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We live, increasingly, in two places at once.

Our bodies sit at a dinner table while our minds hover in an open browser tab. Our hands fold for prayer while our thumbs remember the muscle memory of scrolling. We attend a child’s story, a spouse’s worry, a friend’s quiet confession—and yet some part of us remains tethered to the possibility that something else, somewhere else, is happening.

This is not merely a productivity problem, nor only a “kids these days” technology complaint. It is, at its core, an attention problem—and attention is not a neutral resource. It is one of the most consequential forms of agency we exercise all day long.

Whatever captures your attention quietly shapes your discipleship.

The Attention Crisis We Don’t Like to Name

There are obvious culprits—busy schedules, social media, the breakneck speed of modern life. But those are surface-level symptoms of something deeper: what we might call the tyranny of elsewhere.

The tyranny of elsewhere is the subtle assumption that real life is happening somewhere other than where you are right now—in the next message, the next headline, the next update, the next comparison, the next microdose of novelty. It is a form of spiritual displacement. You are always near your life, but not quite inside it.

And because it’s socially normalized, it rarely feels like rebellion. It feels like being informed. Being connected. Being responsive. Being “on top of things.”

However, the gospel’s vision of a holy life is not primarily about being “on top of things.” It is about being in things—fully, faithfully, consecratedly present.

“An Eye Single”: Attention as a Spiritual Faculty

In Doctrine and Covenants 88, the Lord gives an arresting promise: “If your eye be single to my glory, your whole bodies shall be filled with light.” That promise is recorded in Doctrine and Covenants 88:67. He then adds the kind of line we might read quickly, even though it should stop us: “Sanctify yourselves that your minds become single to God.” That instruction appears in Doctrine and Covenants 88:68. This echoes Matthew 6:22 and Doctrine and Covenants 82:19.

Notice what’s happening doctrinally.

1. “Single” is not merely “serious.”  It is not just intensity. It is integrity—wholeness. A mind that is not fragmented into ten anxious windows, a heart that is not constantly split between reverence and restlessness.
   
2. Light is not only a reward; it is a capacity.  The promise is not merely that God will be pleased. The promise is that you will become the kind of person who can receive, discern, and “comprehend.” Attention is the mechanism that God gives us for receiving that growth from Him.
   
3. Sanctification includes attention training. Sanctification comes through the Holy Ghost as we repent and keep covenants. When the Lord says, “sanctify yourselves,” He does not only mean “stop doing bad things.” He also means “become the kind of person whose inner life is ordered toward God” so we live in a way that the Holy Ghost can dwell with us. 

In that sense, presence is not cosmetic. It is covenantal.

Mindfulness, but With a Name and a Direction

It’s worth acknowledging: the modern mindfulness movement has rediscovered something true. Purposeful attention in the present moment—focus, concentration, awareness—really does change us. Many people feel, correctly, that distraction is costly.

In fact, research has repeatedly found that when our minds wander away from what we’re doing, our happiness tends to drop—even when we wander to “pleasant” thoughts. And intriguingly, other research suggests that many of us find it so uncomfortable to be alone with our own thoughts—even for a few minutes—that we will choose almost any stimulation rather than simply sit, reflect, and attend to the interior world.

So yes, mindfulness is real.

But the gospel adds something essential: mindfulness is not only attention to the present; it is attention consecrated toward God and toward people. It is presence with purpose—awareness shaped by love, gratitude, worship, and covenant loyalty. Or to say it plainly: disciples don’t just “live in the moment.” They learn to live in the moment with God.

Distraction as a Form of Spiritual Avoidance

If presence is the practice, what is distraction—spiritually speaking?

Often, distraction is not primarily laziness. It is avoidance.

• Avoidance of silence—because silence reveals what we’ve been carrying.
  
• Avoidance of weakness—because stillness makes us honest.
  
• Avoidance of other people—because deep attention requires vulnerability.
  
• Avoidance of God—because God, more often than not, speaks in what we rush past.
  

This is why phones are such a uniquely modern test of discipleship. They aren’t only tools; they are portable exit doors. With a tiny gesture, you can leave the room without leaving the room. You can opt out of the emotional demand of the present moment and relocate to something easier, shinier, safer.

This is also why “just use your phone less” rarely works as a long-term solution. The deeper work is to ask: What am I trying not to feel? What am I trying not to face? What am I trying not to hear?

Because the gospel is remarkably patient, but it is not casual about this: the life of faith is a life of turning toward—toward God, toward neighbor, toward responsibility, toward revelation.

The Covenant Verb We Keep Skimming: Observe

One of the most quietly illuminating patterns in scripture is how often the language of obedience is tied to attention.

