That cluster of ideas is what some describe as body-self dualism or mind-body dualism: the tendency to treat the self (mind, soul, identity) and the body as two different things with two different destinies—one high, one low; one essential, one disposable; one “me,” one “mine.” 

Body-self dualism can appear harmless, even useful. It seems to protect our dignity against sickness, disability, aging, and social judgment. It can sound like the spiritual truth: “I am more than my appearance.” Yet the same idea can smuggle in a much stronger claim: that my body is not part of my person in any deep or eternal way. And that stronger claim collides head-on with the gospel of Jesus Christ—and, in especially pointed ways, with the restored gospel’s doctrine of what human beings are and what salvation ultimately means.

Where does dualism come from, why has it spread, and how has popular art helped make it feel like common sense? And how does it disrupt restored Christian doctrine, and subtly shrink our spiritual horizon—keeping us from the very fullness of life the gospel promises?

What Body-Self Dualism Is—and Why It’s Attractive

Dualism is not merely the claim that body and mind are different. That much is obvious: thoughts aren’t bones, and love isn’t liver tissue. Dualism becomes a worldview when it turns “different” into “separable,” and then “separable” into “ranked,” so that the self is the “real” person while the body is a tool, costume, prison, or accident.

This is attractive for understandable reasons.

• It promises control. If “I” am essentially my inner self, then the body becomes something I can manage, optimize, discipline, or transcend.
• It promises safety from loss. Bodies get sick and die. If the core self is detachable from the body, then the worst facts of mortality can feel less threatening.
• It promises moral purity. If the body is the source of appetite, weakness, and shame, then separating “me” from “my body” can feel like separating “me” from “my sins.”
• It promises a clean identity. If identity is an inner essence, then the body is just a presentation layer—helpful when it aligns with inner experience, oppressive when it doesn’t.

The problem is not that these longings are wrong. The problem is that dualism often answers them by making the body a theological second-class citizen.

A Christian Detour: When “Body Bad” Entered The Story

If body-self dualism feels “Christian,” that is usually because Western Christians inherited (and sometimes amplified) non-Christian stories about matter. The New Testament’s baseline is stubbornly embodied: creation is declared good; the Son of God takes flesh; salvation is accomplished through a wounded body; and the great hope is not escape but resurrection. When Paul contrasts “flesh” with “spirit,” he is not preaching against the body, but diagnosing a fallen orientation—the human tendency toward selfishness, ruled by disordered desire. In Greek, Paul uses sarx (“flesh”) and sōma (“body”) differently. Sarx, which Paul uses in contrast to spirit, references the fallen human condition. Sōma, to the contrary, he calls a “temple.” Later readers, translators, and preaching sometimes collapsed “flesh” into “body” as one concept, turning a moral diagnosis into a metaphysical one.

The earliest, sharpest “body bad” intrusion into Christian imagination came through gnostic and docetic currents in the second century and after. In those worlds, matter is a mistake (or a trap), salvation is the soul’s liberation from physicality, and Christ is reimagined as only seeming to be embodied. The mainstream church rejected these moves precisely because they unraveled the gospel: if the body is evil, the Incarnation becomes scandalous rather than glorious, and the resurrection becomes unnecessary or incoherent.

Two exaggerations then fed each other. First, critics of Christianity began to describe the faith as essentially hostile to the body, as though the tradition’s occasional rhetoric of renunciation were its center. Second, some Christians—especially in more anxious or moralistic moments—began to act as though holiness meant becoming less embodied: less needy, less affectable, less physical. Both exaggerations obscure the deeper continuity: historic Christianity has always carried an embodied core (incarnation, sacraments, resurrection), even when its surrounding culture tempted it toward a “spirit good / matter bad” shortcut.

By the time we reach the early modern period, this long tension has set the stage for something new. The scientific revolution increasingly described nature in mechanical terms, and the body began to look less like a mysterious living unity and more like a complex machine. Once the body is imagined as a mechanism, it becomes psychologically tempting to relocate the “real me” entirely inside—into consciousness, thought, and will. 

Descartes And The Modern “Split”

Body-self dualism has older roots than René Descartes. You can find strains of it in Plato’s suspicion of the body, in certain ascetic traditions, and in recurring “spirit good / matter bad” patterns that Christianity has had to repeatedly correct. But Descartes is pivotal because he gave the modern West a powerful, system-building version of the split—one that fit the emerging scientific imagination.

In the 17th century, Descartes attempted to rebuild knowledge on certainty. His famous method of doubt led him to a conclusion that seemed irrefutable: even if everything else is uncertain, I cannot doubt that I am thinking. From there comes the celebrated “cogito” (“I think, therefore I am”), and with it a defining move: the “I” is discovered first as a thinking thing.

Descartes then described reality in terms of two fundamentally different kinds of “substance,” mind and matter. 

In this picture, the body is a kind of machine in space—measurable, divisible, governed by mechanical laws—while the mind is non-spatial, indivisible, and known directly through introspection. The two interact, but they are not two aspects of one integrated being; they are two different types of being.

