I thought it would be good for each of you to learn the story of how I joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I wrote this many years ago but have felt prompted to share it with you.

I hope you enjoy reading it. 

Fishers of (Me)n

by Michael Wuergler

            “Is it alright if we come in and play the banjo? Your roommate said that you wouldn’t mind.”

            Not a terribly unusual request, assuming that I, indeed, had a banjo and that I wouldn’t mind if this stranger at my door came in and played it. Actually, there were two strangers…young men about my age dressed in suits and ties and looking very eager. Mormon missionaries, I thought, just like the ones I remember that came to our home in Denver when I was about seven or eight years old. Mom and Dad invited them in to teach my little brother Larry and I. We had just started Lutheran Bible School that summer and our parents thought that it would be a kind and gentle way of discouraging these proselytes from knocking on our door again. Mom and Dad would let Larry and I look up the scriptures while they deferred all the missionaries’ questions to us. The ploy must have worked, because I only remember one such evening.

            “Not at all, come on in.”

            There were four of us who shared the apartment in Boulder and my roommate did, in fact, have a five-string banjo that was one of the tools of our trade. We had a musical group that was actually doing pretty well at the time playing small-college concerts throughout the West. We also had a steady gig at Disney’s night club in Denver, did regular ski-season appearances at the Red Onion which was the hottest club in Aspen, and had just released our first single record on Finer Arts Records, a small local label. With all that going on it was real tough for me to carry a full load of classes at the University of Colorado so I was on student cruise-control, taking only about 3 to 5 hours a semester. I was having a great time performing with the guys and was in no hurry to graduate anyway. I don’t even think I was studying when the two missionaries knocked at my door.

            It’s over there in the black case, help yourself.”

            I came to the University of Colorado on a full music scholarship with the intention of getting my degree. I was a pretty good trombone player, tinkled an ivory or two, and could vocally belt a tune with the best of ‘em. I also subsidized my college tuition playing the pipe organ at weddings, funerals and worship services all over town. I had picked up the bass fiddle to play in the group…a “utility infielder” with a beat.

            “Hey, this is a beautiful instrument.”

            I loved music. When I was really young, Mom told me that music as not an elective for me. She said that it was to be part of my education and just maybe, some day it might pay for part of your schooling. Actually, it was my trombone that got me into college since an academic full ride was most certainly out of the question. Mom was right, as usual. Music would, in very deed, pay for my education…in more ways than one.

            “Strum away, Elder.”

            One of my roommates was a Latter-day Saint, so I knew enough to address this young minister properly. He also played a mean banjo!

            “Hey, you’re a real good picker.”

            I also knew the proper way to address a proficient banjo player.

            My music degree from CU was going to be just a necessary stop along the way because I was headed to a Lutheran pulpit. At least, up until that afternoon I thought I was. At the tender age of 14, I had chosen my career path and felt that I was well on the way. In my youth, I knew that I wanted to preach the gospel, direct the choir, compose a hymn or two, write the definitive work on Martin Luther, and wear all the fancy vestments on Sundays, all to the glory of God. It was a youthful decision that felt good and right. Mom certainly approved, even if she had been raised as an Irish Catholic. My immediate family was a real “Heinz 57” variety pack of religions. Dad was a Nazarene. My grandmother was a practicing Christian Scientist and Papa Max was my wonderful Jewish grandfather. Larry and I were raised as Lutherans because they had just built their church around the corner. It was close so that’s where we all went every Sunday morning to worship, every Thursday night for choir practice, and I mowed the lawn on Saturdays to pay my way through elementary school.

            While Elder Goodfellow was pickin’ away and Elder Anderson was wrapped up in the strains of “Orange Blossom Special,” I took a quick mental trip back to my family’s living room and remembered sitting on the floor with my brother with open Bibles, giving those poor frustrated missionaries a real hard time. My memory was stirred and I recalled that they really didn’t come to teach a couple of youngsters. So, now might be a good time to make amends.

            “That was terrific Elder. You play real good. Hey,” as if I had just thought of it, “don’t you guys have a lesson or something?”

            As I now reflect back on the very moment, the mental picture I have in my mind is a large rainbow trout taking the hook. Elder Goodfellow set the banjo down and began to reel me in.

            “Do you know anything about the Mormon Church?” he asked “goldenly.”

            “I seem to recall a couple of things from my childhood,” I responded.

            “Would you like to know more?” The fish had been carefully netted.

