talk about the Purim Party, then.” 

“There are so many fitting lines from hymns,” Mirele Schwartze suggested. “’The Night is Dark and I am Far From Home,’’Let the Consequence Follow,’…”

“Maybe something more hopeful?” Gretele asked. “What about ‘The Wicked Who Fight Against Zion Shall Surely Be Smitten At Last’?”

“I think that this council should take up the issue of casting for the Purim play,” President Gronam insisted. “Specifically, I am tired of being cast, year after year, as Haman.”  

Bishop Levy raised a reassuring hand in President Gronam’s direction. “The whole point of the Purim spiel is to help ward members liken the scriptures unto us. We can’t help any comparisons they may choose to make.” 

Mirele Schwartz spoke a little more loudly. “In addition to choosing a theme, we should talk about how to share it in forms ward members will remember. I have several ideas.” 

“It’s not that I mind personally about the casting,” President Gronam said. “But it’s an insult to the dignity of the elders quorum.” 

“For example,” said Mirele Schwartz, “we could put the theme in the ward bulletin, perhaps print it on magnets for each household refrigerator or else in small scrolls that could be placed near a mezuzah.” 

“It’s irreverent,” said President Gronam. “Last year I also called on myself to give the invocation and everyone rattled their noisemakers through the prayer.” 

Gretele laughed. “Not through the whole prayer! It’s not our fault you said bless the man playing Haman. Prayer or not, you know tradition dictates that on Purim we drown out that name.” 

“I simply think the entire activity needs reforming,” President Gronam said. “The Purim spiel has lost its savor.” 

“I had also considered a vinyl wall sticker,” said Mirele Schwartz. 

“Like the ones we gave out in Relief Society about protecting the home?” Fruma Selig asked. 

“Yes, with the verse about Jael,” Mirele replied. “Those were lovely and conveyed the theme with such power.” 

Fruma Selig practically blushed. “I’m so glad you liked them,” she said. 

President Gronam took a notebook from his pocket and consulted it. “The problems with the ward Purim spiel go beyond the casting of Haman,” he said. “There is also the problem of too many Esthers and of the stolen crowns. There are the competing narrators. And we should also address the issue of the refreshments.”  

“I’m happy to bring the refreshments again,” Yossel said. “No issue there.” 

Every eyebrow in the room arched upward as the ward council directed their gazes at him. 

“That’s not necessary,” Fruma Selig said. 

“But it’s tradition!” Yossel countered. 

Few found this argument persuasive. 

“It’s not the taste I object to so much as the texture,” President Gronam said. 

“Though the tastelessness is a bit of a problem,” Clever Gretele noted. “Just for Purim, I mean,” she added apologetically. “Not in general.” 

“You don’t like the refreshments?” Yossel asked. “But I bring them every year.” 

“That is true,” Bishop Levy said sadly. “That is very true.” 

“I am sure,” said Mirele Schwartz, “that Yossel can bring something a little different this next time.” 

Yossel shrugged. “Of course. I’m sure it’s no trouble at all to leave people expecting one thing all year and then suddenly change it on them in the moment they take their first bite.” 

“Put a notice in the weekly announcements,” President Gronam suggested. “Give people something to look forward to.” 

“Now,” said Mirele Schwartz, “if we can return to the question of how to present the ward mission theme to our members—”

President Gronam waved his notebook. “And the crowns! The competing narrators! The casting of Haman!” 

“I suspect the primary boys only stole the crowns because they were jealous of the girls,” Clever Gretele said. “Perhaps this year, we should let all the children be Esther.” 

“That sounds like a very reasonable compromise,” Bishop Levy said. “And a model for the quick resolution of other issues.”  

Fruma Selig shook her head. “You can’t compromise your way out of everything,” she said. “It was bad enough to have either Zalman the Learned or Menachem Menasche feel hurt and offended when the other was asked to narrate, but I think we can agree it was a disaster last year when we asked both.” 

“They simply cannot be allowed to try and speak over each other,” President Gronam insisted. “They drowned out even the noisemakers!” 

Mirele Schwartz raised her voice to speak over President Gronam. “As important as the Ward Purim Party is to the ward mission plan,” she said, “I am afraid we are overlooking the more vital task of choosing a ward theme and a way to display it. Our hour is almost over and we haven’t even touched on my idea about phylacteries.” 

Heshel put down his pen and held up both hands, begging for a moment of quiet. “I seem to have missed something in my notes,” he said. “I have no idea how the ward Purim Party relates to missionary work or why the mission theme is a vital task.” 

The council fell quiet for a moment. Bishop Levy remembered that English had something to do with the theme, but he honestly couldn’t remember himself what on earth made them think the Purim Party would make people want to come to Church. “Try reading back the notes so far,” he recommended. 

Heshel cleared his throat. “The notes I have,” he said, “beginning with those taken by Bishop Levy, are as follows: 

Our baptismal goal for this year is 0. Our reactivation goal is 3 or 4. 

We will be relieved if we fail to meet our goals. 

We need to choose a ward theme. Bad suggestions are given. Fishing for friendship? 

President Gronam says, ‘I would never have joined this Church.’

Sister Selig says we need to tolerate each other…

He scratched his head. “The talk got fast, and the Lord did not make me mighty in writing, so it gets a little messy from here . . .” 

The Ward Purim Party is dark and I am far from home. Let the consequence follow the wicked who fight. 

We can’t help any comparisons. Refrigerator magnets are like mezuzahs.

Noisemakers during the prayer were tradition. The Purim spiel has lost its savor. Jael conveyed the theme with power. 

The problem with tradition is partly the texture but also the lack of taste. Bishop Levy bears testimony that is true. President Gronam wants a notice placed in the ward bulletin. 

You can’t compromise your way out of everything. We are overlooking the more vital task.

Heshel looked up from the paper before him. “That’s all I have,” he said. “Maybe we should go over all the discussion again, but a little more slowly?” 

Bishop Levy glanced up at the clock. In the difficult choice between leaving ward council early and holding everyone late, he chose the path less traveled by. “Those notes sound perfect,” he said. “We will submit them as our ward mission plan.” 

Bishop Levy then asked Clever Gretele to close the meeting with a prayer. And over the coming months, every part of the prayer was fulfilled. 

Her request that Bishop Levy find the failure he longed for was answered with a lovely call from stake leaders gently explaining why the notes most certainly did not make up a mission plan. Her prayer that the most vital traditions be honored was fulfilled as President Gronam once again found himself cast in the role of Haman for the ward Purim spiel, while her prayer that the ward be open to new and better traditions was fulfilled in the smiling faces of primary boys in colorful skirts who loved the chance to be Esther—and in a quick reading by Belka Fisher, who skipped over the Book of Esther’s more boring parts. As for the refreshments? Well, it may not have been quite an answer to prayer, but there was an almost pleasant surprise in the herring-flavored hamantaschen Yossel brought that year for a people grown tired of filling made from gefilte fish. 

James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Artwork by David Habben.

Tales of the Chelm First Ward: Introduction