Famine in Zion
Chapter 2: Preach My Gospel (part 2)
In the face of this dissonance, we began to ask hard questions, some of which have yet to be answered.
Why is this happening?
How can such spiritual hunger exist within the restored Church?
Why is the Lord allowing this?
Are the prophets aware?
Are we the only ones seeing this?
Have we entered the Twilight Zone?
But seriously, have we entered the Twilight Zone?
Are other members seeing it too, but reluctant to say anything?
What can we possibly do?
These questions, and others, weighed heavily on us. But amidst the uncertainty, one impression emerged with clarity—the Saints in many places are spiritually malnourished, and most do not seem aware of it.
On one particularly difficult Sunday, Anna and I returned home deflated and emotionally fatigued. We found ourselves exchanging a familiar sort of lamentation—one that had become a recurring feature of our Sabbath afternoons. At one point in the conversation, I remarked with a mixture of sorrow and frustration, “It feels like we’re watching a room full of starving people sitting at a table overflowing with food, and they simply don’t know how to eat it.” The image captured the tragedy we were witnessing. These were individuals who had access to scripture, to prophetic counsel, and to the full apparatus of the restored gospel—but who had, over time, become so conditioned to the “milk diet” of elementary spiritual messaging that they had forgotten how to spiritually feed themselves.
Over the last few years of personal observation and study, I have come to believe there has been no greater fundamental and egregious departure from true scriptural literacy among many Latter-day Saints than the diminishing focus on the Savior Jesus Christ—on his ministry, his teachings, and his covenantal role in the plan of salvation. Though the name of Christ is frequently invoked in our meetings—in prayers, in the closing lines of testimonies, and in the titles of our talks and lessons—his actual presence in the content and substance of our discourse is disturbingly absent. Week after week, I have observed a pattern in which sacrament talks and second-hour classes rely heavily on anecdotal narratives, emotional self-reflection, and culturally reinforced platitudes, while offering little in the way of direct engagement with the teachings, character, and mission of the Savior. Increasingly, the focus has shifted toward ourselves—our experiences, our feelings, our perceived growth—with only passing reference to Christ as the backdrop to our personal development.
This tendency reveals itself even more clearly in the rhetorical framing of many Church discussions. Rather than exploring Christ himself through the very scriptures which testify of him, we often speak about speaking about Christ. We reference his centrality to our theology, affirm that this is “his Church,” and repeat well-worn phrases such as “make Christ the center of our lives”—all without actually pausing to study or articulate the content of his message. The result is a kind of performative spirituality in which Christ becomes a symbol of institutional belonging rather than the focal point of doctrinal substance.
To illustrate the absurdity of this trend, I have likened it to joining a book club where, rather than discussing the book itself, the members exclusively discuss how much they enjoy being in the club. Meeting after meeting, the group reflects on how meaningful the club is, how enriching the membership has been, how valuable it is to gather, and how grateful everyone is to have found the club. But the book—the object of shared study and reflection—remains untouched. No one analyzes its chapters, wrestles with its meaning, or reflects deeply on its themes. Were such a club real, it would be rightly dismissed as unserious, and no thoughtful reader would ever return. And yet, a similar phenomenon plays out across countless wards every Sunday, perhaps without exception.
I have frequently observed, in both sacrament and Quorum settings, that once the name of Christ is invoked—particularly if it is followed by direct reference to his teachings—there is often a subtle but unmistakable shift in the room. When either Anna or I have attempted to reorient a conversation back to the Savior, the effect has sometimes been disquieting. In Elder’s Quorum, for instance, I have experienced moments where, after offering a comment that draws directly upon Christ’s words or gospel principles, the room falls uncomfortably silent. On more than one occasion, rather than engaging with the insight offered, the teacher or facilitator has simply redirected the conversation, steering it back toward anecdotal themes or general discussion about personal effort, family stories, or institutional responsibilities.
Anna, in her participation in Relief Society, has noticed the same pattern—an almost imperceptible boundary that, when crossed by naming Christ too directly or too doctrinally, is perceived as off-topic or even awkward. This has struck us as deeply concerning. If the gospel of Jesus Christ is, in fact, the good news of his life, death, and resurrection—if the Restoration is centered in him and not simply in Church organization—then the consistent marginalization of his voice within our meetings is not a benign oversight, but a spiritual crisis.
At the heart of scriptural literacy is not merely the ability to locate verses or cite references, but to be transformed by the narrative of Christ’s ministry, to internalize his teachings, and to reflect them in our theological discourse and lived discipleship. The absence of this focus reflects not only a failure in teaching, but also a systemic failure to model Christ-centered thinking in our ecclesiastical culture. If we cannot speak of Christ freely in the meetings of his Church—if we cannot make him the substance rather than merely the symbol—then we must ask ourselves whether we are preserving the heart of the Restoration or merely its scaffolding.
