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My father, now eighty-five years old, tells a story of being five years old and visiting his grandparents in Heber, Utah. One sunny summer afternoon, Dad wandered into his grandmother’s garden and began harvesting and eating onions, which he claims were almost as sweet as apples. 

When Grandma DeGraff came out and caught him, she let him know that his behavior was bad, even sinful. By the end of the lecture, Dad believed he was bad. 

He can’t remember how long he sat in the dirt, stunned, simmering in shame, and stinking of onions when his grandpa finally came out. Grandpa DeGraff said, “Steve, what you did was wrong. But I love you. There’s no one I’d rather give these onions to than you. All you have to do is ask.” Dad said, “Grandpa’s forgiveness brought me back into my humanity.” 

We know how good, joyful, and freeing receiving forgiveness feels. It connects us to the person who forgives us and can even help us feel more connected to God. 

But forgiving is not always easy. C.S. Lewis once wrote, “Everyone says forgiveness is a lovely idea, until they have something to forgive.” More recently, Sister Kristen Yee, Second Consuelor in the Relief Society General Presidency, taught this same truth: “Forgiving can be one of the most difficult things we ever do and one of the most divine things we ever experience.”

It is normal to struggle with forgiving. It is normal to want retribution, or revenge, when others sin—especially when their sins hurt us. 

Yet when Christ was on the cross, He opened the door for our forgiveness and repentance. In a simple moment that was pivotal in eternity, Christ forgave His crucifiers: “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” 

This Easter, as we contemplate our Savior’s Atonement, we can learn learn at least seven lessons on the nature of forgiveness from Christ’s time on the cross.

Lesson One: We Worship a Loving and Forgiving God 

The first word Christ utters in the process of forgiving His crucifiers is “Father.” Christ previously showed us in the parable of the Prodigal Son how our Father responds to an imperfect child: “But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.”

There are no lectures in this offering of forgiveness; there is no delay. Christ tells us clearly in this parable that God forgives us lovingly and completely. When Christ reaches for that divine forgiveness at the moment of His own death, He knows the gift will be granted. Symbolized in Christ’s cross itself is a forever open-armed God—one who is willing to forgive us and is waiting to embrace us.  

Lesson Two: Even When We Forgive, We Might Still Experience Pain 

Even when we forgive, we might still experience pain, grief, or loss as a result of what has happened. When Christ forgave those actively hurting Him, the pain He felt did not immediately stop. So why should we forgive, knowing we might still experience the effect of the offense? 

Our pain might not be magically erased by forgiving, but forgiving can help us pivot. Elder Gerrit W. Gong has taught that, “Often condemnation focuses on the past. Forgiveness looks liberatingly to the future.” 

Lesson Three: Forgiveness puts Responsibility in the Right Places

During His ministry, Christ had forgiven sins Himself. But while on the cross, He asks God to do it: “Father, forgive them.” Christ gave their sins to God to manage.

We might be handed something painful, but it’s not our responsibility to hold onto that thing forever, to carry it, and wonder why our offender handed it to us in the first place. Elder David E. Sorenson said: “Forgiveness means that problems of the past no longer dictate our destinies, and we can focus on the future with God’s love in our hearts.”

There’s a certain amount of relief in the fact that forgiveness is not conditional on our offender in any way. Forgiveness is a way of taking ourselves out of the equation with an offender: We get to work directly with Christ, and allow Christ to work with our offender.

Lesson Four: We Must Forgive Human Weakness

When Christ petitioned our Father for forgiveness of the people who were crucifying Him, He didn’t talk about their murderousness, He addressed their ignorance: “They know not what they do.” 

Our oldest son, Owen, was four years old when he let us know his feelings about not getting to have a family movie party one night. He left us a note on green construction paper: “I love you. But I’m still mad.” Forgiveness is what allows us to keep love in our hearts, even as we navigate the friction of daily life. 

Lesson Five: Through Forgiveness Our Pain Can Be Transformed  

In this life we will suffer. We are told this in the scriptures, and we have experienced plenty of it. German philosopher Dietrich von Hildebrand reminded us that we sometimes mistake “Christ’s transfiguration of all suffering for an elimination of all suffering.” Suffering is part of life, and yet through Christ we know that suffering is not meant to be our final destination. 

Christ’s suffering was not the end, but Christ had to experience death in order to be resurrected to a new life. Likewise, we have the promise that God can transform all of it—our pain, destruction, and mourning—not that the hard things will be erased from our lives but transformed. 

Isaiah tells us that beauty can rise from the ashes of our lives, that joy can come from our grief, and praise can come from heaviness. We don’t often quote the next verse in this Isaiah passage, but it conveys the fact that the most difficult things, the “desolations of generations,” the big things, even as big as “waste cities” shall be raised up through Jesus Christ.

Lesson Six: Forgiveness Should Become Part of Our Nature

Forgiveness is the only part of the Lord’s Prayer that Christ emphasizes through repetition. When He talks about our daily need of bread, forgiveness is mentioned as well. 

The immediacy of Christ’s forgiving those in the moment they were sinning against Him on the cross indicates that forgiveness was part of His very nature. I had a BYU Religion student write about how a forgiving nature could create a culture of love in her home. “I want to create a space where forgiveness is not withheld, not earned, not delayed—but simply given. I want my children and spouse to feel that mistakes are part of life, not the end of love.” 

Forgiveness is not a checklist we march through, but a mindset and a heart-set that can become part of who we are. We might even become so forgiving that we don’t look for offenses. Not picking something up in the first place means we won’t have to figure out how to set it down later. 

Lesson Seven: We Are Not Alone as We Forgive 

In the throes of His agony, Christ was not alone. He had heavenly help in Gethsemane and on Calvary when Christ asked His Father to forgive the people hurting Him. We are not alone in forgiving, either. 

Sister Yee has taught that Christ “does not ask us to [forgive] without His help, His love, His understanding. Through our covenants with the Lord, we can each receive the strengthening power, guidance, and the help we need to both forgive and to be forgiven.” 

“I stood there with coldness clutching my heart. But forgiveness is not an emotion—I knew that too. ‘Jesus, help me!’ I prayed silently. ‘I can lift my hand, I can do that much. You supply the feeling.’

“Woodenly, mechanically, I thrust my hand into the one stretched out to me. And as I did, an incredible thing took place. The current started in my shoulder, raced down my arm, into our joined hands. And then this healing warmth seemed to flood my whole being, bringing tears to my eyes, ‘I forgive you, brother!’ I cried. ‘With all my heart!’

“For a long moment we grasped each other’s hands, the former guard and the former prisoner. 

I had never known God’s love so intensely as I did then.” 

What Forgiveness Is Not

When offering forgiveness feels insurmountable, we may be assuming that we have to do more than Christ has actually asked us to do. Elder Neil L. Andersen wrote a useful list about what forgiveness is not. 

• Forgiveness is not failing to protect ourselves, our families, and others. 
• Forgiveness is not continuing in a relationship with someone who is not trustworthy. Christ’s response to those threatening to harm Him at Nazareth is instructive: He did not lecture, try to persuade, or call down lightning bolts. Christ simply “went his way” (30)—and never goes back. Forgiveness does not always include relational reconciliation. 
• Forgiveness is not condoning injustice. The late Elder Jeffrey R. Holland taught that Christ never called evil things good, and neither should we.
• Forgiveness is not dismissing the hurt or disgust we feel because of the actions of others. We should be patient with ourselves while we heal and progress toward forgiving.
• Forgiveness is not forgetting but remembering in peace. 

A Path to Joy

Elder Holland has explained that none of us have “traveled beyond the reach of divine love. It is not possible for you to sink lower than the infinite light of Christ’s Atonement shines.” The divine forgiveness that God offers to us is complete and it is joy-filled. 

God has His forgiving arms forever open to us, waiting to embrace us without delay. When we choose to forgive, like Christ did on the cross, God’s love can flow through us, and we open ourselves to connection with others and with God.  

The post Forgiveness: Seven Lessons from the Cross appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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Imagine you are a first-century Jew at the time of Jesus. You saw the famed Rabbi of Galilee perform miracles. He multiplied food and raised the dead, miracles echoing Elijah and Elisha. You heard him teach doctrines that built upon the law of Moses, but he drew out principles that made the law much more challenging. You saw him ride into Jerusalem on a colt, cleanse the temple, and teach that he was not only the Messiah, but Deity himself. 

And then he was betrayed by his friend and follower, Judas (known in Hebrew as Judah), the namesake of his own people. And rather than take his place on the political throne of Israel, you witnessed this Son of David condemned by Jew and Gentile alike, then tormented, crucified, and placed in a tomb. 

What would you expect next if your only source of reference was the Hebrew Bible? Would you have recognized Jesus of Nazareth in the scriptures you studied? Could you have anticipated from scripture that this self-proclaimed Messiah would miraculously come back to life—forever?

As Easter approaches, perhaps we can feel more charity and empathy for the disciples’ confusion following Christ’s death. Their source of scripture was the Hebrew Bible, which we call the Old Testament. While the Nephites and potentially some ancient Israelites had explicit teachings about the Atonement and Resurrection, the Jews in Jesus’ day faced an open question. 

Despite being longer than the rest of the Latter-day Saint canon combined, the Old Testament has fewer explicit references to “the fundamental principles of our religion”.

Yet while the Old Testament speaks less explicitly of Christ, shadows of His Atonement and Resurrection can be found in its pages. Some teachings of Christ may have been intentionally veiled in rituals and prophetic language. But just as the temple veil was rent at Jesus’s death, making clear that the way back to God was through Christ, the Spirit can lift the veil from our understanding, helping us see that the Easter message is implicit in the Old Testament’s pages. 

Why Isn’t the Resurrection Clearly Taught in the Old Testament?

Restoration scripture makes clear what the Old Testament does not: ancient prophets like Adam, Enoch, Noah, Abraham, Joseph, Moses, Isaiah, and others knew of Christ’s mission to some degree. This makes the relative absence of discussion about Christ’s suffering, crucifixion, and resurrection in the Old Testament puzzling. As I see it, scripture (particularly the Book of Mormon) provides three potential explanations. 

The first is that revelation occurs gradually: “line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little.” It may be that knowledge of Christ’s atonement, death, and resurrection was originally sparse, leading to less emphasis in earlier scripture. But our teachings about ancient prophets, if taken literally, are too clear about prophets’ knowledge of Christ’s atonement and resurrection for these doctrines to be considered only seedlings. This must be supplemented by other explanations.

The second possibility is that teachings of a suffering “Anointed One” were rejected, lost, or censored by those who compiled the texts. For example, the Book of Mormon cites Israelite prophets like Zenos, Zenock, and Neum—who aren’t in our canon elsewhere—that taught of Christ’s suffering, crucifixion, and burial. These prophets were stoned and cast out, and perhaps their teachings were likewise discarded.

Nephi also states that the Bible was altered before its international distribution: “they have taken away from the gospel of the Lamb many parts which are plain and most precious.” The editing and authorship history of the Old Testament is complex, and some books could have been crafted by an editor who did not know of or believe in Christ, despite prophets having taught of Him. 

A third possibility is that Old Testament teachings of Christ were veiled to the people by God’s prophets, or even veiled to prophets by God Himself, because of ancient Israel’s spiritual unpreparedness, or for some other divine purpose. Paul spoke of a “veil” that obscures understanding “in the reading of the old testament,” but that this “veil is done away in Christ.” The veiled message Paul speaks of likely came by giving Israel rituals that would resemble Christ’s sacrifice, as well as giving them sacred texts that veiled the mission of Christ or that could point to Him as a secondary, or higher, meaning. The true nature of Christ’s mission could only be gleaned by revelation.

