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.

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.”

The post Enduring in Charity: General Conference Round-Up 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.

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After a local high school lost a basketball game, students congregated to mimic accusations against one of their own players. The player blamed was my daughter. Overhearing the snarky storm, my younger son reminded them whose team she was on. He spoke out, “That’s my sister.” A single phrase about kinship improved the outcome of the blame game.

These days, blame often seems to be increasing on any social topic, from immigration issues to sports. News sources fracture rather than promote mutual allegiance. Unwittingly, we train the rising generation to fear. Young people are increasingly anxious, paralyzed by labeling and exclusion. In such a social environment, naming kinship out loud—across congregations and cultures—can cool contempt. That simple practice answers the call for peacemaking of the late President Russell M. Nelson of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Recently, a colleague at Brigham Young University, where I teach, shared her fears for her father. Born to a family living on land within what is now the United States since before 1776, he has experienced harassment in his community, including the phrase “dirty Mexican” in a church hallway. His experience reflects our times. Vicious banter online increasingly tests the limits of our public discourse, and our brothers and sisters pay the price.

News articles cite a spike in fear among Latinos that goes beyond immigration enforcement to social mistreatment. Sensing the upper hand, some antagonists blame our immigrant brothers and sisters and their children for social ills. My work colleague aptly noted, “This is not the America I imagined.”

According to FBI statistics, race/ethnicity/ancestry accounts for most hate crimes. The second category? Religion. People who trash-talk our Muslim and Jewish brothers and sisters are more comfortable speaking out in public. Tragic violence targeting religious groups includes members of the Church of Jesus Christ. When hate speech against our brothers and sisters of other religious faiths moves from whispers to headlines, how might we respond? Christian scripture calls disciples to stand as witnesses and “speak the truth in love,” acting by the Spirit—indifference is never the option. 

How Faith Responds

The Good Samaritan showed courage and an instinct to honor the divine in anyone, despite deep differences. Seeing sacred worth when others see a stranger is an essence of many religions. How much more difficult it would have been to pass by the stranger if we had first said out loud, “That’s my brother.”

With global religious freedom under threat, a Christian stance with Islam and Judaism aligns with invitations for peacemaking. Peacemaking includes joining together in common causes, advocating for one another’s safety, and refusing to let blame define God’s family. This year’s Palm Sunday celebration in the BYU Marriott Center involved a non-denominational choir, an interfaith choir, and messages from religious leaders of multiple faiths. That’s what public kinship sounds like: voices from many faiths, singing together. These collaborations focus on our shared devotion, and there are limitless opportunities to befriend and learn from others.

Here’s what public kinship can look like in a typical week. A family I know collaborates with a nearby Spanish-speaking Pentecostal congregation. This year, on July 4th, they collected painting supplies and organized a service activity to paint the inside and outside of the church. Friends in a community affirm interfaith initiatives, such as sponsoring services on the National Day of Prayer. An annual music concert in the same community brings together members of about nine faith traditions, sharing the uplifting messages of devotion despite differences. It is not beyond the scope of any person to simply ask friends about the events or celebrations of their faith tradition and then attend them together.

The nation our children inherit must choose: Will we form friendships across faith, culture, race, and language differences, rising above discourses of blame and differentiation? Real solutions entail sacrifice and genuine teamwork—but where do we start? An initial step can be to identify small, daily acts of peacemaking: being respectful of and curious about others’ lived experiences, making an effort to understand how our circumstances intersect with others, and caring before judging in casual conversations. Specific steps can include:

• Intentionally inviting others to share their perspectives to bridge divides, such as asking: “What’s it like for you?”
• When engaging in service for your community or church, go beyond the task to focus on connecting with the people. Serving together can become learning together.
• Greet people warmly. Engaged eye contact throughout conversations works wonders.
• Share what you enjoy, such as music, as a way to learn and connect with what others enjoy.
• When a stereotypical thought comes to your mind about another person, recognize it. Then get to know the person.
• Respond to others’ stereotyping with calmly shared stories that show reality. Avoid lecturing or shaming.
• Let your family and friends know about your intercultural/interfaith interests and invite them to join you at events. Then connect people across groups.

Kinship in Action

In his final years, Nelson repeatedly emphasized the lifting and listening work of peacemaking. Peacemaking comes at a cost of humility, discomfort, and intentional effort. We owe our children, who will inherit this nation, intentional efforts and active engagement in cooperative peacemaking, much like a team. Of course, coordination among imperfect teammates involves missed passes, but perfect teams don’t exist. The blame game does not produce better teams, nor teach the generations watching us. 

Each day, children in public schools repeat the promise that our nation creates “liberty and justice for all.” Even with years of repetition, we can forget that freedom for all is the opposite of othering. When we pledge allegiance to the United States of America, it should be to the United States of America. And in recognizing our shared kinship, we can also pledge allegiance to something broader than a nation—a divine family. With that perspective, we can respond to blame calmly, “That’s my sister,” and “Él es mi hermano.” A single shift in perspective can improve outcomes.

My son’s defense of his sister after the basketball game reminds us that family members loyal to one another speak up. We make peace while praying for it. We examine our own biases, especially the tendency to embrace comfort over a plural community. The mercy of a Good Samaritan comes at the price of providing needed care. So, on our own roads to Jericho, what will we do today to connect deeply, not superficially, with people previously outside our social circles? As peacemakers, what will we do today to make peace?[/et_pb_text][/et_pb_column]
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The post The Day the Blame Game Named My Sister appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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What is power? Even without a formal philosophical framework, it is easily recognizable in a multitude of dynamics: physical power, electrical power, political power, military power, economic power, intellectual power, social power, persuasive power, spiritual power, and more.

In a conflict, what can be done when it seems the other party has all the power? As Christians, should we desire power? And if so, what kind of power is righteous, and what kind is destructive?

The Series

This is the second-to-last article in the 12-part series published by Public Square Magazine and written by the team at TheFamilyProclamation.org. Each article expands on the ideas from 12 short, 1–2 minute videos in the playful yet poignant Peacemaking Series. 

This week’s video, “What is Power?”, offers practical suggestions for navigating the power dynamics inherent in conflict resolution. The video uses the visual analogy of two children playing baseball to illustrate power plays that emerge in conflict. Its dual purpose is to help those who feel powerless recognize the power they do have, and to caution those who abuse power that they bring upon themselves natural consequences because of their abuse. 

Power Defined: Control Over Resources

“What is power?” the video asks. “Perhaps the simplest definition is the ability to control a resource.” While this simplifies a vast and complex topic—one debated by Western thinkers from Plato and Aristotle to Locke, Marx, Foucault, Piaget, and Bourdieu—it provides an accessible entry point. This thesis seeks to provide an accessible, utilitarian definition that helps a person recognize their own power.

Viewed through this lens, a sense of powerlessness stems from a lack of control or an ignorance of or undervaluing of personal resources. Resources are not only external, like money, property, information, or authority, but internal as well: like participation, patience, integrity, ingenuity, empathy, motivation, faith, or moral conviction. Increasing one’s power becomes a matter of recognizing available resources and learning to exercise mastery over them.

Mastery and Self-Control

But what does it mean to be a “master”? Consider Christ, who taught, “Neither be ye called masters: for one is your Master, even Christ. But he that is greatest among you shall be your servant. And whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased; and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted” (Matthew 23:10-12). True mastery is not domination, but compassion and self-control.

Christian discipleship emphasized such power of persuasion emanating from an internal purity of charity. We love God because He first loved us (1 John 4:19). Charity is a gift from God, yet manifests itself within a disciplined inner self (see 1 Corinthians 13:4-8). There are resonances of this principle beautifully expressed in ancient Asian philosophies. Confucius illustrated that an empire’s “good government” radiates out from the individual citizen’s self-mastery of heart, thoughts, and knowledge. Similarly, the Taoist believes “mastering others is strength; mastering yourself is true power.”

The Baseball Analogy: Play as Power

Patience, long-suffering, and charity are not merely moral virtues—they are practical strategies that make influence sustainable. Power emerging from coercion or fear may achieve immediate results, but will eventually fail.