Consider Mosiah 4:30: King Benjamin pairs a stern warning with a very practical diagnosis—“watch yourselves, and your thoughts, and your words, and your deeds, and observe the commandments of God.” That is not only about rule-keeping. It is about awareness. It is about living awake to your inner life, your outer impact, and your spiritual drift.

Similarly, the New Testament repeatedly pairs prayer with watchfulness: “Continue in prayer, and watch in the same with thanksgiving” in Colossians 4:2.

We could call this the tragedy of unattended grace—when blessings arrive, warnings are given, invitations are extended, and we remain too distracted to recognize what is happening. The scriptures do not treat that as a minor inconvenience. They treat it as spiritual peril.

A Brief Note on Phones: It’s Not Only About Content

When people talk about phone distraction, the conversation usually fixates on content—bad content, frivolous content, addictive content. That matters. But there is another layer that is arguably more insidious: even “neutral” phone presence can fragment attention.

Some research suggests that the mere presence of your smartphone can subtly draw on limited cognitive resources—what some scholars have called a “brain drain” effect. At the same time, it’s also worth noting that not every study replicates these findings perfectly, which is a good reminder that human attention is complex and context-sensitive.

Still, most of us don’t need a laboratory to confirm what our souls already know: when our attention is perpetually split, our relationships thin out. Our prayers become more performative than present. Our worship becomes more distracted than devoted.

And perhaps most importantly, our capacity to love people well diminishes—not because we stop caring, but because we stop noticing.

Step 1: Pay Attention

So what do we do?

Let’s begin with the simplest, hardest, most foundational discipline: Purposefully pay attention in the present moment. Focus. Concentration. Awareness. This can sound like a self-help slogan until we connect it to the heart of restored doctrine: the Lord’s invitation to live with an “eye single” and a “mind…single to God.”

To “pay attention,” in a gospel key, means at least three things:

1. Attend to what is real. Not what is curated. Not what is imagined. Not what is feared. What is here.
   
2. Attend to what is holy. The Lord’s hand in the ordinary, the needs in the room, the promptings that arrive quietly.
   
3. Attend to what is forming you. Because your attention does not merely follow your desires; over time, what we give heed to shapes our desires.

This is why the command to “watch” yourself in Mosiah 4:30 is so psychologically astute and spiritually mature. It assumes that sanctification is not accidental. It is practiced.

Step 2: Narrow the Eye

A scattered life is not usually healed by dramatic overhauls. It is healed by small, repeated acts of singleness—micro-choices that train the soul to stay. Here are three “eye-single” practices that are simple enough to try and meaningful enough to matter:

1) Consecrate the first look

Many of us begin the day with a reflex: eyes open, hand reaches, feed loads. Consider a different liturgy: prayer before phone. Scripture before scroll. A few minutes of quiet before input. Not because phones are evil, but because the first thing you look at often becomes the first thing that organizes your mind.

If you want your mind to become “single to God,” it helps to begin the day by letting God be real before the world is loud.

2) Build phone-free “altars”

Altars are places where we offer something to God. In modern life, one of the most meaningful offerings might simply be undivided attention.

A few practical examples:

• Meals: phones away—not face-down on the table, but gone.
  
• Bedtime: the last five minutes belong to gratitude, not content.
  
• Church: treat sacrament meeting as attention training, not background audio.
  
• Ministering: let the visit be a human encounter, not a multitasked event.
  

These are not rules; they are rituals. They are ways of saying, “This moment is sacred enough to deserve my full self.”

3) Practice “holy noticing”

Once a day, choose to notice one person more carefully than usual.

• Ask a real question and wait for the real answer.
  
• Remember a detail and follow up later.
  
• Offer a sincere compliment that is specific—not flattering, but seeing.

This is presence as charity: to love is to attend.

Step 3: Witness the Life You’re Actually Living

There is a reason “witness” language runs through covenant life—baptismal promises, sacramental renewal, temple ordinances. Witnessing is not only what we do in courtrooms; it is what we do with our lives.

To witness, spiritually, is to be able to say: I was there. I saw. I remembered. I did not miss what mattered.

This is one of the quiet gifts of being present: you begin to accumulate a life that feels cohesive rather than scattered—because you were actually in it. And in a subtle but real way, this is where gospel presence differs from mere serenity: we are not practicing attention simply to feel calmer; we are practicing attention to become more faithful.

“Forever Is Composed of Nows”

In a First Presidency message, President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, then second counselor in the First Presidency, quoted the line “Forever—is composed of Nows,” and then reflected on the spiritual significance of living in the middle—where real life, real growth, and real discipleship actually happen.