Taken together, these explanations allow us to admit that explicit Old Testament references to Christ are sparse, but that Christ’s mission can still be found through the Spirit’s tutelage. Jesus taught that “the scriptures” of his day—meaning the Old Testament—“are they which testify of me” and commanded his audience to “search” them. With that imperative, I turn now to veiled Easter teachings of Christ found in the Old Testament for those with “eyes to see, and ears to hear.”

Ancient Israelite Prophecy of Christ’s Sacrifice

Abinadi, teaching about the Messiah’s divinity, condescension, atonement, and resurrection, claimed that “all the prophets who have prophesied ever since the world began [have] spoken more or less concerning these things.” Perhaps some of this teaching was censored, but much of it may have been inspired thematic and narrative parallels in scripture that constituted “more or less” a prophecy. As Nephi said, “all things which have been given of God from the beginning of the world, unto man, are the typifying of him,” including parallels in sacred history, poetry, and even prophecies with other primary meanings. Jacob added a second witness that the Israelite scriptures “truly testify of Christ” and “that none of the prophets have written, nor prophesied, save they have spoken concerning this Christ.”

Christ’s atoning sacrifice in Gethsemane and on the cross at Calvary is mirrored in some Old Testament narratives. In the Akedah, God commands Abraham to bind and then offer a burnt sacrifice of “thine only son Isaac, whom thou lovest.” This excruciating story, rife with philosophical complexity, does not thoroughly explain itself, but Jacob saw it as typifying Heavenly Father’s offering of His Only Begotten Son for our sins. In further parallels to Christ, Isaac rode a donkey to Mount Moriah, just as Christ rode a donkey for his triumphal entry to Jerusalem, and Isaac carried the wood for the sacrifice to its site, just as Christ carried a wooden cross to Golgotha. When Isaac asked his father where the offering was, Abraham replied, “God will provide himself a lamb for a burnt offering.” Isaac was miraculously delivered, and a ram in the thicket was provided as a substitute, symbolizing how the Lamb of God would ultimately sacrifice in our place. 

In another example reminiscent of the crucifixion and resurrection, Moses is commanded to raise up a brass “serpent and set it upon a pole” for the Israelites to look upon for healing from fatal snake bites. As with the story of the Akedah, the Christian significance of the story is never explained in the Old Testament, but Christ Himself and Book of Mormon prophets interpret it as a veiled symbol of Jesus raised upon a cross to save us by having the faith to look to Him. 

Beyond narrative mirroring, Christ’s mission seems to be directly or indirectly described in isolated phrases and references. New Testament authors like Matthew felt comfortable declaring that Old Testament passages were “fulfilled” when they provided an inspired parallel, even if the context of the passage doesn’t indicate at all that it is messianic prophecy. I argue that we can generally feel comfortable accepting these parallels as well if we acknowledge that there might be a different primary meaning. 

Language echoing Christ’s betrayal and crucifixion is also scattered across the Psalms and connects Christ to his royal ancestor David. The Psalmist(s) describes betrayal by a “familiar friend, in whom I trusted, which did eat of my bread”; being despised, mocked, and taunted about how “He trusted on the Lord that he would deliver him”; being surrounded by “the wicked,” after which “they pierced my hands and my feet”; being given “vinegar to drink”; crying “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”; having his clothing divided among a crowd; and being “poured out like water.” The context of some of these psalms suggests that the entire psalms were not necessarily messianic prophecy, yet Gospel authors understood them as being strongly implicated, and Psalm 22 in particular bears stunningly similar parallels.

Finally, there were prophets whose writings could be fairly classified as more direct prophecies of Christ’s sacrifice, most notably Isaiah. In particular, two of Isaiah’s four “Servant Songs” testify strongly of Christ, even if they applied to multiple people (the unnamed servant has variously been understood to be Jesus, Israel, Isaiah, Cyrus, and others). One of the Songs speaks of an unnamed servant who listened to God without rebelling, who gave his “back to the smiters,” and who did not hide his face “from shame and spitting.”

Isaiah’s fourth Servant Song, even though contested in interpretation, is by far the most reminiscent passage in the Old Testament of Christ’s atonement. It describes a lowly “servant” of God with “marred” appearance who has “no form nor comeliness [and] no beauty that we should desire him,” and who is “despised and rejected of man; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.” Although many prophets have been unpopular, the affliction this servant bears is for our griefs, our sorrows, our transgressions, and “the iniquity of us all.” The servant is given as an atoning “offering for sin” by which he will “justify many” and make “intercession for the transgressors.” In so doing he was “cut off out of the land of the living,” “made his grave with the wicked,” and “poured out his soul unto death.” And despite his death, he will be “exalted and extolled, and be very high,” will “prolong his days,” will “see his seed,” and will be divided “a portion with the great [and] spoil with the strong.” Even if there were other applications of this prophecy, it testifies beautifully of Christ’s mission and is perhaps the rarest gem of prophecy of Christ in the Old Testament.

Sacrifice 

In addition to prophecies,  the Old Testament practice of sacrifice foreshadows Christ’s sacrifice for us all. 

The Old Testament speaks openly of a victorious, reigning Messiah, but says little of a Messiah who suffers for sins. But that changes if we learn to see ancient animal sacrifice as a shadow of “that great and last sacrifice” that would satisfy the demands of justice for our sins. 

Though animal sacrifice is as old as Adam, the books of Moses codified its intricacies. With five distinct offerings—burnt offerings, peace (well-being) offerings, sin offerings, trespass offerings, and meat (grain) offerings—the Mosaic rules for sacrifice were complex. The sacrifices had mixed and overlapping purposes: atonement or expiation of sin, removal of ritual impurity, gratitude, memorial, obedience, or petition for deliverance. Animals of both genders and even non-animals were used for many offerings, but all offerings were food items, often with symbolically pleasing smells. Sometimes the offeror ate the sacrifice, other times the priests ate it, and burnt offerings were simply burnt for God.

Some special sacrifices were associated with holy days, such as the Day of Atonement or Passover, and some were performed on behalf of all of God’s people. The Passover sacrifice, in particular, involved the slaughter of a male lamb, whose blood saved the firstborn sons of Israel. And whatever other sacrifices were given, all firstborn animals were to be given to the Lord. 

We can see how these many purposes of sacrifice map onto Christ’s atonement and our own personal sacrifices. We see similarities to Christ describing himself as food and drink that must be ritually consumed by others. We especially connect the image of a male lamb of Passover to the Christian message because scripture calls Jesus the Lamb of God. In general, though, the Christian meaning of these sacrifices was hidden at the time. It is not clear from Leviticus that the Israelites were anticipating a final sacrifice. Leviticus merely taught the underlying principle that blood represents the sacredness of life, and “it is the blood that maketh an atonement for the soul.” 

As we take the sacrament this Easter season, we symbolically consume Christ’s body—just as Israelites did with animal sacrifice—and are divinely fed. We also promise to give up our sins. As the late Elder Neal A. Maxwell taught, “Real, personal sacrifice never was placing an animal on the altar. Instead, it is a willingness to put the animal in us upon the altar and letting it be consumed.” We can also follow Christ’s example and the other purposes of sacrifice in sacrificing our own time and wills, obeying God, expressing gratitude, asking God for what we need, and being “an odour of a sweet smell, a sacrifice acceptable, wellpleasing to God.” 

The Law of Moses

In addition to its sacrifice requirements, the Law of Moses foreshadowed Christ, who later declared not only that he fulfilled the law but that “I am the law.” As the Book of Hebrews teaches, “the law [of Moses] ha[s] a shadow of good things to come, and not the very image of the things.” The law seemed to require revelation to see Christ shadowed in it. Abinadi and Benjamin both taught that the Israelites “did not all understand the law,” not because of low intellect, but because they “hardened their hearts.” This was certainly true of Sherem, who claimed Jacob was wrongly “converting” the law of Moses into worship of Christ. 

Nephite prophets saw Mosaic Law as creating a typological framework for an ultimate self-sacrifice to atone for all sins. Nephi taught that “for this end hath the law of Moses been given”: “proving unto my people the truth of the coming of Christ.” Abinadi taught that it was “a shadow of those things which are to come.” Amulek testified that “the whole meaning of the law, every whit” was to point to “that great and last sacrifice” of “the Son of God, yea, infinite and eternal.” We, too, can acknowledge the complexity of the Law of Moses while affirming that it served as a type and shadow of Christ’s atonement to ancient Israelites.

The Old Testament and Resurrection

As for its teachings about the resurrection specifically, the Old Testament shows a plurality of views about the afterlife. Resurrection isn’t clearly taught in many of its books, especially the earlier ones. Jews in the days of Jesus were divided on whether it occurred. Pharisees, who accepted the later prophetic texts, believed in resurrection; Sadducees, who held only to the older books of Moses, did not. Zoramites like Zeezrom and Antionah, who demonstrate knowledge of the early Hebrew Bible books, are also puzzled by references to the resurrection. 

The Book of Daniel declares that “many of them that sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake, some to everlasting life, and some to shame and everlasting contempt.” But that book falls relatively late in the Old Testament, and the clarity of the doctrine is obscured as we move back in time—perhaps another veiled or censored teaching. Though there is some uncertainty about what he meant, Isaiah prophesied that our God “will swallow up death in victory; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from off all faces;” and “O Lord. . . Thy dead men shall live, together with my dead body [or “together their bodies”] shall they arise.”

Other than these passages, there are a few resurrection passages that are debated but possibly veiled or which might have a secondary meaning. Ezekiel prophesied that a valley of dry bones will come to life as normal people, primarily as a metaphor for the restoration of Israel, but perhaps also suggesting the possibility of resurrection. The Hebrew grammar is jumbled, but Job seems to say, with words not in Hebrew italicized, “though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet [from] my flesh shall I see God.” 

With these powerful images of resurrection available to him, Jesus, surprisingly, does not cite Daniel, Ezekiel, or Job when prophesying of his own resurrection. Instead, Jesus sees the most relevance in the story of Jonah (or Jonas in Greek): “For as Jonas was three days and three nights in the whale’s belly; so shall the Son of man be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth.”  We don’t instinctively think of Jonah being swallowed by a “great fish” as death, but Jonah’s prayer from inside the fish uses the language of death: “out of the belly of hell [Sheol] cried I, and thou heardest my voice.” He stayed there for three days before his deliverance.

Perhaps more importantly, God is the one who breathes life into humanity, and he saves Israel from death and bondage repeatedly. The Exodus is just one beautiful example of God delivering his people from bondage—a frequent metaphor for death in scripture. And God shows himself in the Old Testament to be a God of miracles. The same omnipotence that would allow God to part the Red Sea, stop the sun in the sky, shake the earth, obliterate cities, turn back armies, bring springs to life, and deliver his people is the same power required to perform the most stunning of all miracles: to raise from the dead.  

Christ is the Meaning

Finding Christ in the Old Testament happens the same way we develop a testimony of Christ in the first place. Nephi tells us that a key to understanding Isaiah, for example, is the “spirit of prophecy”—that is, the “testimony of Jesus” obtained by revelation. If we encounter Christ’s character in the course of our study, we have found him in the text. Peter, who recognized Christ as the promised Messiah, told Jesus, “Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God,” not because it was a logical imperative in scripture, but because our “Father which is in heaven” had “revealed it unto [him].” The Lord’s counsel for studying the Apocrypha also applies to the Old Testament: “whoso is enlightened by the Spirit shall obtain benefit therefrom; And whoso receiveth not by the Spirit, cannot be benefited.” 

Christ is indeed “in all things, and is through all things, and is round about all things.” Like the first-century Jews who needed the Spirit to understand Christ in their scripture, we, too, can seek the Spirit’s help in unveiling Christ in every part of our lives, however hidden He may seem. As we search the scriptures and apply “our hearts to understanding,” we can come to see what Jesus taught His apostles: that the Old Testament scriptures “are they which testify of me.”

