In July of 1953, Howard Pyle, then the governor of Arizona, ordered a massive police raid on the border town of Short Creek to crack down on polygamist activity there.

"Here is a community," the governor said, "dedicated to the wicked theory that every maturing girl child should be forced into the bondage of multiple wifehood with men of all ages for the sole purpose of producing more children ... ."

Fast forward 54 years.

Deja vu anyone?

As we wait for the jury in St. George to conclude its deliberations on rape accomplice charges against polygamist leader Warren Jeffs one verdict is easy to read: "the wicked theory that every maturing girl child should be forced" is still on trial.

It is the case that will not go away.

Same stuff, different century.

Only the names have changed.

Short Creek became Colorado City shortly after the '53 raid and, for ease of border crossing, the sister hideout of Hildale, Utah, was created next door (enabling this latest installment of the State v. Polygamy to play out in a Utah courthouse).

The 385 people (the entire town) rounded up in Gov. Pyle's raid became Warren Jeffs.

And what Pyle called the "wicked theory" became "rape."

But it's the same old conundrum.

What does society do with a religious community that hears its own drumbeat — and that drumbeat says it's God's will to marry your cousin when she's 14?

The irony, of course, is that the very state we live in once faced just such a question when The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints still practiced polygamy.

Stop with the polygamy, society said, or don't become a state.

Polygamy ceased. The Beehive State was born.

But even if the LDS Church banned polygamy, it didn't end entirely. Its practitioners went underground, like bootleggers during prohibition. They moved to tumbleweed junctions like Short Creek. They married in secret. They lived like the Amish, but with minivans and more bedrooms.

How, exactly, do you stamp that out?

History has answered: "Not easily."

But periodically we try. This often produces bizarre side effects. Such as Warren Jeffs winding up on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list.

And such as the ex-husband of the woman accusing Jeffs of rape for forcing her into marriage taking the stand at Jeffs' trial — resulting in what may have been a first in legal history: the actual alleged rapist testifying with impunity while his accused "accomplice rapist" sits 10 feet away facing five-to-life.

While I, like most everyone, have a hard time with people who thumb their nose at the law, I also see the inherent problem in prosecuting people for practicing their religion.

That 1953 Short Creek raid, however justified, ended up as a public relations nightmare when LIFE magazine published photos of children torn from their parents.

Now, in the aftermath of his trial, will people feel sorry or scorn for Warren Jeffs? Is another P.R. fiasco brewing?

That could be deja vu, too.

---

Lee Benson's column runs Sunday, Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Please send e-mail to benson@desnews.com and faxes to 801-237-2527.