That conceptual architecture mattered historically because it did something culturally explosive: it allowed nature—and the body—to be studied as a mechanism without immediately threatening the idea of a soul. You could dissect muscles like gears and still speak of a “true self” that is invisible and inward. Whatever else one thinks of Descartes, his framework helped make modern science feel metaphysically safe. But it also made a divided human being feel metaphysically normal.

And what began as a philosophical solution became a cultural instinct. Over time, many people stopped reading Descartes while continuing to live inside his basic picture: I am an inner self piloting a body.

Why Dualism Keeps Getting More Popular

If Cartesian dualism were just an old theory in philosophy seminars, it wouldn’t matter much. But body-self dualism has only grown more culturally intuitive, because modern life supplies it with metaphors that feel obvious.

The body as hardware, the self as software. Industrial and technological societies train us to treat physical things as replaceable components. We upgrade devices; we swap parts; we outsource labor; we “hack” systems. It is a short step to imagining the body as hardware and the self as software—portable, copyable, and (in fantasies of mind-uploading) potentially immortal.

The medicalized gaze. Modern medicine brings genuine blessings, but it can encourage a way of speaking that quietly distances the person from the body: the body is the patient, the body has symptoms, the body is managed. This can be useful in crises—some psychological distance can reduce panic—but it can also reinforce the notion that the body is not truly “me.”

The curated digital self. Online, we learn to present an identity through text, images, avatars, and profiles. In digital space, the self feels less like a body and more like a brand, a voice, a “presence.” The body becomes either an obstacle (something you can’t fully control) or a raw material for self-construction (something you can endlessly edit, filter, and reframe).

The therapeutic slogan culture. Even healthy truths can be flattened into dualistic clichés. “You’re more than your appearance” can quietly mutate into “Your appearance is irrelevant to who you are.” “Listen to your body” can mutate into “You are separate from your body, and the body is a strange animal you manage.” A culture hungry for quick healing often grabs a phrase that works in one context and universalizes it unknowingly into metaphysics.

So dualism rises not only because people argue for it, but because people practice it—through technology, institutions, and habits of speech.

Popular art, meanwhile, rarely teaches philosophy directly, but it trains our imagination—especially about what a person is. Cartesian dualism, and the types of explorations its framework allows in fiction, have become part of our cultural vocabulary.

Consider how many beloved stories depend on the idea that the “real self” can be detached from the body:

• Body-swap comedies and dramas (“Freaky Friday” and its many relatives) treat the self as a transferable occupant.
• Virtual reality narratives (such as The Matrix) imagine that lived experience belongs primarily to the mind, while the body is either a battery or a pod-bound inconvenience.
• Mind-uploading and replaceable bodies (seen in various science-fiction worlds like Altered Carbon) portray bodies as “sleeves” you can change while the self persists as data.
• Ghost-in-the-machine stories (like Ghost in the Shell) press the question: if consciousness can live in different bodies—or in no body—what is a body for?
• Astral projection and disembodied heroism (common in superhero and fantasy genres) dramatize spiritual power as a kind of leaving-the-body skill.
• And for a generation raised on Scholastic book fair “Animorph” books, we saw a self seamlessly move between body forms, almost entirely intact.

None of these works is “bad,” and many are profound. These metaphors allow us to think about important issues in unique ways. The point is simpler: we are repeatedly entertained by narratives in which the self is detachable. It allows us to take a concept that is useful for dissecting ideas, and begin to assume it also has metaphysical credibility. These stories make dualism emotionally plausible. After enough repetitions, it becomes hard not to feel, at least subconsciously, that embodiment is optional—maybe even a burden to be overcome.

Art, in other words, takes the seed of an idea and transmits it until it seems obvious and inevitable. 

The Restored Gospel’s Anthropology: The Soul Is Embodied

At first glance, body-self dualism can sound like spiritual wisdom. It can motivate people to resist superficial judgment and to anchor dignity in something deeper than appearance. It can help someone endure pain: “This suffering is real, but it is not the whole of me.” It can even protect against despair in aging: “I am still me.”

There is a legitimate insight here: a human being is more than chemistry and biology. The gospel itself insists on meaning, agency, and eternal worth.

But dualism doesn’t stop at “more than.” It tends to become “other than”—and then “apart from.”

And that is where it begins to clash with Christianity at the root, because Christianity is not a religion of escape from embodiment. It is a religion of incarnation and resurrection.

As discussed above, classic Christianity already resists dualism more than many people realize. The story is not “souls trapped in bodies learn to float away.” The story is: God creates a material world and calls it good; God takes on flesh; God saves through a crucified body; God raises that body; God promises the resurrection of the dead.

The restored gospel presses this even further, not only by affirming bodily resurrection, but by giving a remarkably strong doctrine of what a “soul” is and why bodies matter eternally.

In Latter-day Saint scripture, the human being is not a spirit that happens to have a body. The scriptures define the human soul in a way that refuses the split: “The spirit and the body are the soul of man” (D&C 88:15).

