Famine in Zion
Chapter 2: Preach My Gospel (part 1)
My journey toward baptism in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was deeply intertwined with the scriptures. I was, by all accounts, a difficult investigator. I asked hard questions, resisted easy answers, and required more than superficial assurances. I look back on my interactions with both the missionaries and members of the Church with deep fondness. More than anything else, the missionaries consistently encouraged me to read from the Book of Mormon and to pray about it. During that summer of study, I read through the Book of Mormon twice. I was drawn to its doctrinal depth and spiritual insights, as well as its clear correlation to the Old and New Testaments. My copy of the Book of Mormon quickly became marked with annotations, underlined verses, and handwritten questions.
Despite the sincere efforts of the missionaries, I remained hesitant to commit to baptism. When pressed for an explanation, I would respond honestly that I did not yet know enough to make such a lifelong commitment, and that I felt a need to study further. On one occasion, one of the elders looked at me with a mix of genuine confusion and exasperation and said rather bluntly, “John, you literally know more of our own scriptures than ninety-five percent of the members in this ward.” At the time, I didn’t believe him. I assumed he was exaggerating—perhaps a well-intended, if slightly desperate, form of missionary persuasion designed to twist my arm in a more charming way. However, the more I continued to study with the missionaries, I encountered a recurring and disconcerting theme of missionaries and members having limited familiarity with the scriptures they were called to teach.
Several missionaries confessed to me that they had read the Book of Mormon in its entirety only shortly before embarking on their missions, while others acknowledged that they had only completed it at the Missionary Training Center (MTC). One elder candidly admitted to me that he had never read the Book of Mormon from beginning to end. These admissions were not elicited through probing but emerged naturally during our discussions about the gospel. The missionaries often expressed concern that their limited scriptural knowledge might impede their ability to answer my questions effectively.
While I respected their honesty, these revelations were troubling. They highlighted a broader issue within missionary preparation—a lack of comprehensive scriptural literacy. Recognizing this, I began to inquire more intentionally about missionaries’ engagement with the scriptures. Questions such as “What is your favorite book of the Old Testament and why?” often revealed a narrow focus on the Book of Mormon, with limited exposure to the other Standard Works.
This pattern is concerning, given that the Book of Mormon, while central to Latter-day Saint theology, comprises only a portion (roughly 20%) of the Standard Works. A holistic understanding of the gospel necessitates familiarity with the Holy Bible, Doctrine and Covenants, and Pearl of Great Price. The scriptures collectively testify of Jesus Christ and provide the doctrinal foundation upon which the Church is built (2 Nephi 25:26).
In one of my very first callings as a ward missionary, I was often called upon to assist in teaching investigators with substantial religious backgrounds, such as lifelong evangelical Christians or Catholic seminary students. The missionaries expressed feeling ill-equipped to address potentially complex theological questions posed by these individuals. I started to suspect that this reliance on ward missionaries for doctrinal discussions demonstrated a deeper systemic issue of institutional neglect regarding scriptural literacy and the formative role of personal study in shaping spiritually competent and doctrinally grounded missionaries.
Some may argue that the primary role of missionaries is to invite others to come unto Christ, relying on the guidance of the Holy Spirit rather than extensive scriptural knowledge. While the influence of the Spirit is paramount in missionary work, it certainly does not negate the responsibility to be well-versed in the doctrines of the gospel. The Lord has emphasized the importance of both spiritual and intellectual preparation—“Seek ye out of the best books words of wisdom; seek learning, even by study and also by faith” (Doctrine and Covenants 88:118).
Moreover, the early leaders of the restored Church exemplified a commitment to scriptural engagement. Joseph Smith declared, “After all that has been said, the greatest and most important duty is to preach the Gospel” (History of the Church 2:478). Under his direction, the Saints were instructed to “go ye into all the world” to share the testimony of the gospel (Doctrine and Covenants 84:62). Brigham Young, too, emphasized the necessity of preaching and teaching the gospel with clarity and conviction, often drawing upon his extensive knowledge of the scriptures to do so. The missionary manual, Preach My Gospel, reinforces this principle by encouraging missionaries to study the scriptures daily and to teach the doctrines of the gospel with accuracy and power.
