This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2016, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

I love it when church leaders — men sometimes revered as near gods by their followers — show their human side. But it can be faith-daunting to see ecclesiastical icons behave in all-too-human and unflattering ways.

Not for me. I find that sort of thing ironically empowering. Maybe I'm not so bad as I (and everyone else) thought if they can show their human side and still be a conduit to the Creator.

A good example of this is Pope Francis getting upset at an enthusiastic guy who tried to drag him into a crowd during last week's visit to Michoacán, Mexico. It caused the pontiff to stumble over a boy seated in a wheelchair.

What the visibly annoyed pope supposedly said to the person who tried to drag him in is something like, "Don't be so selfish." But from the look on his face, it could just as easily been, "How about I have my security detail beat your ass?"

Whatever. The point is that I'm Mormon and I like Pope Francis even better now for the fact that he increased my faith in getting a fair deal with God.

This is not just a Catholic thing. It's something members of all faiths have to deal with, those moments when people we revere take a step down from the pedestal we insist they stand on.

While I find this kind of behavior strangely comforting now, it wasn't always that way. The setting for the revelation was an LDS Father and Son camp out in the mountains when I was just a deacon. Against my will, the Old Man hauled me and my brothers to the event. He said it would be fun.

It was fun if your idea of that is campfire songs, toasting marshmallows, and telling ghost stories that have a doctrinal bent.

For real fun that evening, I had to wander off with some friends of my own age and temperament — Harold, Calvin and the Leavitt twins.

The campground had an old outhouse still in use, a partitioned two-hole affair that shared a common pit of hideous filth. The level of the sewage was about 4 feet below the seats.

The idea came to us simultaneously. All we needed was a cinder block and five straws. I drew the short one, although later I would claim a certain amount of cheating. To no avail, I might add.

Crouched in the darkness, I waited on one side of the outhouse until someone approached. The soft crunch-crunch of footsteps. The creak of the door on the other side. The rustle of clothing. A satisfied sigh was the signal.

Opening the door on my side of the partition, I hurled the cinder block into the pit and ran from the ensuing geyser of untreated sewage.

We stopped. There was a second or two of silent contemplation from the occupied side of the outhouse, then a torrent of obscenity the likes of which I would not hear again until the Army got me.

The door of the outhouse burst open and our bishop fell out with his pants down. He saw us and roared threats every bit as vile as the slime he was wearing.

Long story short, I had to ride home from Fathers and Sons on my knees. My butt hurt too bad after the matter reached the Old Man's attention. He probably would have killed me if some of the other fathers hadn't stopped him.

It was hard to look at the bishop the same again. Whenever we interacted — like when I passed him the sacrament on Sunday — there was always that odious incident hanging between us.

I don't know about him, but it was a good feeling for me. Hey, just two sinners recognizing the shortcomings we shared.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.