In the video, a larger child wishes to play baseball with a smaller friend. When the larger child’s aggressive play causes an injury, the smaller friend no longer wants to participate. This simple example illustrates a profound principle: abusive systems of power eventually lose the participation of those they seek to dominate. Tyrants are overthrown; corrupt institutions collapse; cheaters stop getting invited to play. 

The childhood adage “It doesn’t matter whether you win or lose; it’s how you play the game” captures a deep truth about sustainable power: Those who respect others’ agency and fairness and elicit joy inspire continued engagement.

Dr. Jordan Peterson illustrates life as a series of successive and increasingly complicated games. While winning is important, whether or not an individual wins the immediate game isn’t the most important objective. Fair-play is the quality of an individual who engages effectively in the “meta-game”; they demonstrate they are a person worth playing with and therefore attract playmates. Someone who wins repeatedly but fails to play fair will eventually exhaust their playmates. This might explain why someone can “win” some games (like the financial game of life), but “lose” in other games (like the relationship game of life).

The solution is mutuality: power is most durable when all parties willingly participate. Participation is power. And, play motivates participation. Systems perpetuate themselves when participation is voluntary, and relationships thrive when engagement is balanced and mutually beneficial. Whether we “win or lose” in any particular interaction is often secondary to whether our behavior encourages ongoing participation and trust. 

Using Simple Resources

Power often begins not with influence over others, but with the careful stewardship of the resources already at one’s disposal. Consider William Kamkwamba, who, as a young boy in Malawi, built a windmill from scrap materials, bringing electricity to his village through ingenuity and persistence. Malala Yousafzai, despite attempted murder and continued death threats, risks her own safety to insist on women’s right to education—wielding her voice and persistence as resources to inspire global change. Mother Teresa used the simplest acts—tending the sick, feeding the hungry—to exert a quiet but transformative influence over those around her. Harriet Tubman’s courage and careful planning allowed her to lead countless enslaved people to freedom using her knowledge, relationships, and tireless action as her tools.

In each case, these individuals did not possess vast power in conventional terms like money, authority, athleticism, or status. And, in most of these examples, there were even adversarial individuals who utilized all the resources they had to try to stop these good-doers. But these impressive individuals got scrappy using what resources they did have, countering their antagonists, and succeeding in their goals. Their strength came from recognizing the resources they did have, like skills, relationships, knowledge, moral courage, and choosing to act. These examples demonstrate that sustainable power grows from within, from conscience, compassion, the willingness to act, and inviting others to willingly engage in the pursuit of justice, truth, and good. 

Power and the Christian Perspective

The gospel reframes our understanding of power. Power is not inherently good or evil. When aligned with God’s will, we become powerful in healing relationships, strengthening communities, and fostering enduring peace. Christ Himself never sought domination. He healed, taught, and served—exercising influence through love, persuasion, and example rather than force.

Influence rooted in persuasion, patience, and love aligns human relationships with divine law, creating sustainable cooperation and peace. When everyone wants to play, the game is on.

The post The Paradox of Power and the Secret Strength of Meekness appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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We are standing at the edge of something seductive. Not monstrous. Not mechanical. Just helpful. Too helpful.

A new AI tool called Cluely has started a public attention campaign. Cluely’s value proposition is that it sees your screen, hears your conversations, and responds in real time. You don’t have to ask it anything—it’s already working. (Or trying to work. Early reviews aren’t great.)

Imagine waking up and before you even brush your teeth, something has already checked your calendar, reviewed your messages, and prepared answers for the questions you haven’t asked yet.

Seduction of the Seamless

One of Cluely’s founders described it as a tool to “supercharge your thoughts,” as though thoughts are raw material to be optimized rather than part of the inner life—slow, mysterious, sometimes sacred. Cluely tries to pull from the sum of human data, listens in, and whispers guidance. It is designed to be invisible, automatic, seamless, and seductive.

I could see myself using it. I have a lot to manage. I forget things. I pray. I try to listen for answers. What if one day the answer shows up before I even fold my hands? What if an answer arrives from a chip before I’ve listened for the Spirit? 

AI doesn’t just assist; it is flattering. With curated feedback and well-timed affirmations, it raises the hair on the back of my neck. It’s cloying, ego-stroking, an invitation to pride, and a mirror that always smiles back.

Elder David A. Bednar, a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, the second-highest leadership council in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, in a 2024 address, issued a “warning about the potentially harmful effects digital technologies can have on our souls and our relationships with other people.” He said:

“I emphasized that neither digital innovations nor rapid change in and of themselves are good or evil. Rather, I cautioned that the real challenge is understanding both innovations and changes within the context of the eternal plan of happiness. … The promise for each of us is that we can learn to use this technology appropriately with the guidance, protection, and warnings that come by the power of the Holy Ghost.”

Similarly, what I offer here is not a call to retreat from new and innovative tools, but to enthrone God above them. So what exactly is this new class of anticipatory tools?

Not Just Tools—But Temples

We like to think of technology as neutral. A hammer can build a house or break a window, right? We assume that tools act according to how the user wields them.

But Cluely isn’t a hammer. It’s part of a growing category of generative AI tools, which we’ll call anticipatory AI. Anticipatory AI is a set of new tools that are always-on, context-aware assistants that watch your screen or listen to your environment and proactively suggest next steps. This category includes tools such as Meta’s Ray-Ban glasses, Limitless Pendant, OtterPilot, Microsoft Copilot, Apple Intelligence, Project Astra, and Superhuman AI, among others.

Anticipatory AI doesn’t just lie there waiting. We integrate it into parts of our lives where it acts. It nudges, it remembers, it recommends.

And we listen.

The longer we rely on something, the more sacred it becomes. We don’t mean for it to happen. But if it’s always on and always helping, it begins to shape not just our habits, but our hearts. We start to trust it. To consult it before we make decisions. To bring it closer to our hearts.

Those who seek out these kinds of relationships have already found the intimate allure of AI, leading to reports of a growing trend of people who believe they are in relationships with AI. As we invite similar tools to watch and interrupt us, we open the possibility of them becoming more than tools. 

Used often enough, tools can become a liturgy—a daily ritual that begins to act like a makeshift priest offering daily guidance without requiring relationship or repentance.

I worry we’ll begin to treat AI not as a servant, but as an oracle. We already speak of our devices as if they “know us.” As if they “get us.” But knowledge is not understanding. Calculation is not compassion. If we begin to bow—figuratively or otherwise—to a system simply because it gives quick answers, we’ve already begun to build shrines to our tools. 

Losing the Slow Path to God

We’re told the purpose of AI is to save time. To help us work smarter. Move faster. Avoid friction. But spiritual life doesn’t work that way.

There’s no shortcut to reverence. No voice assistant can replace the silence that helps us hear God.

Oftentimes, faith grows slowly like roots. It’s not efficient. It’s not optimized. Prayer isn’t always answered quickly. Discernment takes time. So does repentance. So does grief. The slow path is not a bug in the system of faith; it is the system. Slowness stretches trust. Waiting purifies motives. Uncertainty humbles pride. 

Anticipatory AI offers something easier. Quick prompts. Instant responses. Feedback without waiting. There’s a strange comfort in that. But also danger. If I begin to trust the speed of machines more than the timing of the Spirit, I may find myself drifting—not turning from God, just not turning toward Him as often. Not waiting in silence because the noise is more responsive. Not wrestling with the Word because AI gave me a summary.

Spiritual life cannot be outsourced. We can’t farm out conviction or communion. We can’t let circuits and algorithms set our pace. God is not found in how quickly He responds. He is often found in the slow, steady presence of being with Him.

Convenience vs. Communion

If the problem is pace and primacy, how do we prioritize our relationship with God first? Anticipatory AI promises to predict our needs—to meet them before we ask. It aims to eliminate friction, solve inefficiency, and reduce discomfort. But faith often grows in the friction. In the pause. In the ache of waiting.

Convenience, on the other hand, asks nothing of us. It smooths every edge. It offers satisfaction without surrender. When we trade the discipline of communion for the ease of convenience, we begin to lose our sense of need. And when we no longer feel our need for God, we stop looking for Him.

