Let me begin this column like an old-time Methodist minister -- by citing a scripture and then "expounding on the text."

My text is Moroni 10:8 -- "And again, I exhort you, my brethren, that ye deny not the gifts of God, for they are many."

Now, let me pound you with some expounding.

I have no idea just how many spiritual gifts there are. The scriptures list a few dozen, but I suspect that's just a random sampling. There are probably as many spiritual gifts as material gifts -- enough to fill up a heavenly Macy's. Nobody has all the gifts. But by joining together, we can probably amass enough of them to do the job.

I thought of this a few days ago while remembering an eatery where a friend and I once stopped to grab a bite. The waitress was small, saucy and had a hairstyle like the tail of a My Little Pony. Her eyes were as rich and brown as root beer. She was what the old-timers would call "fetching." So, almost by instinct, I did what I always did.

I went into my Dr. Phil mode.

I've never done well when I've tried to showcase self-assurance and strength. Nobody believes it. My best move is to listen, analyze and offer sensitive comments until the conversation slowly warms up and a relationship begins to form. I'm pretty good at getting people to lower their defenses. And I suppose that may qualify as a spiritual gift of sorts.

The problem is I have often used that gift as much for my own benefit.

Fortunately for me that day, and probably for the little sprite who was bringing us our Sprites, my friend had a couple of spiritual gifts of his own -- the gifts of compassion and genuine goodness, the kind of goodness that's not even aware of itself.

Our server had just finished telling me a couple of stories about her rugged young life and I could feel something pleasant flowing back and forth between us when my friend looked up with an expression on his face like a scolded cocker spaniel.

"I just wish I were your bishop so I could really help you with all the things you're going through," he said.

She gave him a sidelong glance.

It was, alas, a real buzz-killer.

"Are you Mormon?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, "are you?"

Then, because we were all such good friends now, she told how she'd drifted away from religion and always thought she'd someday drift back again, but never had.

My friend talked to her in caring tones for a minute about trust and confidence and such. After a few minutes she put away her prancing, flirty attitude and said she felt he was right. It was probably time to search out some spiritual answers.

As we left, I somehow knew she would.

I also knew I would probably never be as good a man as my friend was. My motives would always be too muddy. And I tended to bend situations to my own advantage. But I also knew that to make the moment work, both of us had to be there. I used a flirty moment to turn the conversation from banter toward matters of the heart. My friend, like some unconscious tag-team partner, had jumped in after and had ministered to that open heart.

I knew how to open doors.

He knew what to do once the doors were open.

I remembered the scripture that says unto one is given the gift to speaking tongues and unto another the gift to interpret tongues. You gotta have both. One alone is worthless.

And so it is, I thought, with all spiritual gifts.

We gather together in congregations and communities because each of us is a piece of jigsaw puzzle of godly gifts. By ourselves we have nothing. But together we create something whole and beautiful. We create a portrait of God.

I never told my friend any of this, of course. I know what he'd say. He'd tell me my version of the world can be a bit unnerving.

And I wouldn't know if he meant it as a compliment or a lament.