Lamb To The Slaughter Important Quotes

I think one of the sweetest lessons taught by the Prophet, and yet one of the saddest, occurred close to the time of his death. He was required to leave his plan and vision of the Rocky Mountains and give himself up to face a court of supposed justice. These are his words: 'I am going like a lamb to the slaughter; but I am calm as a summer's morning; I have a conscience void of offense towards God, and towards all men' (D&C 135:4). That statement of the Prophet teaches us obedience to law and the importance of having a clear conscience toward God and toward our fellowmen. The Prophet Joseph Smith taught these principles--by example. There was to be one great final lesson before his mortal life ended. He was incarcerated in Carthage Jail with his brother Hyrum, with John Taylor, and with Willard Richards. The angry mob stormed the jail; they came up the stairway, blasphemous in their cursing, heavily armed, and began to fire at will. Hyrum was hit and died. John Taylor took several balls of fire within his bosom. The Prophet Joseph, with his pistol in hand, was attempting to defend his life and that of his brethren, and yet he could tell from the pounding on the door that this mob would storm that door and would kill John Taylor and Willard Richards in an attempt to kill him. And so his last great act here upon the earth was to leave the door and lead Willard Richards to safety, throw the gun on the floor, and go to the window, that they might see him, that the attention of this ruthless mob might be focused upon him rather than the others. Joseph Smith gave his life. Willard Richards was spared, and John Taylor recovered from his wounds. 'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends' (John 15:13). The Prophet Joseph Smith taught us love--by example.

Tell me, why did it matter to you who won? I mean, even if you’d won, you still could have released me from the bargain. You could have said I didn’t have to spend those two days with you.” “I could have,” he acknowledged. “But after…after you told me about your father, I wanted you to have his horse back. Rava should have had more respect for his memory. She shouldn’t have taken him--them--away.” Tears stung my eyes, and I swallowed several times to loosen my throat. What a stupid reaction. “Thank you,” I murmured, and I felt his hand close around mine, giving it a squeeze. I sighed contentedly, letting myself enjoy the moment. “What was your father like?” “I don’t know,” he said offhandedly. “What do you mean, you don’t know?” As usual, my typical phrasing was somewhat coarse, driven by my curiosity, and I caught myself, adopting a more considerate tone. “Did he die when you were young?” “No, he’s still alive.” I turned my head to gape at him, greatly confused. “He left you?” “No.” “Then what?” I sat up again, close to exasperation; he just looked at me, bemused, my hand still in his. “Father’s don’t raise their children in Cokyri. They aren’t trusted with such an important responsibility. I never knew mine.” This was not an answer I could have foreseen, and I shifted uneasily, trying to figure out how to proceed. “I’m sorry,” I said lamely. He was quiet at first, his eyes fixed on the darkened sky as he pondered our different experiences. “I never felt sorry about it. My mother was a good woman--she and her maidens took care of me. But like I told you before, I had to work harder than you can imagine to achieve my military rank, and only because I’m a man. I can do everything Rava can do. I always could, but no one would see it, not even her. A struggle like that makes you question things.” “So now you wish you’d known your father?” Again, he reflected. “No. I wish I’d known yours.” I looked away, once more fighting tears. I didn’t understand how he could affect me so deeply. “I’m not sure my father would have been to your liking,” I finally said, meeting his eyes. “I found him brave for his willingness to fight, even when there was no more hope. You would probably have found him weak.” He sat up and gazed earnestly at me. “There is a way to accomplish things, but it’s rarely to declare a war, private or otherwise.” “Sometimes the war is not of your making,” I retorted. “You must fight, otherwise you’re a lamb. And lambs are slaughtered, Saadi.” His brows drew together, and we stared at each other for much longer than we should have, and I knew I had rattled him. Then he shook his head. “See those lights up there? They’re called stars.” I laughed. “I can take a hint. We should go back.” We caught and saddled our mounts, then took our time returning to the city, neither of us really wanting the day to end.

Over the two centuries before Jesus, the celebration had taken on quite a bit of Greek Socratic (Hellenistic) influence, which suited Jewish social tradition quite nicely, so what had begun as the recitation of a story had morphed into almost a question and response ritual. On the morning of Preparation Day for the celebration, the head of the household took a lamb to The Temple for slaughter. Then, he would bring the meat home so that it, together with the other prescribed ritual foodstuffs, could be properly prepared. Eventually, when it was time for the meal, those gathered would be called to table for a joyous repast. But the feast included an important ritual. Someone at table would query those gathered, following an informal script that revolved around four questions that not only told the great Story of Exodus, but also applied it to the participants’ present lives. So we might imagine: “This is the story of our slavery, and today we are enslaved…” “We wandered for forty years in the arid desert, and today we find that we are wandering, unable to make a decision…” “But at last we arrived in the Promised Land, and we’re planning … this year, God-willing.” Followed by, “Since then we have been committed to making ourselves and our people thrive in God’s promise of this Land—and look around this table and see the kernel of the community that needs our love, every day.” From this deep annual ritual and the understandings flowing from it, we can well imagine how this core metaphor became a spiritual springboard for every Hebrew’s journey with God—a journey of freedom and liberation, one with four sequential paths that continually repeated in the lives of every individual, and in the life of the community. So there is the key—and it is a far-reaching link, indeed. The explanation for early Christians’ natural comfort with being Followers of The Way was specifically and profoundly rooted in their Jewish traditions and almost certainly, the principal of fourness, in ancient rituals from prehistory. The sequence was well-known to them, and the road well-marked. Yet, as Christians did in so many other ways, they expanded the journey from that of their predecessors, pushing beyond the liberation of a single tribe and outer freedom from an oppressive Pharaoh. Christians took the framework of freedom and crafted an identifiable, cyclical inner journey of transformation available to everyone, incorporating the living reality of Jesus the Christ. And soon, The Way came to be understood by early Christians as the ongoing gradual process of transformation into the image of the eternal Christ in whom they believed they were already made.