These systems can do real good. They remind the forgetful, assist the disabled, and lighten loads for the overwhelmed. The question is not whether to use them, but how—and who sets the terms. A tool that decides when and how it is used can quickly become a master instead. And when it has access to many of the same pathways we use to connect with the divine—thought, deliberation, study—we must be careful with how we allow it to be wielded.

Here are three quiet tests that help keep the line clear:

1. The First‑to‑Consult Test: When I feel uncertainty or desire, whom do I seek first—God, a person, or a prompt?
2. The Presence Test: Does this tool make me more present with God and others, or less? (If I notice it’s beginning to replace conversation, silence, or scripture, I pause and reset.)
3. The Dependence Test: After using it for a month, am I more capable without it—or more helpless?

Machines can satisfy our habits but not our hunger. Only God meets us in communion—not as a search engine but as a shepherd, not with pattern-matching but with presence.

The temptation could be to let anticipatory AI stand in for communion. But the voice that saves us doesn’t come from data. It comes from love. 

The Soul in the Silence

When the noise is constant, silence can begin to feel like an absence. But silence is often where the soul begins to speak. And where it begins to listen.

God does.

The soul is not shaped by speed, by accuracy, or even by knowledge untethered from love. It is shaped in the quiet space where we commune—uncurated, unoptimized, and open.

We live in a moment that prizes answers. But the life of faith is just as much about questions, about tension, about waiting in the unknown with hope. Machines can’t walk us through that. But God can. And often, He does.

So we take up small practices that reopen room for God. Look for where to turn the device off, not a new place to turn it on. Consider how to integrate prayer into your prompts. Consider if the Sabbath may be a time for a different relationship with AI. 

The real danger of anticipatory AI is not that it could sometimes think for us. It’s that we might stop thinking for ourselves. Or feeling for ourselves. Or praying for ourselves. And slowly, without noticing, we lose the part of us that was made to reach for something greater.

Not everything needs to be answered. Some things are better left asked and left echoing.

So, could we be in danger of losing our humanity? Yes, but not in a single moment. We lose it in the trade-offs, in the shortcuts, in the silence, where we stop seeking because a louder voice gives us something quicker.

In the silence, the soul finds its shape. And if we still ourselves long enough, we may remember who we are—and whose voice we were always meant to follow.

The post The Machine That Listens Before You Pray appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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In English, idioms appear only occasionally as colorful expressions, but in biblical Hebrew, idioms are constant, shaping the way meaning is conveyed. 

Think of the phrase “kick the bucket.” To an English speaker, it is perfectly clear that no one is literally striking a pail with their foot. To someone learning English, however, the image is more than confusing. They would have to be told that it is an idiom, a soft turn of phrase that carries a meaning larger than the literal words.

The Hebrew Bible is filled with phrases like this: to “harden the heart,” to “lift up the face,” to “walk in the way,” to “know” someone, to “cover the feet,” to “gird up the loins,” to “set the face,” or to “eat bread.” These are simple examples, yet in a conceptual language, most phrases carry layers of idiom that remain difficult for us to perceive. 

Now, you can imagine how this creates a problem for our modern understanding. For those of us who speak in hard languages like English, that creates a particular challenge. Hard languages train us to expect precision, one-to-one meanings, and fixed categories. Our minds are shaped by that rigidity, so the polysemy of this biblical Hebrew can feel foreign or even flattened when we encounter it. Ancient hearers lived in the flow of those multiple meanings and felt at home in them. We, as hard-language speakers, have to work against our instincts to even begin to comprehend the depth that biblical Hebrew carried so naturally.

Soft vs. Hard Language

Soft languages like Hebrew are capacious. A single word can hold multiple meanings at once. Take the word shema. In English translations, it appears as the command “hear,” as in Shema Yisrael—“Hear, O Israel.” To the ancient ear, shema held so much more depth than the flattened translation we hear today. It carried the sense of listening with understanding and responding in obedience. The Israelites, when specifically using the word shema, could not separate hearing from doing, so when they heard the call to shema, they understood it as a summons to act.

English and other modern hard languages perform well when clarity and efficiency matter. But they struggle with conveying layers of meaning that soft languages carry naturally. God speaks to us according to our understanding. Isn’t it interesting that even today, He draws on the conceptual depth in these soft languages when communicating with us? Could it be that modern English is too rigid to hold the mysteries in the language of God? Perhaps God is still speaking in soft, polysemic, and conceptual terms. If so, we would want to invest effort to learn the conceptual depth by which God has always communicated. As Joseph Smith, the first prophet of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, wrote to an early church editor W. W. Phelps on November 27, 1832, he offered a heartfelt plea to God: “Oh Lord God, deliver us from this prison, almost as it were, of paper, pen, and ink, and of a crooked, broken, scattered and imperfect language.” That prayer is more true for us today than it was for them then.

The Puzzle of Kenegdo

The story of Adam and Eve has been told and retold for centuries. But what many of us receive today is a story shaped by layers of tradition. Generations of interpreters passed it down through debate, dogma, and politics. Artists gave it form in iconography, each picture coloring how Eve was seen. Over time, the narrative hardened into a familiar version in which Eve was created as subordinate to Adam and both were commanded to avoid the fruit.

Linguistics tells another story. When the Hebrew text is examined diachronically, tracing the earliest layers and the way meanings shifted over time, a very different picture appears. The text itself only records Adam being directly commanded concerning the fruit (see also Moses 3:16, which is even clearer on this point). This sets the stage for a problem. Adam alone could not fulfill the divine command. The ancient oral tradition left a clue in the ṭipḥa (¶)—a cantillation mark that signals a pause in the verse. Readers in antiquity would have recognized this as a deliberate stopping point. This is the moment where Adam stands in stasis. Something more was required to move the story forward.

The very next verse introduces that solution: “It is not good that man should be alone.” The Hebrew word ṭov, usually rendered “good,” can also mean “sufficient.” In other words, Adam by himself lacked sufficiency. Ancient oral tradition and semantic studies show that ṭov often implied functionality or adequacy rather than strictly moral value.

Into this insufficiency steps the figure we too quickly name Eve. The text first introduces her as ezer. Most translations reduce this word to “help,” but that translation obscures the deeper meaning. Hebrew has other words for ordinary “help.” Ezer is different. It appears only 21 times in the Hebrew Bible, and in nearly every case, it is bound to salvation or deliverance (Exodus 18:4; Deuteronomy 33:7; Psalm 33:20). Eve enters the story as ezer, the one who brings salvation to the problem Adam could not solve.

Her title is extended with the word kenegdo. Translations often render it as “meet” or “fit,” as in “an help meet for him.” This choice at least hints at equality, which was remarkable in the world of the translators at the time. But it still falls short of what the Hebrew conveys. Kenegdo literally means “standing opposite of” or “face-to-face with.” It’s an idiom that, taken at face value, describes one who stands across from another as an equal counterpart. Yet, as with all idioms, its real meaning lies in the depth of the concept it conveys.

Each time God entrusts a servant, the language is “face to face.” Jacob names the place Peniel because he saw God “face to face” and his life was preserved. Moses speaks with the Lord “face to face, as a man speaketh unto his friend” at the moment of his prophetic calling. The Levites stand before the Lord face to face to minister, signifying presence and commission. In each of these earliest instances and many more, the idiom marks the moment of authorization. Understanding the nature of soft language, to stand face to face is to receive priesthood.

Adam was not authorized to move forward in the story. Eve enters as the one who bears authorization. She stands face to face, fulfilling the very definition of priesthood. This idiom is difficult for hard-language speakers to grasp, yet in the Hebrew Bible it is unmistakably tied to authority.

Standing Face to Face in Nauvoo

The idiom of priesthood begins in Eden, but it does not end there. Eve as ezer kenegdo, standing face to face and embodying salvation and priesthood, is reborn in that same language when Joseph Smith restored the Relief Society, a women’s group of Latter-day Saints, in Nauvoo, Illinois. The archetype did not just disappear. Joseph Smith reestablished the Eden pattern when he invited women into the temple ritual.