That is not a minor phrasing choice. It means the “real me” is not just the spirit and not just the body, but the union.

And the Restoration goes further still, “All spirit is matter, but it is more fine or pure…” (D&C 131:7–8). This teaching directly undercuts the assumption that “spiritual” means “non-material” and therefore “more real.” In restored doctrine, spirit is not a ghostly opposite of matter. The universe is more continuous than Cartesian dualism imagines.

In the restored view, receiving a body is not a temporary inconvenience; it is a major purpose of mortality. It is tied to agency, growth, covenants, family, and joy. Doctrine and Covenants 93 teaches that a fullness of joy is connected to embodied union, “For man is spirit. The elements are eternal… spirit and element, inseparably connected, receive a fulness of joy.” (D&C 93:33).

In other words, the body is not merely a testing ground you outgrow. It is part of the shape of eternal joy.

The heart of the gospel is not that Jesus proved the soul can survive death. Many religious and cultural beliefs at the time already believed that. The scandal and glory is that He rose bodily, and that this bodily resurrection is the pattern of our future. The victory is not the soul’s escape, but the defeat of physical death.

Restored scripture (like the Book of Mormon’s sustained emphasis on resurrection) treats the reuniting of body and spirit as essential to justice, mercy, and wholeness (see, for example, 2 Nephi 9’s teaching that resurrection overcomes the “awful monster” of death and hell).

From a restored perspective, then, body-self dualism is not merely a mistaken psychological metaphor. It is a rival story about what salvation is.

Theological Problems Dualism Introduces

Once body-self dualism becomes the default way we imagine the self, it creates a set of pressures inside our theology. These pressures often don’t announce themselves. They show up as confusions, imbalances, and quiet mismatches between what we say we believe and what we emotionally expect.

Here are several of the most serious.

It turns resurrection into an optional add-on. If the “real me” is my inner self and the body is just a vehicle, then resurrection can feel like a nice bonus rather than a climax of redemption. Death becomes a release: the soul is finally free. But in restored Christianity, death is an enemy, and resurrection is not decorative; it is part of the gospel itself.

Dualism makes it harder to feel why resurrection matters—not as theology on paper, but as hope in the bones.

It quietly slides toward a “spirit good / body bad” moral psychology. Many disciples already struggle with shame around appetite, sexuality, fatigue, and mental health. Dualism can legitimize that shame by teaching us to interpret bodily life as a lower realm.

The result is often a tragic pattern: people try to become holy by becoming less human—less needy, less vulnerable, less physical. But the gospel does not sanctify us by amputating our humanity. It sanctifies us by redeeming it. The body is not the villain of spiritual life. It is one of the main places spiritual life happens.

It makes ordinances feel oddly external. Restored worship is profoundly embodied: baptism, the sacrament, laying on of hands, temple ordinances—covenants enacted through physical signs. If the body is peripheral to the “real self,” ordinances can begin to feel like mere symbols performed on the outside, while the “real” spiritual work is purely internal.

But restored theology treats ordinances as more than outward theater. They are covenantal actions that involve the person as an embodied soul. Dualism makes that harder to grasp—and easier to neglect.

It can fracture discipleship into “spiritual” and “physical” compartments. A dualistic imagination encourages a split life. Scripture and prayer belong to the “real me.” Sleep, food, exercise, and sexuality belong to the “body.” Work with hands, service with time, care for health, and patience with limitations become second-tier concerns.

But the gospel aims at consecration, not compartmentalization. The command is not “give God your inner life while managing your body on the side.” It is “present your whole self”—a living sacrifice in the full, integrated sense.

It truncates the purpose of life. If a spirit alone constituted an entire self, why even come to earth from the pre-mortal life? The reasons exist, but are narrower, and can paint a picture of a God more manipulative than exalting.

It weakens a doctrine of divine embodied destiny. One of the Restoration’s most distinctive teachings is that God is not an abstract force and that exaltation is not absorption into a featureless spiritual ocean. Our destiny is personal, relational, covenantal—and, in Latter-day Saint teaching, inseparably tied to glorified embodiment and eternal family life.

If we become convinced that bodies are ultimately non-essential, we begin to lose the emotional logic of exaltation. “Eternal increase,” eternal relationships, eternal joy as something lived—all of this becomes harder to picture and therefore harder to desire.

How Dualism Can Shrink Our Spiritual Potential

Ultimately, dualism can keep us from our full potential. Here the danger is subtle: dualism can masquerade as spirituality while quietly reducing the scope of sanctification.

The gospel’s path is usually different: not disconnection, but redemption; not escape, but transformation; not “less embodied,” but “more whole.”

If the body is merely an instrument, then growth becomes a war of mind against flesh: the self issues orders and the body either obeys or betrays. That can produce either pride (“I have mastered myself”) or despair (“My body is my enemy”).

The restored gospel frames agency more relationally: spirit and body are meant to be unified under Christ, with desires refined, not erased; with weakness turned into humility and strength; with the whole soul learning holiness.

