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“Change does not roll in on the wheels of inevitability, but comes through continuous struggle.” —Martin Luther King Jr.

Sometimes the week’s sermons foreshadow a struggle that will soon knock at your door.

My wife, Missy, and I learned this recently in a peacemaking crisis with a neighbor, which came less than 24 hours after we heard two sermons on peacemaking. I’ll call our neighbor Alice (not her real name). She’s a short, stocky, 50-something woman who walks with a waddle. She loves animals. Between November and March, Alice feeds the crows pounds of peanuts. The result is a noisy murder of birds and a roof and yard (ours) littered with shells that clog our gutters.

Then, about six months later, on the Monday morning before Thanksgiving, Alice knocked on our door as we were busy preparing to leave for the airport.

“Did you put this on my door?” she asked. 

She showed us a piece of light blue paper with these words: “PLEASE STOP FEEDING PEANUTS TO THE CROWS!!!!!”

“No,” I responded.

“Did someone else in your house put it out? I know you don’t like the peanuts,” Alice said, her face and voice making clear she was not convinced by my denial.

“No, we didn’t put that sign out,” Missy said.

“Are you lying to me?” Alice asked.

“No,” I said.

I was terse because there was no time to talk. Like those birds, we had to catch a flight.

And with that, Alice shrugged her shoulders in frustration, turned around, and stomped down our steps. In her mind, we were guilty.

The next Monday morning, we were back home. A crow was on our skylight, pecking away at something. I worried the bird might chip the window. As I often do, I opened our front door to raise my hands and shew away the murder congregating on the street.

Alice saw this through her window and was steamed. She stormed over, knocked on the door, and asked to speak with me.

“I was on the phone with my daughter just a minute ago when I saw you open your door and wave the crows away,” Alice said, her voice on edge and full of spite. “I know it was you who put the sign on my door. You are sign people. You have a no soliciting sign and that other one asking people to not leave dog poop on their lawn. Why can’t we just talk about this and not behave like we’re in middle school? What is your problem with the crows?”

This was quickly turning into a Shakespearean tragedy, with Alice misinterpreting our every word and move.

I explained calmly that the crows’ pecking wakes us up and clogs our gutters. I could have added that their repeated noises bothers one of our daughters, who has sensory issues. And there’s also the potential for their pecking to ruin our roof.

As I closed the door, she lobbed one last verbal grenade.

“The crows are the nicest neighbors I have,” Alice said. “You are so mean!”

I immediately wondered—was I too forceful, too rash? The exchange rocked us and turned the day to ash.

The next afternoon, we composed a note of apology for misunderstanding her and regret for the scene that marred our Monday. Missy left it on Alice’s porch with a loaf of pumpkin chocolate chip bread.

Alice responded a week later with a brief note, sent via snail mail. She thanked us for the bread but did not apologize. Her words felt like a backhanded way of saying we are to blame.

With the wound still fresh and our minds in disbelief at her callousness, we tossed her note in our recycle bin. We wanted to be right. We wanted her to see the logic of our clogged gutters and our daughter’s sensory needs. But the ensuing silence was heavy. The poison of strife was setting in, that physical tightening of the chest that happens when a neighbor becomes an adversary.

It was here that the sermons from that Sunday began to sink in. The peacemaking process can be chaotic and confusing. As the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King famously noted, “Change does not roll in on the wheels of inevitability, but comes through continuous struggle.”

Love and forgiveness are the only way forward. Thus our quick offering of peace. This Dr. King also knew. “Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that,” he said. “Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”

Alas, progress toward peace feels less like a victory march and more like the slow process of clearing a blocked gutter—one handful of debris at a time. But we will try. And we will keep trying.

We want to be peacemakers. But peacemaking is a long dance, a communal project that must be engaged in by both sides. Whether it is building muscle, better habits, stronger relationships, or a neighborhood and society where we simply respect and love each other, nothing comes to pass without Dr. King’s idea of “continuous struggle.”

In Moses’ reflection of the wonder of his theophany, we find a powerful phrase: “I beheld [God’s] face.”

Though this painful experience with Alice remains unresolved, it was an opportunity to behold her face up close—not merely as the “crow lady” or a source of drama, but as someone created in the image of God. We are commanded to love her who, at the moment, feels like an enemy. As the musical Les Miserables concludes, “To love another person is to see the face of God.”

The continuous struggle to find that divine face in the neighbor is the path toward the light of God. It is not paved with grand gestures or born of sudden, mountain top epiphanies, but is carved out of daily rhythms of relation where we smile at others, say hello, step into shared spaces, and listen. The struggle isn’t heroic—it’s habitual.

The post The Continuous, Habitual Struggle for Peace appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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On a winter night in Montgomery, 1956, a young pastor stood at a pulpit preaching nonviolence while the movement’s enemies slipped a bomb onto his home’s front porch. When Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. learned his home had been bombed—with his wife Coretta and their infant daughter inside—he rushed home to find an angry, armed crowd gathering in the street. King raised his hands and pleaded for peace: “We must meet violence with nonviolence … go home and don’t worry. We are not hurt.” Then he sent people back to their families and back to their faith. The church remained the movement’s shelter, and the movement remained the church’s work.

That is one of our nation’s defining images of what sacred space is for. A sanctuary is not a fortress; it’s a promise. It promises that there is at least one place where the human person is not a problem to be solved by force but a soul to be received, heard, and protected. It promises a time‑out from vengeance long enough for justice, mercy, and reason to do their work.

But that promise has been pierced—again and again.

When the sanctuary is torn

The wounds are old. On a Sunday morning in 1963, terrorists placed dynamite under the steps of Birmingham’s 16th Street Baptist Church. The blast killed four little girls and shook a nation awake. Their names—Addie Mae Collins, Denise McNair, Carole Robertson, and Cynthia Wesley—still invite us to say never again with our whole chests.

Two years later, the deadliest church shooting in American history struck First Baptist Church of Sutherland Springs, Texas—twenty‑six slain, twenty‑two wounded—on a Sunday that became a long Good Friday for a small town. That same autumn near Nashville, gunfire ripped through Burnette Chapel Church of Christ as worshipers were leaving morning service; one was killed, and several were wounded.

In 2019, at West Freeway Church of Christ, an attacker killed two congregants; the livestream captured the trauma of a sanctuary violated. 

In 2022, a gunman opened fire at St. Stephen’s Episcopal in Vestavia Hills, Alabama, during a potluck, killing three retirees. That same spring in Laguna Woods, California, political hatred targeted a Taiwanese congregation meeting at Geneva Presbyterian; one man died shielding others as five were wounded.

And then came this late summer: a school‑year Mass at Minneapolis’s Annunciation Catholic Church was transformed into a scene of horror. Two children were killed. Twenty‑one people were wounded. A community of parents and grandparents in their Sunday best learned the meaning of intercession under fire.

And it’s not only bullets and bombings that have pierced the promise of sanctuary.

For years afterward, our government tacitly restored a norm. But in January 2025, federal officials rescinded those “sensitive locations” protections and announced that churches would no longer be treated as off‑limits. 

And now, as I write, we are once more confronted by blood on the sanctuary floor. On September 28, 2025, in Grand Blanc Township, Michigan, a man rammed his pickup into a Latter‑day Saint meetinghouse, opened fire on worshipers, and set the building ablaze. Four were killed and eight wounded; the suspect died after an exchange of gunfire with police. Investigators say he harbored a hatred of Latter‑day Saints. Whatever the motive, we can say what it was: an act of targeted violence against a people at prayer.

If sanctuary is the promise, these are its betrayals.

Why sanctuaries matter—still

Sanctuary is older than our nation and broader than our denominations. The Hebrew Scriptures created “cities of refuge”—an early recognition that justice without mercy becomes mere force. 

American churches have tried. Black congregations made their sanctuaries waystations on the Underground Railroad because conscience and Scripture would not let them return the image of God in chains. Civil rights churches kept their doors open to people who had been beaten by deputies and attacked by dogs. In the 1980s and again in our own decade, congregations of every stripe opened basements and parish halls to immigrant neighbors facing sudden separation from their children. 

Even those skeptical of religion should recognize what is at stake. Houses of worship are where communities knit trust, where hungry people find food, and addicts find companions who will not give up on them. When our cycles of violence treat churches like just another address—or when hatred treats them like just another “soft target”—it sends a message: there is no place you can assume a modicum of peace. That message corrodes the very social capital our neighborhoods need to be safe.

What “re‑enshrining” sanctuary should look like

A renewal of sanctuaries in America does not require turning churches into islands above the law. However, it will require the re-entrenching of norms that the state respects. It requires recovering the moral wisdom that our law should serve.

We can re‑establish a bright‑line norm against enforcement actions in sanctuaries. Congress can codify what was once policy into law: absent a true, immediate threat to life or a judicially‑authorized exigency, federal agents do not conduct arrests in churches, synagogues, mosques, or their immediate grounds. This would align enforcement with religious liberty and with long‑standing American instincts about sacred space.

Name and resist hatred for what it is. The Charleston murderer did not just kill; he desecrated hospitality offered across a color line. The Grand Blanc attacker allegedly nursed a bigotry toward Latter‑day Saints. We need moral clarity that the attack on a worshiping community is an attack on America’s promise to itself. Hate‑crime statutes and domestic‑terror tools should be used—fairly, consistently, and without fear or favor—to confront that reality. 

And then we need to turn hatred into love. An Amish community in Pennsylvania put this into practice when they forgave and then helped the family of the man who murdered many of their daughters. Similarly, Latter-day Saints have raised more than $265,000 (at the time of publication) for the care of the family of the man who died while attacking their chapel. 

A plea

Return, for a moment, to the home of Martin Luther King Jr. Glass on the floor. A baby’s cries. A crowd bristling with weapons. And a pastor who refused to let his people become what their enemies hoped they would become. King did not deny the danger or minimize the evil; he simply insisted on a better way. That choice—on a porch, in the dark—saved lives that night, and arguably the movement itself.

We need sanctuaries. We need places where the command ‘do not harm here’ holds.