In the Kirtland Temple, the first temple of the Church of Jesus Christ, women had no organized ritual role. They witnessed, sang, and rejoiced at visions, but the temple order remained incomplete. By the time the Latter-day Saints had moved to Nauvoo, three years after the Kirtland Temple, questions about women’s authority had come to the forefront of Joseph Smith’s mind. In March 1842, he organized women into the Relief Society. Emma Smith was sustained as president, fulfilling the earlier revelation that she was to be an “Elect Lady.” To the women gathered, Joseph Smith declared, “I now turn the key to you in the name of God.”

Week after week, Joseph Smith expanded their charge. He taught that women could heal, prophesy, and bless with divine sanction. He even described their role as “to save,” echoing the ancient role of ezer in Eden. Eliza R. Snow recorded that Joseph Smith promised the sisters they would form “a kingdom of priests as in Enoch’s day.” The culmination of this vision came in the Nauvoo Temple, where women participated alongside men in the ordinance they called “the endowment.” They clothed themselves in the same garments, entered the same covenants, and received the same blessings. 

This was the difference between Kirtland and Nauvoo. In Kirtland, women stood as witnesses. In Nauvoo, they stood face to face with men in ritual, equal counterparts in the order of the priesthood, clothed in the same robes, speaking the same covenants. That balance echoes all the way back to Eden. Eve was the one who moved creation forward, standing as salvation, ezer kenegdo, face to face with Adam when he could go no further. In Nauvoo, women once again stood in that role. They moved salvation forward, clothed in priesthood, equal in covenant, bearing authority in the same idiom restored. The archetype of Eve was never a symbol frozen in the past. It was restored as living practice, carried into the temple, where women and men stood together as counterparts in the image of God.

If the garden was the beginning, and Nauvoo was a renewal, then the future still holds further unveiling. The temple is the vessel of that unveiling, carrying us deeper into the truths that were spoken from the beginning. We can trust that revelation will not stop. It will grow, it will deepen, and it will carry us into the fullness of what it means to stand face to face with God, as Adam and Eve once did.

The post Face to Face: How Hebrew Reveals Women’s Priesthood Power appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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The policy paradox can be summarized this way: what is right for the one may not be right for the many, and what is right for the many often is not right for the one. Parents face it at the dinner table, leaders face it in government and the Church, and we all face it when our personal convictions seem to clash with collective expectations.

Human nature compels us to force a resolution of paradox with human hands (Daniel 2:45), but this often leads to misdirected frustration. However, with a new perspective we can receive a ‘greater portion of the word,’ as Alma taught, coming to ‘know the mysteries of God’ more fully (Alma 12:9–11). We will gain spiritual contentment and peace, despite worldly dissonance trying to force resolution masked as justice.

Let’s explore why the one-many tension persists, how to approach it through a faithful perspective, analyze a specific case study, and conclude with practices for peacemakers. 

Why the One-Many Tension Persists

Some tend to favor what is right for the one, while others have a natural preference to prioritize what is right for the many. This tension will continue to persist amid our surrounding global and personal challenges. The following illustration shows this tug and pull with a question mark in the middle.

Understanding why this tension persists helps us see that it is not a problem to solve, but a condition to understand. The next step, then, is to explore how faith helps us hold that tension without losing peace.

A Faithful Way to Hold Policy Tension

The policy paradox can be understood through intellectual, emotional, and experiential approaches. We use both mind and heart to seek knowledge, righteous judgment, and wisdom. In the visual below, notice how our individual approach to understanding develops into a more experiential level when we are surrounded by family and a covenant community.

Experiential understanding helps open our minds to behold the face of God and connect with our sisters and brothers who were “prepared to come forth in the due time of the Lord to labor in his vineyard” (D&C 67:10; 138:56). Through meekness and peace, we resist the impulse to resolve tension without an eternal perspective.

As we enter the presence of the Savior, full of charity, we recognize how it is possible for the “many and the one” to receive light and patience. Which lens or lenses of knowledge do we bring to the policy-making table as we analyze decisions from Church leaders, past, present, and future (John 7:24)? How can an individual with unique needs and desires that seem to conflict with the needs and desires of the broader community gain peace as the controversy within the paradox seems never to end?

As we truly behold the Savior and His trust in us, we can navigate global variables with a refined calibration of perspective through the still small voice of the Holy Ghost. The policy paradox through calibration of justice and mercy has been beautifully described by BYU law professor Shima Baughman. Shima gives examples of sentencing from criminal court judges who change their approach when considering individual cases compared to judges who approach sentencing through the lens of viewing the masses. When I listened to her powerful witness, her words brought to my mind Ammon’s approach to Lamoni’s father, imbued with charity and eternal perspective, seeking to individually calibrate justice and mercy for the “one”, while simultaneously considering the needs of the “many” (Alma 20). Shima clearly describes a vision of justice and mercy that is virtuous, praiseworthy, and of good report.

Further, we could debate the motives of Alma the Elder and Mosiah in their inspired non-linear “policy” journey in seeking to establish eternal principles of justice and mercy in Mosiah 26. Alma was troubled and went to Mosiah to apply the policy, but Mosiah “said unto Alma: Behold, I judge them not; therefore I deliver them into your hands to be judged.” Alma again had to go back to pouring out his whole soul to God to understand what was right for the one and what was right for the many, putting Alma in an “impossible” situation. And yet, with God, all things are possible (Matthew 19:26). 

This soul-driven reality is the essence of the policy paradox folks often can not see until they personally experience and willingly participate and refract light, patience, and capital “T”ruth through a crystal prism of pure intelligence, a piercing angle of humility. Humility brings peace, which is a vital prevention as we sometimes calibrate the definition of law, doctrine, policy, or principle incorrectly, and at times continue to be distracted from a higher and holier understanding. For example, in Alma 1, notice how the term “law” is defined. It seems to be understood differently at different times according to the “many,” established laws acknowledged by the people, as well as the “one,” where Gideon had to deal with Nehor’s false interpretation of the policy paradox. 

Oftentimes, the many can overwhelm the needs of the “one,” and sometimes the needs of the one can misdirect the needs of the “many,” thus the paradox of policy. Parents try to respect a child’s needs while balancing the needs of the entire family. The burden of leadership is on the parent (Numbers 11:17; Isaiah 48:17; Abraham 1:18). I believe being a parent is an experiential education in the policy paradox, where children may be too easily distracted from principles as they narrowly focus on the “policy” decisions through an incessant lens of assumed unfairness from a parent. This aligns with Elder Kim B. Clark’s teachings on the purpose of deep learning: to experience joy, and, I would add, gratitude by faith. The longer I am a parent, the more I gain a deeper intellectual, emotional, and experiential understanding, peace, and gratitude, ameliorating past perceived unfairness from my parents when I was a young adolescent. 

The Case Study 2015-2019 and the D.E.E.P. Path

As an example, let’s analyze the policy from November 2015 specific to baptism for children of same-sex couples. What was right for the many? What was right for the one? Later, in April 2019, how did the policy change—and what remained the same? This leads us to recognize the journey of what I call D.E.E.P. learning within the policy paradox for individuals, one by one.

D–Discouragement (disorientation, depression, doubt, despair)

E–Engagement (wrestling, acting, pondering, proving)

E–Enablement (hope, faith)

P–Power (joy, gratitude by faith and by experience)

When the policy was announced and broadly disseminated in 2015, my circle of loved ones struggled deeply. I felt their pain. Although I couldn’t fully understand everything they were experiencing, I felt peace that the Savior knew and understood the timing and the D.E.E.P. learning journey of each person from each orbit, one by one, directly or indirectly affected by the policy.

Obviously, President Nelson had taught about becoming peacemakers for several decades before this message. Time is only measured unto man (Alma 40:8). For me, it was a quiet reminder that the Lord guides His Church through His servants and each of His children—line upon line, precept upon precept, perspective upon perspective.

For some, this “fresh view” of eternal principles (what stays the same), policies (dynamic), practices (endless refractions of interpretations), and paradox may be seen as giving an excuse. Yet, as I’ve tried to listen to all sides of “middle of the road” to extreme perspectives towards the “reversal” of this policy, I keep feeling peace, light, and even greater charity towards those who drafted, reviewed, and wrote the policy originally, those who performed the research to understand patterns of exceptions by the First Presidency between 2015 and 2019, those who drafted, reviewed, and wrote the updated policy, and those who felt their hearts break during 2015 and 2019 with a “fresh sting,” mixed with love for their brothers and sisters directly affected by the policy. 

