Famine in Zion

---

One of the clearest areas in which this principle becomes visible is in the historically fluid boundary between doctrine and policy. In theory, eternal doctrines are immutable, while policies and programs are subject to change according to the needs of the Church and the ongoing reception of revelation. In practice, however, the distinction has often been ambiguous, with policies gradually acquiring the weight of doctrine due to their longevity, rhetorical framing, or institutional emphasis. The difficulty for members lies in the fact that when a prophet teaches—even on matters of policy—the teaching is often received as doctrine, especially when it is described in revelatory terms.

A brief survey of historical examples bears this out:
 

• Plural Marriage was once introduced as a divinely revealed doctrine essential to exaltation (e.g., D&C 132, Joseph Smith’s Nauvoo sermons, original Endowment ceremony, The Seer, Journal of Discourses, etc.), publicly and privately defended by Church leaders for decades. When President Wilford Woodruff issued the 1890 Manifesto under legal and political duress, it was framed not as a reversal of doctrine, but a change in practice. Nevertheless, this change fractured many Saints’ sense of theological continuity, leading to splinter groups that continue the practice to this day.
   
• The priesthood and temple restriction for black members, while originally a policy, was reinforced for over a century through doctrinal justifications—including speculative theology about premortal neutrality and divine cursing. Its reversal in 1978, through Official Declaration 2, required not only policy change but an implicit re-evaluation of many long-standing teachings. The painful legacy of that change is still being navigated today.
   
• The 2015 baptism policy, which barred the children of same-sex couples from receiving Church ordinances until age 18 and classified same-sex marriage as apostasy, was publicly described as revelatory by then-President of the Quorum of the Twelve, Russell M. Nelson. Yet less than four years later, the policy was rescinded. No doctrinal rationale was ever fully provided for the reversal, leaving many members—on all sides of the issue—confused or spiritually disoriented.
   
• Other examples, such as the discontinuation of women’s healing blessings, the former prohibition on women praying in sacrament meetings, and the eventual denunciation of Brigham Young’s Adam-God doctrine (which was formerly taught at the temple veil), further illustrate how inspired policies, and indeed even doctrines, have been revised, corrected, or disavowed over time, despite once being presented with confidence and spiritual authority.

These examples are not brought forward to erode trust in prophetic leadership. Rather, they invite us to embrace a mature, covenantal discipleship that can sustain both reverent loyalty to Church leaders and a clear-eyed awareness that human fallibility coexists with prophetic authority. As Latter-day Saints, we are called not to suspend spiritual discernment, but to exercise it within the bounds of faith.

Let me be unequivocally clear—I fully sustain the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles as prophets, seers, and revelators. I affirm that the President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the only person on earth authorized to exercise all priesthood keys. And I hold that conviction not lightly, but with reverence and deep personal testimony.

At the same time, I believe that disciples of Jesus Christ are invited—indeed, commanded—to “test all things” (1 Thessalonians 5:21), to “search the scriptures” (John 5:39), and to cultivate the kind of spiritual literacy that allows us to discern the Lord’s voice even when spoken through fallible vessels. This posture does not represent rebellion. It is the very essence of covenantal accountability.

It is in this spirit that I have arrived at what I can only describe as a personal spiritual conviction that the Church’s movement away from scripture-rich, analytically rigorous gospel instruction toward a devotional, principle-centered model constitutes a profound misstep. I do not believe this shift is the result of malice or incompetence. Rather, I believe it may be a well-intentioned adaptation to a series of questionable decisions made by a long line of preceding prophets—an adaptation that, however inadvertently, deprives rising generations of the very doctrinal tools it needs to remain spiritually resilient in an increasingly post-Christian world.

If this shift was indeed revealed, then we are faced with a sobering possibility that the Lord himself is permitting a season of spiritual minimalism among his people for reasons not yet made manifest. Scripture does contain certain precedents for this—a preparatory law given in times of rebellion (as in Moses’ law), or a famine of the word prophesied by Amos. But if this is such a time, then it deserves to be named, acknowledged, and wrestled with—not quietly normalized under the guise of progress.

The Church’s own leaders have long emphasized the primacy of scripture in building testimony. In his final General Conference address, President Thomas S. Monson pleaded with the Saints to immerse themselves in the Book of Mormon. This call was not rhetorical. It was urgent. And any shift in curriculum that diminishes the quantity and quality of scriptural engagement across all four Standard Works ultimately undercuts that prophetic charge.

The modern instructional model of “home-centered, Church-supported” is widely embraced by Church leadership and adopted into the Come, Follow Me curriculum. In the words of a note to teachers from the Come, Follow Me 2025 Manual—“keep in mind that learning the gospel, at its best, is home centered and church supported. In other words, your main responsibility is to support the people you teach in their efforts to learn and live the gospel at home. Don’t worry about having unique content to provide for them in class. Instead, give them opportunities to share their experiences, thoughts, and questions about the scripture passages they’ve read at home…This is more important than covering a certain amount of material.” However, this raises a critical ecclesiological question—in what precise ways is the Church meaningfully supporting gospel learning?