This concern, though difficult to articulate without appearing negative or critical, deserves careful consideration. It is not a rebuke of the faith of individual members, most of whom are sincere, well-intentioned, and deeply committed to gospel living. Rather, it is a call to realign our discourse and our devotion—to return to the scriptures not merely as a source of inspirational proof-texts, but as the record of Christ’s covenantal dealings with humanity. Only then can our worship be worthy of the name we so often invoke but too rarely explore.
It is likely that some readers have approached this chapter with a healthy dose of skepticism, perhaps raising an eyebrow at the emphasis placed on anecdotal evidence or viewing the concerns raised as ultimately inconsequential in the grand, or even eternal, scheme of things. Such a perspective is not uncommon, and those who hold it would find substantial agreement within the framework of mainstream Latter-day Saint discourse. Within that framework, institutional critique, however valid, is often regarded as secondary to more pressing spiritual imperatives of personal righteousness, covenantal fidelity, and long-term spiritual development. The frequently invoked belief that “all will be made right in the end” serves to temper concern, encouraging members to tolerate imperfections, defer critical judgment, and trust that divine compensations will eventually rectify institutional shortcomings. For those who see the Church as guided by prophetic authority and protected by divine oversight, the kinds of institutional critiques explored in this chapter may appear not only unnecessary, but potentially corrosive to faith—spiritually hazardous when placed alongside the eternal perspective.
While such rhetoric may appear humble, faithful, or deferential to divine sovereignty, in practice it too often functions as a theological smokescreen that excuses complacency, discourages reform, and sanctifies spiritual malnourishment. It is not only intellectually unsatisfying but spiritually irresponsible to dismiss concerns about the quality and depth of scriptural engagement in the Church’s programs with vague assurances of future compensation.
It is a troubling feature of contemporary Latter-day Saint culture that many members appear not merely tolerant of but indifferent to the fact that generations of young people are raised on a strictly elementary diet of gospel principles. From Primary to Seminary, and even into post-mission university environments, young Latter-day Saints are exposed to the same repetitive doctrinal themes—faith, repentance, baptism, and the Holy Ghost—while deeper scriptural, theological, and historical complexities are left virtually untouched.
The problem here is not the presence of basic principles, which are indispensable to the faith, but their dominance to the exclusion of deeper engagement. A spiritually mature faith must eventually grapple with complexity, contradiction, nuance, and the richness of scriptural texture. Yet what is observable across numerous LDS educational and ecclesiastical contexts is a widespread allergy to theological depth and scriptural breadth. Youth are trained to bear testimony of books they haven’t read, of prophets they scarcely understand, and of doctrines they’ve only heard in distilled form. Missionaries are sent to preach the gospel to the world often before having internalized even a single full volume of scripture. Returned missionaries then become parents, leaders, and teachers, passing on the same underdeveloped scriptural vocabulary they themselves inherited. It is not only a missed opportunity but a self-perpetuating spiritual anemia.
To draw a familiar parallel—“Never trust a skinny chef.” The humor of the phrase lies in its intuitive truth that if someone claims to specialize in nourishment but appears never to have partaken of it, something is amiss. Likewise, how can we trust our future Seminary teachers, bishops, youth leaders, and missionaries to spiritually nourish others if they have never truly feasted themselves? To merely quote scriptures without having studied them, to teach gospel principles without wrestling with their scriptural origins and contexts, is to offer spiritual calories without substance.
Some defenders of the status quo suggest that this is acceptable because Church members are on a lifelong spiritual journey, and that maturity will come in time. But what if the institutional structures are the very thing inhibiting that maturity? What if the systems in place have so normalized a “milk-only” spiritual diet that entire generations have no appetite for the meat of the word? For if the word of God is indeed “quick and powerful, sharper than a two-edged sword” (Hebrews 4:12), then to dull its edge by reducing it to bland slogans and basic principles is not at all harmless. It creates a vicious cycle.
The underprepared youth eventually becomes the Institute instructor, who becomes the Gospel Doctrine teacher, who becomes the parent guiding yet another generation through an emaciated version of Restoration theology. The problem is not merely that this cycle exists—it is that it appears invisible to many and is even defended as inspired or harmless. There is a disturbing ease with which many faithful members shrug off these realities, invoking faith, agency, or future judgment as reasons not to act.
And herein lies the greatest danger of the argument that institutional critique is spiritually hazardous or eternally inconsequential—it completely shuts the door on accountability. It recasts structural dysfunction as spiritually irrelevant. But if our young people are not engaging with scripture programs meaningfully; if our missionaries are underprepared to answer questions or teach beyond the shallowest gospel slogans; if our educational institutions are no longer nourishing souls as early prophets envisioned—then these are not peripheral issues whatsoever. They strike at the heart of our mission to build Zion and to perfect the Saints.
We cannot outsource responsibility for scriptural depth to the vague workings of divine grace. We must have the courage to say, clearly and without equivocation, that something is deeply wrong when Latter-day Saints can attend Seminary, serve a mission, graduate from BYU, and still never have read the Standard Works in full. It is not unfaithful to say this. It is faithful to the very Restoration that prized the pursuit of truth, even when it disrupted the comfortable.