In practice, nearly all MTC classroom lessons—including large-group instruction sessions on core topics such as the Restoration, Plan of Salvation, Atonement, and Book of Mormon—are taught as doctrinal or topical discussions that draw on scriptures for proof‐text support. In these classes and in companion-study lesson planning, missionaries are encouraged to use scripture passages (especially from the Book of Mormon) to illustrate gospel principles, but the emphasis is on teaching principles and committing investigators, not on comprehending or even reading contiguous scripture chapters.
Anecdotal reports are mixed on whether MTC training builds strong scriptural literacy. Some missionaries and observers praise the focus on gospel principles. For example, one returned sister missionary featured in the video training series The District, which accompanies the Preach my Gospel materials, reflected that after a week of intensive scripture reading at the MTC, she “caught the spirit of missionary work” and began to understand the purpose behind the rules. She attributed this change, at least in part, to “the concentrated daily scripture reading” (Laura Nichols, “My MTC Experience,” November 2018). This suggests some find that the MTC’s regimen of scripture study, especially in personal or companion study time, can deepen understanding and testimony.
However, other personal accounts note deficiencies. A prominent preparation article warns that too many new missionaries arrive with little scripture knowledge—“I cannot tell you how many missionaries come to the field never having read [the Book of Mormon]! They spend the first 4–12 weeks of their missions just trying to read the book” (Jeremy Goff, Meridian Magazine, “7 Ways to Come ‘Pre-Trained’ for Your Mission,” May 2015). LDS-themed blogs and forums are filled with sprawling comment sections where members—current, former, and inactive—casually confirm troubling trends, such as missionaries bearing testimony of scriptures they’ve never actually finished reading (e.g., Wheat & Tares, “New Seminary Graduation Requirements Announced by CES,” February 2023). These anecdotes reflect a common complaint that the MTC emphasizes teaching how to teach rather than ensuring each missionary has internalized basic scripture content beforehand.
The same forum posts and blogs have also voiced concern that the emphasis on “just giving out a scripture reference” can leave both missionaries and investigators with shallow understanding. When missionaries rely on memorized verses or scripted dialogs, they can feel underprepared to answer questions in depth. Some former teachers lament that modern lessons often come from Preach My Gospel rather than the scriptures themselves, and that missionaries are not encouraged to read uninterrupted scripture narratives in the MTC.
One might argue that while the concern of missionaries entering the field without having fully internalized the scriptures is indeed troubling, the responsibility for such preparation ultimately rests on the individual missionary rather than on the institutional structures of the Church or the MTC. Within the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, members frequently reference the parable of the ten virgins (Matthew 25:1–13) as an instructive allegory emphasizing the importance of cultivating one’s own testimony and gospel knowledge rather than relying on the spiritual reserves of others. From this perspective, the lack of scriptural preparation among missionaries might be interpreted not as an institutional failure, but as a personal shortcoming—where the primary consequences are borne by the missionary themselves rather than by those they are called to teach.
It could also be noted that the Church has already established preparatory programs such as Seminary, which, in theory, provide four years of scripture-based education prior to missionary service. This reasoning implies that the necessary foundation has been made available and that the responsibility for spiritual and doctrinal readiness lies with the individual. However, such a line of argument requires a few assumptions—for example, that Seminary uniformly achieves its objectives across diverse educational and cultural contexts, and that teenage participants consistently engage with the material in a meaningful way. More critically, this view tends to overlook the potential risks posed to sincere investigators who may encounter missionaries ill-equipped to guide them through the scriptures with clarity and conviction. In practice, the notion of individual missionaries shouldering exclusive responsibility for scriptural fluency does not sufficiently account for the patterns of under-preparedness I have witnessed, nor does it adequately address the systemic factors that contribute to a widespread culture of doctrinal superficiality.