That is not just poetic. It is doctrinally provocative.

Because if forever is composed of nows, then the question is not only whether we will be faithful in the grand arc of our lives, but whether we will be faithful today—in this conversation, this ordinance, this irritation, this child’s question, this prompting, this quiet moment when the Spirit tries to get our attention and we are tempted to escape.

Holiness rarely announces itself with fireworks. More often, it arrives like a still, small knock. Presence is how you answer the door.

A More Luminous Ordinary

Imagine, for a moment, what it would feel like if a ward, a family, a friendship network quietly committed to being more present—not in an intense, performative way, but in a steady, covenant-shaped way. Sacrament meeting would become less about enduring and more about receiving. Ministering would feel less like an assignment and more like belonging practiced—seeing and naming one another, showing up with love, walking each other toward Christ. Homes would sound different, too. Fewer keyboard clicks and notification chimes. More laughter. More unhurried conversation. More silence that isn’t empty, but spacious—silence where prayer can actually land.

And perhaps, over time, we would discover something hopeful: that attention is not only a scarce resource being stolen from us; it is a gift we can still offer, intentionally, to God and to one another.

Not perfectly. Not constantly. But sincerely—and increasingly.

Because in the gospel, being present is not merely a wellness technique. It helps us keep commandments, practice gratitude, notice grace, and live with an eye single to the glory of God.

And that kind of singleness does something beautiful: it fills the ordinary with light.

The post The Sacrament of Attention appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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

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

My Early Return and How It Led Me to This Study

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

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

Identity transformation

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

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

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

Hope for the future

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

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

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

Peacemaking and reconciliation

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

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

Empathy

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

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

Faith

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

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

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

Perceptual change over time

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

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

What Many Early-Returned Missionaries Still Need

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seven: Scripture’s Symbol of Completion

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

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

Three and a Half: When Deliverance is Delayed

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

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

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

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

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

When Life Feels Stuck at 3½

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

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

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

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

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

Wendell’s 3½ Moment

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Suffering Makes of Us

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

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

Yet when hard times come, we may think:

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

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

Expect Friction

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

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

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

Practice Gratitude Without Denial

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

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

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

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

Let Trust Be Active

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

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

Turn Outward

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

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

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

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

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

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Fathers and mothers do not provide exactly the same type of parenting; they have complementary strengths and responsibilities. Sometimes children need experiences best provided by a father, such as adventure or disciplined intervention. Sometimes they need experiences best provided by a mother, such as sustained, careful nurturing. Latter-day Saints believe we have Heavenly Parents—Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother—and that many mortal patterns also hold true in heaven. Why not parental gender roles?

Brigham Young taught, “As far as we can compare eternal things with earthly things that lie within the scope of our understanding, so far we can understand them.” In that spirit, I propose a parallel: mortality as a ‘dad mode’ adventure, where the Father naturally has a more salient role. Additionally, we can understand Heavenly Mother by considering life before and after an adventure with Dad. 

So what is “dad mode?”

In our family, the normal potty training routine involves loving explanation and nurturing guidance, primarily from mom. For one of our kids, this persistently failed. Switching to ‘dad mode’ solved the problem—Dad physically restrained the child on the potty until the task was completed in the proper location. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth during the process, but the child learned by experience that the assigned task was possible and was praised for completing it. From then on, potty training was largely successful — the child quickly forgot the ordeal, but retained the skill. 

The brief ‘dad mode’ intervention looked and sounded painful. Mom would not normally pursue this kind of approach, but she was aware of it, agreed it was necessary, and did not bail the kid out. Appealing to mom during this process would not have been productive. Dad was running the show, and Mom supported his approach. Mom handled most of the teaching before and after this intervention, though not during it.

Taking kids backpacking offers another “dad mode” example. The itinerary is set by Dad; the kids aren’t really competent to judge such things. Sometimes they get to keep hiking, even on sore feet. Dad distributes the pack weight and typically does not reassign it; doing so would set a poor precedent and weaken the kids. So the kids struggle. They get stronger. They learn something about themselves. And then mom welcomes everyone back with a feast, having stayed home, cared for the baby, and done a thousand other things. Afterward, even the kid who cried for a mile talks unprompted about what a great experience the trip was. 

This also has gospel parallels. Heavenly Father is obviously prepared to send people off on literal wilderness adventures: consider Adam, Abraham, Moses, the brother of Jared, Lehi, Nephi, Ammon, Elijah, and Christ, as well as later community treks such as Zion’s Camp and the pioneer migrations. Children in the Church sing that we can all be pioneers, and youth go on pioneer trek reenactments. And Eve deserves praise for starting all of the adventures. Embarking on adventures is in our spiritual DNA. 