The promise of sanctuary will never be perfectly kept; the list of violated spaces proves that. But the alternative is a country where nothing is sacred—not our neighbors, not the truth, not even the peace we claim to seek. That is not a future worthy of our children, or of the God so many of us worship.

The post “Sanctuary” Must Mean Something Again appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

Growing up as a gay Latter-day Saint in the early 2000s presented unique challenges—but not the ones you might expect. Unlike many stories that you might hear in the media, I did not experience religious trauma or blame God for my circumstances. Instead, I struggled with a lack of resources that could give me alternatives to misguided worldly influences and hold fast to my Savior.

This raises a few important questions:
• How can we empathize with the experiences of sexual minority Latter-day Saints without enabling them to drift away from the gospel?
• How can we unapologetically hold to our beliefs while respecting the agency of those who choose a different path?
• How can we tactfully and effectively challenge faith-destroying narratives?

As I learned how to navigate these questions in my own life through personal experience, I have been richly blessed. I have a strong testimony of the restored gospel, a life-giving temple marriage, and three beautiful children—one of whom tends the gardens of our heavenly mansion while we navigate mortality. Early in my marriage, I discovered a vibrant network of same-sex attracted Latter-day Saints thriving within the Church. Some are in mixed-orientation marriages like mine, while others live celibate lives.

Their examples inspired me to reflect critically on the principles and practices that have helped me cultivate a thriving life within the gospel when many in the world would say that it’s impossible to do so. I also considered the misconceptions I once held—misconceptions that many still grapple with—which make it harder to hold onto faith as a sexual minority. And like others, I’ve seen firsthand how certain beliefs and attitudes often lead individuals away from the Church.

In many ways, this book is a letter to a younger version of myself growing up in today’s politically charged climate. It is my testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and the power it has to enrich our lives. It’s also a heartfelt guide for Latter-day Saints navigating the complex terrain of LGBT+ issues—helping them love and support others without enabling a crisis of faith.

Because I have been so blessed to find and sustain a successful marriage, I feel a deep responsibility to speak out. I feel an obligation to share my experiences and challenge harmful approaches to LGBT+ issues that lead people away from the covenant path.

My goal has been to provide encouragement and support to sexual minorities who are striving to stay committed to the gospel. I also aim to steer the conversation within the Church toward a framework that respects diverse experiences while remaining firmly anchored in gospel truths.

This book is my effort to do just that.

The post When Compassion Misleads: How Faith and Identity Can Coexist appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

Like racehorses frenzied in anticipation for the starting horn to sound, each team’s starting five took to the floor, anxious for the opening tip-off to let them loose. The atmosphere buzzed as the crowd fixed their gaze on the court. The muted shrieks of sneakers on the playing surface composed the rhythmic symphony of competition.

The ball was tipped, and the trail-bound Cougars removed the bounds holding the game clock. With 40 minutes of basketball underway, the countdown had begun. Who could have expected this basketball game would not be remembered for its result but for the hateful and bigoted jeers of the student section?

It wasn’t long before a ball flew out of play near the Providence student section. A moment of dead air was suddenly invaded by a coordinated chant.

“F— the Mormons! F— the Mormons!” 

The message was clear and poignant: the visitors were not welcome in Providence due to religious intolerance. In no uncertain terms, the home crowd joined as one to spread hatred.

Neither happened. The collective roar from a sea of fans loyal to a school nicknamed “Friars” was active in disparaging another sect of Christianity. Bigotry is blind, I suppose.

To make matters worse, BYU would suffer an embarrassing 19-point defeat to the host team, returning home with no response to the inexcusable act of intolerance directed toward them in the early minutes of the game. Salt meets wound.

If this were an isolated incident, time could wash this polluted occasion into triviality. As Brigham Young University and its sponsor religion, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, have experienced, this instance is indicative of a greater pattern that has been directed at “Mormons” for years.

While it is not often this publicized, private instances of this level of hatred towards the Church and its membership are hardly infrequent. 

Jake Retzlaff, BYU football’s Jewish quarterback, shared his unique perspective on this phenomenon with McKay Coppins of the Atlantic. The head of the Cougars’ football team wears his religious beliefs as a badge of honor, especially at an institution with an overwhelmingly LDS student body.

“The blatant disrespect for their faith—it’s something to think about. What if there was a Jewish university that had a Jewish football team, and they were saying that in the stands?” Retzlaff questioned, appalled. “Imagine if that hit the papers. That would be a big deal.”

“There’s a lot of people who just don’t like Mormon people for no reason,” he insisted. “That’s what happened to the Jews all throughout history.”

The man who fans affectionately dubbed “BYJew” has experienced more anti-Mormonism during his time at BYU than anti-Semitism, but the lack of outrage from bystanders is especially noteworthy.

At football games at Oregon University’s Autzen Stadium, “— the Mormons” chants showered the field, much to the disgust of an LDS recruit in attendance as he was considering a commitment with the Ducks. Identical jeers from the University of Southern California arrived when BYU competed in the Colosseum. Ironically, the Trojans’ starting quarterback was likewise a member of the very church they were disparaging. That player’s exit from USC in the following offseason didn’t come as a surprise to many.

Anti-LDS rhetoric seems to be more socially acceptable than other religious bigotry, and I have a theory as to why that could be—it all stems from the victim’s response (or lack thereof).

The New Testament’s instructions on responding to opposition are clear: “Resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.” The Savior’s Church, and its latter-day leaders, share this sentiment and insist that followers of Christ resist any impulses that would rupture any remaining civility in hostile interactions.

Simply stated, members of the Church are encouraged not to fight back. In some ways, this makes “Mormons” an easy target. Conversely, this perspective allows for more constructive rhetoric in our interactions. Rather than biting back when a stranger’s hostility shakes your composure, re-routing conversations to be uplifting and positive can build a stronger resolve to stand for good. Returning hatred for hatred is a horrible way to live.

President of the Church, Russell M. Nelson, declared in his April 2023 discourse, Peacemakers Wanted, “The Savior’s message is clear: His true disciples build, lift, encourage, persuade, and inspire—no matter how difficult the situation. True disciples of Jesus Christ are peacemakers.”

Your response to opposing forces will mold both who you are today and who you can become tomorrow. Opposition is inevitable, but a strong resolve can shape our character. The anecdote from the opening was not the first instance of religious bigotry aimed toward the Church or its members, and it certainly won’t be the last.

Take faith in knowing that persecution comes and goes, but your reaction can greatly affect your circumstances—for good or bad. Turning the other cheek isn’t a sign of physical weakness; rather, it’s a strong indication of moral resolve.

The post Religious Intolerance As Sport: Turning the Other Cheek appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

To be clear, there is no reason to believe that the organizers of this display “believe” in Dionysus as an actual deity with power. Rather, Dionysus is an archetype for festivals, revelry, and intoxication. Understood as an archetype, the myth of Dionysus can provide insights into important impulses or tendencies in human life. It can also help us see the truth more clearly.

Community, tolerance, non-violence: to put it mildly, this is an idiosyncratic reading of Dionysus. To the organizers’ credit, it must be acknowledged that Dionysus offers a version of community. In a festival atmosphere, where music and alcohol lower inhibitions, there is a kind of blurring of boundaries and a jovial spirit that lubricates social connection. There can be no hierarchy—no social classes—at the Dionysian festival. As the wine flows freely and the drums beat ever louder, all the petty divisions that separate human beings fade away into insignificance. The contemporary fashion of wanting to “dismantle” or “deconstruct” social norms is right at home with the Dionysian spirit. 

But there is a crucial difference between the Dionysus of the Olympics and the Dionysus of the Greeks. The Olympic version is advanced as a benign character—a silly blue man singing about how we should all go naked all of the time, not a threat to anyone or anything. It is a vision of comic transgressivity, harmless extravagance, and festive naughtiness that no one has any reason to fear or criticize. Indeed, an AP report of the opening ceremonies led with this line, written as a compliment: “Paris: the Olympic gold medalist of naughtiness.” 

But the Greeks were not nearly so naïve about the character of Dionysus. They recognized that when social conventions are dismantled, there are vicious as well as merry impulses waiting to be let loose. Nietzsche notes that Dionysian festivals included an “extravagant lack of sexual discipline” and not just the fun kind of sex: “The most savage beasts of nature were unleashed . . . [including a] repellant nature of lust and cruelty.” Without common restraints on behavior, humans might imagine themselves to be gods, but they can also devolve into beasts. 

It gets worse. What of those people who are unwilling to join the frenzied retinue of Dionysus? In Greek myths, they do not fare well. Euripides’ The Bacchae tells the story of King Pentheus of Thebes, who was not honoring Dionysus. By the end of the story, the followers of Dionysus (including Pentheus’ own mother, Agave) literally tear him to pieces while in a state of Dionysian frenzy. The same thing happened to the musician Orpheus—he did not honor Dionysus, and the female followers of Dionysus tore him apart when he would not have sex with them (this might go without saying, but Dionysus doesn’t seem to be too concerned with consent). This tearing apart of humans or animals is such an important theme in Dionysian myths that it has its own name: sparagmos.

So when the official Olympics X account states that “Dionysus makes us aware of the absurdity of violence between human beings,” the statement can only come across as ironic. Dionysus is no pacifist, and his followers are not harmless. Further, like all gods, Dionysus is a jealous god. He demands recognition and honor, and those who will not give him his due face his wrath. The idea that Dionysus’s party is a harmless display of community, tolerance, and non-violence is not even a myth—it is a fairytale.

The post Dionysus and the Olympics: The Dark Side of Tolerance appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

We live in an increasingly dichotomous society, and remaining truly neutral becomes an impossibility as time passes. In opposition to this unsettling trend, Brigham Young University is blazing the path to greater unity, and its mission was beautifully displayed when the Cougar football team hosted Kansas State University with its fans and alumni for a weekend football game.

“I think that it’s critical for us to be different. To have things that we do that are distinctive,” Shane Reese, President of Brigham Young University, explained in a recent Q&A focusing on how BYU’s athletic department helps spread the school’s mission.