In 2022, I was extended a calling to serve as a Seminary instructor for a class composed of students from three wards within my stake. I approached the calling with great enthusiasm and began my preparation immediately. I developed lesson outlines, cross-referenced the assigned Come, Follow Me readings with the Seminary teacher manual, and took time to learn the names of each student. I also participated in the stake’s Seminary training meetings. During this time, several members of my ward made offhand comments to me—some lighthearted, others more pointed—about how Seminary was a calling they did not envy, and how they, personally, would never want to teach it. At first, I interpreted these remarks charitably, assuming they reflected a general discomfort with teaching or a lack of confidence in one’s ability to expound upon the scriptures. Since I did not share those concerns, I took note of the comments but did not dwell on them.
It was not long before I began to understand their underlying sentiment more clearly. On the very first day of class, after brief introductions and an overview of expectations, I mentioned that students would be expected to read from the scriptures at home during the week. This suggestion was met with visible confusion. One student even raised her hand to clarify, asking if I was assigning homework—because, she explained politely, “we’ve never had homework in Seminary before.” I clarified that this was not a personal imposition but rather a principle emphasized in the curriculum itself. I further explained that the expectation was not necessarily to read every chapter assigned for the week, but to dedicate some meaningful time each day to reading from the relevant sections—even if only a few verses. The goal, I explained, was consistency and spiritual engagement, not volume or completion. Nevertheless, this expectation was met with reluctance, and I quickly realized that, for many of my students, the idea of daily scripture study as part of Seminary participation was unfamiliar and even burdensome.
More striking than their surprise at the reading expectations, however, was the pervasive disengagement that characterized the classroom environment from the outset. Many students made little attempt to participate and instead spent most of class time on their phones—playing games, browsing the internet, or watching captioned videos. Despite setting clear expectations regarding phone use at the start of the semester, my co-teacher and I encountered resistance to any attempts at enforcement. Eventually, we opted to move the class from the high council room, where a long table had enabled students to shield their phones from view, to the Relief Society room, where chairs could be arranged in a single row facing forward. This spatial reconfiguration had a noticeable effect—with fewer opportunities to hide distractions, students were more likely to remain attentive. While far from a complete solution, it marked a turning point in classroom management.
In an effort to further enhance participation, my co-teacher and I experimented with various strategies. We leaned into the case study elements of the updated Seminary curriculum and emphasized small group discussions. Unfortunately, only a few students—typically a small group of girls—consistently contributed to these discussions, while many of the boys remained silent, often choosing to sit together and disengage. Attempts to involve students by going around the room for individual scripture reading were only marginally effective. Students tended to tune out until it was their turn to read, at which point they briefly focused before withdrawing again. The majority of these efforts failed to yield lasting improvement.
While I had entered the calling with idealism and sincere spiritual intent, my experience as a Seminary teacher quickly brought to light a host of structural and cultural challenges. These difficulties reflected a deeper spiritual malaise in which scripture study had been reduced to a perfunctory task, and spiritual instruction was often received with indifference, if not outright apathy. This was particularly disheartening for me as a convert to the faith, someone who had come to love the scriptures profoundly and who viewed the opportunity to teach them as both a privilege and a sacred trust. I had assumed, perhaps naively, that these youth—most of whom were raised in the Church and taught from young ages to value the gospel—would be eager to study the scriptures and deepen their understanding of divine truth.
The experience reminded me of the first time I flew to Salt Lake City, just prior to my baptism into the Church. As I stepped off the plane and into the terminal, I noticed a small table near one of the flight desks with a couple of coffee pots set out. I remember being oddly taken aback, and I stared at those coffee pots for longer than I’d like to admit. Some part of me had apparently expected Salt Lake to resemble a kind of Mormon utopia. That internal reaction was immediately followed by a quiet embarrassment—one of those moments when you’re grateful no one can read your thoughts. Of course an airport would have coffee pots, just like any other airport. The problem wasn’t with the setting—it was with my own misplaced expectation.