As Paul writes, “We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.” 

The “dad mode” wilderness adventure analogy can go further. Consider: what level of guidance and communication is appropriate for a young man on a wilderness adventure? He needs the tools and information to succeed, yet he learns most in the context of a legitimate challenge, which might not be best served by easy or excessive communication. 

Taken together, these patterns suggest that Heavenly Father presides over a high-stakes, sometimes grueling ‘dad-mode’ adventure. We agreed to go to the camp, and we’re in for it now! Heavenly Mother approves, yet seems to leave the management of this enterprise primarily in the Father’s hands. Then what is She doing? Presumably, everything else: managing and enjoying the whole domestic enterprise of heaven, and helping children in every other phase of their development. 

A common caricature reduces motherhood to giving birth, and perhaps keeping children alive until they can be placed in the care of a business and/or government. Maybe there’s a Mother’s Day card involved, once a year, until social media convinces the kid that mom is “toxic.” Did I mention the pain and exhaustion?

If you combine this diminished view of motherhood with the obvious fact that Heavenly Mother is not front-and-center here on Adventure Camp Earth, you might imagine that eternal motherhood is a frustratingly limited role, primarily centered on giving birth. But mortality is only a tiny fraction of our existence, and this caricature of motherhood is only a tiny fraction of what it should be. True motherhood engages with every aspect of life, and continues through the child’s whole life—and to heaven.

I suspect heavenly motherhood is more like being a grandmother than a mother of a newborn. It will presumably involve interacting with offspring at a wide variety of developmental stages (including premortal and postmortal), and taking joy in their milestones. We will have plenty of time—just as God has time to hear every prayer and count every sparrow—and money will be no object. It sounds similar to an ideal retirement, with no aging and a perfected body.

And all of this happens in a place—a home. The hymn says, “Home can be a heaven on earth,” and I say heaven is centered on perfected homes. Domesticity is hard to capture—it isn’t just the cookies in the oven, or the smile when you come in, or the familiar beauty of the decorations. It isn’t just catching up, or playing a game, or conspiring against the world. It’s not just the feeling of loving welcome, the feeling of the Holy Spirit, the feeling of coming home to a perfect refuge. But there’s some mixture of all these things, and more, that makes a home heavenly, or makes a heavenly home. And the best homes have a mother at their core.

Joseph Smith taught that “that same sociality which exists among us here will exist among us [in heaven], only it will be coupled with eternal glory, which glory we do not now enjoy.” So we should expect that our grandmother’s house will be a heavenly institution—arguably the heavenly institution. 

And while blissful domesticity reigns above, here we are on a “dad mode” adventure. It isn’t quite a representative picture of what came before or what comes after; it involves less mom and more hard knocks. But it’s temporary, and it’s good for us. And soon enough, our Mother will lovingly welcome us home.

The post Heavenly Parents and ‘Dad Mode’ Mortality: Earth Life as Adventure Camp appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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When the internet was widely adopted in the 1990s, a “Great Rewiring of Childhood” took place and created a generational divide between so-called “digital immigrants” (those raised in the analog age) and “digital natives” (those raised in the internet age). Social psychologist Jonathan Haidt describes digital natives as “the test subjects for a radical new way of growing up,” and says the difference in childhood between the two groups is so large “it’s as if [digital natives] became the first generation to grow up on Mars.”

This has implications for older members (digital immigrants) of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints who wish to parent, lead, teach, or mentor the rising generation of digital natives. One area where this gap presents serious difficulty is the subject of pornography and masturbation addiction.

We—Dr. Rance Hutchings (a digital immigrant and men’s mental and sexual health expert) and Kimball Call (a digital native and economics student at BYU)—believe it’s crucial to talk about why digital immigrants often struggle to effectively help digital natives who struggle with pornography addiction. Where is the disconnect coming from? How can it be overcome, and how can older parents, leaders, and teachers better help younger Latter-day Saints?

Rance’s Experience

When Rance began mentoring men with pornography addiction in 2010, he could sense the generational divide between himself and the younger men he mentored. Growing up, he never struggled with pornography addiction, nor did he hear about pornography all that much. He can’t even remember pornography being mentioned in a single church lesson. Pornography was only ever discussed as a “one-off” situation that young men might experience at a party when someone brought a magazine or snuck in a video rented from an adult book shop. So when trying to help the rising generation with pornography, Rance felt like a “foreigner”—desperate to help, but unable to escape feeling inauthentic. 