As Christ “yielded up the ghost” on Calvary, “the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom,” a symbol of overcoming the barriers to God’s presence under the old covenant. As the Book of Hebrews teaches, we can now “enter into the holiest by the blood of Jesus . . . through the veil, that is to say, his flesh.” Just as the veil in the temple symbolized Christ’s broken body, the veil of the Old Testament is also rent by Christ Himself through revelation. 

Perhaps we can now better understand, with the scarcity of explicit references to Christ’s suffering, death, and resurrection, how confused Christ’s disciples must have been immediately after his death. For those on the road to Emmaus, this confusion was dispelled when Jesus, “beginning at Moses and all the prophets . . . expounded unto them in all the scriptures the things concerning himself,” and why he “ought . . . to have suffered these things, and to enter into his glory.” He was the veiled meaning all along.

The post Unveiling Christ this Easter appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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It is often easier to speak about the parts of life that unfold as we hoped. I could talk all day, every day about the many good things that have come to my life since my wife and I were married. But it can be difficult and awkward to talk about the things that go wrong. Although I love talking about my marriage, it is much more difficult for me to talk about another major life event—when I returned home early from my missionary service for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints after seven months. Speaking about my early return and everything associated with it just does not come easily. That difficulty comes largely from within: at some point, I came to see returning home early as a personal failure—something that should not have happened—and that belief made the subject unusually difficult to discuss.

But what if we took a different perspective? We often talk about all the wonderful personal growth that full-term returned missionaries had while serving, but why should growth that early-returned missionaries go through after they return be any different? Of course, not all outcomes are going to be positive. Coming home early from a mission is a very challenging experience that can set a soul on a catapulting track toward self-discovery and growth. As an early returner, and now as a Ph.D. student in psychology, I was able to get funding to do a study on what causes early returned missionaries to get on that track of growth. 

My Early Return and How It Led Me to This Study

Before turning to the study itself, some personal context may be helpful. These “positive outcomes” may not show up immediately, nor do I think it’s fair to expect oneself or a loved one to cope with such a dramatic life event so easily. In one of my favorite articles, “Bereavement: An Incomplete Rite of Passage,” the author explains that someone may never entirely “get over” the loss of a loved one — they may learn to generally deal with the loss, but their perception of the experience continually shifts and evolves. I feel the same way about my early mission return. When I came back, I was almost numb. A month later, I was feigning happiness. Two months later, I was questioning my faith. Three months later, I began searching for any identity other than “early-returned missionary” that I could affix to myself, yet each “identity” I attempted to develop was more fragile than the last. My grades at Brigham Young University also suffered.

There was only one other existing academic study on early-returned missionaries. I decided to follow its lead in interviewing each person in depth rather than using survey data. Although this process limited the number of people I could involve in the study, other studies on the use of interviews for niche topics find that researchers tend to reach a sufficient sample level at about 12 interviews. The prior study I mentioned included 12 early-returned male missionaries and had questions on mission experiences, early returns, and post-mission adjustment. I wanted to expand upon this research by including women and spending more time speaking about the identity development participants had gone through since their early return and their perceptions of their future. I also remained open to other salient themes that emerged from interviews. So, I recruited 20 early-returned missionaries to participate in this in-depth study — 9 men and 11 women. I would like to stress that this was a highly emotional experience for most people, and I was extremely grateful for the opportunity to interview such wonderful people about their experiences.

Identity transformation

First, every person mentioned feeling an identity transformation in some way. One participant shared:

Honestly, I think coming home from my mission is a really big thing. It really defined who I am as a person and my understanding of church member[s], because before I thought a church member had to be someone [who] grew up in the Church, that served a mission … things like that. Then I [understood] that a church member is someone that just tries their best to be a disciple of Jesus Christ. And so that really [helped] me shape and understand the members of the Church in a broader sense and not just the typical Utah stereotypes. So, I think coming home from my mission definitely helped with that.

This sentiment resonated strongly with my own experience. Even as a missionary, I had felt that coming home early would be a condemnation for the rest of my life, rendering me always some degree of broken in church settings. Only after going through this process did I realize that it truly is impossible for anyone other than Christ to live a fully “perfect” life, and that joy comes in embracing my imperfections and Christ’s role in my redemption.

Hope for the future

Another finding was that 19 of the 20 participants mentioned an optimistic view of how their futures would develop, given their experiences as early-returned missionaries. Another participant shared:

It’s interesting because I feel less … fearful for the future because I’m like, I already have had something that has literally broken me down to lower than I thought I could be at, and I came out of it. So, it kind of gives me more confidence that whatever comes, I know I’ve been through the process before of only having God to rely on.

Personally, I feel the same way — I know that I can do all things through Christ because I have already been at my lowest, and He has lifted me up again.

Peacemaking and reconciliation

A third commonality, shown in 19 of 20 interviews, was that of peacemaking or some form of reconciliation. One early-returned missionary wrote the following in her journal while on the plane home from her mission, “My Heavenly Father is so wise in giving me an experience like this. It forces me to actually fully trust in Him, which I do. This is one of the first experiences in my life that I can’t fully plan out first.”

This was one of my favorite responses. Having a framework of trusting in God built from strongly needing to do so earlier in life can be so beneficial to one’s future. I’m aware that challenges lie in the future, both for me and this early-returned missionary, but trusting in God first above all else has provided a foundation for all of my decisions that will always yield the best outcome — even if I can’t always see it right then.

Empathy

Despite increased empathy for others not being directly referenced on the list of interview questions, the topic came up in 16 of the 20 interviews. One person said, “Had I not seen myself [at] such a low point in my life, then I wouldn’t be able to reach out to others in a similar state.”

This finding in particular is something I would love to explore deeper in future research. How amazing is it that our imperfections and difficult experiences can actually lead us to become more like Christ? Before my early return, I was of the mindset that early-returned missionaries could generally have stayed out if they had just tried harder. Only after returning early despite having given every ounce of dedication and effort to the Lord did I realize that I’d had it all wrong: I feel for people who are in similarly devastating circumstances. I wish I’d had that quality beforehand, but the empathy I developed is one of my most prized possessions, and I thank God for giving it to me.

Faith

A majority (14 out of 20) specifically mentioned having stronger faith in God or religion as a result of their early return during their interviews, while 4 specifically mentioned having weaker faith as a result of their early return. This strong majority of increased faith is encouraging. One person referring to their early return said:

Because of that, the steps I took afterward, it made me read the scriptures harder than I’ve ever read in my life, and it’s made me love just light, seeing people’s light, and the light of Christ in them. I feel like I’m able to see it so easily and I appreciate it so much because I’ve seen the darkness.

Faith is a lifelong journey, and mine has grown as I’ve appreciated the outcomes of my difficulties more and more. It really is amazing to see others appreciate the goodness of Christ even more after having some experience with darkness.

Perceptual change over time

A final theme referenced by the majority of interviewees (12 of 20) was that of perceptual change. One interviewee said, “I guess with more time that passes, I see it in a different way… So, I think it’ll always be in the back of my mind, or it’ll always be something I reference, just because it was very, very starkly different from any other experience I have in my life.”

It is hard to run away from such a formative experience, and I don’t believe it’s best to act like it didn’t happen. As with all difficulties in life, we tend to see our challenges differently with time, as we learn more about God’s love for us as individuals.

What Many Early-Returned Missionaries Still Need

There were more themes that came from these interviews, some of which included negative experiences, but those tended to be highly individual. What did seem to be uniform throughout the interviews was that these people wanted someone to talk to about their experience, but often didn’t feel that they could. One interviewee said that he didn’t have a single person to talk about his early return with — no member of his family would entertain the topic, and he didn’t feel like he could bring it up to his friends. The sense of loneliness this young man exuded was palpable.

Those close to early-returned missionaries can offer an invaluable gift: patient love and a willingness to listen without judgment. Early returners are changing and actively growing, just like you are. We have come a long way as a church community in normalizing the idea that those who might deviate from the normative experience are fully worthy of love and support, but I believe we can be even better, and in attempting to do so, can more fully serve as Christ would.

The post When a Mission Ends Early appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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There’s a kind of disappointment that doesn’t arrive as tragedy. It arrives as delay: the diagnosis that lingers, the job search that won’t resolve, the prayer that feels like it hits a ceiling. You keep doing the next right thing—and nothing budges.

“Are you having a 3½ Moment?” It sounds baffling—until you are in one.

A 3½ Moment is my name for a familiar stretch of discipleship when life feels stalled: you’re doing what you know is right, but the relief doesn’t come. The problem lingers, and hope starts to feel naïve. 

In scripture, God often teaches through symbols. As Elder Orson F. Whitney, an early apostle in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, observed, “God teaches with symbols; it is his favorite method of teaching.” 

One of the Bible’s most familiar symbols is 7—wholeness and completion. But a lesser-known number appears in stories of drought, scattering, and delayed rescue: 3½, half of seven. It often functions as a literary signal that deliverance is delayed—but the delay has a limit. Here’s what that pattern can teach us about our hardest chapters, and four ways to keep faith until God brings your “7.”

Seven: Scripture’s Symbol of Completion

The Bible trains us to notice the symbol 7. God created the heavens and earth in six days, and “he rested on the seventh day” (Genesis 2:2). The number 7 appears throughout the Bible as one of the most common symbols in scripture.

In scripture, the number 7 often refers to wholeness, completion, and perfection. The symbol 7 teaches us to trust that God’s promises will be fulfilled. It also reminds us to obey to completion. Naaman’s story makes the point almost painfully: the sixth dip looks indistinguishable from the seventh. Partial obedience can look reasonable—until the miracle arrives one step later. Joshua’s armies would have suffered complete defeat had they circled Jericho for six days before battle. Seven often appears as a symbol for completing a work.

Three and a Half: When Deliverance is Delayed

In Daniel and Revelation, we see these 3½ measures show up in apocalyptic settings—visions of oppression, exile, and persecution. They mark a period that is real and painful, but also limited: evil is permitted a season, then God intervenes. That 3½ symbol can also have personal meaning to us as a metaphor for our discipleship—what it feels like to live inside a promised ending that hasn’t arrived yet.

Note that recognizing the symbolic meaning of numbers in scriptures is safe spiritual territory, as opposed to the speculative and tangential work of occult numerology. One caution: apocalyptic numbers are rarely a stopwatch for predicting outcomes, and they aren’t a guarantee that God will resolve a specific hardship on our preferred schedule. Their gift is different: they insist that evil and suffering are not ultimate, and that God sets limits we cannot always see from inside the storm. 

The symbol 3½ is often expressed in different but equivalent forms: 3½ years; 42 months; 1,260 days; “a time, times, and half a time”; or three and a half days. Revelation uses these equivalent measures to describe a bounded period of tribulation for God’s people—long enough to be terrifying, short enough to be survivable because God remains sovereign.

The number 3½ is half of 7. That gives us a clue as to its meaning. Read alongside seven (completion), 3½ can be heard as the ‘incomplete’ half, an unfinished story. The texts are speaking first about communal suffering and divine deliverance; I’m using their repeated timeframe as a devotional lens for individual seasons that feel unfinished.

On a personal level, 3½ reminds us that we live in a fallen world, with seasons of opposition and adversity, which will resolve because of 7. For some, that glorious conclusion may arrive beyond mortality; the certainty of “7” rests in Christ’s Resurrection even when present circumstances do not change. But that promise assures that for even the most stubborn problems of mortality, an amazing conclusion is promised.

When Life Feels Stuck at 3½

Symbolically, 3½ can represent our own hard times and challenges, but it carries the understanding that all things can be perfected and brought to a resolution by Jesus Christ. The symbol 3½ teaches us to have divine hope in the eventual 7, to complete our work of keeping God’s commandments (D&C 11:20) and to joyfully look forward to God completing His work (Moses 1:39).