In so many ways, sports are a caricature of intersocietal competition; exaggerated emotion is boldly displayed on every face—both participant and observer alike—with allegiances proudly declared on t-shirts, poster boards, and even face paint. Everyone involved takes a side and registers themselves as affiliates of their chosen team. 

BYU doesn’t see athletics as a time to magnify our differences. Rather, they elect to compete as a tool for sharing what makes a life built upon the gospel of Jesus Christ, a life focused on restoring unity—not building up borders of disdain.

These territorial lines are constructs of division, tearing the seams between individuals who have more in common than they may allow themselves to realize. Let me be the first to admit that I’ve occasionally allowed my allegiances to plant a seed of loathing directed toward my neighbors who share differing beliefs, and my athletic fanaticism is no exception (you may have deduced that I’m a BYU fan by this point, and if so, you deserve a gold star).

I like to take a Venn Diagram test to improve my perspective. When comparing, I learn that when describing members of two allegiances—continuing with a sports analogy—I can find innumerous similarities that cause the differences to look like a drop in the pan. Take fans of bitter in-state rivals, BYU and Utah, for example.

Similarities: College sports fans and Beehive State residents, founded by Brigham Young, are passionate about their teams and members of the human race.

Differences: Blue, Red.

This is not a Harry Potter-esque “neither can live while the other survives” relationship. Unlike Lord Voldemort and the titular Harry, these foes can coexist. In truth, we are all stronger and happier together.

In line with its mission, Brigham Young University’s recent example as they hosted Kansas State University for a Saturday football game set the perfect template for how to bridge the invisible gaps that separate us. This template is a blueprint for erasing the illusion of division and replacing it with friendliness, respect, and, most of all, brothership.

In three simple steps, BYU welcomed its visitors, found commonality, and left opposing fans with a positive experience and view toward the school, its mission, and its people.

Step 1: Forget Our Differences

Our diversity makes us beautiful, but our similarities make us a family.

Many hold pre-conceived notions regarding those we don’t fully understand, but as previously discussed with the Venn Diagram test, affiliation is not the keystone of identity. Stereotypes are a barrier to unity, and to assume that you can know a person before being properly introduced is a fallacy that can only promote stronger division.

As Kansas State fans filled the visitor’s section of LaVell Edwards Stadium in Provo, Utah, many noted how welcoming and friendly the BYU faithful behaved while interacting with their purple-clad guests. Of course, visiting fans are always welcome at any football stadium, but respectful behavior is not a given when emotions reach a boiling point during the heat of competition.

Simple implementation of the “Golden Rule” is key to forgetting differences, as a shift in mindset allows us to act in accordance with how we would like to be treated if we swapped places with our peers. True to form, many who made the trip to Provo have retrospectively noted a lack of negativity directed toward Kansas State as an institution, team, or fanbase.

Even Avery Johnson, K-State’s quarterback, described the environment in LaVell Edwards Stadium as peculiar. “That was probably one of the weirdest environments I’ve been a part of,” Johnson recalled after the final whistle blew. “It was like their fans were encouraging, almost. Most of the time, the fans try to heckle you or say bad things about you before the game. But all their fans were encouraging.”

Step 2: Offer an Olive Branch

BYU set the tone by taking the first step with kindness toward Kansas State supporters—many of whom were enjoying their first trip to the Provo campus.

As pre-game performances and traditions were in full swing, the Cougar marching band took the field to play for the sixty-four thousand attendees, packing tightly into the above-capacity stadium. In a shocking turn for many K-State supporters, the band turned to the visitors’ section and played the away team’s fight song, “Wildcat Victory.” While this seemed to be a small gesture for those who regularly attend BYU home games, the motion impressed and delighted the visitors. As the game continued, the visitor’s section was unexpectedly gifted complimentary BYU Creamery ice cream. 

These simple offerings were a reflection of BYU’s motivation. By making an effort beyond what their peers consider “typical,” the university showed its guests that Provo is a special place.

Is Brigham Young University’s mission based on musical numbers or ice cream? The answer is no, despite what you may have been led to believe at Family Home Evening. Their mission is a bit more significant than these items alone, but spreading a message of love and understanding without first acting upon those beliefs would feel hollow.

Though they entered as enemies, the result of the football game was insignificant when the goal was to create a lasting positive impression. As one Kansas State fan noted on X, “I’m not supposed to like [BYU] right now, but they’re making it VERY difficult.”

Step 3: Part with Increased Respect

The moment that we part ways as friends does not have to be the end of a positive interaction and even this concept was perfectly enacted by the BYU fanbase. Once the final whistle blows and the players load onto their team bus, an interpersonal bridge will require intentional care and attention in the future.

BYU supporters and alumni are already paying it forward.

Johnson failed to score any touchdowns during his team’s defeat at the hands of BYU, but having learned about the opposing quarterback’s attempt to do something greater, many Cougar fans have pledged very generous donations in such a large sum that the fundraising goal quadrupled from $20,000 to $80,000 in under a week.

Competition was never the most important aspect of athletics, just as religious or political affiliation should never be about earning moral points at the expense of others. Johnson saw an opportunity to use his talents for a greater cause than what we see on the field of play, and seeing fans donate to this cause—regardless of their loyalties—leaves a lasting impression.

“We want to go on that field, and we want to be competitive, and we want to hit people as hard as we hit anyone else, right? We want to be out there really digging in and competing hard. That’s an important part for the mission of the university to shine,” Shane Reese continued on how BYU athletics funnels into the university’s greater mission. “It doesn’t shine if we’re not competitive on the football field, but it doesn’t mean we have to do it the same way everyone else does. And I love what happened last year. I saw hearts changed and at the end of the day, if we’re going to be an institution that says that we are believers in Jesus Christ and we follow Jesus Christ. It’s got to manifest itself in the classroom. It’s got to manifest itself on the football field.”

Can we forget about malice, hatred, and prejudice for a moment in favor of reinforcing the strings that tie us together? As followers of Christ and believers in a better world, we should see no excuse for actions or thoughts that are contrary to the life and example of the Savior. Period.

Though the stakes are lower in the sphere of athletics, the implications are massive if we allow ourselves to entertain division for the sake of meaningless competition. No matter the result on the field, the world will continue to spin. We can all learn from the example of the BYU football program, and use this template to establish a culture of unity on our smaller, more personal scale.

The post More Than a Game: How BYU Turned Football into a Force for Unity appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

There are many people in Utah who are passionate about the issues that plague refugees in moving to a new country. This interview was conducted in hopes that it would help those who are interested gain an idea of the impact they can have, even if they have limited time to volunteer. 

Public Square Magazine: Hello, Aden! Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me. Could you please start by telling me about your program? 

Aden Batar: Yes! Hello, my name is Aden Batar, and I’m the director of the migration and refugee services for Catholic Community Services of Utah. This program helps refugees and migrants who are coming to the United States. So, if I start with the refugee resettlement program, every year, we bring more than 600 refugees from war-torn countries to start a new life here in the United States. These are refugees who have been given legal status by the US federal government, and they were allowed to come in. They come from many, many different parts of the world. The majority that we are getting nowadays are Afghan refugees. We are also getting refugees from the Congo, Sudan, Somalia, Syria, and many other parts of the world. We also have been getting a lot of Ukrainian parolees who have been coming through the United for Ukraine program. When these individuals arrive in the United States, we start by getting secure housing for them before they arrive. We fully furnish the housing and make sure they have all the essential furnishings, food, and everything that a family would need to start a new life. 

Most of the families arrive in the evening. So, we pick them up from the airport, and a case manager who speaks their language meets them at the airport. We take them to their home, which has pretty much everything. Usually, the families, when they arrive just have whatever they have in their suitcases, that’s all they are bringing with them. When they see this housing set up for them and they have everything, that’s a ‘wow’ moment. So, they are overwhelmed, and most of the time, they say to us, “We weren’t expecting this warm welcome and with all these things.” After that, the next day, we start doing the intake and helping them fill out all the paperwork like applying for food stamps, Medicaid, and financial assistance. Then, we assess the families and where their needs are. If they have medical issues, we get them a medical appointment. Also, we take information about their children so we can enroll them in school. 

The first month, there is a lot of assessment and help setting up the basic services that they need. Once they are all complete, they have a home, they have food, and they have their children enrolled in school. Then the second month, we start providing them with an orientation about life in the United States—what to expect, what their rights and responsibilities are, and how to use public transportation. We connect them with volunteers in the community, and we connect them with our job developers who help them with getting a job. Every month, we have services lined up. Our goal is to make sure that everyone gets a job within six months of being in the United States. By then they have their social security, they have their employment documentation, they have their Utah ID, they know how to use public transportation, and all their healthcare needs are being addressed. So they know how to get to the job and how to get back home. While they are getting all their services, our agency helps them pay their bills, utilities, fast pass fees, and whatever needs they have. Then, after we get a job for each family, we teach them how to pay the bills. Usually, I would say at 6 months, families start paying their bills.

Then, we provide case management for up to a year. During that time we make sure that the families are self-sufficient and continue to be self-sufficient and remove any barriers that come in their way. Also, right at the beginning, we enroll them in English as a second language classes so the families will learn how to communicate. And the volunteers also teach them English and basic life skills. Volunteers will be mentoring the family; they will stay with them throughout that year. The children will enroll in public schools. We have a team of youth staff that helps them with school and parent-teacher conferences and is the liaison between the school and parents if there are any issues or need for support. 

We also have an immigration program where our staff helps with family unification. If they have left family members behind, we help them fill out paperwork and continue advocating for them until their family members are reunited with them. 

Within the first year, we also help families apply for their permanent residency or green card so they can have that permanent residency. Then down the road, when the families reach up to 5 years of residency, when they are ready to apply for citizenship, our emigration program helps them apply. Eventually, the majority of the refugees become US citizens. So we help them through that process with the educational requirement and the paperwork requirement, and then we go with them to the interview. So this is just an overview of all the services that we do with the refugees. 