While serving in a bishopric, Rance felt that it was much easier to teach young men only how to prevent pornography addiction rather than how to overcome it. He’s not alone. Many parents and leaders find that “prevention” is the only method they can teach authentically, because it’s all they ever were familiar with themselves.

 Kimball’s Experience

 Now contrast Rance’s experience with Kimball’s, who grew up seeing the other side of Rance’s scenario. As one of the earliest digital natives, Kimball faced a fundamentally altered childhood landscape (or Mars, as Haidt describes it). Like many in his generation, Kimball discovered pornography as early as the 5th grade, and by the 6th grade had already developed a habit and discovered masturbation. Although his thoughtful and proactive parents tried to implement safeguards and filters, Kimball—as a digital native—found ways around each one. 

 By the time he was a deacon, Kimball was past the point where the “prevention” lectures were helpful. Because he already had a problem, these conversations made him feel isolated. He reasoned that he must be the only one viewing pornography if everyone else only talked about it in terms of staying away from it. This view was compounded when older people suggested “simply quitting,” spoke of pornography as simply a bad choice that could be stopped by willpower and agency, or suggested other silver-bullet solutions.

 The Disconnect

 We believe that these young men were neither weak nor spiritually broken when they first encountered pornography. They were simply “digital martians,” trying to survive on a new planet without adequate tools or preparation, being led by adults whose experiences were completely different. For digital immigrants growing up, viewing pornography required accessing – and often purchasing – physical media like VHS tapes and magazines. In homes or communities where this type of media was highly regulated, it was nearly impossible for most young men to access hardcore pornography. And if they did, it required much more effort to conceal. 

 Today, however, digital natives have unhampered access to much more stimulating forms of pornography with much lower barriers to access and total anonymity. Worse still, it actively gets inserted into social media feeds, movies, and video games, and is always just a few taps away on a device. This is why it’s unhelpful for digital immigrants to talk of pornography as a problem that can be dealt with through willpower, agency, internet filters, “remembering who you are,” or other simple prevention methods. These may have been sufficient once, but a new battle calls for new (and improved) tactics.

 At its root, the generational disconnect stems from the difficulty digital immigrants and digital natives have relating to each other. Digital immigrants have carried over from their era a certain set of expectations for what “normal” looks like, and digital natives are caught in the dissonance between those expectations and the reality they experience. For instance, digital immigrants within the Church grew to expect pornography addiction to affect few people, generally those already in dire spiritual straits. This expectation makes it difficult for some to accept that a majority of young men—including the good, upstanding, and faithful ones—now struggle with a porn habit to some degree. 

The first step to overcoming the disconnect will be to appreciate the new reality our youth are experiencing. Now that we’ve had three decades to observe, conduct research, and develop better approaches, it is incumbent on parents, leaders, and teachers to adapt, to learn, and to prepare the next generation for greater success.

 Bridging the Gap

 After 15 years of professional work, Rance has learned that, for most young men, pornography habits will be forming before they enter priesthood service at 11. By that age, it’s often too late for the prevention lecture to be sufficient. But he’s also learned that he has more in common with digital natives than he thought, and that knowledge can help parents and leaders who aren’t sure what to do next.

 Viewing pornography and masturbating are two separate addictive behaviors, but we often lump them together under the umbrella term “pornography addiction.” Generally,  masturbation is the ‘root addiction’ while pornography is an enhancer. Once porn and masturbation are successfully separated, they can be treated without the compounding effect they have on each other, which allows the path to recovery to look a lot more similar to what digital immigrants experienced. This puts digital immigrants and natives on common ground, allowing more sympathy, patience, understanding, and authenticity. 

 New (And Improved) Tactics 

 A new battle calls for new and improved tactics. Once parents, leaders, and mentors have shifted their own paradigm and can better understand the new challenges digital natives face, there are several resources, tools, and strategies they can use. 

 Begin by separating pornography use and masturbation so they can be tackled separately. Pornography use should generally be dealt with first, using a healthy mix of prevention strategies (defense) as well as strategies addressing underlying spiritual, emotional, and physical problems (offense). Prevention will play a key role in the first few months of recovery, while offensive strategies will be crucial for long-term success. Once viewing pornography has been thoroughly addressed, these same tools can be used to slow—and eventually terminate—masturbation addiction.