In hard times, it may feel as though the gospel plan isn’t working for us because we don’t appear to be succeeding in ways that we expect. These are moments when cynicism feels most plausible, and most costly. Many hard times can feel like a 3½ Moment, but a 3½ Moment is not the end of the story. It is only half of seven, a limited period of adversity before divine deliverance. Because 3½ is connected to 7, we have the assurance that our suffering and problems are temporary, as we look to Jesus Christ.

President Russell M. Nelson, the late president of The Church of Jesus Christ, once described the discipline this way: “Our focus must be riveted on the Savior and His gospel. It is mentally rigorous to strive to look unto Him in every thought. But, when we do, our doubts and fears flee.” 

To have its intended meaning, the symbol of 3½ must be connected to the symbol of 7. Similarly, to fulfill its intended purposes, we benefit when we connect our hard times to Jesus Christ.

In my own prayers, I’ve learned to ask for something simpler than an explanation: a sentence I can live on. “I can’t see the end yet. Help me be faithful in the middle. Help me take the next step.”

Wendell’s 3½ Moment

Wendell Jones and I previously served together in a bishopric, a congregation’s leadership. In 2022, Wendell was diagnosed with ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease.

ALS is a progressive neurodegenerative disorder that affects nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord. The disease has taken things from him in stages, but it hasn’t taken his posture toward life.

As he navigates this period, Wendell has a deep knowledge and testimony of the gospel plan that helps him maintain an eternal perspective about his life and his illness.

After his diagnosis, he logged miles on a two-wheeled bike to keep his strength. When that became unsafe, he switched to three wheels. Now he rides in a car—often in the passenger seat—so he can talk while someone else drives. It’s a small parable of discipleship: when one way of moving forward closes, you learn another.

My wife recently asked Wendell, “You are always so happy; how do you do it?” Wendell’s response was direct: “How could I not, when I think of everything that Jesus has done for me?”

Wendell has spent his adult life serving his parents and his large posterity. Now, in this season of life, he humbly allows them to serve him.

What Suffering Makes of Us

Alma 62:41 demonstrates the principle that the same difficulties will result in different outcomes. The Nephites had just finished a decade of war, witnessing and experiencing horrific atrocities. The Book of Mormon records that “because of the exceedingly great length of the war… many had become hardened… [and] many were softened because of their afflictions.” The same set of experiences led to opposite spiritual outcomes. What matters most in life is not the adversity faced, but the response.

There is nothing neutral with adversity. Adversity changes us, for better or worse.

Yet when hard times come, we may think:

• “What have I done to deserve this?”
• “Why is this happening to me, when I’m trying so hard to be good?”
• “Why is this problem lingering so long?”

The book of Alma teaches that “whosoever shall put their trust in God shall be supported in their trials, and their troubles, and their afflictions, and shall be lifted up at the last day” (Alma 36:3).

Expect Friction

How can difficult problems be a catalyst to make us better, not bitter? How can adversity become a 3½ Moment that is a stepping stone toward our 7, which is eternal life? I observed four practices in the example of Wendell, and in my own life. 

Author Dennis Wholey wrote, as shared by President Jeffrey R. Holland, then a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles: “Expecting a trouble-free life because you are a good person is like expecting the bull not to charge you because you are a vegetarian.”

Even Jesus was made “perfect through sufferings” (Hebrews 2:10). Trials are not evidence that the plan is failing; often they are evidence that God’s plan for us is working.

Practice Gratitude Without Denial

I share a principle that has been meaningful to me. I’ve come to think of it as a kind of “eternal unfairness” principle. Each of us will be resurrected and can receive an immortal body, a gift made possible by the Atonement of Christ. We didn’t earn that. 

Jesus Christ bled “from every pore” (Mosiah 3:7; D&C 19:18) and suffered infinitely, so we have the gift of repentance and receive a remission of our sins. We didn’t earn that.

In Latter-day Saint belief, Jesus Christ, through the ordinances provided in temples, blesses us with eternal life and eternal families—an incomprehensible gift made possible as we receive the Atonement of Christ by making and keeping covenants. We didn’t earn that.

In things that matter most, remember: The deck is stacked—not against us, but in our favor! Life is truly “unfair” because of Jesus Christ. Aren’t we so grateful for it?

Let Trust Be Active

Elder Richard G. Scott, then a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, taught, “This life is an experience in profound trust—trust in Jesus Christ, trust in His teachings… To trust means to obey willingly without knowing the end from the beginning.” Trials can help us increase our trust in God: that He “shall consecrate thine afflictions for thy gain” (2 Nephi 2:2), and that “He doeth not anything save it be for the benefit of the world” (2 Nephi 26:24).

Instead of asking, “Why is this happening to me?” we can ask, “Why is this happening for me?” What am I to learn? How can this problem help me increase my faith and trust in Jesus Christ? Nelson taught that we can “receive more faith by doing something that requires more faith.”

Turn Outward

Jesus taught by example that in times of adversity we should look outward and serve others. While on the cross, in His deepest agony and suffering, we see Jesus—astonishingly—arranging for the care of His mother:

“When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple standing by, whom he loved, he saith unto his mother, Woman, behold thy son. Then saith he to the disciple, Behold thy mother” (John 19:26–27).

In times of adversity, our natural inclination is to focus inward. Instead, Jesus invites us to look outward to others, especially when we are experiencing personal challenges. This is a gospel paradox: “He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it” (Matthew 10:39). Elder David A. Bednar, also an apostle in The Church of Jesus Christ, taught, “Character is demonstrated by looking and reaching outward when the natural and instinctive response is to be self-absorbed and turn inward.”

When those inevitable hard times come, we have a choice: we can be frustrated, grit our teeth, and suffer through it. Or we can see this problem that we would never choose as an opportunity. Your 3½ Moment does not define you, but it can refine you. Healing will come. All problems can be temporary on an eternal scale, as we strive to follow Jesus Christ. When you are in that 3½ Moment, remember: 7 is coming.

The post Your Hardest Season Might Be Exactly Half a Miracle appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

Like—spiritual felt clean. No committees. No awkward handshakes. No side-eyes. No church drama. Just me, God, a little sunrise, maybe some music that makes your chest feel bigger than your problems. And if I’m being honest, that idea appealed to me for a reason: I learned early how to survive people, not trust them. I learned the value of a guarded heart. I could talk smooth, move careful, keep my circle tight. And when you’ve been burned enough times, anything that says “you don’t need anybody” starts sounding like freedom.

So yeah. Spirituality can seem better because it doesn’t require anyone but yourself.

It’s you and your thoughts. You and your intentions. You and your version of God—custom fit, no annoying humans included. Nothing messy. Nothing disappointing. Nothing to suggest anything is short of perfect. No one to hurt you. No one to do the unforgivable. 

But let me say this plain: religion is people. 

The difference between organized religion and spirituality is people. 

Saying we don’t agree with organized religion, but believe in a higher power, feels safe because it can never disappoint us. It suggests that our standards are too good, too pure to associate with the disaster of other people trying to connect with God. 

That part used to offend me, because I wanted my faith to feel pristine. I wanted God without the mess. I wanted the mountaintop without the climb. I wanted “the Spirit” without Sister So-and-So being petty, without Brother What’s-His-Name talking like he’s the CEO of righteousness, without somebody acting like their calling gives them the right to treat people like furniture. And I don’t want to undersell the problems of people. They aren’t just delightfully messy in a cute way you could still show on your Insta. This is pride, racism, abuse. Being around these people caused me real wounds. 

I wanted a relationship with God that didn’t come with… humans and the pain they cause.

But spirituality without others—if we’re keeping it all the way real—can turn kind of pointless.

Not because your inner life doesn’t matter. It matters. Deeply. Your private prayers, your healing, your introspection, the quiet work nobody claps for—that’s sacred.

Who cares if something feels pristine and perfect in your own brain if it never becomes love in the real world?

Because God—at least the God I’m trying to know—doesn’t just show up in the perfect parts of me. He pulls up in the spaces between people. In the friction. In the gap between your intentions and somebody else’s misunderstanding. In the moment you want to clap back but you choose peace. In the moment you could hate somebody, but you don’t. In the moment you could walk away, but you stay and you try again.

God often appears in the spaces made between people’s imperfections.

That’s why that scripture hits so hard. It’s basically a spiritual gut-check: “Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar. For whoever does not love their brother and sister, whom they have seen, cannot love God, whom they have not seen.”

People quote that like it’s a description—like, “Oh, if you don’t love everybody perfectly, you must not love God.” And that’s not how I hear it anymore. I hear it as a challenge. A mirror. A direction.

Because it’s so easy to love abstractions.

I can love “humanity.” I can love “the world.” I can love “people” in general. I can love “community” as a concept. I can love “God” in a poetic way—big, cosmic, clean, untouchable.

But loving real, flawed people? 

People who are rude. People who ignore you and judge you. People who switch up when they get a little authority. People who act holy but move sweaty. People who talk about grace and show none. People who are needy. People who are loud. People who are insecure and make you pay for it. People who remind you of the stuff you’re trying to outgrow. 

That’s where the work is.

So what the verse is saying—at least how it lands in me—is this: you can’t really claim love for God while refusing love for God’s kids. Not because God needs you to be fake-nice, but because love has to become practical or it’s just poetry.

If your love never leaves your mouth or your journal and touches another person’s life, it’s not love yet. It’s rehearsal.

And that’s why I respect the bluntness of Mosiah 2:17. It doesn’t romanticize it. It doesn’t leave it vague. It just puts it on the ground where we actually live: “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.”

That’s the whole thing. You want to love God? Love the people around you. It’s easy to love the thing you can’t see. But it’s not real, it’s not authentic, until you’re doing the work of loving the people you can.

And yes, it’s hard.

Not “hard” like a puzzle. Hard like weights. Hard like rehab. Hard like unlearning. Hard like swallowing your pride. Hard like choosing not to become the same kind of person who hurt you. Hard like doing kindness while your feelings are still catching up.

Because community will show you who you are.

Spirituality alone can let you curate yourself. Religion—with actual people—will expose you. It will bring out your impatience. Your need to be right. Your craving for recognition. Your tendency to withdraw. Your tendency to control. Your fear of being seen. Your old temper that’s “under control” until somebody disrespects you in a meeting. Your old mouth that’s “sanctified” until someone says something absolutely out of line. 

I’m saying this as someone who’s cleaned up a lot of my worst tendencies, but I still know exactly where they live. I know what version of me shows up when I feel dismissed. I know what version of me shows up when somebody tries to son me. I know what version of me shows up when I’m tired, underappreciated, and surrounded by people acting like their imperfections don’t stink.

And here’s the thing: the goal of religion was never to provide me a perfect experience.

Religion is not a luxury spa for the soul.

It’s a workshop.

It’s a space where God takes a bunch of broken, brilliant, annoying, beautiful humans and says, “Okay. Now learn to be family.”

That’s why the vision of “Zion” matters so much. Zion isn’t just a vibe. It’s not just “good energy.” Zion is a community reality—people becoming one, not by pretending they’re perfect, but by practicing love until it’s real. It’s the long, stubborn project of building a place where God can dwell because the people are learning to dwell together.

And you can’t build Zion alone.

Even if you’re the most spiritually advanced person on your block, you can’t build a community by yourself. You can’t practice “one another” in a mirror. You can’t “bear burdens” when you refuse to be burdened with people. You can’t learn forgiveness without somebody needing it from you. You can’t become gentle without having to handle sharp edges—yours and theirs.

So yeah, I get why folks bounce from religion to spirituality. I get why they say, “It’s just me and God.” I get why you think you’re too good, too pure, too smart for “organized religion.” Because people are exhausting. Church hurt is real. Hypocrisy is loud. Control shows up wearing a tie. Judgment can hide behind scripture. 

But I am here to say: don’t confuse the mess of people with the absence of God.

Sometimes, the mess is exactly where God is working.