Finally, we have refugee children who arrive without a guardian. So, when these children arrive, the agency takes guardianship. We place them into licensed foster homes, and we supervise them until they reach age 21. They will stay with the family that we placed them in. They will go to school, and we help them with independent living skills to make sure that when they are emancipated from the program, they know how to live on their own.

PSM: Wow! That is very extensive. It seems like you have some case management employees and social workers, and then you also have volunteers. Can you tell me about those different roles? And maybe the roles of volunteers in the long run? 

AB: The staff that are paid staff at Catholic Community Services provide all the technical services like case management, employment, and all the other services that are required. The volunteers, however, do mentoring. Every family is assigned a volunteer, either a group of volunteers or an individual volunteer. They basically teach them life skills. Like how to live in an apartment setting. So the volunteers will go into the apartments of the families and show them everything—like how to maintain the apartment, how to clean it, and how the appliances work. Also, they will show them how to pay the bills and what the lease agreement is, and then we go over with them how to have a relationship with their landlord and how to keep their lease agreement. They also teach them how to use public transportation. The volunteers ride the bus with them and show them around. They also help the children with their school homework. They will also teach them English. They will talk to them in English, teach them the language, and how to read and write. Most importantly, the volunteers become friends with the family. A lot of the families do not have anyone, so the volunteers will become friends with them and become someone that the families can call if they need help or have questions. So that plays a really major role and helps with the successful integration of the refugees into the community. The volunteers make a commitment, and we train them before we assign them a family. We have a volunteer coordinator that assigns family. So that is the two different aspects of the staff and the different responsibilities they have. 

PSM: It seems like the volunteers play a pretty vital role in this whole program. 

AB: Absolutely. I have been working in this program for almost 30 years now, and I have seen the difference the volunteers have been making. Families that we have assigned volunteers have successfully integrated into the community. The majority of their barriers are removed because that volunteer is there for them. Imagine going to a foreign country, and you don’t know anyone. Imagine if you are alone in your apartment and you don’t have anyone that you can call except for a case worker or staff member. Volunteers and staff together help that family successfully integrate into the community. 

PSM: Can you tell me more about the time commitment and the process to become a volunteer? 

AB: If I start with the process, all they have to do is go to the website ccsutah.org, where they can fill out a volunteer interest form, and then our volunteer coordinator will contact them. There is an orientation that they would have to attend so they could be given information about the program and what opportunities are available. Once they are ready to commit to becoming a volunteer, they will fill out paperwork and do a background check. Background check is a requirement for working with this vulnerable population. Once the check clears, then they are ready to be matched with a family. Then, we would introduce them to the family. The caseworker would go with the volunteer to introduce them to the family and then we just leave them to visit with the family and work together. We will give them some ideas about what services they will provide, but as the volunteers go, they will learn what the families need from them. 

The time commitment depends on what availability they have. Some volunteers will say I can only do weekends or a few hours here and there. Some say they could stay with a family for six months or a year. So it depends on what time they have available. 

PSM: So it kind of is up to them to give their availability, and then your program uses them within that availability. 

AB: Yes, absolutely. We will work with whatever time commitment volunteers can give us. 

PSM: There are many people here in Utah who are passionate about refugee work and who may have an hour a week that they can donate. What is the best way for them to have an impact in this area within their time constraints? 

AB: We have a lot of volunteer opportunities here at Catholic Community Services. So, for example, if they only have one hour, they could come to the office and work with our case workers and staff. We also have families arriving every week, and we need a home set up. They can go meet the staff at the home we are setting up for an arriving family. Then, they can help set up the apartment. We only have two staff members that work in our warehouse so they can use all the help they can get. That is also another opportunity. They can go to the warehouse and help sort donations for that one hour or whatever they have. We will use whatever time the volunteers have to make a difference in a variety of ways. 

PSM: That’s amazing. This program seems awesome. I had no idea about the scope of the work that you do. Thank you for meeting with me. We are so excited to spread awareness about this program, particularly to those people who are passionate about this work and don’t know where to start. 

Catholic Community Services of Utah provides many wonderful services for refugees coming into the United States. While assisting in the relocation process can seem daunting to many people who do not know where to start, as Aden conveyed, there are many opportunities to volunteer or donate, which will be immeasurably helpful to their efforts. You can donate furniture to help in the efforts to provide furnished apartments for new families; you can donate time to help set up those homes or assist with case workers; or, if you have more time, you can volunteer to ease a family’s integration into the community. Catholic Community Services may be a great program if one wants to assist in this effort.

The post Compassion in Zion: Approaching Refugees appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

 You may have heard that not everyone experienced the talk as I did. Many voices outside of BYU condemned the talk, and at least a few of my colleagues at BYU gave the talk a chilly reception. A new round of criticism has launched after BYU announced the talk would be part of a required course for incoming first-year students. This new course is intended to (among other things) help students understand the unique mission and purpose of BYU and to help them feel a sense of belonging at the university.

 I re-read [“The Second Half of the Second Century”] and was moved to tears again, just as I was when I listened to it live. I believe the talk displays a deep and joyful commitment to the gospel of Jesus Christ, sensitivity and compassion on difficult issues, a willingness to weep with those who weep, gratitude for what BYU has become, and hope for what BYU can be. Elder Holland does not shrink from either the pain that many people experience or the majesty of God’s commands. The talk was edifying in the best sense – combining whole-souled devotion to the gospel with literary talent and cheerful encouragement, all bathed in the light of God’s love and law. One can imagine Elder Holland singing with the heavenly choirs above because he speaks the idiom of joyful discipleship. 

 In addition to the inherent beauty and devotion of his words, I was moved by Elder Holland’s adamant and reverent commitment to the mission of BYU and the Church. His willingness to have BYU forego professional memberships and academic respectability highlighted the true mission of the University. I was touched by the fact that I get to be part of this great work, and that God led me to the place I am now. It is inspiring to be part of “so great a cause” and to be a small part of God’s work and glory in this time of the world. Elder Holland’s talk helped me feel the weight of my responsibility, but the weight is made light by the enthusiasm and faith he conveyed. This combination of seeming opposites—joyful and serious, heavy and light, reverent and passionate—stated so clearly about an institution and ideals I love so much is what made Elder Holland’s talk moving to me.

Given what some people are saying, it’s hard to believe we listened to the same talk. 

The two most prominent criticisms of President Holland’s talk seem to be that he should not have reinforced the Church of Jesus Christ’s doctrine of marriage and the family (because this makes many students, especially those who identify as LGBT+, feel unwelcome) and that he should not have called for “musket fire” in defense of the Church’s teachings. 

As for the first criticism, it seems to presuppose what my former teacher Robert George calls “identitarianism”: the view one’s sexual desires and gender identity constitute a crucially important part of the person and that living a happy and fulfilled life means acting in accordance with those desires and experiences—whatever they happen to be (at least as long as the principle of consent is respected). It doesn’t matter who you are attracted to or how you understand and live out your gender—love is love, and everyone should be free to be their true self, to take two slogans from the movement. Crucially, the “self” that is presupposed when people say “be your true self” is one that is unencumbered by unchosen demands or roles. This self is (and should be) free from societal expectations of gender or sex would limit or constrain its true expression.

Which, of course, are precisely the things that people did say and are saying about President Holland.

However, the identitarian view of human identity and fulfillment is not self-evident. The rejection of the law of chastity and our embodied nature as male and female persons is, at best, a highly controversial view. In contrast, The Family: A Proclamation to the World, which President Holland signed in 1995 as a new apostle, teaches that “marriage between a man and a woman is ordained of God and that the family is central to the Creator’s plan for the eternal destiny of His children.” In this view, our identity is not as open-ended and undefined as the identitarian alternative would have it. Instead, God has a plan for our growth and development. We are made for something: loving and committed relationships that mirror the creative and loving union of our heavenly parents. As President Holland taught on another occasion, “Of all the titles [God] has chosen for Himself, Father is the one he declares, and Creation is his watchword—especially human creation, creation in his image.”  

Of course, the differences between these two approaches to human identity—who we really are—are much deeper and nuanced than I can articulate here, but the disagreement is not between people who love and support people who identify as LGBTQ+ and those who hate them. One shouldn’t have to accept highly controversial metaphysical and epistemological presuppositions in order to love another person. Everything that we know about President Holland—in the talk, in other speeches, and in his broader ministry—suggests that he has extended love, compassion, and understanding to people who identify as LGBT+ throughout his ministry.

Applying this golden rule of interpretation, it becomes clear that President Holland was not calling for violence against anyone. He was calling on BYU faculty—the context is essential—to give more public support for the Church’s positions, which were (and are) under intellectual attack. In fact, this is at least the fourth time that an apostle has made a call like this to the BYU administrators or faculty. As President Holland points out in his talk, the original reference comes from a talk Elder Neal A. Maxwell gave to BYU administrators in 2004. Here is the relevant section quoted by President Holland: 

In a way [Church of Jesus Christ] scholars at BYU and elsewhere are a little bit like the builders of the temple in Nauvoo, who worked with a trowel in one hand and a musket in the other. Today, scholars building the temple of learning must also pause on occasion to defend the kingdom. I personally think this is one of the reasons the Lord established and maintains this university. The dual role of builder and defender is unique and ongoing. I am grateful we have scholars today who can handle, as it were, both trowels and muskets.

President Dallin H. Oaks repeated this call to members of the BYU community in 2014 and 2017, and President Holland again relayed the call in his 2021 talk. 

Perhaps these comments are open to some latitude of interpretation, but reading them as a call to violence simply ignores what President Holland (and Elder Maxwell and President Oaks) said. Indeed, in the midst of his discussion about defending the faith, President Holland says this: 

But it will assist all of us—it will assist ­everyone—trying to provide help in this ­matter if things can be kept in some proportion and balance in the process. For example, we have to be careful that love and empathy do not get interpreted as condoning and advocacy or that orthodoxy and loyalty to principle not be interpreted as unkindness or disloyalty to people. As near as I can tell, Christ never once withheld His love from anyone, but He also never once said to anyone, ‘Because I love you, you are exempt from keeping my commandments.’ We are tasked with trying to strike that same sensitive, demanding balance in our lives.”