 Kimball recently approached Brad Wilcox at BYU to ask if the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles is teaching the same principles when they teach about pornography use, and received adamant confirmation that they are. Evidence can be found in the recently published, First Presidency-approved Missionary Resource Guide for Addressing Pornography found on Gospel Library. This resource teaches missionaries, “While your ultimate goal is to be clean from pornography use, understand that you will not get there all at once. It will take sustained and consistent effort. Set small, achievable goals and build on successes rather than focusing on failures.”

 Members of the Church can apply this counsel by ending the practice of tracking “porn-free streaks.” This tactic seems appealing, but it tends to perpetuate addictive behavior in the long run. As the Missionary Resource Guide for Addressing Pornography states, “Setbacks don’t take you back to square one.” Instead, it will be more effective to find ways to decrease the frequency and intensity of slips over time. For example, a digital native just starting the journey to recovery might set a goal to view pornography less than three times in the first week and to not allow a slip to last for longer than five minutes. If successful, their next goal might be to go two weeks with less than three slips, then on to three weeks, a month, and so on. 

 This strategy decreases the chance of binges: the tendency to slip multiple times in a row once an abstinent streak has been broken. Binges can severely hamper long-term progress, so it’s better to allow one or two minor slips within the goal period than to risk a binge. One or two minor slips are not indicators of an unsuccessful recovery; in fact, they are normal—taking a few steps forward, one step back, and so on until the gaps between small slips grow longer and longer. Sustainable and lasting recovery is much more likely with this method. 

 Crucial to recovery is strong accountability, so we recommend a mentorship model: choosing one trustworthy person for the recovering person to regularly communicate with weekly. It usually works best for this mentor to be an adult member of the same sex, but they don’t have to have prior experience with pornography. Mentors provide many benefits, including an outside, unique perspective of the factors that play into pornography use and how to manage them. Check-ins with mentors should be judgment-free and focused on future action, not past mistakes.

 Any underlying emotional, mental, and physical health needs will also need to be addressed. We urge members to seek help from Church-aligned sources. There is a secular trend—which we reject—to excuse and tolerate pornography use as normal and harmless behavior, and seeking help from these kinds of sources frequently doesn’t lead to a full and lasting recovery. Supplemental tools that we do endorse include cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) and mindfulness-based cognitive therapy (MBCT), both of which can be adapted for use to help with pornography and masturbation addiction. 

While both generations should embrace new realities and methods for tackling pornography and masturbation, we shouldn’t seek to change the moral standards of chastity. Lowering expectations is an unhelpful strategy for lifelong happiness. Parents and leaders will need to adjust their approach, be more open-minded, and grow more understanding, without lowering standards of moral cleanliness and virtue, even if our social environment makes it increasingly difficult. Therefore, we advocate for a Christlike approach, built on high expectations and ever-increasing love.

In Rance’s experience, he doesn’t know of anyone who sincerely wanted to be free of pornography addiction who wasn’t eventually successful once they had the right tools and mindset. With an approach designed for his reality, Kimball found relief, and now wants his digitally native peers to know that there’s hope. Full recovery is a reality! And we hope that with a new perspective, digital immigrants and digital natives can be more successful working together to achieve a lifetime of happiness.

The post Bridging the Generational Divide to Help Youth with Porn Addiction 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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

The post The Hidden Cost of Normalizing Doubt appeared first on Public Square Magazine.

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As mental health therapy becomes an increasingly prominent feature of contemporary life, it becomes more important to stop seeing the practice as a monolith and recognize it as a bundle of distinct practices, philosophies, and goals. Sometimes these different approaches even directly contradict one another. 

Latter-day Saints understand the importance of caring for our mental health and often utilize mental health practitioners. But that doesn’t mean every approach is worth trying or comports with Christian principles.

Differentiation therapy, however, conflicts with the principles of Christianity broadly and the Restored Gospel specifically. In addition, despite the modality’s current popularity, there is little evidence that this approach works.  

What is Differentiation Therapy?

Differentiation therapy is a psychotherapeutic model advanced by David Schnarch. It is also sometimes called “crucible therapy.”

Schnarch posits that the purpose of our relationships is individual growth, and that the way to heal relationships is by focusing on our own needs, identity, and preferences separate from our partner. 

Schnarch first published his theories in the early 1990s. He built on the ideas of one of the early practitioners of family therapy, Murray Bowen. Bowen pioneered systemic therapy, a therapeutic approach that recognizes how our struggles are often found within the complex system of relationships in a family. Bowen articulated “self-differentiation,” the ability to recognize and define yourself as an individual within that system, as one of the items in tension in the family system. 