Sometimes the whole point is that you learn to find Him there—inside the awkward conversations, the forgiveness you didn’t want to offer, the apology you didn’t want to make, the patience you didn’t think you had, the service you did quietly, the love you gave when you didn’t get love back.

Because anybody can love God when God stays an idea.

The question is: can you love God when God shows up as the person who annoys you? Or who disrespects the culture? Or who doesn’t know the norms? Or who wants you to stay in your place? 

That’s the challenge. Not a condemnation—an invitation.

And love does require contact with reality.

It requires other faces, other stories, other tempers, other needs.

It requires a “we.”

That’s what religion gives you—when it’s doing what it’s supposed to do. Not perfection. Practice. Not a flawless room. A refining fire.

And I’m starting to believe this: God doesn’t just save individuals. He builds a people.

So when I’m tempted to choose the clean version of faith—the version where it’s just me, my thoughts, my private peace—I try to remember: that’s not the whole assignment.

The whole assignment is to pursue God in the middle of the trouble.

In the middle of the awkward small talk.
In the middle of the misunderstood moments.
In the middle of the personalities.
In the middle of the inconvenient needs.
In the middle of my own ego getting exposed.

Because that’s where love becomes more than a concept.

That’s where spirituality becomes flesh and bone.

That’s where God—often quiet, often humble—shows up in the space between our imperfections and teaches us to call it holy.

The post The Problem With “Just Me and God” appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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Attack dog. Enforcer. Culture warrior. These labels and more have been used to describe Elder Clark G. Gilbert, newly called apostle of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He has also been described as a “high-profile defender of doctrinal orthodoxy” and a proponent of “retrenchment.”

What’s all the fuss about? As Commissioner of Church Education, Elder Gilbert is accused of instituting a variety of measures to ensure that professors at BYU support the doctrine of the Church that pays their salaries—specifically on issues related to marriage, family, and gender. According to some, these measures have ushered in a culture of fear among faculty who have reservations about Church doctrine or policy. Other concerns have been mentioned, but this seems to be the heart of the issue.

Before I say a few words in defense of Elder Gilbert, I want to take a moment and recognize the difficult space that many Latter-day Saint scholars inhabit. The Church’s views on family, sexuality, and gender are (to put it gently) not popular in academia. Despite stated aspirations to diversity and inclusivity, there isn’t much room in academia for researchers who vocally promote the Church’s positions on family life. I have seen this first-hand in my nearly two decades in academic life. Those who support marriage as the union of a man and a woman and claim that sexual relations should only happen in such marriages are castigated as out of touch, prudish, ignorant, hateful, and bigoted. It’s hard to get along in your profession when your colleagues view you as little better than a racist.

There are intellectual resources to defend the Church’s positions on these matters (more on this below), but the opposition to such arguments is so loud, so confident, and so strident that often it’s easier to just keep quiet. Latter-day Saint scholars are generally trained in the same graduate programs, go to the same academic conferences, and are under the same pressure to publish in top journals as scholars who don’t belong to the Church. It’s hard to not imbibe the norms, expectations, assumptions, and conclusions of the culture, including revisionist views about gender, sexuality, and family. The implicit and explicit pressure to fall in line with the prevailing orthodoxy can be suffocating. Even Latter-day Saint scholars who want to resist the prevailing academic culture on these issues can feel bewildered about how to do so. 

In an environment where so much of your professional success is influenced or determined by people who are hostile to the Church’s views, I can see why many people would feel concerned about Elder Gilbert’s efforts to align the faculty with the doctrine of the Church.

At the same time, I, like many other faculty and students, choose to study at BYU precisely because of its doctrine. I want to be at a university where I can “seek learning, by study and also by faith” (D&C 88:118). As Elder Gilbert has emphasized many times, institutional drift in academia is real, and many universities that start with religious aspirations end up abandoning them later. It’s tempting to say that this is the standard arc for religious universities in the United States. Believing that BYU’s distinctive religious heritage can be maintained without intentional efforts to preserve it is naive.

But perhaps it is not possible to run a quality university that is committed to religious beliefs? Indeed, many of the criticisms of Elder Gilbert presuppose that it is inherently wrong to try to get professors to align with Church teachings. The critique takes two forms: first, that any attempt to align (or more darkly, “impose”) views about any topic at a university is wrong; and second, that it is wrong for BYU to expect faculty to support the Church’s doctrine on marriage, family, and gender.

The first view is widespread but breaks down upon inspection. As I have explained in detail, it is neither possible nor desirable for a university to be completely devoid of commitments. Without well-known and agreed-upon standards, university life would descend into a cacophony of competing claims, none of which could be evaluated as better than any of the others. The scholarly practice of peer review presupposes that practitioners in the discipline know what counts as “legitimate” scholarship and can reject submissions that do not meet disciplinary standards. (A more blatant example of institutional gatekeeping would be difficult to imagine.) As I wrote in the previously mentioned article,

The point of academic study is to produce knowledge. This search is a winnowing process, as academic ‘disciplines’ (note the word) seek to separate the wheat of truth from the chaff of unsupported opinion and bias. Good scholars are committed to getting it right, which presupposes that truth is real and knowledge is possible, which in turn is premised on a host of philosophical and other presuppositions. Academic freedom cannot mean the freedom to be supported in whatever one believes; rather, it is the freedom to seek truth, which means being accountable to reality.

It may come as a surprise to some readers, but some people actually want to go to a university that includes religious beliefs among its commitments (see Elder Gilbert’s recent article on this in The Chronicle of Higher Education). A recent essay by prominent Catholic sociologist Christian Smith explains that he chose to teach and research at Notre Dame because he wanted more direct engagement with the Catholic intellectual tradition. But after 20 years at Notre Dame, Smith decided to leave because (in his view) the university was not living up to its potential. He writes: “When I came to Notre Dame, I believed the university was serious about its Catholic mission. I tried to make my contribution, I think with some success. But I also saw much of the institution absorbed by other interests that, in my view, were often irrelevant to or at odds with the Catholic mission.” I don’t have enough information to know if he is right about Notre Dame, but many people want something other than the standard secular university experience. In general, the world is enriched, not diminished, by religious universities that pursue truth in a distinctive way.

To be clear, as Commissioner of Church Education, Elder Gilbert wasn’t some rogue actor trying to sneak something past Church headquarters. The family proclamation may be controversial in some quarters, but it is firmly established as Church doctrine. It would be hard to make this point more emphatically than President Dallin H. Oaks recently did: “Those who do not fully understand the Father’s loving plan for His children may consider this family proclamation no more than a changeable statement of policy. In contrast, we affirm that the family proclamation, founded on irrevocable doctrine, defines the mortal family relationship where the most important part of our eternal development can occur.”

Some critics might be concerned that Elder Gilbert’s efforts to align the faculty with the Church’s teachings diminish academic freedom. In my view, this gets it exactly wrong. There are hundreds of universities in the United States where revisionist scholarship about marriage, family, and gender is welcome and rewarded. The orthodoxy on these issues is clear and intolerant. There is a much smaller number of universities where one can pursue scholarship that is aligned with the family proclamation. If BYU became just like other universities, there would be less academic freedom than there currently is. (Attentive readers will realize that I’m using “academic freedom” in two senses here, individual and institutional, both of which are explained in detail in BYU’s Academic Freedom Policy.)

Though debates over marriage, sexuality, and gender are often framed as conflicts between “rigid defenders of orthodoxy” and proponents of love and authenticity, the reality is not so simple. At the heart of these conflicts are deep disagreements over personal identity, sexual morality, the meaning of human life, and the common good. There are many resources available to Latter-day Saints and others to think through these issues carefully. In my view, these are not issues on which one has to “blindly accept” Church teachings; the assumptions that lead to revisionist conclusions about marriage, gender, and sexuality are highly contestable.

Which brings us back to the idea of Elder Gilbert as a “culture warrior” or an “attack dog.” It’s strange that people on only one side of these controversies get called names like this—even when the university in question is clearly owned and operated by the Church. As my former teacher Robert P. George writes in a related context, “There is a culture war, alright, but supporters of the sanctity of human life and the conjugal conception of marriage are not the aggressors in it. It was people on the other side–those who reject sanctity of life principles and the idea of marriage as a conjugal union–who wanted to change longstanding legal and cultural norms.” In my view, Elder Gilbert took reasonable steps to ensure that BYU students get the education that is advertised in the BYU mission and aims, and I’m grateful for his efforts.

In a recent interview, Elder Gilbert recounts an important conversation he had with President Holland. Both the mandate from President Holland and his ultimate hope for BYU seem like a good way to conclude: 

I remember I was talking to President Holland, and he was bemoaning that he could feel this drift happening to the university. And he’s like, ‘What have they done with our school that we love so much?’ And I felt awkward. I wasn’t even the commissioner yet. And I felt like I needed to defend them. And I said, ‘Well, President Holland, you know, we have the honor code, we have devotionals, we have religion classes, we have the academic freedom policy.’ And I said, ‘They’re like bumper lanes protecting us from bowling into the gutter.’ And he didn’t even let me finish. And he said, ‘That’s very different than bowling for a strike.’ And he said, ‘We need to bowl for a strike at BYU.’

The post Bowling for a Strike at BYU and Beyond appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

Humility is not humiliation; it’s the start to something better.

What “The Day Of The Ashes” Meant

In the early medieval West the name dies cinerum—“day of ashes”—appears in the Roman books; by the later first millennium, marking the head with ash had become the way common Christians entered Lent. In 1091, Pope Urban II extended the custom at Benevento; soon liturgical books called the day Feria Quarta Cinerum (Ash Wednesday). The words were simple, the meaning older than Christendom: repentance and mortality, echoing Genesis 3:19.

The gesture sprang from Scripture’s grammar of contrition—Daniel turning “with fasting, and sackcloth, and ashes” (Daniel 9:3), Job repenting “in dust and ashes” (Job 42:6), Nineveh in sackcloth (Jonah 3). Dust was catechesis.

The Restoration’s Witness: Dust, Nothingness, Promise

If medieval Christians called us dust, Restoration scripture continues the theme—and then refuses to leave us there. King Benjamin commands disciples to “remember… the greatness of God, and your own nothingness” so they can learn to “always retain in remembrance” His goodness (Mosiah 4:11–12). Alma is blunter: “I know that I am nothing; as to my strength I am weak” (Alma 26:12). And Helaman’s lament is bracing: “How great is the nothingness of the children of men; yea, even they are less than the dust of the earth” (Helaman 12:7–8).

This is not self‑loathing; it is spiritual realism. Dust is teachable. “If men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness,” the Lord says—not to crush, but to make “weak things become strong” (Ether 12:27). 

The Orthodox Beginning: Clean Monday

Eastern Christians start Great Lent on Clean Monday, a different tradition to enter the same period of the year. It is the first step of fasting, confession, and household “cleansing”—a positive, springlike beginning that pairs sobriety with joy. The day frames repentance not as dour exhibition but as purification, a clearing to make room for grace.

While these traditions have developed different practices, they both intuitively understand that to begin the season that ends with the glorious resurrection, we should start with humility. 

A Latter‑day Saint On‑Ramp To Easter

Modern life trains us to curate an image of greatness. The Book of Mormon’s anthropology is corrective: remember God’s greatness and our dependence, and remember covenant possibility (Mosiah 4:11–12). Moses felt it—“man is nothing”—and then saw God’s work unfold through him (Moses 1:10, 39). In other words, recognizing our nothingness is not an insult; it’s permission to be redeemed. And refusing to recognize it can prevent our redemption.

Members of The Church of Jesus Christ celebrate Easter with worship and witness but have not historically observed Ash Wednesday or Lent as formal religious seasons. 

As we seek to apply Elder Stevenson’s counsel, we don’t need to import another church’s liturgical calendar, but we would be wise to recognize the accumulated wisdom in the way they’ve chosen to celebrate the season. 