And as I came to better understand the reality of these Seminary students—just normal, average teenagers—I found myself thinking back to those airport coffee pots, with a mix of familiar discomfort and, perhaps, a little shame.
Over time, I found myself engaged in increasingly deep and, at times, existential conversations with my wife, Anna, regarding the ethical implications of compelling disengaged students to sit through daily scriptural instruction. If I were teaching a secular subject—such as mathematics or English—I might not feel the same weight of concern when students scrolled through their phones, dozed off, or otherwise disengaged from the material. However, I could not ignore the spiritual dissonance that accompanied my role as a facilitator of gospel instruction in a setting where it was clear that the majority of my students did not want to be present. It became evident to me that, had attendance been left to their own volition, most of these youth would have opted out of Seminary altogether. And while there exists a common refrain within Church discourse that youth may one day come to appreciate the spiritual seeds planted in their adolescence, I began to question the moral calculus underlying such logic. Is it ethically justifiable to impose religious instruction in the hope that its value will be retroactively recognized?
In some of the most emotionally intense conversations with Anna—conversations during which I often found myself distraught, even tearful—I voiced a concern that bordered on theological alarm. Drawing on LDS teachings about Satan, I revisited the doctrinal assertion that his plan for humankind involved the removal of agency in favor of compulsory salvation—a system of coerced righteousness that would guarantee behavioral compliance at the cost of individual freedom. With my head in my hands, I posed a disturbing question—in compelling these teenagers to passively endure religious lessons they neither desired nor valued, were we enacting a system more reflective of Satan’s plan than of Christ’s? It is easy—comforting, even—to dismiss such a question with a reflexive “of course not,” and to invoke the presumed goodness of religious education as self-evident. But comfort and truth are not synonymous. Preference is not the measure of moral validity.
As I continued to wrestle with these questions, I came to feel that I was no longer simply teaching gospel doctrine, but rather participating in a system that often prioritized compliance over conversion and obligation over authenticity. The Seminary classroom I had envisioned—a space of vibrant inquiry, reverence, and discovery—bore little resemblance to the reality I encountered. Instead, I found myself entangled in a pedagogical structure that, in its form if not its intent, seemed to undermine the very spiritual principles it sought to promote.
In response to the growing sense of futility—and to stave off the encroaching existential disillusionment that accompanied my Seminary experience—I arrived at a personal conclusion that if the students were not being spiritually nourished by the standard presentations of gospel principles, then the solution was to engage more widely with the doctrine already available. It was not novelty they needed, but variety. My observation was that the curriculum, as it stood, tended to operate at a surface level. Week after week, vast stretches of scripture, including significant prophetic passages and theologically rich sections, were either reduced to a passing reference or omitted altogether. While it is, of course, unrealistic to expect a four-year program to provide exhaustive coverage of the Standard Works, the issue was not simply one of scope, but of depth and repetition. The consistent reliance on a limited set of “basic principles” risked rendering the voice of the scriptures flat, predictable, and unengaging. The gospel became a kind of echo chamber where students encountered the same dozen doctrinal points in endless rotation, irrespective of textual nuance or scriptural context.
While such an approach might be developmentally appropriate for Primary or introductory Sunday School classes, it seemed inadequate for the Seminary setting, which is often framed as a preparatory ground for missionary service and personal discipleship. If these students were expected to one day teach, testify, and answer complex questions about their faith, then surely their exposure to scripture needed to move beyond spiritual platitudes and into the realm of real inquiry and interpretive engagement. To that end, I began constructing supplemental lessons that highlighted less frequently discussed passages that are often passed over in both curriculum and pulpit discourse. My goal was to demonstrate how these texts were not tangential curiosities, but were in fact deeply connected to core doctrines of the Restoration.