Charity is embodied love: meals delivered, hands held, burdens lifted, work done, presence offered. A dualistic spirituality can become thin—rich in ideas, poor in incarnation. But the Savior’s ministry was not primarily a set of correct abstractions. It was a life of bodily presence: touching lepers, weeping at graves, eating with outcasts, bleeding in Gethsemane, rising with wounds still visible.

If our picture of salvation does not make room for that kind of embodied love, it is not yet fully Christian.

A Better Alternative: Sacred, Covenantal Embodiment

Rejecting body-self dualism does not require us to deny spiritual life, inner depth, or transcendence. It requires us to tell a more Christian story about what the self is.

A Restoration-shaped alternative might be called sacred embodiment:

1. I am not a soul trapped in a body. I am an embodied soul: spirit and element together.
2. Pre-mortal spirits are incomplete waiting for and requiring earthly embodiment, and our help in providing it.
3. My body is not my enemy. It is a divine gift and a field of discipleship.
4. Holiness is not less physical. Holiness is more whole—body and spirit reconciled in Christ.
5. Resurrection is not a metaphor. It is God’s declaration that bodies matter forever.

This reorientation has practical consequences. It changes how we think about rest, health, sexuality, aging, disability, and even worship. It invites a spirituality that is not embarrassed by the body, and not obsessed with the body either, but grateful for the body as a site of covenant life.

It also reframes repentance. Repentance is not the inner self apologizing for what the body did. Repentance is the whole soul turning toward God—habits, hungers, thoughts, relationships, and physical practices included.

The Gospel Does Not Save Us From Bodies; It Saves Us As Embodied Persons

Body-self dualism did not become popular because people are foolish. It became popular because it offers relief: relief from pain, from shame, from mortality, from limitation. Descartes gave the modern world a conceptual map that made that relief feel intellectually respectable; modern technology and popular art have made it feel emotionally intuitive.

But the restored gospel invites us into a different kind of relief—not the relief of separation, but the relief of reconciliation. Not “my body doesn’t matter,” but “my body can be redeemed.” Not “salvation is escape,” but “salvation is resurrection.” Not “I am a ghost in a machine,” but “I am a soul, spirit, and body, created for a fullness of joy.”

In that light, body-self dualism is not just a harmless idea. It is a quiet counterfeit of hope. It offers transcendence without incarnation, survival without resurrection, spirituality without covenantal embodiment. And it is precisely there—where it seems most comforting—that it can most effectively shrink our faith.

The gospel of Jesus Christ is bigger. It is not afraid of matter. It is not embarrassed by flesh. It does not treat the body as an unfortunate container for the real self. It proclaims that in Christ, the whole self—spirit and body—can become holy.

The post The Hottest Theological Fight Isn’t Politics appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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For many lovers of classical music, Handel’s Messiah represents the pinnacle of both artistic and spiritual excellence. It is almost temple-like in its ability to create an intersection between the human and the Divine. Handel’s work has helped countless listeners to internalize the message of the Savior’s birth, Atonement, and Resurrection. 

Scripture is clear that inspiration is necessary to bear witness of the Savior. The Apostle Paul wrote that “No man can say that Jesus is the Lord, but by the Holy Ghost.” Restoration Scripture adds the further insight that “you cannot write that which is sacred save it be given you from me.” Handel’s music, combined with the biblical texts that librettist Charles Jennens selected for the work, bears witness that Jesus is the Lord. I believe the scriptures when they say that “every thing which inviteth to do good, and to persuade to believe in Christ, is sent forth by the power and gift of Christ.” My own faith in and desire to follow the Savior is strengthened whenever I listen to or sing the Messiah. Because the Messiah bears witness of Christ, I conclude that it was inspired by God. 

Some scholars have cast doubt on whether Handel’s  Messiah was divinely inspired because of what is known about the composition process. However, because of its inspired witness of Christ, I believe it would be more fruitful to reframe our idea of what it means for an artist to be inspired rather than rejecting inspiration altogether. A closer look at Handel’s process of composing the Messiah suggests that divine inspiration often draws on previous experience, comes “line upon line,” and may manifest as an enabling power. 

Preparation and Previous Experience

Handel’s  Messiah came at a pivotal point in Handel’s career. Four years earlier, he had been restored to health after a dangerous stroke, defying an initial diagnosis that he would never again play the organ or compose music. But after his stroke, he struggled to find success. Handel’s signature Italian operas were falling out of favor with his British audience. His personal debts were mounting, raising the threat of debtor’s prison and increasing his stress. Considering the pressure that Handel experienced during this time, he likely felt an increased dependence on the Lord. Despite his talents, he may have felt that he needed help from on High. It is possible that such a sense of urgency and “real intent” made it possible for him to receive inspiration. 