Schnarch focused and emphasized self-differentiation, recontextualizing this idea within the affective domain of marital intimacy, asserting that the path to greater eroticism, emotional fulfillment, and personal development lies not in interdependent vulnerability but in cultivating emotional autonomy and self-definition. He contends that genuine intimacy emerges when each spouse remains firmly rooted in a differentiated self, experiencing anxiety within the relationship that spurs individual growth, and resisting the urge to seek validation from the other. Schnarch’s framework is built on the maxim that relational maturity is contingent on one’s ability to “hold onto oneself,” particularly in the face of emotional intensity.

As Paul teaches in 1 Thessalonians 5:21, “Prove all things, hold fast that which is good.” Differentiation therapy doesn’t hold up to those standards.

For Christian or Latter-day Saint engagement, any therapeutic model must be assessed through two interdependent criteria: its empirical reliability and its theological coherence. Specifically, a model must conform to a theology that affirms the covenantal, sacramental, and grace-dependent character of human relationships. 

On both empirical and theological grounds, this model raises serious concerns. 

Similarities to the Gospel

Before diving into why differentiation marriage therapy doesn’t adhere to Christian theology, let’s first grant that there is much about the ideology that can appeal to those in our tradition. 

Crucible Therapy is so named because the idea is for us to improve ourselves like metal does in a crucible. This metaphor is familiar to Latter-day Saints, who have heard it consistently in General Conference addresses for decades.

We want to grow, which sometimes requires us to do (or endure) difficult things. Joseph Smith even described his time in Liberty Jail as a “crucible.”

Personal growth is a key component of the Latter-day Saint conception of life and the eternities, as we rely on the grace of Jesus Christ to become more like Him.  

And we view marriage as a key pathway to achieving that personal growth. Elder Richard G. Scott described the overarching theme of the “eternal blessings of marriage” as “trying to be like Jesus.”

Even the concept of self-differentiation itself is not opposed to the gospel. After all, in President Russell M. Nelson’s 2008 formulation, salvation is “an individual matter.” In each Latter-day Saint ordinance and covenant made from the first at baptism to the temple endowment, individuals participate independently.

The problem with differentiation therapy is not the ingredients, but rather the emphasis, proportions, and timing.

The Sacramental View of Marriage

Scripture and tradition present a vision of marriage not as a mere partnership but as a covenantal and ontological union. Genesis 2:24 and Mark 10:8 declare, “the two shall become one flesh,” articulating a unity that transcends sentiment or legal arrangement. This union is sacramental, reflecting the mystery of divine communion and typifying the nuptial relationship between Christ and the Church. 

Within Latter-day Saint theology, this union also echoes the oneness of the Godhead and extends to eternal dimensions. Eternal marriage is not a symbolic ideal but a sacred ordinance that enables joint participation in the divine nature. In this view, marital unity is achieved through consecrated covenant keeping and divine grace.

President Gordon B. Hinckley famously warned that “selfishness is the great destroyer of happy family life.” Christian ethics consistently portray the self not as autonomous but relationally constituted, and pride as the origin of spiritual alienation. Love entails the displacement of self-centeredness. Schnarch’s valorization of emotional self-sufficiency is in tension with Christ’s self-emptying love.

Schnarch does attempt to articulate an ideal of oneness near the end of his second book. He writes, “Holding onto yourself and becoming more differentiated actually leads to the loss of the self you’ve been holding onto.” In this, he articulates a goal shared by Christians. But Schnarch gets the order precisely backward. In teaching the Twelve Apostles, Jesus said, “He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it.”

The Rev. Lauren R.E. Larkin, an Episcopalian, notes that Schnarch’s model implies what I might describe as a form of psychological soteriology in which transformation is self-engineered and internally sourced. In contrast, Christian soteriology comes from the sacrifice of the self in our relationship with Christ, and that happy marriage comes from applying the same principle. 

Specific Theological and Pastoral Concerns

Schnarch’s philosophy is hardly the only one to be at odds with the principles of Christianity. But it warrants attention both because of its growth among those providing therapy for Latter-day Saints and the specific negative behavioral outcomes it can produce. 

Reframing of Selfishness as Growth

In Schnarch’s paradigm, behaviors that prioritize the self over marital unity are reframed as developmental milestones. This conceptual move risks legitimizing patterns of emotional disengagement or moral abdication that Scripture identifies as destructive.

Devaluation of Mutual Dependence

Christian marriage presupposes mutual reliance and covenantal solidarity. Emotional interdependence is not pathological but redemptive. By pathologizing need and elevating stoicism, Crucible Therapy undermines the logic and purpose of marriage within the Christian life.

Therapeutic Destabilization of the Vulnerable

The deliberate intensification of anxiety may compound harm in couples already contending with trauma or asymmetry. Without a framework of mercy, discernment, and accountability, this method risks exacerbating wounds rather than fostering healing.