To my surprise and cautious encouragement, these lessons sometimes elicited what I can only describe as spiritual “glimmers”—brief moments of recognition, resonance, or awakening in the students. I would see the sudden attentiveness in their posture, the glint of curiosity in their eyes, or the pens quietly reaching for notebooks. Occasionally, these lessons would spark sincere questions, and in rare but meaningful instances, students would remain after class to inquire further about a verse or doctrinal connection I had written on the board. A few parents and ward leaders who sat in on these lessons offered kind remarks, occasionally referring to me as someone with a “deep knowledge” of the scriptures. While I was genuinely humbled by such comments, I also found them unsettling. The lessons I was giving were not particularly advanced or academically rigorous. They were not born of scholarly training, nor were they designed as particularly deep exegetical work. Rather, I was simply teaching what was already present in the Standard Works—doctrinal and prophetic material that, troublingly, had remained unaddressed in the formal spiritual education of these students, and apparently of their parents and leaders. That such modest efforts were perceived as deep dives spoke volumes about Seminary instruction.
The scriptures, when taught only as a vehicle for reinforcing familiar gospel slogans, risk losing their transformative power. But when taught with careful attention to detail, intertextuality, and theological context—even at a high-school level—they can come alive. My experience suggested that students are not incapable of engaging with these things. Rather, they have rarely been invited to. And when they are, the results, though modest, are deeply meaningful.
And then my bubble was burst.
One of the stake Seminary representatives attended one of my lessons at the start of a new semester. The class itself proceeded as expected—students were moderately engaged, and a couple lingered afterward to ask thoughtful questions and discuss aspects of the material I had presented. However, after the students had left the building, the stake representative sat down with my co-teacher and me for a private discussion. While several topics were covered, the central focus quickly emerged—a word of caution directed specifically at me.
He began by acknowledging that the material I had been teaching was “interesting,” but followed with the assertion that it was not “spiritually necessary.” He advised, in no uncertain terms, that I needed to “stick to the book.” The primary purpose of Seminary, he emphasized, was to reinforce gospel principles, not to delve into scriptural passages or complexities, regardless of their doctrinal relevance. The best way to fulfill this purpose, he argued, was to follow the curriculum as outlined in the official Seminary materials. He then asked how much time I typically spent preparing my lessons. I responded honestly that I was investing upwards of 10 hours each week crafting two to three lessons. His response was firm and somewhat dismissive. He told me that this level of preparation was unnecessary and inappropriate, reminding me that Seminary was not meant to function as a part-time job.
I left that meeting feeling crushed. I had only just begun to explore the deeper currents of scripture with my students, and I was beginning to see the fruits of that effort—thoughtful questions, moments of genuine curiosity, and signs of spiritual engagement. And yet, here was an institutional representative counseling me to rein it in, to pare back, to conform. I did not want to dismiss his advice outright. After all, he was acting under ecclesiastical authority, even priesthood authority, and I have always tried to heed spiritual counsel. I prayed about it for several days, wrestling with conflicting impressions. I admit, I felt angry at times. Eventually, I concluded that if this gentleman was wrong, the responsibility was his, not mine. I felt compelled to sustain and follow his counsel.
I gradually shifted my approach. My lessons were reoriented toward the specified chapters and themes in the official curriculum. I still sought creative and subtle ways to incorporate context or lesser-known passages, but I carefully framed these within the boundaries of designated “gospel principles” in order to justify their inclusion. I continued to reference surrounding scriptures that were often omitted from the weekly focus, encouraging students to explore these on their own. But inwardly, I felt increasingly constrained, like someone trying to offer living water from a sealed or broken cistern (Jeremiah 2:13). The vibrancy that had once characterized my preparation began to fade, and I became apathetic.
I shared this shift in spirit with my co-teacher, who had become a friend. He listened empathetically, though I could never quite discern whether he agreed with me or was simply offering space for me to vent. During the following semester, my once richly layered lessons—often illustrated with color-coded diagrams across multiple whiteboards and cross-references to doctrinal patterns—devolved into hastily assembled PowerPoint presentations, many of which I prepared in less than 20 minutes. These were often supplemented with Church-produced videos, which I began to rely on heavily—not because they cultivated scriptural engagement, but because they filled time and aligned with institutional expectations.