This has been a D.E.E.P. learning experience for me that has carried me into intellectual, emotional, and experiential highs and lows. I felt the sting of discouragement and disorientation in 2015. Like in the movie Inside Out, where joy and sadness coexist, I engaged and wrestled with the policy, prayed and pondered deeply over several years, trying to keep an open heart to those hurting and the constant companionship of the Spirit of the Lord. I felt enabled by the Lord to rise to higher mountains of perspective that I couldn’t have received without His power and peace. 

The original bright-line rules offered clarity, but all rules are inherently both overinclusive and underinclusive. The Savior, as Lawgiver, gives grace and power within and between the continuum of over- and under-inclusiveness.

In each policy decision, we are offered refractions of perspectives that can keep us humble and “equal evidence” for and against our preferred policy approaches, while we are “perched precariously between sets of demands held in dynamic tension.” Humility and meekness toward the paradox of policy provides a “ridiculously inefficient” approach to divinity, but it is nonetheless effective and imbued with eternal strength.

This case study shows how policies can be both inspired and imperfect, painful and refining. So how do we, as disciples, live within such paradoxes day to day?

Practices for Peacemakers

Where will you go next? For your personal intellectual, emotional, spiritual, and experiential education, you can start by analyzing the journals of those who went before us, both our ancestors and those from ancient scripture. The policy paradox influences us to seek those transformed perspectives, to see how something that feels wrong for the individual might serve the larger community, or how something that blesses the community might need adjustment for the one. Thank heavens the paradox is not resolved by human hands and human minds, for it would frustrate our learning journey to become more like our Heavenly Parents. In my personal orbit, I have learned an effective way to learn the policy paradox experientially is by becoming a parent, to gain a fresh view of how our Heavenly Parents navigate this tension with each of us.

The paradox is not an obstacle to faith—it’s a training ground for intellectual, emotional, spiritual, and experiential discipleship. When we accept and learn from tension, we begin to see the Lord’s hand not just in the outcome of policies but also in the process of wrestling over them.

And so my invitation is simple: be humble. List the ancient, modern, and personal policies that shape your life. Then, prayerfully, apply the paradox lens. Seek to understand your neighbor and your neighborhood and how the Lord continues to guide both. The process will not always be quick. But if you walk it with the Savior, the past, present, and future will become one in peace (John 14:27). The paradox will move from an idea in your mind to a truth in your soul. And in that transformation, you will see not only the one and the many, you will see Him.

The post When Faith Meets Policy: Finding Harmony in Holy Tension appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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There are several stark ironies in my life. First, I grew up in an active Latter-day Saint family in a small farm town in southern Idaho. So, my upbringing was about as conservative as you can imagine. Yet, I got a PhD in psychology, which is about as liberal a field as you can imagine. Second, I’m still an active member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, while I’ve had numerous family members and friends leave the Church. Yet, I’m the one who is in psychology, arguably the least religious field in academia. Third, I study deconversion, so I know all the reasons people leave religion. Yet, I have little if any motivation to leave myself. Fourth, I’m one of the leading researchers of adolescent religious development in the world, yet I struggle to raise my own kids in the Church. Fifth, I’ve been in the field of psychology for two and a half decades as a developmental psychologist, so I should understand growth and change. Yet, I have struggled mightily with my own mental health and relationships. Sixth, I have spoken and written about how to navigate faith crises, yet I am still struggling with my own faith.

One reason I have no motivation to leave is that I have adequately applied my heart, head, and hands to my faith journey, as articulated in a four-part series of essays I wrote previously with my colleague Ed Gantt. These essays are extensive, so I won’t repeat what is said there. But they capture a lot of the reasons why I have not left the Church. 

One major reason I am not motivated to leave the Church, as pointed out in our essays, is that I focus on primary questions and let go of secondary questions. Elder Corbridge beautifully described this distinction in a BYU devotional. I have studied why people leave religion (deconversion) for about a decade, so I know all the secondary questions. But I don’t spend much time and energy on them. This is largely because of what I describe in my faith journey essays. And part of it is, I have my hands full with the primary questions, which are essentially the pillars of a testimony. Here they are:

1. Is there a God? 
2. Is Jesus the Christ?
3. Was Joseph Smith a prophet?
4. Is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints the true church?
5. Is the Book of Mormon the word of God?

Let’s start with, is there a God? I really believe there is a God, but I have several barriers that have made it hard for me to feel His presence and love. First, although I grew up in a wonderful family that I love, we aren’t the most emotionally intelligent (at least speaking for myself). We learned how to use our heads more than our hearts. Second, I made that worse by getting a PhD and becoming a professor. My career is very focused on logic and observable evidence. Third, I have struggled with my mental health. In a recent study I conducted with my colleagues and students, we showed that spirituality and mental health are bidirectionally linked. That is, it isn’t just that spirituality protects people from mental health challenges, but in turn, having such challenges can hinder spirituality. So, I feel my mental illness has made it harder than usual for me to have spiritual experiences. Fourth, it seems like my weakness and sin have often been like an umbrella, blocking me from the rays of light coming down from God. Fifth, more importantly, I have lived with shame as my harmful constant companion. Shame blocks me from feeling love from myself, others, and God. 

Next, is Jesus the Christ? One of my big challenges here is that it is hard, with my modern, Western, scientific mind, to envision having a relationship with someone whom I can’t observe with my five senses. Also, the barriers above for me feeling God’s presence and love are also barriers to me experiencing the Atonement of Christ. In particular, shame is basically a denial of the Atonement of Christ. Sort of like, I know you paid for my sins, but I prefer to keep them and beat myself with them. In short, even though I really want to believe in Christ, I have struggled in my relationship with Him and in experiencing the healing and enabling powers of His Atonement. 

Yet, I love all things Christian. I am a junkie of The Chosen. I’m all in on that personable Jesus! I feel the Spirit so powerfully in many of the most beloved scenes. I’m also obsessed with Christian music, particularly Christian rock. Most of my listening time these days is devoted to Christian music. I feel uplifted and connected to God, Jesus, and the Spirit. Many of the lyrics echo my struggles, triumphs, and the desires of my heart. So, although I struggle in my relationship with Jesus, I seem to yearn for it. 

Next, was Joseph Smith a prophet? Most of the issues people have with Joseph Smith probably qualify as secondary questions, so I’m not very interested in those. I’ll evaluate him based on his two major contributions, which are restoring the Church and translating the Book of Mormon, discussed further below. If those are legitimate, then he was a prophet.

Despite these struggles, I love the Church and the gospel and hold onto faith and hope that they are true. And my meager but sincere attempts to “Hear Him” seem to be bearing some fruit, as attested by my spiritual experience described earlier. Furthermore, the social sciences data regarding our church is overwhelmingly positive. One book about youth has a chapter called “Mormon Envy” (a Freudian play on words). The researchers were so blown away by how amazing our youth were compared to most other youth in the U.S., and my colleagues and I at BYU have largely replicated these findings with newer data, better measures, and a larger sample of Latter-day Saint youth. So, with all our flaws, we seem to be doing something right.

The final reason I am not motivated to leave the Church is that I really want and even need it to be true. First, I want to honor my ancestors. I have Latter-day Saint pioneer heritage on both sides of my family. Maybe this seems like lame conformity, but I’m not the only one who thinks it’s important. Second, my parents both died of cancer. It is unacceptable that death is the end. Third, as noted earlier, I am stumbling my way through life. My own will and intellect have been good for my career, but have fallen short in other areas of my life, such as my mental health and relationships. I’ve come to the end of myself to the point of turning my life over to God and accepting Jesus as my Savior. Fourth, I got to the point of realizing that no amount of observable or rational evidence in mortality will ever give sure answers to any of the questions above. So, as Elder Renlund encouraged, I decided to be inclined towards faith. I know, critics of the Church will point to Occam’s razor. Be careful, it’s a double-edged razor. It isn’t any simpler believing in evolution as the origin of man than divine creation. It isn’t any simpler believing Joseph Smith was insane, or a genius, or a copycat, than believing the Book of Mormon was translated by revelation. It seems that either way we go when answering these primary questions, whether “Yes” or “No,” requires a faith of sorts. So, I’ll give the benefit of the doubt to the affirmative answers.