These are not the words of a man who wants to see hostility or violence. These are the words of a leader who is skillfully trying to navigate a difficult issue, holding the line of God’s commandments but also extending compassion and understanding to people who don’t see things as he does. Reading into his comments a call to violence or hostility simply misrepresents his meaning. That is not what he said, and that is not what he meant. 

Controversies related to sex, gender, and identity are some of the most complex and polarizing of our time. Latter-day Saints will continue to wrestle with these issues for the foreseeable future. I pray that we can all navigate these controversies with the grace, compassion, wisdom, love, and discipleship that President Holland demonstrated in his talk.

The post When Prophets Speak: Reconsidering President Holland’s BYU Address appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

Honey places more trust in me than my other chickens; she even has a habit of perching on my shoulder like a parrot. Our bond deepened recently when I rescued her from a red-tailed hawk’s attempted fast food run. As the other chickens sought cover, Honey instead ran to me, finding safety in my presence.

Reflecting on this incident, I’m struck by how trust, earned through time and shared experiences, forms the foundation of relationships. Much as Honey instinctively turned to me for protection, our trust in others grows as we spend time together, demonstrating reliability.

During a recent LDS General Conference, President Russell M. Nelson emphasized the importance of trusting spiritual leaders over public opinion. His words resonated with me:

Seek guidance from voices you can trust—from prophets, seers, and revelators and from the whisperings of the Holy Ghost, who “will show unto you all things what ye should do.”

President Nelson, a figure of trust for me, embodies qualities such as honesty, conscientious decision-making, and a genuine desire for the well-being of others. My trust in him is akin to the trust Honey places in me—built over time through positive experiences.

However, the challenge lies in distinguishing trustworthy voices amid a cacophony of squawking opinions. I believe we can discern voices we can trust through their honesty, integrity, conscientious decision-making, loyalty, trust-building over time, vulnerability, emotional resilience, expertise, and humility.

The adage “honesty without tact is cruelty” captures the essence of truthfulness. In a world where communication is paramount, the ability to express truth with compassion is a highly skilled art form. It fosters understanding, strengthens relationships, and ultimately contributes to a more compassionate society. As Theodore Roosevelt said, “No one cares how much you know, until they know how much you care.”  The tone, choice of words, and the overall delivery become the brushstrokes that paint the emotional landscape of a dialogue. While there is a multiplicity of pitfalls to brutal honesty, many individuals still prefer it over placating fake niceties. This delicate performance of tactful truth is essential in building trust. 

Maintaining this balance, we recognize that integrity in communication is indispensable and equally precious. The lens through which we view the world influences our reception of information, either embracing it charitably or resisting it defensively—respectful communication becomes the bridge that fosters understanding, enabling constructive dialogue even amidst differing perspectives. Approaching conversations with an honest curiosity about the other person’s perspective promotes respect. I recently participated in an interfaith conversation that was unpleasant from the very start. The other person’s rudeness tempted me to reciprocate, leading to an unproductive tug-of-war where both of us expended energy without making any progress. A moment of self-awareness enabled me to disengage from the futile situation. Self-awareness enables individuals to manage emotions, avoid unintentional offenses, and adapt their communication tone to suit the situation. Without acknowledging and respecting another person’s culture, beliefs, background, and humanity, there is no point in expecting to establish a meaningful rapport with them to share your own thoughts. When individuals consistently demonstrate thoughtfulness through thoroughness and a genuine commitment to ethical considerations, they convey reliability and integrity. 

Conscientiousness instills confidence in others. As a teen, I once sat at a party talking with a new acquaintance, who promptly took out a knife and stabbed a balloon hovering over my head. Needless to say, any inclination I had toward building a connection there came to an abrupt end as well. While their intention was to showcase a new knife, it came at the cost of my sense of security. Trust-building hinges on the predictability and coherence of one’s choices, and conscientious decision-making serves as a powerful signal of accountability and principled conduct. It communicates respect for the consequences of one’s actions and fosters an environment where individuals feel secure and valued.

This naturally segues into the discussion of the virtue of emotional resilience—an individual’s adeptness at adapting and recovering from adversity, stress, or substantial life challenges. During times of intense stress as a heart surgeon, Russell M. Nelson was known for being level-headed. He said, “It’s a matter of extreme self-discipline. Your natural reaction is, ‘Take me out, coach! I want to go home.’ But of course you can’t. A life is totally dependent on the whole surgical team. So you’ve got to stay just as calm and relaxed and sharp as you ever were.” Emotional resilience is not about how much stress you can take; it’s having the tools to navigate challenges, manage emotions, and emerge stronger. 

Emotional resilience begs us to patiently take our time in building trust. Trust-building happens gradually and slowly—it’s a delicate endeavor. Both parties must contribute to its consistent development. While first impressions are helpful for the initial steps of a quickly formed trust, this must eventually evolve over time if we want to achieve long-term genuine trust. American writer and humorist Joe Abercrombie is often attributed with the proverb, “Trust comes in a thimbleful and departs in a bucketful.” In essence, this highlights the fragility of trust. It’s also a reminder to us that once trust is established through long-term effort, we should exercise caution before hastily discarding it the second things become unclear, confusing, or even hurtful.

This period of seeing an uncomfortable moment through often requires individuals to be vulnerable with each other. Brené Brown reminds us, “Staying vulnerable is a risk we have to take if we want to experience connection.” Inevitably, all human interactions can become strained and awkward at times. Effort and time are needed to rebuild when the occasion arises that trust is damaged. Adapting expectations involves recognizing that an integral aspect of building trust includes the occasional need for repairs to the bridge of understanding. Navigating trust-building involves the significant contributions of patience, care, politeness, intuition, cultural sensitivity, desire for repair, and various other elements.

In the New Testament, Matthew pleads for all of us to become like little children. This is a call to be teachable and to embrace vulnerability in order to build trust. Vulnerability is often overlooked but is vital in building trust in a relationship. It’s not a passive stance; rather it’s a radical boldness to be humble and open to feedback. This is similar to my trust in President Nelson’s spiritual guidance. While he, like all humans, isn’t perfect, his teachings have been highly instrumental in connecting me to spiritual nourishment, even to the bread of life, Jesus Christ. Humility is not a sign of weakness; it’s a bold act of strength. It takes courage to admit mistakes, to learn from others, and to embrace a humble mindset in a world that often values preservation of one’s ego.

For example, when I was diagnosed with a brain tumor, one person counseled me to get hypnotherapy and use my faith to blink the tumor away into thin air.  Conversely, my neurologist, with years of study and practice, advised that the most effective course of action was prompt and decisive surgery to remove the tumor. I truly believe that the neurologist was the qualified person worthy of my attention and heed. Listening to his expert advice based on ample experience was the blessing God offered me. My surgeon had paid a price of several decades of learning and practice to know what he knew. Much like my choice to heed the experienced advice of a neurologist during that health crisis, seeking spiritual guidance involves turning to those who have paid the price in gaining spiritual understanding to be considered experts. 

My experience with Honey reinforces the universal principles of how to build trust in all aspects of life. Drawing parallels between Honey’s trust and the recent counsel from President Russell M. Nelson, we see that trust isn’t blind acceptance; it’s a discerning choice based on shared experiences, reliability, and a commitment to mutual well-being. Our trust in others flourishes through the expressions of vulnerable reliability, preserving patience as we strive to comprehend each other amidst our imperfections.

The post Lessons in Trust from a Crooked-Beaked Chicken appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

You have recently converted to Christianity. When your friends sit down to a meal made from meat sacrificed to Hera and are chattering about the good fortune this sacrifice will bring them… what do you do? Your new faith forbids idol worship. Is eating with them giving a thumbs-up to polytheism and idol worship?

You ask your Christian friends what you should do. You don’t get a clear answer. Some say:

Look, these other gods are just make-believe. It’s not like you’re giving Zeus a high-five by eating a steak. Why treat it differently than other meat? We cannot expect to be friends with the idol worshippers if we refuse to sup with them at all.

Others respond:

Eating that meat is tacit approval of idol worship. What message does it send to the community if we, the followers of the one true God, eat meat offered to false gods? If our beliefs about idols don’t influence our choices, what’s the point?

It’s clear that nobody in the group supports idol worship, but they disagree on what that means in practice. This is a “controversy,” which refers to a point of tension and debate within a community that shares the same foundational beliefs. How do we faithfully adhere to our religious convictions while also navigating a social landscape filled with diverse beliefs?

For example, we know that sexual relations should be reserved for marriage between a man and a woman. But what should we do when our friends invite us to their same-sex wedding? I’ve heard arguments on both sides:

Attending does not mean you support the wedding. We attend to show support for the loved one, not approval of their choice. There’s nothing sinful or doctrinally substantive about well-wishes and warm congratulations. Refusing to attend puts wedges between us and those we love. 

On the other side:

Attending the wedding is a tacit endorsement. If your friend invites you to celebrate their abortion or their departure from the Church, would you attend? Why make an exception for weddings when our doctrine so clearly speaks against such things? What example does this set for our children and other members?

Both groups support Church teachings. But they have very different ideas about what that should mean in this practical context. 

Let’s do another. As Latter-day Saints, we believe that gender is eternal and that our gender expression should match with our biological sex. Yet, your male friend asks you to refer to him as a “she.” What do you do? On the one hand, people argue:

Using the preferred pronouns is a basic act of respect and decency. It doesn’t mean you agree with gender theory or that you’re compromising your faith. Respecting the individual and showing love can coexist with maintaining personal religious convictions. This is a kindness issue, not a doctrine issue.

On the other hand, you hear:

Using incongruent pronouns assents to the notion that someone’s gender is whatever they say it is. If our norms around gender are indistinguishable from those who do not share our values, then what good are our beliefs? It may be uncomfortable to speak truth as we know it, but it is not unloving to do so.

I could go on. To what extent should we “eat the meat,” that is, participate in the traditions that flow out of beliefs and practices that contradict doctrines of our own faith?