The combination of student disengagement and institutional pressure to prioritize milk over meat left me feeling complicit in a system that—though well-intentioned—seemed indifferent to deeper scriptural inquiry. I was burned out and increasingly disillusioned. That disillusionment soon began to bleed into other areas of my Church activity and spiritual life, and it remained that way for several months.
I confided in a few of my most trusted friends and my bishop that, for many weeks, my calling was the only thing keeping me active in Church attendance. The very scriptures I once loved teaching became entangled with feelings of resignation, frustration, and sorrow—sorrow over what this might mean for the next generation. If we’re not feeding them now, when are they possibly going to be fed? It’s hard to find that nourishment happening in youth programs. It doesn’t seem to be happening in the MTC. So where?
It is not uncommon for members and leaders of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to suggest that the formative value of Seminary and missionary service lies not necessarily in the immediate internalization of scripture or measurable spiritual outcomes during service, but rather in the long-term developmental effects of these experiences. A frequently articulated position holds that missions, in particular, serve as a catalyst for emotional and spiritual maturation, and that this post-missionary growth will eventually lead to deeper receptivity to gospel principles and a more serious engagement with the scriptures. This argument is often employed in conjunction with endorsements of Brigham Young University, which in many Church circles is still regarded as the educational ideal—the institution par excellence where faith and scholarship converge to shape the next generation of disciples.
Brigham Young University was originally established as Brigham Young Academy in 1875, with a mission explicitly grounded in the integration of secular and spiritual education. Brigham Young, deeply concerned with the rising tide of secularism in higher education and the marginalization of religious instruction, sought to create a learning environment where spiritual development would be prioritized rather than sidelined. In a letter to his son Alfales Young, he wrote that the purpose of the academy was to provide a “good education unmixed with the pernicious atheistic influences that are found in so many of the higher schools of the country.” This sentiment was further underscored by Young’s oft-quoted assertion that “secular learning [is] the lesser value, and spiritual development, the greater.” The academy thus represented not only a strategic educational initiative but a theological and ideological statement about the role of education within the Restoration.
From its inception, the academy was envisioned as a central component of Zion-building—an institution that would cultivate intellectual discipline and spiritual formation in tandem. This dual focus has remained embedded, at least nominally, in BYU’s institutional mission, which states that the university exists “to assist individuals in their quest for perfection and eternal life” by fostering a learning environment that is “enlightened by the teachings and example of Jesus Christ” (BYU Mission Statement, November 1981-present). Such a mission, if taken seriously, places spiritual development not as an ancillary outcome but as the end goal of the educational endeavor.
However, for this vision to serve as a meaningful justification for the deferment of scriptural depth during earlier phases of a young person’s spiritual education, two assumptions must hold. First, that a significant majority of LDS young adults—particularly returned missionaries—actually attend BYU or one of its affiliated institutions, and second, that BYU continues to embody the vision set forth by its founder.
Regarding the first assumption, data suggest a more modest reality. While returned missionaries make up a sizable percentage of the student body at BYU–Provo—approximately 65% in recent years—and LDS membership is near universal at 99%, broader demographic estimates indicate that only a minority of returned missionaries pursue post-mission education through BYU’s system. Based on enrollment patterns at BYU–Provo, BYU–Idaho, BYU–Hawaii, and BYU–Pathway Worldwide, it is estimated that approximately one-third (roughly 33%) of all returned missionaries in a given year enroll in a BYU-affiliated program. As for young adult members who do not serve missions but still attend BYU, the number is almost certainly well below 10% worldwide, based on overall Church membership and enrollment data from BYU and its affiliated institutions. The remainder attend non-Church institutions, enter the workforce, or pursue other vocational and educational paths. Thus, framing BYU as the institutional remedy for prior spiritual gaps in youth programming assumes a reach and influence that the university simply does not maintain in practice.