So how might Latter‑day Saint families launch an Easter season, starting from the ground, in humility?

Choose a starting day. You might key it to the first Monday several weeks before Easter (a nod to “clean” beginnings) or to a family fast day. Mark the start in family council: “Today we begin our walk to Easter.” Small, simple, said out loud.

Name the truth. Read together Moses 1:10; Mosiah 4:11; Helaman 12:7–8. Let each person finish the sentence: “Because I am dust, I will…” (serve, forgive, listen). Keep it under five minutes; keep it tender.

Consider the Metaphor. Perhaps the timing of planting in much of the northern hemisphere can give you or your family a reason to get into the dirt and dust. This could allow you to connect to the lowliness metaphor in a unique way.

Fast to make room. Perhaps make a special effort to fast on the first Sunday in March, or add an additional fast on the Sunday before or after the traditional Ash Wendesday day as a way of starting the season in humility. 

Prime the house. Borrow a line from Clean Monday: do some literal cleaning, donate gently used items, and clear a shelf for an “Easter table.” If you’re going to do spring cleaning anyway, why not find a way to connect it to the start of an Easter spiritual celebration?

Read the story. Last year, Public Square Magazine published “40 Days to Easter,” a set of readings that covered the life of Jesus Christ. This calendar or similar scripture reading traditions can begin as part of a countdown to Easter. 

We are in an exciting season. Medieval Christians were 600 years into their tradition before Ash Wednesday began to develop. Latter-day Saints are still shy of 200, and so we are purposefully considering ways to expand our traditions and point our lives toward Jesus Christ. As we consider how to celebrate the season, we should be thoughtful about what our unique faith brings, and continue to remain in conversation with our fellow Christians and the ways they have found to celebrate.

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Never before have knowledge and information been so accessible, and yet harmful. Like a flash flood, information, opinions, and facts have breached boundaries once built to maintain order and safety. Just as water can be both life-saving and life-threatening, the flood of information now inundating us can either save or destroy our souls. 

In his first public address at Brigham Young University (BYU) as President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, President Dallin H. Oaks commented on this rising threat and on the “abundance of speculation and false information in podcasts and on social media.” He reemphasized the necessity of the Holy Ghost in discerning truth, adding soberly: “You live in a season where the adversary has become so effective at disguising truth that if you don’t have the Holy Ghost, you will be deceived.” 

Yet this deception is not new. It has been employed from the very beginning by Satan, “that being who beguiled our first parents, who transformeth himself nigh unto an angel of light.” In the Garden of Eden, Satan disguised his true identity and convinced Eve to partake of the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, in violation of God’s commands. We know from modern prophets and scriptures that the Fall was ultimately part of God’s plan. It ushered in mortality, the ability to have children, and enabled Adam and Eve to progress and become like God. Oaks even taught that we should “celebrate Eve’s act and honor her wisdom and courage.” 

So what was the problem? The problem was the messenger: Satan offered what he did not have the authority to give, obscured its consequences, and enticed Eve to disobey God. Gratefully, God’s plan cannot be frustrated, even by Satan’s most cunning deception, and God provided a way forward in Christ. But Adam and Eve never forgot the sobering lesson they learned: by following an unauthorized messenger, they almost lost everything.

Learning from their mistakes, Adam and Eve were determined to listen only to true messengers from God once they arrived in the lone and dreary world. But how could they know who was a messenger from God and who wasn’t, especially knowing that Satan can disguise himself? Ironically, by giving Eve the fruit of knowledge of good and evil, Satan gave Eve power to detect him. Further, the temple teaches that God also provided Adam and Eve with certain means, which Satan cannot imitate, to identify true messengers so that Adam and Eve could know of a surety who was an authorized messenger from God and who was not. 

It also does not feel coincidental that Section 129 of the Doctrine and Covenants immediately follows this account with instructions on how to detect ministering angels, or authorized messengers, from false spirits, revealing the “grand keys whereby you may know whether any administration is from God.”

The Apostle John taught early Christians to “believe not every spirit, but try the spirits whether they are of God: because many false prophets are gone out into the world.” But how do we “try the spirits” to know whether they are of God? John tells us: “We”—meaning the apostles—“are of God: he that knoweth God heareth us; he that is not of God heareth not us. Hereby know we the spirit of truth, and the spirit of error.”

We are blessed to live in a day when ordained prophets and apostles serve as authorized servants of God. They are called of God, and although they are not perfect, we can trust them. Jesus Christ Himself admonished as much when He came to the Americas, called twelve servants, and then declared, “Blessed are ye if ye shall give heed unto the words of these twelve whom I have chosen from among you to minister unto you, and to be your servants; and unto them I have given power …” 

The scriptures, likewise, are filled with the words and teachings of past authorized messengers. They are a powerful, authorized source of truth. Elder Richard G. Scott taught that, “Because scriptures are generated from inspired communication through the Holy Ghost, they are pure truth. We need not be concerned about the validity of concepts contained in the scriptures.” President Ezra Taft Benson further testified, “The scriptures are the key to holding on to that iron rod. If we want to taste for ourselves the pure love of God, we must learn to cling to the power that is our scriptures. … The Book of Mormon is the instrument God designed to bring us to Christ.”

Before Christ’s death, He prepared His apostles for His separation from them by explaining that He would give them “the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost, whom the Father will send in my name.” Thus, the Holy Ghost is an authorized messenger of God. Christ taught His apostles that they can trust the Holy Ghost because He will “guide [them] into all truth” for “he shall not speak of himself; but whatsoever he shall hear [from the Lord], that shall he speak.” This is an essential qualifier of authorized messengers. They do not speak for themselves–only what God gives them. 

In Oaks’ recent remarks at BYU, he reemphasized the need for the Holy Ghost, quoting the prophetic warning of his predecessor President Russel M. Nelson, that “In coming days, it will not be possible to survive spiritually without the guiding, directing, comforting, and constant influence of the Holy Ghost.” 

From the Garden of Eden to the Dispensation of the Fulness of Times, Satan seeks to deceive and frustrate God’s plan. And while Satan’s tactics are becoming more sophisticated, the solution to deception is the same as the one God first gave to Adam and Eve: learn how to recognize and follow authorized messengers. 

The temple narrative clearly shows that one of the primary struggles of living in a fallen world, separated from God, is discerning whom to follow. If we consider ourselves like Adam and Eve, we must be as vigilant as they were in distinguishing between authorized messengers from God and unauthorized ones. 

I find it significant that multiple times a year, during General Conference and in local Stake and Ward Conferences, God declares who His authorized messengers are. Their names are read publicly. Nothing is done in secret. And we are given the opportunity to either sustain or oppose them. God makes it very clear who we should follow and accept as reliable sources of truth. (D&C 43:2-7; D&C 28:12-13.)

So, while deception abounds in our AI age and the deluge of information drowns many, the Lord has continued his pattern of sending authorized messengers to teach His children truth. Satan continues his efforts to deceive, but prophets and the Holy Ghost are authorized messengers, and we, like Adam and Eve, must be vigilant in hearing their voices above others. Jesus Christ again said it best in Doctrine and Covenants 1: 

Wherefore, I the Lord, knowing the calamity which should come upon the inhabitants of the earth, called upon my servant Joseph Smith, Jun., and spake unto him from heaven, and gave him commandments … And also gave commandments to others, that they should proclaim these things unto the world … that man should not counsel his fellow man, neither trust in the arm of flesh … But that every man might speak in the name of God the Lord, even the Savior of the world … What I the Lord have spoken, I have spoken, and I excuse not myself … whether by mine own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same. For behold, and lo, the Lord is God, and the Spirit beareth record, and the record is true, and the truth abideth forever and ever. Amen.

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Elder Clark G. Gilbert was announced Thursday, February 12, 2026, as the newest member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. His call fills the vacancy that followed the passing of President Jeffrey R. Holland, who died December 27 at age 85. 

Years before today’s announcement, Elder Gilbert sat in a devotional hall in Lima, Peru, surrounded by first‑generation university students enrolled through BYU–Pathway Worldwide. A visiting General Authority, Elder Carlos A. Godoy, looked over the room and urged those students to “involve the Lord in this process” of lifting their lives through education and discipleship. In a general conference address, Elder Gilbert later used that scene—and his now‑familiar “parable of the slope”—to teach that in the Lord’s calculus, our eternal trajectory matters more than our starting point: “In the Lord’s timing, it is not where we start but where we are headed that matters most.” That anecdote captures his blend of faith, data‑driven pragmatism and pastoral concern that has marked his ministry. 

Born in Oakland, California, in 1970 and raised in Arizona, Clark G. Gilbert served a mission in the Japan Kobe Mission before graduating in international relations from Brigham Young University. He earned a master’s in East Asian studies from Stanford University and a doctorate in business administration from Harvard Business School, where he later joined the faculty in entrepreneurial management. He and his wife, Christine C. Gilbert (née Calder), are the parents of eight children. 

After returning to Church education in the mid‑2000s, Gilbert became associate academic vice president at BYU–Idaho, working on online learning and what would become the Pathway program. In 2009 he was appointed to lead Deseret Digital Media and soon after the Deseret News, where he orchestrated a widely watched digital transformation that separated fast‑growing digital operations from legacy print, refocused editorial priorities, and drew national notice from media analysts. 

The Church’s Board of Trustees named him the 16th president of BYU–Idaho in 2015. Two years later, in February 2017, the First Presidency announced BYU–Pathway Worldwide, a new global higher‑education organization for the Church; Gilbert was appointed its first president. In April 2021 he was sustained as a General Authority Seventy and that August began service as Commissioner of the Church Educational System (CES). 

Under Gilbert’s leadership, BYU–Pathway matured from a promising pilot into a large‑scale, global gateway for degree seekers who often balance study with work and family. In 2024, nearly 75,000 students in 180+ countries were served through BYU–Pathway; a Church announcement described the initiative’s subsequent rollout of three‑year, outcome‑based online bachelor’s degrees—offered by BYU–Idaho and Ensign College with NWCCU approval—as a way to reduce time and cost while preserving required learning outcomes. 

His scholarship and executive experience have also shaped his public profile beyond the Church. Gilbert co‑authored Dual Transformation (Harvard Business Review Press), a playbook for leading legacy institutions through disruption while simultaneously building new growth engines—an approach visible in his work at the Deseret News and later in CES reforms. 

In his recent ministry, Gilbert has emphasized a number of important themes. 

Divine potential and covenant identity. Elder Gilbert’s October 2021 general conference message, “Becoming More in Christ: The Parable of the Slope,” distilled a recurring theme: that conversion to Jesus Christ changes our “slope”—our trajectory—through grace, repentance and covenant discipleship, regardless of starting point. He illustrated that theology with stories from inner‑city youth in Boston and first‑generation learners in Peru, connecting pastoral care to measurable change. 

Education as religious responsibility. As CES commissioner, Elder Gilbert has argued that learning in the Church is inseparable from discipleship. In a June 2025 broadcast to tens of thousands of seminary, institute and Church‑sponsored higher‑education teachers, he reiterated CES’s mission to “prepare young people … to grow spiritually and become lifelong disciples of Jesus Christ,” signaling a continued push to align curriculum, hiring and student support with revealed priorities. 

BYU’s distinctive mission—“gospel methodology.” In August 2025, addressing the BYU University Conference, he urged faculty and staff to be “deliberate” in building a university that engages the world “without being defined by it,” emphasizing prophetic governance, mission‑fit hiring and the charge to employ “gospel methodology” in research and teaching. He highlighted the call—traced from President Spencer W. Kimball to modern apostles—to teach “truth with love” while preparing students for the Savior’s return. 

Home, family and the Savior. In September 2025, Elder and Sister Christine Gilbert taught BYU–Idaho students how to find Christ in “The Family: A Proclamation to the World,” underscoring a Christ‑centered view of family relationships and identity. That devotional, and similar messages across CES, reflect his conviction that doctrine, belonging and spiritual habits must be taught together. 