            These two young ministers of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, my contemporaries in age, proceeded to lay out before me the most wonderful and amazing story. Having a somewhat religious bent, it was easy for me to follow the logic of their presentation. It made sense. Papa Max and my Jewish friends in the neighborhood had given me a terrific head start in understanding the Old Testament, and between Vacation Bible School in the summers and Pastor Jim prepping me for the Lutheran ministry all year ‘round, I had more than a working knowledge of the New Testament. I was, at that very moment, taking a history course at CU on the Reformation, so I also knew enough about the Apostasy to let them breeze right through their intro material.

            It was the story of Joseph Smith that caught my heart first. Remember that as a devout Lutheran and for as many Sundays as I could count, I had repeated the Apostle’s Creed wherein I had vocalized my belief that there was some sort of mystical three-in-one God that was always really incomprehensible to me. I could never really connect with the idea of a Trinity, but there I was, declaring that I did each and every Sunday by rote.

            Elder Anderson stated with such conviction that he knew that Joseph did, in very deed, see and hear the Father introduce His Son. Two separate and distinct heavenly beings, standing in the air, bathed in a glorious light, speaking to a faithful young farm boy, in upstate New York (of all places), all in the full light of day. Wow! Did that knock a few slats out from under my Lutheran upbringing or what? Martin Luther’s “Here I Stand” took on a whole new meaning for me that afternoon. “One” in purpose, not a mystical triad. “One” in a unity that I could truly comprehend.

            That was a jolt. But it was nothing to what happened next.

            “Here, Brother Wuergler, read this passage in Ezekiel thirty-seven.”

            “Oh, I know this one. I never did understand the “stick” thing though.”

            They both smiled. You could almost see the fish being dragged into the boat.

            The story of The Book of Mormon as they laid it out for me was so powerful, so compelling, so overwhelming, that I could hardly catch my breath. Imagine, a book placed in the ground somewhere in America centuries ago by a prophet-warrior that contained within its pages the Gospel of Jesus Christ in all its purity, translated only once into English by the young Joseph who never went beyond a third-grade education.

            “This is amazing, you guys! Do you know what you are really saying?”

            The trout was in the cooler        

“Brother Wuergler, let’s try a little experiment. Hold your Bible in your left hand.”

I did.

“Now, take this Book of Mormon in your right hand and let me read this passage in Ezekiel to you again. As you listen, follow the instructions as the Lord speaks.”

As he read the scripture, something truly astounding began to take place.

It was sinking in that I was holding The Stick of Judah in my left hand. Because of Papa Max, I knew the implications of the Bible being the story of the Jewish nation. That was a given.

But, this strange and wonderful new book was in my right hand. As he read, I did what the Lord told the Old Testament prophet to do.

“And the two shall become one in thine hand.”

As I placed The Book of Mormon in my left hand and held them both together, I said out loud, in a very reverent voice of recognition, “the Stick of Joseph.”

I couldn’t breathe.

After a moment or two, I began to be self-aware again. I felt as if my heart was being plugged directly into an electric socket because I could feel the surge of power that was sweeping over me. There I was, sitting in my apartment, actually, literally, physically fulfilling Old Testament prophecy. It was absolutely electric!

“The two have become one in my hand,” I whispered.

Time stood still. Pure testimony was flowing.

I hardly remember the next few minutes or what the missionaries were saying to me. I was reflecting on the thousands of rabbis down through time that had no idea what the Stick of Joseph truly referred to. How many Protestant ministers had skimmed over that passage, along with a lot of others, that didn’t fit into their particular doctrine or dogma, or did not support a Sunday sermon, so they simply dismissed it? Now, here was clarity…revelatory clarity. The two sticks had become one bringing the same message to the world…Jesus was the Christ. The Mormon Church was teaching me a simple story that was so profound in meaning and implication, that it would change the world.

At least it would mine. At that very moment, I knew that my career path toward the Lutheran ministry was coming up on a major detour.

“Will you commit to read The Book of Mormon, Brother Wuergler?”

I was still tingling from the experience.

“Yes…I will.”

I remember being completely unable to put it down. I spent the next three days devouring its pages, being wonderfully fed by the Spirit as I read. With each succeeding page turn, I could feel my testimony being fortified. Yes, Lehi coming to America answered so many questions about native origins. Of course Columbus was led here. Yes, the Savior did appear to his “other sheep.” But those were evident and rational. What was more powerful for me was taking Moroni’s challenge seriously.

“With real intent.”

I knew it was true.

My first phone call was to Mom.

“I’m going to be changing my major again, and I won’t be going into the Lutheran seminary like the family expects me to. I am going to be baptized in the Mormon Church.”

Long silence.

“How could you do that? They don’t even believe in Jesus.”

My heart pounded.

“Boy, have I got something wonderful to tell you!”

I was now the one baiting the hook.

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