Handel had essentially mastered the composition process, including the common 18th-century practice of writing a large quantity of music in a relatively short time. Researcher Calvin Stapert noted that Handel’s pace of 24 days for composition “was more or less typical for Handel.” To Stapert, this meant Handel was not inspired in his composition. Stapert wrote: “Romantic notions notwithstanding, it cannot be taken as a sign of exceptional or, as some have believed, divine inspiration. Like most of the composers of his time, Handel was capable of turning out a prodigious amount of music in a relatively short span of time … He was following his normal work pattern of composing new works in the gap between concert seasons.”

But the fact that the composition timeline was typical for Handel does not mean he was not inspired. Although the rapid composition of the Messiah was typical of Handel, the finished product stands out from the rest of his work for its spiritual qualities. Shortly after composing the Messiah, he wrote another oratorio, Samson, in about the same amount of time. It is worth listening to (I particularly recommend the 2009 BBC Proms performance), but it has nowhere near the same depth and spiritual power as the Messiah. Something was different about the process of composing the Messiah. I believe that divine inspiration entered into Handel’s routine and elevated what he was able to create. Honing his creative process over the years prepared him for his most inspiring and inspired work. 

Handel drew on prior preparation not only in his composition speed, but also in the musical qualities of the Messiah. Since 18th-century composers like Handel needed to produce a great deal of music quickly, they frequently recycled music from their own earlier compositions or borrowed from others. This behavior was culturally acceptable at the time, partly because facility and craftsmanship were prized more than originality, and partly because many people didn’t notice. Recordings weren’t possible, and the idea of a classical repertoire of pieces played on a regular basis didn’t yet exist. (Messiah may actually be the beginning of the classical repertoire, since it is the first piece to be performed regularly year after year.)

Handel was no exception in his borrowing; he borrowed from his own previous work and from that of other composers. In his Messiah, for one example, he drew from a forgotten madrigal he had previously written to write a duet and chorus. He also used ready-made material: the main melody of “And with His Stripes” was used by both Bach and Mozart, leading one researcher to call it “public property.” The same researcher notes that the Pastoral Symphony “is based upon a bagpipe tune played at Christmas by the pifferari of Naples and Rome,” but Handel acknowledged this by his abbreviation pifa at the beginning of the movement. 

While some might argue that Handel’s borrowings rule out the idea of divine inspiration, I suggest they merely change our idea of how inspiration works. Inspiration is not always about receiving completely new ideas. The Savior spoke of the Holy Ghost’s ability to “bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have said unto you.” Memory, discovery, and organization are all part of inspiration.

In Handel’s case, it appears that inspiration involved helping him to recall, select, and improve preexisting material. This may actually coincide with the understanding of the Creation process revealed to the prophet Joseph Smith. The Book of Abraham, for instance, redefines the Creation as “organizing” preexisting matter, rather than creating out of nothing. Handel’s recycling of prior works was not a passive copy-and-paste approach; in each case, he elevated the material. This is most clearly seen in the fact that one of the oratorio’s most beloved choruses, “For Unto Us a Child is Born,” is built out of material he had written for a forgotten Italian duet and a madrigal. The final result is not a similarly forgettable work but a masterpiece that offers spiritual nourishment to audiences all over the world. The borrowings and recyclings of prior work that were ordered to testify of the Savior attest to Handel’s inspiration, rather than disproving it. 

Line Upon Line 

Although the initial composition process took twenty-four days, Handel spent a great deal of time revising the Messiah. An editor of one version of the score, Watkins Shaw, notes that “no fewer than 11 movements … were subject to re-shaping or complete recomposition by Handel, some of them more than once, following original composition in 1741 and first performances in 1742.” Another researcher, Robert Manson Myers, notes that Handel “ultimately devoted more time and thought to Messiah than to any other single composition.”

The Messiah did not come all at once, fully formed and unchangeable. It came filtered through a mortal instrument through trial and error. The process accords with what scripture teaches about revelation: “For behold, thus saith the Lord God: I will give unto the children of men line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little; and blessed are those who hearken unto my precepts, and lend an ear unto my counsel, for they shall learn wisdom⁠; for unto him that receiveth will I give more⁠.” Inspiration and creation do not happen all at once. Handel’s experience shows that the process takes time and progresses gradually. It often includes inspired revision. 

An Enabling Power

Handel’s inspiration process did not shortcut the time and effort necessary for the creative process. Instead, it was a force that lifted and sanctified his efforts. Elder David A. Bednar, a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, has spoken of Christ’s “strengthening and enabling power” that “strengthens us to do things we could never do on our own.” I believe that this divine power played a role for Handel in the process of composing the Messiah. 

For Dr. Nelson, the hand of heaven was not seen in doing something unfamiliar, but in performing work he was experienced in at an extraordinarily effective level. The Messiah occupies a similar place in Handel’s career. He was enabled to create his most accomplished, most beloved work because he set out to bear witness of Jesus Christ. Like Dr. Nelson, Handel gave the glory to God, not only through a chorus that literally sings those words, but by inscribing at the end of the score S.D.G. (Soli Deo Gloria—“To God Alone be the Glory”).