To journalists and Latter‑day Saint observers, Elder Gilbert’s selection reads as both pastoral and programmatic. His ministry has consistently fused access (lowering barriers to education across continents), alignment (anchoring institutions to revealed mission) and accountability (measuring outcomes without losing sight of grace). BYU–Pathway’s scale—tens of thousands of learners worldwide—and innovations like the three‑year degree show a willingness to rethink form while protecting substance. In media, peers noted the boldness of his digital “dual transformation,” separating the old and the new to let both flourish. Those same instincts—build the future while strengthening the present—have characterized his counsel to teachers and students: teach truth, elevate slopes, and center every effort on Jesus Christ. 

Colleagues describe Elder Gilbert as an exacting but pastoral leader—comfortable with spreadsheets and scripture alike. He met Christine at BYU; together they have raised eight children through moves that traced a calling‑heavy life from California to Massachusetts to Idaho and back to Utah. The biography pages maintained by the Church and BYU‑Pathway emphasize both his scholarship and his family‑first discipleship, a through‑line visible in his local service as a bishop, counselor in a stake presidency and Area Seventy before his 2021 call as a General Authority. 

Within the Church’s governing structure, the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles are “special witnesses of the name of Christ in all the world.” When an apostle passes away, the President of the Church calls a replacement. His background in global education and institutional renewal suggests he will bring a data‑literate, prophetically aligned voice to a quorum that travels, teaches and administers worldwide.

The post Who is Clark Gilbert, Our New Apostle? appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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Canada just dodged a religious freedom bullet, at least temporarily.

My decision to move to Canada from Brazil to pursue a Master of Laws and continue my legal career was influenced by the fact that Canada both respects individual freedoms and provides a strong social safety net.

But that defining balance was recently challenged by Canada’s Bill C-9, the “Combatting Hate Act.” The proposed federal legislation was presented in response to purported rising intolerance, including a rise in reported hate crimes, ongoing hostility online, and social polarization. 

Bill C-9 was recently put on hold after much public outcry against it. On its face, the bill sounds like a good thing. But its mechanics would have jeopardized freedom of expression and freedom of religion in significant ways.

What Bill C-9 Would Have Done to Religious Expression

Bill C-9 would have altered Canada’s Criminal Code relating to hate-motivated behavior and intimidation, including by adding new criminal offenses. While these measures are presented as protective—aimed at preventing threats before they escalate—the broad scope of the offenses raises concerns that ordinarily lawful speech or protest could unintentionally become unlawful. Some of the most concerning provisions of the bill are as follows.

The law also would have removed the “good faith” religious defense in Section 319 of the Criminal Code, which is particularly concerning. This defense previously allowed individuals to express views based on religious texts without fear of prosecution, provided they acted sincerely. Removing it risks placing the state in the position of judging theology as hateful. This is not about protecting extremists; it is about maintaining constitutional space for conscience and preventing the inadvertent criminalization of sincere belief.

Further, the law would also have enhanced penalties for existing offenses if those offenses were motivated by hatred against protected grounds such as race, religion, sexual orientation, or gender identity. The motivation of the speaker would be determined not by the speaker, but by the listener’s reaction—a switch from an objective legal standard to a subjective one. Fear is personal and variable, so under the new law, the most sensitive observer could determine the legality of speech.

By narrowing what is lawful speech and making a listener’s subjective reaction to speech legally significant, Bill C-9 creates legal uncertainty for individuals expressing sincere beliefs grounded in religious conscience. The law could pressure people to self-censor, not because their actions are harmful, but because their words or presence might be interpreted as intimidating to listeners who disagree with them, subjecting them to the criminal law’s reach. Ordinary expressions of faith, such as reading from scripture or teaching traditional views on sexuality, family, or moral guidance, could potentially be interpreted as hateful under the bill, creating uncertainty for individuals trying to sincerely live according to their religious beliefs. For members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, teaching the Family Proclamation could potentially be interpreted as hateful under the proposed law. While such prosecution is unlikely, the mere possibility creates a concerning sense of legal uncertainty for Latter-day Saints and others trying to express their faith.

The consequences extend beyond religious communities. Labor groups have warned that picket lines or protests could be affected if someone claims to feel intimidated. When law measures emotion rather than action, criminal behavior becomes unpredictable. These concerns with Bill C-9 are about protecting sincere expression rather than defending harmful speech.

Context for the Bill

Some context may help explain why Canada would propose Bill C-9. The province of Quebec has a strong secular tradition inherited from France known as laïcité, which prioritizes strict separation between religion and state in public life. This worldview influences Canadian debates on freedom of religion and expression. Although Canada’s Charter of Rights and Freedoms guarantees fundamental rights, including freedom of expression and religion, the French–Quebec view holds that these rights should be significantly limited in the public square, allowing secularism to prevail.

While these numbers provide context for why the government frames Bill C-9 as necessary, statistics alone do not determine how the law is debated or applied. The way the bill is named and discussed can influence public perception, shaping the conversation around hate and safety before questions about its scope, limits, and impact on fundamental freedoms are even considered. In this sense, the political framing of the legislation plays a role almost as significant as the underlying data.

When legislation is presented in a way that equates questioning its scope with tolerating hate, it can chill open discussion, debate, and lawful expression. Even the name of the legislation does significant political work. By calling it the Combatting Hate Act, the debate is framed so that raising legitimate concerns about its scope can be interpreted as tolerating hatred. Those questioning the bill’s impact on freedom of expression, religious conscience, or lawful speech risk being seen as opposing justice rather than defending constitutional protections or advocating for careful, balanced lawmaking. This framing risks shutting down meaningful discussion before it can begin.

Moving Forward

Even in democracies that value freedom, governments may, at times, push the limits of civil liberties in the name of public order. This is not to suggest that overreach is inevitable, but rather that expanded legal powers always carry a risk that warrants careful scrutiny. While these powers are typically subject to judicial review, vigilance is important whenever new laws, like Bill C-9, would grant authorities broader discretion over what constitutes “intimidating” or “hateful” speech. 

Canada’s legal system has long managed to accommodate disagreement while maintaining public order. Bill C-9, as currently drafted, raises serious questions about procedural fairness, clarity in the law, and the protection of fundamental freedoms. From my perspective as an international lawyer, Bill C-9 highlights the fragility of liberty when legal systems evaluate emotions over intentions. True tolerance is not the absence of offense; it is the careful balance of safety, justice, and conscience. Freedom of expression and freedom of religion are cornerstones of Canadian law, enshrined in the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, and they protect both offensive and minority viewpoints, provided they do not incite violence. Canada now faces the challenge of preserving that balance while addressing perceived threats of hate and intimidation.

The post How Canada’s Bill C-9 Would Have Reimagined Religious Liberty appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

This question is swirling around the internet in light of recent actions by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) officials in Minnesota. Among the most troubling of those actions is the killing of two U.S. citizens by ICE agents in recent weeks, which has sparked protests across the country. Many are deeply concerned about the humanity of ICE’s tactics—and some are questioning the agency’s very existence.

Amid the deaths and pervasive fear and upheaval in Minnesota, many are asking where the Church’s response is. The Church has significant membership in Minnesota and even a temple near St. Paul. Are the Minnesotan Saints forgotten?

But still, why nothing from Headquarters?

A Global Church

As the Church becomes increasingly global, it appears to be pursuing a kind of institutional federalism, in which announcements are made locally on matters pertaining to those regions. We saw this recently when an area presidency member announced to a congregation of members of the Portland Maine Stake that a new temple would be built near them. President Oaks later stated that he received a strong impression after he assumed leadership of the Church that temples should be announced where they will be built.

The pattern of local announcement recently followed in Canada, when leaders of the Canada Area issued a statement on a proposed Canadian bill that would have jeopardized religious freedom.

And in Minnesota, the pattern followed suit: area leadership communicated messages to the local congregations pertaining to the situation there.

In many ways, this emerging local approach makes much more sense for a global church. As Elder Gong pointed out in the most recent General Conference, “Every Sabbath, members and friends from 195 birth countries and territories gather in 31,916 Church congregations.” Expecting Church Headquarters to comment on every issue facing congregants with ties to 195 countries is simply unrealistic. But the lack of a formal statement does not mean that the leaders do not deeply care. Their care tends to be shown, however, through ministry and ecclesiastical teaching, rather than PR.

The local approach also helps to avoid a form of parochialism, where American Latter-day Saints see their most pressing issues addressed by Church Headquarters, but members from other countries do not. It is true that, in the past, the Church has spoken more frequently on domestic issues, including a statement on immigration as recent as last year. This has made us think of the Church as an American institution, and we expect it to speak to our American issues. While it may seem strange, even wrong, not to have a statement on Minnesota, you could say the same for any number of situations in other countries. For example, should the Church have made a statement about the Iranian protests? About the Sudanese Civil War? About the ongoing oppression of minorities in China? 

Many Latter-day Saints live in countries with rampant government corruption and state-perpetrated injustices. If Headquarters comments on American issues, but says nothing about the pressing issues in other countries, what message does it send to non-American Saints? Are their challenges not as important? While American issues are real and significant, we must not assume that they command more attention or concern than the issues of our brothers and sisters in other countries simply because Church Headquarters are in the U.S. As we shift our understanding of the Church as an American institution to a global one, we will likely face the reality, however uncomfortable, that fewer American issues are addressed by Church Headquarters. 

On Speaking Out Generally

We often want the Church to be an espouser of moral clarity in our troubled political climate. We want the Church to do it all—save us from this life, and from the next.

Was his silence complicity? Or was His mission altogether something else?

To say that Jesus did not speak out is not to say that He was passive. Nor is it to say that He did not care about injustice. Indeed, He gave His life to redeem the injustices of this life in the next. And where justice and law would condemn us, He gave his life to give us another chance.

Jesus cared deeply for those affected by the Roman rule. He cared deeply for the poor. He ministered individually to those that the oppressive systems had neglected—or shunned. He taught the worth of every person to God, restoring to them their dignity. His teachings empowered everyone to make this world better, no matter their station.  

But His Kingdom was “not of this world.”

If this is His Church, should we expect an approach that does more or less than this?

The world would have the Church to be a more powerful arbiter of social justice. And there is no doubt that religious institutional power is real. For example, the role of Black churches in advancing the civil rights movement was monumental. And many other religious groups have played a powerful role—both good and bad—in shaping the political challenges of the day.

But the Church of Jesus Christ is trying to accomplish something different. The Church is not trying to save the world, however much we want it to, but rather the people of it. Its mission is building disciples who have the discernment to engage in the matters of the day with Christlike principles and resolve.

The Church could thrust its institutional power in many directions, and it may achieve some desirable results. But it stays focused on its mission to prepare the people of this world—living and deceased—for eternal life through Christ. That mission calls for different priorities.

The Church’s political neutrality approach is admittedly dissatisfying to some. With so much wrong in this world, an institution with power has a moral responsibility to do everything it can to change this world, right?

And yet the Church is changing this world for better—through one moral person at a time. But instead of seeking a radical change in systems, it seeks a radical change of heart in individuals. 

Sharon Eubank said it best:

I will never discount the one thing this Church does that lifts entire communities in rapid development. It invites men and women of all social classes and backgrounds to enter sacred buildings and make the most binding and important promises of their mortal lives. In those buildings, they promise not to steal or lie, they promise to be faithful to their spouse and children. They vow they will seek the interest of their neighbors and be peacemakers and become devoted to the idea that we are all one family—all valued and alike unto God. If those promises made in holy temples are kept, it transforms society faster than any aid or development project ever could. The greatest charitable development on the planet is for people to bind themselves to their God and mean it. 