Let’s explore some principles.

(1) We should discern between greater and lesser controversies.

Not all controversies are the same. We can divide them roughly into “greater controversies” and “lesser controversies.” Greater controversies are those that deal with core doctrine and teaching. “Is The Book of Mormon an ancient text?” would be a greater controversy if there were debate about it within the Church. “Where in the Americas did The Book of Mormon take place?” would be a lesser controversy.

Here’s a table that depicts some others that fall into each bucket.

The first question we should ask is, “Is this a greater or lesser controversy?” Questions in the first column are the most important. Augustine of Hippo reportedly wrote: “In essentials, unity; in non-essentials, liberty; in all things, charity.” Widespread disagreement on greater controversies may lead to serious theological divides within the community. Consistent, persistent, and united teachings of the Brethren likely fall into the left-hand column.

(2) We should give space for disagreement on lesser controversies.

When we treat a lesser controversy as a greater one, we stir unnecessary contention. Church leaders today generally steer away from lesser controversies and focus on the greater questions instead. They often invite us to make our own decisions on the lesser controversies, informed by our convictions. This does not mean abject relativism on everything in the right-hand column! Not all answers are equally good or true. But it does mean that it’s up to us to prayerfully extrapolate from true principles.

The early Christians disagreed over eating meat sacrificed to idols or meat that wasn’t kosher (some still embraced Jewish dietary restrictions). Paul’s answer to the question, “Should we eat meat sacrificed to idols?” was straightforward: “We are no worse if we do not eat, and no better if we do” (1 Corinthians 8:8). Paul further taught:

Let not him that eateth despise him that eateth not; and let not him which eateth not judge him that eateth: for God hath received him. … Therefore, let us stop passing judgment on one another. Instead, make up your mind not to put any stumbling block or obstacle in the way of a brother or sister (Romans 14:3,13).

In other words, on lesser controversies, we should be generous towards those who draw their boundaries a little differently. “In non-essentials, liberty.”

(3) We should hold ourselves to high standards.

If our answers to the lesser controversies are consistently the most permissive answers, are we being diligent in our discipleship or merely floating in the stream of culture? It’s tempting to take all the leash that is given to us—but principle-based discipleship will often lead us to take a stricter personal stand than what official answers may require.

Paul, talking to the Corinthians, addressed this head-on: “’I have the right to do anything,’ you say—but not everything is beneficial. ’I have the right to do anything’—but not everything is constructive” (1 Corinthians 10:23). If “Does this warrant church discipline?” is our only metric for personal conduct, then we are engaged in rules-based discipleship, not principle-based discipleship. If our convictions don’t inform our choices—if we live indistinguishably from the world—then our convictions might be hollow. 

(4) The heart matters when it comes to lesser controversies.

I have argued elsewhere that our intuitions can shift long before our beliefs. In other words, our “moral taste buds” can stop responding to sin before we ever abandon our convictions. We can use someone’s preferred pronouns without abandoning our convictions about gender. But do we sometimes do so because we have? While faithful members can disagree about bikinis, wedding attendance, and pronoun use, those disagreements sometimes reflect beneath-the-surface disagreement on the essentials. 

Many things are not sin in and of themselves, but the why matters a lot. We might need to evaluate what our intuitions on the lesser controversies reveal about our core convictions. When we see patterns of permissiveness and worldliness in our own conduct, we should self-reflect whether we are in harmony with divine teaching when it comes to the essentials. I have also seen people refuse to use preferred pronouns because of contempt for the person rather than mere convictions about gender. Check your heart.

When Paul addressed the question of meat sacrificed to idols, the first thing he did was reiterate the principles: “So then, about eating food sacrificed to idols: We know that ‘An idol is nothing at all in the world’ and that ‘There is no God but one’” (1 Corinthians 8:4). If our hearts are not aligned with divine principles, even “within bound” answers to the lesser controversies will reflect a heart out of harmony with divine truth.

(5) Context matters when it comes to lesser controversies.

Paul’s position on eating meat sacrificed to idols was between always and never. Basically, context matters. For example, he said, “Eat anything sold in the meat market without raising questions of conscience” (1 Corinthians 10:25). In addition, “If an unbeliever invites you to a meal and you want to go, eat whatever is put before you without raising questions of conscience.” In other words, don’t fret about whether the meat on the plate was sacrificed to an idol.

But, he continued, “[I]f someone says to you, ‘This has been offered in sacrifice,’ then do not eat it, both for the sake of the one who told you and for the sake of conscience” (1 Corinthians 10:28-29). I don’t think Paul is saying, “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” I think he’s saying, “If the person says, ‘Partake of this meat to celebrate with us the idol’s watchful protection,’ partaking of the meat now has moral freight.”

In other words, if eating the meat won’t be mistaken for assent to idolatry, it’s not really a big deal. But if it will, then it might convey an unwillingness to stand by our convictions. The same is likely true of pronouns or wedding attendance. This is why we should ensure our convictions are public and known—it allows us more freedom to make different, context-based choices without sending the wrong message.

(6) Sometimes, we should abstain for the sake of others.

Sometimes those new or young in the faith need to see us abstain to strengthen their intuitions and support their convictions. Paul is fairly direct on this:

Be careful, however, that the exercise of your rights does not become a stumbling block to the weak. For if someone with a weak conscience sees you, with all your knowledge, eating in an idol’s temple, won’t that person be emboldened to eat what is sacrificed to idols? (1 Corinthians 8:9-10).

He continues, “Therefore, if what I eat causes my brother or sister to fall into sin, I will never eat meat again, so that I will not cause them to fall” (1 Corinthians 8:13). In other words, if seeing me eat meat sacrificed to idols leads others to be casual in their discipleship, I have wronged them with my carelessness. “It is wrong for a person to eat anything that causes someone else to stumble” (Romans 14:20). We should ensure that our conduct invites others towards greater conviction and more consecrated discipleship. This principle cuts both ways. If refusing to use someone’s preferred pronouns, for example, will result in them walking out the door of the church, it may be prudent to use them. But if using them reinforces a youth’s gender dysphoria, this can also contribute to their fall.

One person socially transitioned but then spent a few months alone in the wilderness and subsequently detransitioned. This person said something to this effect: “The rocks didn’t use my pronouns, and I could not maintain the fiction without constant affirmation.” Sometimes we do individuals harm by reinforcing their misunderstandings about gender. In the right context and spirit, sometimes the greatest kindness is to gently remind someone who they are.

(7) We should respect those with a more punctilious conscience.

Some of us have more scruples than others. I never did homework on the Sabbath, while my roommates often did. Neither is it inherently a violation of Church teachings. Paul explained, “Whoever eats meat does so to the Lord, for they give thanks to God; and whoever abstains does so to the Lord and gives thanks to God” (Romans 14:6). But further, “whoever has doubts is condemned if they eat” (Romans 14:23).

I had the lead in the high school junior play. … My character carried a hip flask full of water that he swigged from as if it were an alcoholic beverage that helped him get from moment to moment. … Just before going on stage for performance number six, I was greeted by a solemn prop crew. They had my flask. Their message to me was approximately this:

“Terry, we want you to know everything is all right now. But someone wanted to pull a prank on you, and they had filled the flask with gin. They were laughing about it and told us to watch what happened when you took a swig on stage. We were horrified and immediately said. ‘But Terry doesn’t believe in drinking. He’s a Mormon.’ (The pranksters stopped laughing.) They didn’t know what your beliefs were until we told them. They apologized. We have rinsed this out about ten times. It is okay.”

We should respect those who object to these new and recent social trends, even if we do not. If they are trying to apply divine truth the best they know how, we should rally and help them do so, just as Terry Olsen’s friends helped him live his beliefs. We should foster a culture of mutual reverence for conscience. As Paul taught:

The one who eats everything must not treat with contempt the one who does not, and the one who does not eat everything must not judge the one who does, for God has accepted them. Who are you to judge someone else’s servant? To their own master, servants stand or fall (Romans 14:3-4).

In conclusion, let us follow Paul’s counsel: “Let us therefore make every effort to do what leads to peace and to mutual edification. Do not destroy the work of God for the sake of food,” or pronouns, or any other lesser controversy.

The post Sacred Meat, Sacred Pronouns: Discerning Lesser Controversies appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

I was in a small conference room with a handful of other students. A coveted tenure-track position had opened, and students were invited to attend an informal Q&A session with each of the final applicants. One candidate asked us what we thought about our university, prompting a Latina student to launch into a passionate vocalization of her dissatisfaction with our culture and lack of diversity. Her comments struck me as excessively pessimistic; she almost seemed eager to spread negativity. My own educational journey had been profoundly transformational. I continue to feel great admiration, gratitude, and respect for my professors. So, I was embarrassed that the candidate’s first encounter with the student population was a lengthy complaint without a sliver of silver lining. It even felt like a sort of betrayal, an airing of the family’s dirty laundry. 

I spoke up and said something like, “I’m surprised to hear such a negative opinion. My experience here has been really different from that.” My peer tossed a dismissive gesture in my direction as she scoffed, “Of course it has. Look at you.” 

As a white, non-disabled, middle-class, heterosexual, theist male, I have spent the majority of my life in the majority group. My default homogeneity extends even to frequently overlooked and apparently mundane like right-handedness and trichromacy. I am accustomed to fitting in with minimal effort. Perhaps predictably, I had never been discounted like I was in that moment, summed up by a detached glance that declared my background, feelings, and perspective utterly irrelevant. I was stunned, then hurt, then angry. 

This has been an important experience for me to reflect on, a microcosm of the many complex factors and rapid hyper-reactions that coalesce to fuel the polarization metastasizing through our society, destructive as a wind-driven wildfire. In just a handful of moments and with only a few words, my fellow student and I went from being strangers to being opponents, narrowly regarding each other from across a widening narrative divide. 

An Urgent Task

As a collective, and frequently as individuals, we are failing at the critical task of connecting across difference. Every day brings new illustrations of our baffling inability to muster basic civility, much less meaningful collaboration. We are warring camps laying perpetual siege to one another, hurling our verbal and emotional grenades over walls that grow higher and higher, and mutually suffering from the inevitable shrapnel of communicative violence.