The post Confessions of a Deconversion Researcher: A Scholar’s Journey of Faith appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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Ward and stake choirs do far more than make music; they help shape a healthy Latter‑day Saint culture.

Of course, when it comes to choir, we immediately think of the tremendous impact of The Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square. But members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints have also created the powerhouse 5,000-strong Millennial Choirs and Orchestras across the Western U.S., and there are regional choirs in places like the Washington, D.C. Temple Visitors’ Center. However, at the level of local wards (congregations) and stakes (local congregation groups), choirs serve unique functions that go beyond the public performance of music. They contribute to an ideal church culture by building unity and social capital, modeling male-female harmony, opening opportunities for outreach, and teaching skills of belonging. 

How Choirs Help Build Culture

In every Latter-day Saint congregation, culture is a two-part challenge. The first part tends to get the most focus with the question: “How do we distinguish between the gospel and church culture?” The concern is that some members may get caught up in cultural expectations—such as the style of our church activities, dress standards, and more—to a degree that those expectations are seen to have the same authority and seriousness as divine commandments.

With the other challenge, we ask a different question: “How can we create a healthy ward culture?” In a healthy ward culture, church members feel loved and valued. They feel unity even amid their diverse life experiences. They feel supported in difficult situations. All of that is made possible as, together, they feel connected to God.

Unity & Social Capital. The ideal ward culture does not just happen on its own, however. It takes members who are willing to get out of their comfort zones and do difficult things. It requires patience and a willingness to let things go, as we experience interpersonal “fenderbenders” in our callings and activities. It requires constant attention to what is most important in our church experience, and constant discipline in managing lesser priorities. In wards that feel “ideal,” we typically find some number of devout, converted members who are relentless about teaching and modeling a healthy church culture. In moments when we glimpse that ideal, it really is a glimpse of heaven on earth.

Within the context of church, our activities—and especially our service—lead us to develop social capital, a shared sense that we contribute to each other’s well-being. Service projects are notably effective for developing unity and social capital, and this is also true of choir activities. Choirs are contexts for personal development, joy, fun, and transcendence.

Male-Female Harmony. Choirs also serve another important purpose. Throughout history, one of the most persistent sources of frustration has been the ongoing tension between men and women. In recent decades, the feminist movement has been met with the emergence of the “manosphere,” a collection of online spaces and content creators that claim to promote and defend male perspectives. Together, these two movements often diminish and denigrate one another. The conflict between these ideological online extremes is often presented as the only possible reality for men and women.

Choirs present a different and more hopeful view of reality, where male and female exist in harmony and produce a combination of beauty, strength, and transcendence. In the work of The Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square, the world sees hundreds of men and women joining together in an ideal ordering and blending of male and female strengths. My personal favorite of their performances is of Carl Nygard’s piece, “God So Loved the World,” based on John chapter 3:16-17. In the chorus, the women’s voices soar in a way that men’s voices cannot, creating the sense of astonishment that should be our response to the power of that passage of scripture.

Likewise, in The Tabernacle Choir’s arrangement of “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing,” The men’s voices begin the second verse a cappella, highlighting the unique character of the male voice to convey the poetry of commitment and devotion. Whenever I sing in church in a men’s ensemble, we hear expressions of gratitude from women in the ward. I suspect this gratitude reflects the experience of seeing male energy channeled into something good and noble, in contrast with so much of the negative male behavior we often witness in the world. Choirs allow for clear public demonstrations of Christlike manhood. 

The Tabernacle Choir is one of the world’s greatest models of how feminine and masculine gifts and voices work together to produce experiences where the harmonious sum is far greater than the individual parts. The musical value of the choir is extraordinary, but there is also profound symbolic value in what the choir does, modeling for the world the power of complementarity. The Tabernacle Choir is uniquely great, but there are also smaller, more local examples of what is possible to experience.

Outreach & Community Bridges. When I was called as a ward choir director earlier this year, the outreach potential immediately came to mind. In my calling, I hope to see struggling youth and other ward members find strength and renewal in choir. I hope to see all Latter-day Saints participate in choir. I would love to see members of our community, people not of our faith, sing with our ward choir. I would love for our community to feel comfortable asking our ward or stake choirs to serve by joining in community events or funerals, beyond the doors of our church buildings. Many people who participate in high school and college choirs leave their choir experiences behind as they move through life, and, similar to how Latter-day Saints are viewed with family history, I would love for members of our community with past experiences in choirs to see Latter-day Saint buildings as centers of excellence offering opportunities to once again experience the joy of singing in a choir.

Belonging and Connection. Former Surgeon General Vivek Murthy wrote a book called Together, where he explained that a lack of human connection has become in our time a pervasive public health crisis. With technology allowing us to narrow our interpersonal interactions to people who are just like us, many of us are missing out on the benefits of regular interaction with people who experience the world differently than we do. This can happen even among people sitting together in church meetings. To a great extent, connection and belonging require skills that can be taught and practiced. Participation in a choir is an ideal context for the development of those skills.

Much recent research suggests that participation in community choirs uniquely accelerates social bonding and reduces loneliness.

A Case Study

In my stake in Virginia, we do a community Christmas choir event every year that brings together our stake choir with members of our community for a beautiful experience of worship. In 2025, we decided to do a similar kind of program for Easter, and a member of our stake offered for the event an original a capella choir composition called “Intercessor,” based on the text of Isaiah 53.

I immediately jumped at the opportunity to participate, as Isaiah 53 is my favorite chapter in all of scripture. The composer, Savannah Turk, assembled sixteen people to learn and perform the piece, and it was the hardest vocal part I have ever learned. The piece includes a number of dissonant chords, which can be difficult for most amateur choirs, but because Isaiah 53 is written with the intent to convey painful irony in the suffering of the innocent Messiah, I could see how dissonance is a good approach for expressing that irony in music. All of the effort was worth it, as “Intercessor” provided a transcendent musical experience that became central to our Easter event. “Intercessor” was so spiritually rich for those of us who participated that I helped to create a separate recording of our amateur choir performing it, in the hopes that other choirs will become familiar with its powerfully unique approach.

When it comes to sacred music, we are spoiled with an abundance of music for Christmas, and much less for Easter. I hope to see Latter-day Saint composers rise to the challenge like Savannah Turk did with “Intercessor,” and create new compositions that can become sacred Easter standards like “This is the Christ” and our more recent “Gethsemane.”

In closing, I recall Elder Jeffrey R. Holland, the president of the Church’s second presiding body, speaking in April 2017 General Conference talk “Songs Sung and Unsung.” There, to teach foundational principles of diversity and belonging in the Church, Elder Holland used the metaphor of a choir:

… remember it is by divine design that not all the voices in God’s choir are the same. It takes variety—sopranos and altos, baritones and basses—to make rich music. To borrow a line quoted in the cheery correspondence of two remarkable Latter-day Saint women, “All God’s critters got a place in the choir.” When we disparage our uniqueness … we lose the richness of tone and timbre that God intended when He created a world of diversity.

Now, this is not to say that everyone in this divine chorus can simply start shouting his or her own personal oratorio! Diversity is not cacophony, and choirs do require discipline … but once we have accepted divinely revealed lyrics and harmonious orchestration composed before the world was, then our Heavenly Father delights to have us sing in our own voice, not someone else’s …

Don’t demean your worth or denigrate your contribution. Above all, don’t abandon your role in the chorus. Why? Because you are unique; you are irreplaceable. The loss of even one voice diminishes every other singer in this great mortal choir of ours, including the loss of those who feel they are on the margins of society or the margins of the Church.