To the chagrin of some, the Church’s approach to the world’s problems isn’t a top-down, system-dismantling operation. Instead, it seeks to form the character of individuals who can then speak out with moral clarity—who can pursue just causes because they, in their hearts, love what is true and good. 

We must recognize that the Church faces a number of challenges any time it contemplates speaking out. In rapidly developing situations, collecting the facts is essential. Rushing to hasty judgments can lead to mischaracterizations of situations. The Church must be careful not to damage its credibility by commenting too soon.

It is also very easy for a statement about injustice to be conflated with entire movements or unlawful protest methods that the Church does not wish to endorse. The Church is also careful not to paint targets on the backs of its members, particularly those who live in politically tense areas. And the more the Church is seen like an activist organization instead of a religious one, the more wary other countries are of opening their doors to it. These realities mean that, even when the Church may feel it is necessary to speak up, it has to be extra measured in its response. Responses crafted under these parameters often come out simple and principle-focused, sometimes causing more frustration by members that the response was not more direct or pointed.

Church Activism

Like any institution, the Church also occasionally speaks up on issues that might implicate its mission or operations. For instance, it has sometimes spoken up on issues pertaining to religious freedom, human dignity, or core religious doctrine. 

Some fault the Church for doing this, as if institutions should not speak up about the core things for which they stand. The Church’s political neutrality statement explicitly states that “as an institution, it reserves the right to address issues it believes have significant moral consequences or that directly affect the mission, teachings or operations of the Church.” These statements should not come as a surprise, nor is the Church somehow immoral for making these statements and not others. Rather, it merely reflects a mission-aligned organization.   

The Church’s political neutrality statement acknowledges that “the application of these principles of political neutrality and participation in an ever-changing and complex world.” It reserves the right of the First Presidency to “seek prophetic wisdom and revelation on these matters.” While the current approach remains, there is always the possibility it could change.

But for now, the task remains for us to become the moral people that the Gospel of Jesus Christ inspires us to become. We must seek to apply the principles Church leaders have taught to the complex real-life situations we face, including in Minnesota. This means more than virtue signaling on social media; it means actually becoming virtuous. In reality, the best response the Church can give is when its members, whose hearts have been changed to love what is just, good, and true, choose to apply those teachings in pursuit of a better world.  

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The Serpent as a Sacred Symbol

In many ancient civilizations, the serpent was a symbol of kings, royalty, and gods. You can see this on the front of the Egyptian Pharaoh’s crown and in the Mesoamerican legend of Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent. 

It is also a symbol of Christ. The scripture story of Moses’ serpent devouring the Egyptians’ serpents conveyed a powerful theological message that Jehovah is the superior serpent. As Latter-day Saint scholar Andrew Skinner points out, this story testifies of Christ’s supremacy over counterfeit powers.

This context makes it deeply significant that Satan appeared to Eve as a serpent in the Garden. He was appearing as a counterfeit of Christ. Genesis teaches: “Now the serpent was more subtle (cunning, crafty, clever) than any beast of the field” (ESV), setting up the serpent as a counterfeit messenger—appearing authoritative while steering souls away from Christ. Moses 4:6 adds, “Satan put it into the heart of the serpent (for he had drawn away many after him,) and he sought also to beguile Eve.” 

The Brass Serpent and the Lesson of Misplaced Worship

The serpent appears again early in the Old Testament. We read in the book of Numbers that “the people spoke against God and Moses,” asking, “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? For there is no food and no water, and we loathe this worthless food” (ESV).

God responded to their lack of faith by sending “fiery” (poisonous) serpents into their camp, and people began dying. When the Israelites repented and asked Moses to pray for deliverance, the Lord instructed Moses to make a “serpent of bronze” and fasten it to the top of a pole so that whoever looked upon it would live.

Why would the Israelites worship something meant to point them to the Lord? Did they forget whom they truly worshiped? Similarly, do we forget whom we really worship and find ourselves idolizing good things that were meant to lead us to Christ?

When the Means Become the End

Some things intended to point us to Christ, such as the Church, the Prophet and apostles, the scriptures, church programs, local priesthood leaders, the For the Strength of Youth pamphlet, and even commandments, can sometimes inadvertently become like the brass serpent. They bring us to Christ, but when we treat them as salvific in and of themselves, we risk idolizing them. The Pharisees exemplified what idolizing commandments looks like.

I’m not suggesting anyone does this deliberately, but in our valiant effort to teach members and children to fully participate in church, follow the prophet, and read the scriptures, we sometimes create a culture where these good and righteous things are assumed to be the end goal instead of the means to the end. 

What Does It Mean That the Church Is “True and Living”?

But don’t we say things like, “The Prophet will never lead us astray,” “The Book of Mormon is the most correct of any book,” and “The Church is the only true Church?” Yes, but those statements require context.

When we say the Church is “true,” what do we mean? It has the ordinances of the Priesthood, is led by Christ through revelation to His servants, and teaches salvific doctrine. It is divine, it is Christ’s Church. Many hear ‘true’ as ‘flawless’: perfectly accurate scriptures, faultless programs, decisions exactly as God would make them. In other words, we interpret “true” as factually binary, all right or all wrong. Many members even feel proud of that idea, believing that all other sects are abominable and all preachers corrupt.

But what happens when the Church changes policies, reverses decisions, or rolls out a less effective program? What do we do when someone says something hurtful, when leaders contradict each other, or when members feel hurt or isolated within church culture?

The problem with this true or false thinking is that when people encounter a problem in the Church, they often feel they have no choice but to leave, throwing the baby out with the bathwater. The assumption is that a divine institution should have no human error, turning every mistake into a potential crisis of faith.

D&C 1:30 states that this is the only “true and living” Church. We often define “true” as “unchanging” or “factually accurate,” but the qualifying word “living” complicates that definition. Another meaning of “true” is “to make level, square, balanced, or concentric; to restore to accuracy or form,” which gives the word a more dynamic, living sense. “Truing a wheel,” for example, means adjusting the spokes so it spins straight and steady, free of wobble. 

Perhaps the Church being “true” is like a bicycle wheel, pointed in the right direction, generally straight, yet occasionally needing adjustment. We have to pump flat tires, straighten dents, and realign spokes to keep it true. And as we ride, we make countless small course corrections that keep us moving toward our destination.

To call the Church “living” points to continuing revelation, but it also implies correction, growth, and healing. Recent changes to temple language and partnerships with the NAACP are examples.

The Church is a vehicle to salvation, like a car. Compared with others in the lot, it’s the best one. It’s not perfect or the biggest or fastest, and it has dents to buff out. But it’s reliable, offers upgrades, and has the best safety features. We get weekly gas fill-ups and 24-hour roadside assistance. Each model year improves, and it even includes a heavenly OnStar call button. The best feature may be the eternal warranty.

Prophets, Fallibility, and the Divine Filter

In the Old Testament, the Lord summoned Gideon to free Israel from Midianite oppression. Gideon raised an army of 32,000, but God told him that was too many, since He wanted no one else to take the glory. After reducing the army to 300, they triumphed. Yet the people gave Gideon the credit, saying, “Rule over us, for you have delivered us.” Gideon replied, “I will not rule over you, the Lord shall rule over you.”

Latter-day Saint scholar and writer Terryl Givens, in The Crucible of Doubt, observes that such hero worship is common in human history and even within our Church. He cites the old joke that Catholics claim the Pope is infallible but no one believes it, while Latter-day Saints claim the Prophet is fallible but no one believes it. The notion that prophets are infallible specimens of virtue and perfection is “neither scriptural nor reasonable,” Givens writes.

President Dieter F. Uchtdorf likewise acknowledged, “We openly acknowledge that in nearly 200 years of Church history… there have been some things said and done that could cause people to question…. And, to be perfectly frank, there have been times when members or leaders in the Church have simply made mistakes.”

Elder D. Todd Christofferson added that “not every statement made by a Church leader, past or present, necessarily constitutes doctrine. … Often it represents a personal, though well-considered, opinion, not meant to be official or binding.” 

Scripture reinforces that God speaks to us according to our language and understanding (see 2 Nephi 31 and D&C 1). Revelation filters through human personalities and paradigms. Joseph Smith acknowledged this, and Moroni echoed it on the title page of the Book of Mormon: “If there are faults, they are the mistakes of men.”

So what does divinity look like filtered through mortals? I find the metaphor of stained glass fitting. Depending on its color and design, the light passing through is beautiful and divine, but still filtered. The filtering makes it unique. Just because there’s glass doesn’t mean the light isn’t divine. Consider how divine inspiration manifests differently through the “stained glass” of Neal A. Maxwell, Brigham Young, Sheri Dew, Jeffrey R. Holland, Gordon B. Hinckley, Bruce R. McConkie, Dieter F. Uchtdorf, or Sharon Eubank, and through your own ward members.

God uses flawed vessels because that’s all He has, but also to teach humility and redirect our worship. He told Joseph Smith in D&C 121: 1, “For unto this end have I raised you up, that I might show forth my wisdom through the weak things of the earth.” Elder Jeffrey R. Holland reminded us, “Imperfect people are all God has ever had to work with… and when you see imperfection, remember that the limitation is not in the divinity of the work.” 

The Lord built checks and balances into His system, councils, quorums, companionships, presidencies, and marriages. Elder Boyd K. Packer noted, “These procedures protect the work from the individual weaknesses apparent in all of us.” 

Two Common Errors in Faith

We tend to err in two ways. First, we don’t take the prophet, the Church, or the scriptures seriously enough. Many of us fail to fully embrace the blessings of following the Brethren, participating in Church, and feasting on scripture. President Nelson warned that “we should not put question marks where the Prophet has put periods.” 

The second error is what New Testament scholar Darrell Bock calls “brittle fundamentalism,” assuming the Church, prophets, or scriptures must be perfect, then losing faith when confronted with imperfection. If we think the Church must be all true or all false, it’s easy to walk away when we find flaws. 

The Value of Honest Questions

To those wrestling with doubts, your questions are valid. There is nothing wrong with you. Questions are how we learn. Nearly every revelation in the Doctrine and Covenants began with a question. The First Vision began with a question.

Uncertainty is uncomfortable, but sincere inquiry is part of discipleship. Answers may come quickly, slowly, or not at all, which is why faith is essential to spiritual growth. Joseph Smith taught that “a religion that does not require the sacrifice of all things never has power sufficient to produce the faith necessary unto life and salvation.” Perhaps part of that sacrifice is placing our complaints and unanswered questions on the altar, trusting that God values honest wrestling as much as easy belief.

Creating a Culture Safe for Seekers

A living church must also be a safe place for sincere seekers. If faith is meant to grow through honest inquiry rather than brittle certainty, then questions should not be treated as threats. In practice, however, some members quietly fear that voicing doubts will brand them as disloyal or spiritually weak.

Yet the Restoration itself models a different pattern. Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf taught, “Inquiry is the birthplace of testimony. … Asking questions isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s a precursor of growth.” Faith that cannot tolerate sincere questions risks confusing devotion with defensiveness.

Mature discipleship makes room for complexity without abandoning commitment. Over time, faith may move from simplicity to complexity and, ideally, return to a deeper, humbler simplicity (see Hafen, Faith is Not Blind). Creating space for that process does not weaken the Church. It honors the fact that a true and living faith must also be patient, charitable, and resilient.

Triangulating Truth

We must utilize each of these sources rather than idolize them.

Choosing to Believe

I’ve chosen the gospel of Christ as the reality on which I’ll depend for salvation. I believe this Church is the best vehicle to reach that destination. I believe because I choose to, not because of flawless logic. I have felt the Holy Spirit confirm the truth to me on many occasions.

My testimony waxes and wanes, as everyone’s does. Sometimes it nears certainty; other times it leans on faith alone. Yet even in weakness, it calls me to keep trying, to keep seeing light through stained glass.

The post When Symbols Become Idols: Remembering What Points Us to Christ appeared first on Public Square Magazine.