There is a frequently quoted account from a servant of Handel that the composer once said that while working on the “Hallelujah” chorus, “I did think I did see all Heaven before me, and the great God Himself seated on His throne, with His company of Angels.” While we should use caution with source verification, it suggests Handel understood he was under the influence of divine inspiration. Handel’s claim is modest. His language (“I did think I did see”) emphasizes the subjective nature of the spiritual experience he had. That composing the chorus was a spiritual experience is not hard to believe, because listening to and singing it is a spiritual experience. 

Perhaps inspiration, then, served both to enable Handel to create his best artistic work and to inject a powerful moral and spiritual influence into his work, breathing the Spirit into the work that Handel created. It is that Spirit that continues to animate the work and, after nearly three hundred years and despite trends of secularism, continues to move us to stand and sing “Hallelujah, for the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth.”

The post The Divine Inspiration of Handel’s Messiah appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

Danny Frost

President Dallin H. Oaks again turned to the topic of peacemaking—a key part of his teachings, as well as those of President Russell M. Nelson. The repeated prophetic calls for peacemaking suggest that this is one of the key issues of our time. Christians should know better than to indulge in the contempt and hostility that are all around us. 

I appreciated how President Oaks indicated that peacemaking often means doing several things well at once: showing love and compassion for those who are different from us even as we stand up for the truth as we understand it. President Oaks also emphasized that personal virtue must be at the core of enduring peace. He noted that missionaries act as peacemakers when they “preach repentance from personal corruption, greed, and oppression, because only by individual reformation can an entire society eventually rise above such evils.” 

Peacemaking can include many other things such as bishops’ efforts to help marriages and resolve personal conflicts, service to others, reducing suffering, increasing understanding between groups, and raising children (including foster children). Peacemakers heal and uplift. President Oaks’ closing words are a powerful invitation to be better peacemakers: “Let us follow Him by forgoing contention and by using the language and methods of peacemakers. In our families and other personal relationships, let us avoid what is harsh and hateful. Let us seek to be holy, like our Savior.” 

Charity and Enduring to the End

Anna Bryner

Elder David A. Bednar delivered a great insight about how “enduring to the end is linked inextricably to the spiritual gift of charity.” He taught that “charity is the very essence of the end toward which we are enduring: becoming new creatures in Christ.” In other words, charity is not only a spiritual gift that will help us endure to the end, but the very substance of the kind of person we are to become: one who “suffereth long, and is kind, and envieth not, and is not puffed up, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil, and rejoiceth not in iniquity but rejoiceth in the truth, beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.”

I thought Elder Bednar’s talk paired well with President Dallin H. Oaks’ talk about relating to one another as children of God. This is the practical work of charity—to allow Christ’s love and righteous desires to fill our hearts and transform the way we interact with others. Peacemaking can start in each of our hearts as we seek the spiritual gift of charity from the Father.

Faith Through the Highs and Lows

Lauren Yarro

President Emily Belle Freeman shared a powerful perspective that both our good days and our hard days are part of God’s plan. In her talk, she uses Peter’s story to show that faith isn’t built in one defining moment, but over time through both the highs and the lows of life. Peter had moments of bold testimony and moments of fear and failure, and he still became who the Lord needed him to be. President Freeman reminds us that Christ is not distant in our hardest moments. He is right there with us, strengthening us and reminding us that our worst days are not the end of our story.

I needed the reminder that both the best days and the worst days are shaping us into who the Lord needs us to become. She taught that holding onto the eternal truths and the promised blessings of the gospel of Jesus Christ allows us to draw upon the power of God in our lives. Her closing reminder was that “joy is not the absence of sorrow in your life. It is the presence of Jesus Christ in your life.” 

Ministering in the Savior’s Way

Amanda Freebairn

This general conference was a reminder to me of the many storms the people around us are facing. Elder Ronald A. Rasband shared about the short life of his grandson who was born with chromosomal abnormalities. President Emily Belle Freeman explained that recently, during the excitement of planning her daughter’s wedding, her beloved husband found out his cancer had returned. Elder Thierry K. Motumbo told the story of losing four children. 

But along with these heartbreaking stories emerged a theme of love and ministering, and the impact ministering can have on the lives of those we minister to. 

Sister Kristen Yee shared that her father, who had been at one point emotionally abusive, began to heal through the Savior when a ministering couple invited him to attend the temple weekly. She also explained that “ministering by the Spirit invites the Spirit into our lives and the lives of those we minister to. I often find peace, clarity, healing and purpose when I minister. I find the Savior when I minister. This is by divine design.” 

Both President Dallin H. Oaks and Sister Yee testified that through the Savior, we can come to love in ways that we never thought possible. Elder Patrick Kearon said since his calling to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, “I’ve learned that I can love even more…We don’t serve people we really love, rather, we come to love people as we serve them.” 

President D. Todd Christofferson taught that as we cultivate the pure love of Christ, lift and minister to others, and exercise devotion to the will of God, we can little by little enact change in the world.