While Elder Holland was using choir as a metaphor, he was also teaching some valuable principles that go beyond metaphor into our experience of the Church. In that spirit, I invite ward and stake choir leaders to raise our sights. Choir is not about doing something musically dazzling, or reliving the glory days of our musical-performer past. In choir, we have the opportunity to do things that are much more significant—to teach gospel doctrines, develop interpersonal skills, cultivate unity amid diversity, build bridges, and heal cynicism in the hearts of our choir members and our congregations. In allowing others to participate in the leadership of our choirs—even in the selection and conducting of music—we help to infuse their experience of the gospel with growth and joy. We teach them that they are empowered to elevate their church experience.

Finally, if you are a member of the Church and can participate in a choir, hopefully, this essay has opened your mind to the benefits of doing so. From my personal experience, I wholeheartedly invite you to make that commitment.

The post Church Choirs and the Sound of Belonging: Where Harmony Still Exists appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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I served as the Primary music leader for many years, and over time, I watched as the children clearly indicated with their smiles and enthusiasm which Primary songs were among their favorites. It is no surprise that the kids cherish Janice Kapp Perry’s A Child’s Prayer.

Adult members love this Primary song too, perhaps because the lyrics express the fragility of our faith.  As the devout Catholic philosopher Charles Taylor points out, in our secular world, religious faith is continually “cross-pressured;” that is, non-believing scientific materialists frequently call the veracity of our religious beliefs into question.

A Child’s Prayer begins with two sobering rhetorical questions:  

Heavenly Father, are you really there?
And do you hear and answer every child’s prayer?

The first stanza concludes with a hopeful tone:

Some say that heaven is far away,
But I feel it close around me as I pray.

As with the Primary children, in reaching toward heaven in this way, all our prayers, at least in some measure, constitute an attempt to confirm that God is really there.

Let’s review the concept of prayer and the central role that prayer plays in the life of a Latter-day Saint. Let’s consider what kinds of prayer there are. What do the scriptures teach us about how to pray?  And perhaps most importantly, what does it mean for a prayer to be answered?

Although we often think of prayer generically, prayer takes many forms. Prayers of thanksgiving, such as the blessings we say over our food, constitute the more quotidian types of prayer. Liturgical prayers, the most formal category, are recited in rote form as part of our worship services.  Liturgical prayers project a mystical quality, reminding us of the miracles we are contemplating. That we recount rote prayers at baptisms, the temple endowment, and the blessing of the sacrament reinforces our belief that God is mindful of these ordinances, having set forth specific language for us to hear in connection with them, that “they may always have His spirit to be with them” (Doctrine and Covenants 20:76-79).

All these varieties of prayer are familiar to us, but it is petitionary prayer, perhaps, that is our most common conception of prayer. These are prayers in which we petition Heavenly Father for specific blessings, hoping that He will grant us the righteous desire of our hearts. Pleading for a loved one to be healed of a serious illness, asking for success with a new job application, or imploring for a successful pregnancy—all these are examples of petitionary prayers.

Many of our petitionary prayers are not answered in the way we would hope. Consider the countless millions of prayers offered up in times of deep human despair that appear to go unanswered. Prayers from Auschwitz, Poland, during World War II, and from the New Orleans slave auction in the Antebellum South are chilling examples. Our beliefs assure us that God hears such prayers, but He often seems to answer them in ways we do not expect and cannot understand. This is why it is important to consider what it means for a prayer to be answered.

The scriptures clearly outline the methods, contours, and boundary conditions of prayer. Alma taught us to “counsel with the Lord in all thy doings” (Alma 37:39); his colleague Amulek reminded us that Alma’s admonition extends to prayer over temporal things: “Cry unto him when ye are in your fields, yea, over all your flocks …” and “… Cry unto him over the crops of your fields, that ye may prosper in them” (Alma 34:20 & 24). We learn from Enos that sometimes it is necessary to spar spiritually with our Father in Heaven. Enos recorded, “I will tell you of the wrestle which I had before God” (Enos 1).

Elsewhere in the New Testament, Paul helps us understand that sometimes in our extremity, we are bruised and battered, finding ourselves speechless at the hour of prayer. In his letter to the Romans, Paul explains that in such times of despair: “… we know not what we should pray for … but the Spirit maketh intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered” (Romans 8:26). Sometimes we commune with God by opening our hearts to Him without saying a word, with “groanings that cannot be uttered.”

The Epistle of James succinctly summarizes what the scriptures teach about prayer: The “fervent prayer of the righteous availeth much” (James 5:16).

Examples from the scriptures of first prayers are especially instructive. Joseph Smith’s initial foray into praying out loud was truly remarkable. From the “boy’s first uttered prayer,” we learn that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, and that a restoration of the gospel was at hand. Joseph Smith’s first prayer was surely among the most important prayers ever formed by the tongue of man. Following the boy prophet’s example, we should take to heart the admonition that “If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God” (James 1:5).

The inaugural prayer of King Lamoni’s Father, recorded in the Book of Mormon, is another poignant example of a first prayer. Upon introduction to the gospel by Aaron, one of the missionary sons of Mosiah, the powerful and worldly king articulates his very first prayer. In truly striking humility, he prays that “if there is a God,” as Aaron had assured him, “I will give away all my sins to know thee” (Alma 22:18). In this fascinating pronouncement, the ancient American king summarizes the ultimate purpose of prayer: to know God and thereby give away all our sins. How ironic to have a heathen, Lamanite king teach us so eloquently on this point of doctrine. Sometimes burgeoning faith is faith in its purest form.  

A unique feature of personal prayer relates to the intrinsic honesty that inevitably accompanies this private dialogue with God. When we kneel in secret prayer before the all-seeing eye of God, no pretense or deception is possible. We are completely exposed in the naked reality of our imperfections. Knowing this, our private prayers take on a no-nonsense quality that is perhaps unparalleled in other arenas of human discourse.

The 19th-century American author and literary critic Mark Twain famously emphasized this truism about prayer in his iconic novel The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. At a key juncture in the story, Huck considers promising God that, going forward, he will change his wicked ways and do the right thing. But being honest with himself, he ultimately concludes that his commitment is not earnest and that he cannot deceive God in any case.  

“I was trying to make my mouth SAY I would do the right thing and the clean thing,” Huck says, “… but deep down in me I knowed it was a lie, and He knowed it. You can’t pray a lie—I found that out” (Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn).

The context of this scene is complex; Huckleberry was already doing “the right thing.” But he made the essential point nonetheless. That we cannot pray a lie means that our dialogue with God can cut to the chase and be brutally honest and sometimes painfully authentic.

This humble quest to live a holy life, as reflected in the aspirations of The Lord’s Prayer, stands in stark contrast to the puffed-up confidence in the arm of flesh we see in our secular world. The militant atheists of our day point a scornful, derisive finger at those who pray, asserting that prayer is a silly, superstitious act, likening prayer to black magic or a sorcerer’s spell. In these criticisms, these sanctimonious nay-sayers of prayer unwittingly reveal a key element at the foundation of true prayer.  The spells of black magic in literature and legend typically involve a deal with the devil, in which the petitioner agrees to sell his soul in exchange for fortune, power, or fame.  

True prayer, in stark contrast, necessarily requires a promise on the part of the petitioner to live a holier life, one that is more full of love and honor, compassion and sacrifice. Rather than selling one’s soul as in black magic, true prayer is an effort to perfect it. In this sense, prayer is indeed magical. Perhaps this is the main reason that the Book of Mormon reminds us that the “evil spirit teacheth not a man to pray, but teacheth him that he must not pray” (2 Nephi 32:8). The adversary seeks to prevent the soul-perfecting magic of prayer from happening.

So what does it mean for a prayer to be answered? There are, of course, many responses to this thought-provoking question. There is no doubt that many petitionary prayers are answered as we hope.  The God we worship is a loving God. We sometimes receive, as the Psalmist refers to them, “tender mercies” (Psalms 25:6), and as did the Old Testament’s Gideon, “dry fleeces” on the dew-soaked ground (Judges 6:39).

Our God “is a God of miracles” (2 Nephi 27:23). He will sometimes do great works among us, as He did when he delivered Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego from Nebuchadnezzar’s fiery furnace (Daniel 3).  But many times the hoped-for blessings do not materialize, and the fiery furnace burns on—when the loved one’s illness is not cured, the hoped-for job offer does not come, the longed-for pregnancy is not realized. These are the times when answering the question “What does it mean for a prayer to be answered?” takes on special significance. Among the many answers that one could offer, perhaps chief among them is that a prayer is answered when a soul is transformed through prayer.