The stakes are existential. If we cannot find a way to talk to one another, how can we hope to work together? If we can’t work together, how can we live together? If we can’t live together, how can we live at all?

Tribalistic fervor, self-selected social segregation, perpetual political gridlock, and the screaming echo chamber of outrage in online pseudo communities—none of it is working.

We need something different. 

Healing our divisions may not be a quick or easy process. But mutual understanding and respectful cooperation are not outlandish, impossible goals. We can find our way back to each other. I believe the path will be paved with deep and gentle listening. With clear-eyed accountability, sincere apology, and liberating forgiveness. With empathetic, courageous reformation. The path will also be paved with stories

The Stories We Live

Communication scholar Walter Fischer dubbed human beings Homo Narrans, the storytelling animal. Weaving stories may be our oldest art form, the connecting thread linking modern cinema, theater, dance, music, literature, and all of humanity’s expressive endeavors. Storytelling is far more than making things up that didn’t actually happen. Our daily life involves constant storytelling. We are asked questions like, “How was your weekend?” “How did you two meet each other?” or “What do you think about this university?” In response, we tell a story.

These meta-narratives are often held sacred. They are stories about our families and our communities. Stories about our institutions. Stories about what it means to be an American. Stories about faith. Stories about God. 

According to intercultural expert Bradford J. Hall and his colleagues, these kinds of narratives function on a cultural level to fulfill four major functions. They tell us:

1. How the world works

2. Our place in the world

3. How to act in the world

4. How to evaluate what happens in the world 

When understood in this light, it becomes clear that stories are no trifling distraction. In a very practical sense, our stories are our world.

Stories in Conflict

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it is these stories—along with the worlds, identities, and ways of being that they represent—that are at the root of our most entrenched disputes. If we continue to fixate on topical-level issues without addressing deeper narrative roots, we risk perpetual political polarization, social stagnation, and conflict escalation. How can we expect anything other than a stalemate society if we fail to see how the issues we think are being discussed are intimately connected to our larger meta-narratives? We aren’t just conversing about abortion or gun control or marriage (and heaven knows we’re not drawing blood over the finer points of tax law): we are debating and defending our perception of reality itself, including the very nature of our world, ourselves, our actions, and goodness. 

I believe that increased narrative awareness can open avenues toward more productive sociopolitical interactions and a more unified future. To move in that direction, we need to reckon with three “default settings” that inhibit human efforts to navigate conflict and connect across difference: our singular perspective, our simplified storytelling in conflict, and our “us vs them” mindset. 

The Prison of Perception

One of the most daunting obstacles in connecting across differences is the intense tangibility of our own perception. As David Foster Wallace put it: “everything in my own immediate experience supports my deep belief that I am the absolute center of the universe; the realest, most vivid and important person in existence.” And, much as it seems wrong to say it aloud, that experience is common to all of us.

It’s no surprise that so much of our existential storytelling occurs in the first person. We are embodied beings who are constantly being fed information about how the world outside of ourselves is impacting us. I see. I feel. I want. And so on. 

Our singular perception is compellingly immediate to such a degree that it can function as a sort of prison, causing us to falsely believe that we are separate from each other and the world. Albert Einstein called this “the optical delusion of consciousness.” Failing to understand or remember our intrinsic interconnectedness has serious consequences. We might consider others as less important, or even less real, than ourselves because their needs and feelings take so much effort to discern. If unchecked, the intensity of perception and the illusion of separation could lead us to view other people as expendable extras who merely populate the background of our own grandiose existence. 

Of course, our limited perception misleads us regarding our individual importance. While it may be understandable to believe in your supreme significance when you are, say, a toddler, maintaining that mentality indicates a juvenility that can easily become self-absorption, narcissism, or something even worse. 

Fortunately, we are social creatures, made to care for one another. We can make eye contact and have that simple act flood us with sonder, the awe of recognizing that everyone around us, every single person, is living a life as real and as excruciatingly immersive as our own. In such moments, our imagination lets us envision the story of another and wonder how we would feel in their place. Empathy begins to blossom.

And that is one key to unlocking the prison of perception: to imagine the life of another. To stretch ourselves to picture their viewpoint and experience with the reasonableness and potency that we instinctively grant our own. To listen to their story. This is work we must attend to again and again, and it is crucial to balancing the single and limited story of our own experience.

It is also, at its core, an act of faith. We ultimately have no way to truly know that someone else is experiencing what they say they are. No way, in fact, to know without question that we even understand one another! To communicate is to participate in a profound mystery. We take abstract thoughts and ideas in our minds, wrap them in the imperfect symbolism of language, send them vibrating in the air or scribbled onto paper or typed on a screen, and pray that the person on the other side is able to translate the symbols in some coherent way despite the interference of countless variables like culture, age, education, gender, and other life experience. Perhaps the confounding of languages at Babel was simply a garnish to highlight the foundational complexity of communication.

Yet, despite these limitations of imagination and language, it is still by striving to hear and earnestly consider the stories of others that we can expand the limits of our perception.

This may be easy to do when other people’s stories align with our own and complement or reinforce the way that we see things. But how much more challenging and even perilous, to seriously consider the stories of those who seem different than us—particularly if their story seems to unsettle or contradict our own? How do we respond to stories claiming that we, or people we love, or institutions we cherish, have harmed others?

These kinds of stories threaten our positive sense of self and our understanding of the world, and so we react with understandable defensiveness. We reassert that our story is True-beyond-question and the other is False-without-exception. Despite my attempt at diplomatic phrasing, there were defensive undertones in my response to my peer’s story about our university. 

Now there are, of course, circumstances of actual narrative incompatibility, and not every story is always equally true, nor is every storyteller guaranteed to act in good faith. However, we too often allow the fear that our stories are fundamentally irreconcilable, the belief that truth must be one story or the other, or the distrust of others’ intentions to prevent us from even trying to hear each other deeply. These efforts to self-protect–however understandable they may be— perpetuate our fear and mistrust, especially as we respond to the discomfort of narrative conflict by portraying one another in the overly simplistic and limited roles of the Drama Triangle.

A Triangular Trap

Dr. Stephen Karpman created the Drama Triangle to describe how, when telling stories about our conflicts, we tend to get stuck positioning ourselves and others into three roles. There are many variations on Karpman’s original idea, but I prefer the roles of Victim, Villain, and Hero. The victim is often the person telling the conflict story, the one who was wronged. The villain is the person who transgressed, the one we want to blame. And the hero is frequently the party who “comes to the rescue” by validating the story being told, confirming the wickedness of the villain and the innocence of the victim. 

The drama triangle can be seductive. It gives a compelling, simplistic retelling of events that lets us feel totally justified: “I have been wronged. They are bad. Be my hero and confirm my view as objectively true.” And the roles can pivot in an instant. If someone has a different view on our story, they can become a new villain as we take indignant offense; how dare anyone suggest we may not be completely in the right?!

But the warm glow of justification from the drama triangle quickly proves to be hollow comfort. It is exhausting and disheartening to ping-pong back and forth, painting ourselves and others strictly as faultless heroes who are tragically misunderstood by others, irredeemable villains whose flaws bear no patience or grace, or helpless victims with no control over their fate. 

It also doesn’t capture the richness of reality, a reality that defies our attempts to confine it to shallow, two-dimensional depictions. The truth, of course, is that each of us can partially be any of these roles and more. We have moments of bravery, generosity, and selflessness; moments of unkindness or cruelty; moments where the actions of others unfairly impact us.

What we need in order to break free from both the drama triangle and the limitations of perception is to tell more nuanced stories about others and ourselves, stories that create space for greater empathy, forgiveness, and closure. The idea may sound simplistic or idealistic, but telling better stories is a complex affair. Not only does it require awareness and conscious effort, but it is often confounded by our ingrained tendency to cling to group identity, the third default hobbling our efforts to connect. 

From Different to Demon

We understand who we are, not only in terms of individual identity but also because of the groups we are part of. This is a central tenet of Social Identity Theory. Furthermore, we understand the groups we are part of by contrasting them with other groups. This inescapable tendency has mixed consequences. Belonging to a group can boost our sense of security, esteem, and accomplishment. We feel a vicarious flush of success and pride when our sports team wins, even though our contribution amounted to yelling at a screen and eating snack food. 

But the ego boost from favorable group comparison depends on constructing an “other,” a different group, a “them.” We need that group to be different from us because, without the contrast, the group identity marker would be meaningless. Different studies have demonstrated how this grouping (and the resultant bias towards the group we feel part of) can happen nearly instantaneously and be based on unimportant, fabricated, or arbitrary similarities.

The fact that we favor the groups we are part of may seem natural and even innocuous in some settings. And if we were able to note and evaluate difference as positive or even as neutral, it wouldn’t be a major concern. The thing is, we are notoriously bad at seeing difference without also making knee-jerk, immediate, and frequently negative judgments. 

A striking illustration is Clegg and Lichtey’s sectarianism scale. It articulates how we move from noticing differences to demonizing one another. The progression of group-based thinking is as follows:

1. We are different; we behave differently.

2. We are right.

3. We are right, and you are wrong.

4. You are a less adequate version of what we are.

5. You are not what you say you are.

6. We are, in fact, what you say you are.

7. What you are doing is evil.

8. You are so wrong that you forfeit ordinary rights.

9. You are less than human.

10. You are evil.

11. You are demonic.

The most terrifying aspect of this flowing progression is how familiar it feels. I recognize it in myself and in the world around me. We so easily default to “us vs them” thinking, and we desperately need to break free from this ingrained tendency. Relying on some sort of common enemy to unify humanity isn’t a sound policy, despite the undeniable blockbuster appeal of human solidarity in the face of an alien invasion.

As we choose to focus on the many identities that we share with others, we can guard against our default tendency towards tribalism and the demonizing of difference. As we tell more expansive stories, we can avoid the siren call of the drama triangle and grow beyond the comfortable confines of our singular perception. We can choose to remember that, as articulated by John F. Kennedy, “what unites us is far greater than what divides us.”