“We tend to underestimate the influence of Christlike individuals in the world. But working one by one has always been Jesus’ approach to a changing society and establishing his kingdom. It is the aggregation of individual choices over time that forms and changes societies for good or ill. No one of us alone can change the world but each of us can have an influence in the world.”

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In The Merchant of Venice, Shakespeare’s portrayal of Shylock, the Jewish moneylender, embodied the danger that can accompany misrepresentation and stereotyping. Reduced by society to “the Jew,” Shylock is seen as less than human, his depiction fraught with inaccuracy and hyperbole. This unjustly skewed representation of the Jewish people has reinforced antisemitic sentiment across the globe, the effects of which have lasted for generations and continue to this day in many parts of the world.

Throughout history, religious minorities have faced significant struggles due to erroneous beliefs perpetuated about them, including by media and popular discourse. While the United States was founded on principles of religious pluralism and equality, our current society yet reflects harmful gaps in religious literacy that fuel a lack of empathy for those who believe differently than most.

The American Families of Faith Project conducted in-depth interviews with 131 families belonging to religious minority communities (e.g., Jewish, Muslim, Latter-day Saint, Jehovah’s Witness, and other minority faith traditions) to identify the most salient struggles being faced by these families on a regular basis. The published study resulting from this work presented five primary themes that reinforce the need for meaningful reform in religious literacy, education, tolerance and interreligious cohesion in the United States.

Theme 1: Struggles Related to Difference and Minority Status

Among the minority families interviewed, over one-third identified their religious distinctiveness, including behaviors, clothing, and practices that diverge from social norms, as a primary source of tension within majority culture. Narratives involving children were described as particularly distressing for parents. Bekah (names changed to protect participants), a Jewish mother, described witnessing her daughters’ religious exclusion:

There have been some difficult times with the girls, every year. “Why are all the decorations for Christmas?” You know, just a lot of questions and irritation, and I understand their irritation and I’ve experienced it in the past, but I’ve gotten to a point in my life where I’m not irritated by it. I keep explaining to the girls that people are not doing this to be mean, people do not mean to be excluding other religions, they’re not trying to hurt you. This is [just] what they do to celebrate.

Although the pain of not belonging was a frequently shared experience, most families were unwilling to compromise their religious convictions, even when this meant becoming accustomed to and even expecting exclusion from social activities. Wafiyah, a Muslim mother, borrowed the words of her daughter:

Because I wear hijab [when I am out] in the community… I have to be different. I cannot be friends with everybody because their reaction to my hijab is different. I can only communicate with the friends that I have from childhood [because] they know me. Making strong relationships is hard in a new community.

These patterns suggest that, especially for children and adolescents, the struggle of being different has the potential to shape their sense of belonging and ability to connect with their community. Many adolescents in mainstream culture are unfamiliar with visible religious identifiers such as hijabs, yarmulkes, or saris, which can exacerbate religious exclusion. Conversely, if young people see positive representation of these religious and cultural identifiers in media, they may experience less fear associated with religious identifiers.

Theme 2: Struggles Related to Other Religious People

While many participants described struggles with those outside their faith, a second prominent theme involved tensions within religious communities. Angie, a convert to Islam from a Christian faith, shared:

When I was in the [X] church, I hit rock bottom when my parents divorced and then the minister was publicly humiliated because he was having affairs on his wife. That was my loss in trust, my trust was totally broken and my family life was shattered all at the same time.

I had no idea where to go. I wondered, how can these people lead others?… At that time I had hit rock bottom. I had God but I didn’t have a faith.

Angie’s recollection highlights a shared struggle among minorities, which is often overlooked: intrafaith relations, or struggles within one’s own faith community. These religious difficulties are complex, but may include feelings of betrayal, mistrust, exclusion, division, or taking offense. 

In a similar vein, Elijah, a Jewish father, explained a conflict he faced at his synagogue:

I profoundly disagree with institutional Judaism. For [my wife and me], Israel/Palestine is important. It’s actually caused friction between us and various Jewish friends of ours … in the synagogue. I will open my mouth and there will be people who are very upset at me. It’s a little interesting that we both feel … that it’s so important to have a synagogue, but in some ways we do not get along with the people in the synagogue.

Taken together, these stories reveal that while faith communities can be a source of great comfort for religious minority families, they can also be a cause of tension and deep divides. For minority families to flourish in the United States, there is progress to be made on an interfaith level as well as an intrafaith level.

Theme 3: Struggles Related to Misunderstanding and Ignorance

Echoing the damaging stereotype of Shylock in The Merchant of Venice, many of the religious minority participants revealed that they experienced feelings of frustration due to misunderstanding, ignorance, and being inaccurately portrayed. Notably, many Muslim families alluded to the pain they have experienced due to misconceptions surrounding the events of 9/11 in 2001 and during the subsequent years. Baseema, a Muslim wife said, “After September 11th you [could] feel it … They … question sometime[s], not with words but with their eyes.”