Psychological Work as Identity Formation

Crucible Therapy reflects and clinically adopts a broader cultural trend: the belief that personal identity is best discovered through solitary psychological excavation. For Christians, our truest identity is revealed not in looking inward but in looking upward—to God—and outward—to others.

Undermining the Redemptive Power of Weakness

Differentiation therapy often frames strength in a relationship as the ability to withstand emotional storms alone. But Latter-day Saint theology teaches that God’s power is made perfect in our weakness, and our spouses as a “help-meet” for those challenges. Schnarch ignores the redemptive capacity of dependence. 

Flattening the Eternal Narrative of Marriage

Perhaps most fundamentally, differentiation therapy assumes marriage is primarily a context for individual growth and erotic renewal. But for Latter-day Saints, marriage is the divine setting for exaltation. While it shares the desire for marriage to be a conduit for individual growth, the Latter-day Saint conception of marriage has a project much more lofty and eternal in mind. 

Secular therapies can’t be expected to fully integrate all gospel understanding. Still, we can avoid the ones whose explicit goals and practices set us toward different goals than those we are pursuing.

Toward a Christological Integration of Differentiation and Unity

The question of how to balance differentiation and unity—how to maintain personal identity while becoming “one” with another—is not merely a psychological puzzle but a theological one. For Christians, the life of Jesus Christ provides the supreme model for how distinctiveness and relational communion are held in perfect harmony. He is not only the exemplar of love but the embodiment of divine identity lived in full self-giving.

Throughout the New Testament, Christ’s actions and teachings demonstrate a perfect union of individual authority and relational surrender. In John 5:30, He declares, “I can of mine own self do nothing: as I hear, I judge … because I seek not mine own will, but the will of the Father which hath sent me.” Here we see a Savior who is fully self-aware and fully self-sacrificing. His divine agency is never wielded for isolation but always for communion—first with His Father, and then with those He came to redeem.

The pre-mortal Christ likewise demonstrates an integrated identity in His dealings with Israel. In Exodus 3, He reveals Himself as “I AM,” an assertion of sovereign selfhood. Yet He repeatedly binds Himself in covenant to His people, dwelling with them, feeding them, and pleading for their return. His identity is never diluted, but His divine selfhood is always offered for relationship.

In 3 Nephi, the resurrected Lord descends among the Nephites. What does He do? He weeps. He heals. He prays for their unity, invoking the language of divine indwelling: “that they may be one, as thou, Father, art in me, and I in thee” (3 Nephi 19:23). Here again, the goal is not emotional distance but sanctified closeness. Christ does not ask us to become strong by ourselves. He invites us to be made whole in Him. At no point is differentiation set against unity. Rather, disciples are expected to retain their agency and consecrate it—to grow, yes, but to grow together.

From this Christological lens, differentiation is not a prerequisite for unity, nor is unity a threat to identity. Instead, selfhood and love are co-eternal truths, fulfilled in covenant. The Savior does not command us to “hold onto ourselves” but to take up our cross. He does not sever our personhood; He sanctifies it in communion.

In Jesus Christ’s life, death, and resurrection, we see the perfect integration of individuality and unity. 

Recommendations for Moving Forward

For Latter-day Saints looking at what kinds of marriage therapy are appropriate for them and their circumstances, I have a few pieces of advice. 

Not all therapists and therapeutic practices are created equal. As mental health resources are often in short supply, it can be tempting to visit the first person with a license and an opening. But it is worth being discerning, especially in a venue where we are opening up our hearts and minds to someone. 

While “Latter-day Saint therapists” can be helpful (if unnecessary) in that journey, be careful to understand whether your therapist merely understands the vocabulary of Latter-day Saints or is committed to helping you maintain your worldview.

Preserve your moral and spiritual lexicon. Grace is not a synonym for internal resilience. Sin is not a developmental stage we grow out of. 

Based on my experience, observations, and analysis, my advice is for Latter-day Saints to exercise considerable caution before engagin in differentiation therapy or working with clinicians who practice it. There are approaches that better align with the gospel of Jesus Christ, and which the evidence shows work better.

David Schnarch’s Crucible/Differentiation Marriage Therapy presents a psychologically articulate, but ultimately inadequate framework for relational transformation. Its emphasis on self-validation, emotional independence, and internal differentiation diverges from the best practices evidence shows work and the covenantal, grace-saturated vision of Christian marriage.

The post When Therapy Undermines Marriage: How Differentiation Fails the Christian Model appeared first on Public Square Magazine.