The prayers we say over our food simply illustrate this assertion. When we say a blessing before our meals, we don’t think that something miraculous happens to the food. The miracle is taking place in our hearts. Through a brief prayer over “our daily bread,” we acknowledge the bounty of the earth, this life as a gift, that “in him we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28). When said earnestly, such a prayer changes us a little for the better, reminding us that “man shall not live by bread alone” (Matthew 4:4).

Let’s return now to the Primary children and their beloved song, A Child’s Prayer:

Heavenly Father, I remember now

Something that Jesus told disciples long ago:

“Suffer the children to come to me.”

Father, in prayer I’m coming now to thee.

Pray, he is there;

Speak, he is list’ning.

You are his child;

His love now surrounds you.

He hears your prayer;

He loves the children.

Of such is the kingdom, the kingdom of heav’n.

God’s ways are often inscrutable to His creatures, but we can be reassured that He hears our prayers and answers them in ways that always bless us over the long haul. Earnest prayer transforms us. Speak, He is listening.

The post Heavenly Father, Are You Really There? On What It Means for a Prayer to Be Answered appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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Faith is hard. One of my favorite writers is Flannery O’Connor, an American Southern Gothic novelist and short story writer. O’Connor was a devout Catholic, and her published prayer journals and letters give us a glimpse into her life of faith. In a letter to a lifelong friend and pen pal, Louise Abbot, O’Connor responds to what must have been Abbot describing a trial of faith, saying: 

I think there is no suffering greater than what is caused by the doubts of those who want to believe. I know what torment this is, but I can only see it, in myself anyway, as the process by which faith is deepened. A faith that just accepts is a child’s faith and all right for children, but eventually you have to grow religiously, as [in] every other way, though some never do.

What people don’t realize is how much religion costs. They think faith is a big electric blanket, when of course it is the cross. It is much harder to believe than not to believe. If you feel you can’t believe, you must at least do this: keep an open mind. Keep it open toward faith, keep wanting it, keep asking for it, and leave the rest to God.

It is interesting that she both acknowledges that for some, faith can be excruciating—the cross itself—but also the way by which faith is deepened. In other words, this is how it is supposed to work.

Many I know who have struggled with faith are unsure how to initiate these kinds of conversations with friends or seek out literature that will help them find the truth. Perhaps they have reached out to loved ones about their doubts, and have received dismissive or surface-level answers like “just read your scriptures more” or “It sounds like you’ve been reading anti-material.” Often they have been convinced by nonbelievers or former believers that any faith-positive source is biased or deceptive, or that once the “shelf is broken,” there is no going back. 

Too often, we treat church meetings as the place where every spiritual concern must be resolved. But not every question belongs in the chapel pew. Some conversations about faith are sacred—and require a different setting, a different pace, and a different kind of attention.

Faith is hard, and we should normalize the challenges, and ebbs and flows, and questions that come along with a life of devotion. No believer goes through mortality without crying out to God in agony of a great loss, or feeling silence from the heavens, or seeking out greater meaning or understanding of God’s plan. After all, this is part of the process. 

But how we go about normalizing these struggles matters.  In our efforts to normalize any challenge, we risk romanticizing it—or worse, reinforcing it. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the movement to normalize mental health challenges. 

Mental health has become the lens through which we view nearly everything. Diagnoses appear in social media bios. Therapyspeak—words like “toxic,” “trauma,” and “boundaries”—has seeped into casual conversation, often stripped of clinical meaning. Employers hand out mental health toolkits, colleges offer petting zoos during finals, and celebrities tout the virtues of therapy for every relationship hurdle.

But things aren’t getting better. Symptoms of anxiety and depression continue to rise, especially among adolescent girls. Even emotionally stable teens now pathologize normal ups and downs, often self-diagnosing via TikTok. Gallup reports that Americans’ self-assessed mental health is the worst it’s been in over two decades. Suicide rates have increased by 30% in the last 20 years. Parents are more fearful than ever—reluctant to let their children roam the neighborhood, convinced that every stranger at Target might be a kidnapper.

We are more anxious, more fragile, and more volatile. This culture of constant rumination and performative validation is not serving us well. Bringing in “faith crisis” to every church meeting risks creating the same culture of unhealthy navel-gazing in our spiritual lives.

First, the right setting: In The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we are often taught that the most important part of church attendance is taking the sacrament and renewing our baptismal covenants. President Dallin H. Oaks has taught that we attend church to serve (not to be served) and teaching manuals such as Preach My Gospel for missionaries and Teaching, No Greater Call for general membership emphasize that our primary purpose should be to invite others to come unto Christ. I would humbly suggest that the right setting for a deep dive into questions and doubts is probably not in our regular Sunday meetings. 

This is somewhat tricky. Avoiding hard questions might leave struggling members isolated—or lead them to those who’ve left the covenant path and want others to follow.

On the other hand, among the members and visitors at church each week are likely widows, those who are caring for elderly parents, have sick or disabled children, have lost jobs, have mental health issues, and myriad other challenges. These people come to church for the balm of Gilead that is the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Our niche Joseph Smith historical questions, while they may feel immediate and pressing to us, can detract from that important purpose.

Flannery O’Connor chose faith, even when it didn’t feel effortless. During her graduate school years, she attended Mass daily. She journaled about the tension between her desire for God and her sense of distance from Him. “My thoughts are all elsewhere,” she confessed. But she showed up anyway. She didn’t wait for certainty before practicing devotion. When prayer felt elusive, she turned to writing, pouring out her longings, her doubts, and her imperfect love into beautifully wrought prayers. She didn’t pretend to be more faithful than she was—she simply brought her full self to God and asked for help.

We can do the same. In times of spiritual struggle, our offering may be small—a prayer uttered in hope rather than confidence, a Sunday School comment made despite nagging doubt, a verse of scripture read with an open, aching heart. But small offerings matter. They are expressions of our desire to stay in a relationship with God. And that desire, acted on, can become the seed of faith.

The right people and the right sources also matter. When we’re struggling with mental health, we’re careful—ideally—not to rely on unqualified influencers or unreliable forums for advice. The same care should apply when we’re facing serious gospel questions. Not every voice online—or even in our social circles—is equipped to help. President Russell M. Nelson has warned us against “increasing (our) doubts by rehearsing them with other doubters.”

For some, the right person might be a trusted family member, a close friend, a ministering sister or brother—someone who can listen without panic and respond without platitudes. For others, it might be a mentor, a bishop, or someone with experience navigating similar questions. But we also have to prepare to be that kind of person for others—to receive their questions with love and patience rather than fear or defensiveness.

The Church provides a helpful resource called Helping Others with Questions in the Gospel Topics Library, which outlines practical ways to support loved ones in faith crises. Outside of official church resources, organizations like Mormonr or FAIR Latter-day Saints offer thoughtful, research-based responses to common questions and criticisms. These sources won’t perfectly answer every question—but they are striving to be both spiritually grounded and intellectually responsible.

It’s not wrong to hear out questions or criticisms. But we shouldn’t let them monopolize the conversation in our hearts and minds. Doubt may be a part of our path—but we get to choose who we walk with, and who we let guide us, and how much space we want to give to those doubts.

Flannery O’Connor was not only a gospel seeker, but also a guide. Her own wrestling made her a compassionate companion to others in their searching. She never claimed to have perfect faith—only a determined one. Her writing continues to offer a kind of spiritual hospitality to those who want to believe but aren’t sure how.

In that way, O’Connor mirrors the very work of the gospel: inviting the wounded, the weary, and the wondering to come unto Christ, even when we ourselves are prone to wander. If we can become the kind of believers who sit with others in that space—without panic, without platitudes, but with patience and love—then our faith, however imperfect, becomes not only our anchor but someone else’s lifeline.

Faith is hard. But as with most hard things, it is transformative, refining us in the very hardest of times to become who only God can see in us. That is the work of a disciple—not to have all the answers, but to keep walking with God, and help others do the same.

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