Another Muslim mother, Aisha, explained, “People think that [after 9-11], “Oh, Muslims, they take this lightly.” We were hurt that people were hurt. So, I think we were more offended that … [many] thought [the terrorism] was a form of … Islamic activity … [instead of the acts of terrorists].”

These poignant accounts invite us to examine our own assumptions about others. As the Nigerian novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie argues, the danger of a single story lies in its reducing people or groups of humanity to one-dimensional stereotypes, rather than seeing them in multi-dimensional living reality.

Theme 4: Struggles Related to the Demands of Faith Community

The fourth theme, also found across participants from various minority faith traditions, centered on religious demands and expectations within one’s faith, many sharing that they often fall short of the high expectations despite their religious devotion. For example, Rose, a Latter-day Saint mother, explained:

Being a main member of the [congregation] carries a lot of responsibility. We are responsible to support everything. If [we] weren’t there [people ask],“Where were you?” There’s so much that I have to [do] and getting the three little girls [ready for church on top of that]. I really, really try. It’s hard, but I want to support everything and sometimes I get overwhelmed with all the responsibilities.

Rose’s reflection highlights a struggle that can be especially pronounced for religious minorities living in parts of the U.S. where few people share their faith or can offer support. Many also described the added pressure of needing to be exemplary representatives of their faith to those outside their community, further complicating this religious stressor.

Theme 5: Struggles Related to Animosity and Rejection

Without even being asked a related question, about one-eighth of the participants in the study spontaneously described being the victim of hatred, hostility, or rejection—experiences that left lasting impressions on those involved. Violent acts such as arson have disproportionately impacted Jewish synagogues, Black churches, and Muslim mosques (masjids) in the United States. Recent acts of hatred, including a 2024 attack on a Latter-day Saint church in Michigan reaffirm the existence of violent religious prejudice. Moreover, many families in the study reported experiencing acts of bigotry in one form or another. Ibrahim and Jala, a Muslim couple, a few months after 9/11, explained how popular media had been a cause of stress for them:

Ibrahim: It’s been really stressful for all Muslims. It’s tough to even watch the news anymore.

Jala: It’s so depressing.

Ibrahim: There is not one day that goes by without something negative about the Muslims. It’s been very stressful for all of us.

Their words reveal the distress felt by religious minorities who have navigated pervasive assumptions that their faith tradition is inherently violent. As a result, there is pressure to try to counteract false narratives. Another aspect of this theme was highlighted by a Christian father named Thomas, who spoke to the complexities that can arise when engaging with someone of another faith:

Our middle son, Jonathan… about five years ago . . . [he was] maybe going on about four [years old]. [Jonathan] was concerned for the salvation of this little neighbor friend… [who is] Hindu. His mother [also is] Hindu . . . but what happened was [Jonathan] tried to share his faith with him and said, “If you do not believe in God, you’re going to go to hell.” … His [friend’s] mother was very offended by that and now they do not—[well], it’s been five years and they do not play together [anymore]. That [has] hurt.

If this exchange and fallout were painful for Thomas and his son Jonathan, how much pain was experienced by the Hindu friend and his parents? There is significant room for additional learning, religious literacy, and neighborly compassion among us all.

Navigating struggles of difference can be painfully divisive for minority families. For many, it can be especially challenging to accept and respect the differing beliefs of others, when one’s own convictions are so deeply held. With greater empathy, our society can increase its capacity for awareness and sensitivity in avoiding damage and offense—and for humble repentance, forgiveness, and reconciliation when damage is done, whether intended or not. This is the healing balm that our world is in greater need of now than ever before.

Hath Not a Jew Eyes?

During a pivotal moment in The Merchant of Venice, Shylock makes a powerful appeal to shared humanity while facing those who have wronged him:

Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is?

Diverse religious convictions may lead us to believe that we are too different to cultivate peace and view one another with empathy, but Shylock posits that we each grieve, suffer, love, and hope —things that make us more alike than we might think. We share so much in common—the things that make us human, many things that matter profoundly.

In examining the struggles experienced by religious minority families in the United States, the need for foundational change is undeniable. The question, then, is where do we begin? 

Both the participants and the researchers involved in the American Families of Faith Project suggest starting with small, intentional steps, such as: (1) asking respectful questions about someone’s beliefs or practices with the intent to listen and learn, (2) attending religious services or celebrations outside one’s own tradition to support a friend, or (3) cultivating friendship with someone of a different faith. While interreligious understanding will not occur overnight, small steps have the power to bridge divides.

As we become a society that listens rather than assumes, and reconciles rather than retaliates, we will begin to see religious minority families not as stereotypes but as people—each with a unique story to tell.

The post Strangers in Their Own Land appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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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”: “the testimony of the apostles and prophets concerning Jesus Christ, ‘that he died [for our sins], was buried, and rose again the third day.”

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.

The post A Latter-day Saint Prelude to Easter appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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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.

The post The Importance of Discerning Authorized Messengers appeared first on Public Square Magazine.