The second assumption—that BYU continues to uphold its original spiritual mandate without compromise—has also come under increasing scrutiny. The university has indeed taken deliberate steps to preserve elements of its founding vision. All undergraduates are required to complete 14 credit hours of religious instruction, and an ecclesiastical endorsement is mandated annually to affirm each student’s commitment to personal conduct and religious participation. Nevertheless, discussions among students, faculty, and alumni have increasingly drawn attention to a perceived drift from the university’s spiritual foundations. Anecdotal reports frequently cite a disconnect between institutional rhetoric and student experience, with some expressing that the spiritual environment at BYU, while visible on the surface, does not always foster deep or consistent engagement with personal discipleship or scriptural literacy.
These concerns are not limited to formal studies or abstract speculation. My own conversations with returned missionaries and BYU alumni have confirmed many of these impressions. Most notably, my wife—a faithful Latter-day Saint and BYU graduate—has expressed that both her mission and her time at BYU were among the most spiritually disorienting periods of her life. While her story is not mine to narrate in detail, I recall asking her, in a moment of candid conversation, when she felt the most spiritually distant or disillusioned in her walk with the Lord. Without hesitation, she responded “on my mission and at BYU.” I know she is not alone in that feeling. Her stark response underscores a broader tension that simply cannot be ignored. If the very institutions designed to foster spiritual depth are, for some, sources of confusion, fatigue, or disconnection, then a serious conversation must be had about the extent to which the Restoration’s educational aims are being realized—or simply assumed.
The final line of defense for the Church’s youth, it seems, is the Institute program—designed for young adults ages 18 to 30, offering weekday instruction in the scriptures, doctrine, and principles of the restored gospel. Although it has one of the lowest participation rates among all Church programs, it is arguably the most consistently thorough and doctrinally rigorous. As a new convert and young single adult in my late twenties, I had the opportunity to attend several Institute classes and found the content markedly more engaging and the instruction notably more nuanced, especially when compared to any other Church class or program I had experienced.
Nevertheless, in recent years, the Church Educational System (CES) has introduced curricula that place greater emphasis on gospel principles and personal application, often at the expense of direct scriptural study. The Elevate Learning Experience (ELE), for example, encourages students to reflect on and apply gospel teachings in their own lives, shifting the focus from traditional content delivery to experiential engagement with doctrinal principles. This approach aligns with broader changes in Church educational materials, such as the Come, Follow Me program, which promotes a home-centered, Church-supported model of learning (examined more extensively in Chapter 4).
Once a young adult graduates from or ages out of the Institute program, the only remaining Church-sponsored education settings are the second-hour Sabbath meetings—namely, adult Sunday School, Elders Quorum, and Relief Society. Typically, Elders Quorum and Relief Society focus on strengthening faith through service, ministering, and principle-based gospel discussion tailored to life application, while adult Sunday School places greater emphasis on direct scripture study.
Given that the average life expectancy in the United States is just over 77 years, a U.S. member who attends Institute until age 30 will rely on second-hour adult Sunday School as their sole source of official scripture instruction for more than 60% of their lifetime. With that in mind, one would hope that adult Gospel Doctrine instruction is of the highest quality, especially considering what has been established in this chapter—that throughout childhood, adolescence, and even young adulthood, most members seem to receive little more than a limited rotation of reiterated principles as the core of their scriptural education and engagement.
Following my role as a Seminary teacher, I was extended a new calling as Gospel Doctrine teacher for the second-hour adult Sunday School class in my ward. The nearly year-long period I spent teaching Gospel Doctrine stands out as one of the most spiritually fulfilling and intellectually invigorating experiences of my life. Drawing upon the same pedagogical approach I had attempted in my previous Seminary calling, I designed each lesson to highlight underexplored or underutilized passages of scripture. These selections were always harmonized with the assigned lesson material and interwoven with broader gospel principles, drawing thematic connections across canonized texts. My intent was simply to elevate the scriptural conversation beyond surface-level engagement.