We are not doomed to fear and hate each other. 

Expanding Our Stories

As I look back on that afternoon meeting with my Latina peer, it’s clear that her story about our university didn’t match my own. I believed I was attending a place of excitement, intellectual growth, and possibility. A place with wise and caring mentors. I felt part of it all, proud of the people and culture, and traditions. I was invested in maintaining the story for my own comfort, ego, and esteem. After all, what would it mean about me if her story was true? 

Far easier to make a snap judgment that she was the problem, that her poor attitude was responsible for any dissatisfaction she had experienced. I was motivated to prioritize my perception, cast her as a villain, and settle deeper into my group affiliation (those who love the university vs those who only see the negative). So much, happening so quickly.

How different could that interaction have been if I had turned to her with open curiosity? If I had made space for her frustration and pain? In my defensive, judgmental, impatient response, I missed several opportunities. I missed the opportunity to expand the story I was living about the university and to come to a more detailed understanding of how institutions can impact different people in many different ways for many different reasons. I missed the opportunity to help my peer feel heard and seen and to connect across gender and ethnic difference.

And crucially, I could have done this without in any way denying the beautiful, positive experiences of my own education. I just needed to expand my story, to realize how, with so many thousands of students, hundreds of instructors, and dozens of majors, there is a vast multitude of stories about the university that can all be true to some degree, and yet all be limited or incomplete as well. 

Expanding our stories doesn’t mean instantly accepting anything anyone else says as being more true than your own experience. But it does mean accepting the possibility that their story might offer truthful insights and that our story might have room for further refinement. It means turning to curiosity and asking questions like “What has that been like for you?” or “Can you tell me more about why you feel that way?” It is a move away from the simplicity and precariousness of either/or to the liberating—and sometimes frightening—expanse of both/and.

I believe we are meant to interact with one another, in all of our stunning array of beliefs and customs and opinions and differences, in order to facilitate our expansion into truer stories. We need each other. Our fellow travelers are not deranged obstacles in our path but living testimony of the intricate complexity and manifold paradox that characterize a multifaceted Reality.

I believe in a Universal Narrative, a True Story, the Word. I also believe the words of my dear friend and mentor, Delose Conner: “In a world where absolute truth exists but cannot be known, one must live by reason and by faith.” And so we are called to accompany one another on life’s pilgrimage towards Light, Beauty, Goodness, and Truth. We are called to care for and learn from each other as we refine and expand our stories.

This is the process of education; this is the process of repentance; this is the process of restoration: coming to understand the limitations of the narratives we have been living and then adapting our stories—even, at times, those that are most precious to us—to better fit the irrepressible reality that strains against the bonds of our incomplete beliefs. And then, to embrace the iterative process as our new story is shown to have its own incompleteness. Because, as philosopher Adam S. Miller writes with beautiful simplicity, “Your stories aren’t the truth, life is.”

Through our interactions with each other, we have the possibility to more fully encounter life, expand our limited view and approach reality in all of its wildness and beauty. Not in spite of our differences, but because of them. And that is a better story to live.

The post Bridging The Narrative Divide appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

Unsurprisingly, much of the post-address perturbation focused on Elder Holland’s musket fire metaphor and its impact on our LGBT+ brothers and sisters. (See here, here, here, here, here, here, and here.) Having read many responses to Holland’s address before the address itself, I was struck when I finally did read it by how readily an image clearly invoked in defense of positions (“the kingdom,” “marriage,” “the faith”) was flattened into a blatant act of rhetorical aggression against people (our LGBT+ identifying brothers and sisters). These reactions were especially surprising since Holland included explicit guardrails to steer interpretations of his meaning towards a defanged, if still potent, metaphor (“let me go no farther …”). Those guardrails were meant, moreover, to deflect the interpretation not of Holland’s critics but of insiders who may be only too eager to see in his words an implicit invitation to steady the ark against certain winds of cultural change.

The rise of a new U?

Sometime around 2016, the rise of what Jonathan Haidt calls the social justice university (SJU) gained widespread attention. At SJU, social justice displaces truth as the institution’s central purpose. Although the historical entanglement of these two values has led some, like Nancy Koppelman, to see them as compatible in modern universities, academia’s recent past has provided plenty of cause for concern. Indeed, the scandal at Koppelman’s own institution (Evergreen State University), which is missing from her otherwise informative study, proved to be something of a recent canary in the coal mine of higher education. The problem (or at least the concern) is, as the title of an essay by the political scientist Charles Lipson put it, that “Woke Colleges Are Assembly Lines for Conformity.” 

The ideological conformity one finds on college campuses likely stems in part from the political homogeneity of the professoriate and the extreme homogeneity of university administrators. Unfortunately, this homogeneity has real consequences for the process of knowledge production at universities. Indeed, we have disconcerting indications that the freedom of inquiry, so vital to the pursuit of truth, is already under fire. (See here and here.) What is more, those who challenge certain accepted dogmas can quickly land themselves in hot water. Recent castigations include softcore struggle sessions (see here, here, and here) and suspension or termination (see here, here, and here). Even those who survive their ordeal often find themselves rather worse for the wear. The Foundation for Individual Rights in Education’s report, Scholars under Fire, tracks the disconcerting trend since 2015 of scholars being targeted for ideological reasons. Is it any wonder that such an environment has led to a widespread chilling of speech on campuses, as people from across the political spectrum opt for the silence and security of self-censorship rather than risk offense? (See here and here.) 

Religion by any other name 

Haidt links the fervor that characterizes SJUs to our species’ unique psychology of the sacred. Human morality is deeply related to in-groups, often vesting certain people within these groups as the most righteous, innocent, or vulnerable. Sometime in the 1990s, he argues, a “moral passion” that revolves less around the truth than around specific victims arrived on campuses and proceeded to “[transform] the life of the university.” (Sociologists refer to the emergence of a specific type of victimhood culture.) Given the sacred nature of these victims—the “big three,” according to Haidt, are blacks, women, and LGBT+ persons—any perceived slight against them is considered not only verboten but blasphemy (Haidt’s term). 

Haidt is not alone in adopting religious language to talk about social justice. (See here and here and here most recently) The danger is that uncoupled from the pursuit of truth, social justice (or, a least, the strand of it making so much noise these days) risks becoming a naked ideology, which, as Vaclav Havel reminds us, “is a specious way of relating to the world. It offers human beings the illusion of an identity, of dignity, and of morality while making it easier for them to part with them.” 

By their fruits

At this point, the ideological conformity that Haidt and others have observed has become an ascendant norm on campuses across the nation. (See here, here, here, here, and here.) And from that seed has bloomed academia’s version of the tree of diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI), whose branches, which produce such conceptual fruit as trigger warnings, microaggressions (see here and here), ideological litmus tests (see here and here), anti-racism efforts, and gender pronoun protocols, now stretch into virtually every corner of the academy, to say nothing of the broader society. All, in principle, in the service of creating a more just society.

To be sure, such a goal is noble in the face of legitimate concerns and nagging social inequalities (see here). And certain efforts undertaken will hopefully help to calm the troubled waters of our shared society (see here and here). Unfortunately, the potential problems are more pernicious than some may care to admit, and too often, in practice, those pursuing noble ends marshal ignoble means.

Pens and swords

It was in this academic context that Elder Holland uttered his now notorious metaphor. In an age when the conceptual space between words and violence has, for many, collapsed (see here and here), arguments about the defensive nature of Holland’s musket fire are likely to be seen as conceptual hairsplitting, at least among those who accept the proposition that words are violence. Of course, for those who believe such a proposition to be problematic (see here and Sarah Jeong’s reference to the metaphorical guillotining of opinionators here), the prospect of pursuing truth in an academic setting, to say nothing of living in a peaceful society, hangs in the balance.

And this gets us to what is, for me, the crux of the matter. BYU adopts a sexual ethos at odds with the prevailing one found on many campuses today, to say nothing of various sectors of society more broadly. It is for this reason, I suspect, that Holland’s words attracted the level of fury they did. For many, Holland’s (and BYU’s and the Church’s) position is logically untenable—the adoption of certain positions, it is assumed, must preclude the possibility of loving certain people. Anything other than capitulation on the positions is then perceived as animus. From this vantage point, in other words, the only logical way of reading Holland’s words is as an attack against people, not a defense of positions. 

Formally, the misreading of Holland’s musket-fire metaphor thus reveals a rhetorical sleight of hand in service of an ideological purpose. The misreading semantically conflates what Holland said with what he is claimed to have said (i.e., defense of positions v. attacks on people), and this conflation, in effect, elides Holland’s (and BYU’s and the Church’s) position. 

Looking forward

So, where does this leave us? 

Elder Holland’s talk and the reactions it occasioned highlight the tension at BYU between institutional prerogatives on the one hand and individual ministering on the other. It may be a hard needle to thread, especially given certain prevailing views on college campuses today, but this unique university attempts both to hold onto truths as it understands them (regarding “the kingdom,” “marriage,” and “the faith”) and to love and support those whose lives do not easily square with those truths. To this end, the same day Elder Holland gave his speech at BYU, the university announced the creation of a new Office of Belonging. Although some will no doubt see the coincidence as ironic, this view presupposes a lack of sincerity on the part of the university. I find such a position too cynical. 

BYU has tried to carve out an idiosyncratic space for itself in the broader ecosystem of higher education. It shares some of the same values as its secular counterparts, even if it operates according to a different set of first principles. For instance, BYU engages in the pursuit of truth, but it does so “by study and also by faith” (D&C 88:118, my emphasis). Similarly, its brand of inclusivity is grounded less in de rigeur categories like gender than in humanity’s shared “primary identity as children of God” (see here). As campus dogmas go these days, one could do much worse. Of course, whether higher education’s notion of diversity is capacious enough to keep BYU in the university fold and whether the fissures cleaving the body of saints will widen or heal, only time will tell.

The post Truth, Justice, and the BYU Way appeared first on Public Square Magazine.