The response was overwhelmingly positive. Week after week, members of the class offered expressions of appreciation, describing the lessons as spiritually nourishing, thought-provoking, and deeply relevant. Much like the feedback I had occasionally received from parents and leaders during my brief Seminary tenure, adult members in Gospel Doctrine often commented that the lessons resembled something closer to “scholarship” or academic discourse. While I was certainly flattered by such comparisons, I must stress that my methodology remained rooted almost exclusively in the Standard Works. I rarely drew upon extra-biblical or extraneous material, except in instances where a historical or literary reference enhanced understanding of a specific passage.
What struck me most was not simply the positive reception but the hunger for deeper engagement that seemed to surface in the room. On many Sundays, class would conclude only for a second, informal session to begin, as individuals approached me with further questions, personal insights, or requests for clarification. It was not uncommon for me to remain up to thirty minutes after class, speaking with individuals one by one as they waited to have a conversation about what had been discussed. I was continually humbled by these interactions and often felt that I learned as much from those conversations as class members reported learning from me. Their feedback, their questions, and their spiritual insights sharpened my own understanding and broadened my appreciation for the diversity of gospel experience within a single ward.
On multiple occasions, I received messages for access to my lesson notes or visual outlines. One member shared that an inactive relative had been visiting on a day I taught and remarked afterward that she would consider attending Church more often if lessons were consistently taught with such scriptural coverage. Another individual, who had been in the ward for decades, told me that he and his wife had never felt so spiritually fed in Sunday School as they had over the past few months. These moments were meaningful, not because they affirmed any personal accomplishment on my part, but because they pointed to the great need and desire for meaningful scriptural instruction within the Church’s standard curriculum.
What remains most important for me to emphasize is that nothing I taught was new doctrine, nor were my insights the product of esoteric theological training. The content of my lessons remained squarely within the framework of Restoration scripture. What I offered was not complexity for complexity’s sake, but thoughtful connections, contextual framing, and the patient uncovering of meaning from texts often skimmed or ignored. I used very simple resources—cross-referencing passages, color-coded outlines, and a chalkboard to visually organize ideas. I am not a particularly skilled public speaker, and my nerves often surface in front of an audience. I found that visual mapping helped me clarify my thoughts, and it allowed students to see the intertextual relationships and theological patterns that might otherwise remain hidden.
This Sunday School calling affirmed for me what I had suspected but feared was idealistic—that there is, indeed, a yearning among Church members for more substantive scriptural instruction. It confirmed that the appetite for gospel “meat” still exists, even if it has been long underserved. Most importantly, it taught me that creating spiritually nourishing lessons is not a question of access to secret knowledge or extraordinary charisma. The Saints are ready and grateful for a good meal, and the scriptures themselves are fully sufficient.
Anna and I have witnessed this spiritual hunger firsthand in numerous wards across the country, both in places we’ve lived and places we’ve visited. In many cases, it has been alarmingly clear that there are pockets—if not entire regions—within the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints where scriptural illiteracy is widespread. We have watched with confusion, dismay, and at times heartbreak, as congregations struggled with doctrinal confusion, cultural conflation, and teaching environments marked more by speculation than by substance.
We’ve sat through sacrament meetings and second-hour classes filled with speculative theology, political commentary, and rhetoric that at times bordered on incoherent or inappropriate—generally met not with thoughtful questioning or correction, but with nods of agreement. Talks have increasingly centered on personal anecdotes with only passing reference to Jesus Christ. On occasion, even stake-assigned speakers have exemplified these trends. Reverence has sometimes given way to entertainment and emotional appeal.
There have been Sundays when we’ve left our meetings in near silence—not out of disinterest, but because we were at a loss for words. I’ll never forget the day Anna quietly said, after one particular sacrament meeting, “That felt like a completely different church.”
We’ve never kept a formal record of these experiences, nor would it be appropriate to do so, but we’ve often joked about how helpful it might have been. Over time, the troubling moments began to blur together—not because they were rare, but because they were so frequent, so diverse, and so spiritually jarring.