The Come, Follow Me curriculum is often described as a supplemental resource. However, this characterization rests on the assumption that there exists a primary source of spiritual nourishment to which it is supplemental. But if structured, substantive teaching within the Church has been minimized or altogether decentralized, then what exactly is being supplemented? A supplement implies the presence of a foundational core, but in many wards and branches, what currently exists feels more akin to replacement than to reinforcement. Thus, one must ask whether the Church is truly supporting gospel learning, or rather deflecting from institutional responsibility under the banner of familial autonomy.

To be clear, this critique is not directed specifically at the present administration or at President Russell M. Nelson, under whom the “home-centered, Church-supported” language has been reinvigorated. Rather, the ideological roots of this model trace back to President David O. McKay, who famously taught, “No other success can compensate for failure in the home.” That phrase, often cited with reverence, became something of a philosophical north star for generations of Church instruction. It emerged during a critical inflection point in American religious and political life. That era was defined by Cold War anxieties, the ideological clash between Western Christianity and Soviet atheism, and a robust cultural defense of traditional family structures.

President McKay was an ardent anti-communist, and his emphasis on the home as the nucleus of moral instruction cannot be divorced from that broader context. In an age where national identity, religious conviction, and anti-communist patriotism were increasingly interwoven, the home became a symbolic battleground for preserving liberty, civilization, and Christian virtue. McKay’s call to strengthen the home reflected a genuine desire to safeguard the rising generation from secularism and moral erosion.

In fairness, it is difficult to critique historical decisions without acknowledging the unique pressures of their time. I did not grow up under the specter of global communism. I have not experienced the existential fear of ideological conquest or cultural collapse. In that light, McKay’s vision was likely a sincere, context-driven effort to empower families in a rapidly changing world.

Yet while the historical motivations may be understandable, the theological implications remain deeply problematic when such a model is adopted indefinitely and without balance. A sustained reliance on “home-centered” instruction as the dominant framework for gospel learning stands in tension not only with the early restored Church but with the teachings and structure of Christ’s ministry itself.

The early Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was distinctly church-centered in both philosophy and practice. Instructional models such as the Kirtland School of the Prophets, the Relief Society under Joseph Smith, the organization of priesthood quorums, and the robust doctrinal training given in formal gatherings all demonstrate a pattern of centralized, communal, and ecclesiastically-led teaching. Zion, as envisioned by the early Saints, was not an abstract idea realized within individual households—it was to be built through gathered communities under priesthood direction, nourished by shared doctrine and united covenants.

Joseph Smith’s revelations did not delegate spiritual instruction solely to families. They formalized it within the institutional Church. Sections such as Doctrine and Covenants 20 and 88 assign teaching responsibilities to quorums, councils, and presidencies—not merely as administrators, but as teachers “watching over the church always” and “instructing” members in doctrine and duty. In this model, ecclesiastical leaders are explicitly tasked with providing spiritual nourishment, just as Christ commanded.

And it is here that the most striking tension emerges. In John 21:15–17, the resurrected Christ thrice commands Peter, a representative of apostolic leadership, to “Feed my lambs” and “Feed my sheep.” These imperatives are not optional. They are urgent, personal commissions following Peter’s declaration of love for the Savior. The commandment to feed implies active nourishment, attentiveness, and pastoral care. Nowhere in the text does Christ suggest the sheep should be taught to fend for themselves or to receive sustenance solely from within the flock. If one unfamiliar with Christianity were to read a Come, Follow Me manual in isolation, they might reasonably infer that Christ’s directive had become “Teach the sheep to feed themselves.”

Such a shift ought to concern any serious disciple. The shepherding metaphor used by Christ, and expanded upon in later epistles, implies proximity, accountability, and intervention. The ecclesiastical structure of the New Testament affirms this model with apostles, bishops, elders, and teachers assigned to watch over the flock (Acts 20:28), to “preach the word…in season and out of season” (2 Timothy 4:2), and to guard against doctrinal instability and spiritual drift (Ephesians 4:14). In the earliest Christian communities, the Church was not a secondary support system for private family devotion. It was the conduit through which discipleship was taught, reinforced, and lived.

It should also be said that a home-centered model, when overly emphasized, inevitably creates inequity within the body of Christ. Families differ drastically in spiritual capacity, doctrinal literacy, and consistency. Many faithful members come from broken, inactive, doctrinally shallow, or non-LDS households. For them, the Church may be the only reliable source of spiritual instruction. When the burden of gospel teaching is shifted entirely to the home, these individuals are effectively left behind, not by apostasy, but by neglect.

“Home-centered, Church-supported” was not the model instituted by Christ. 

Allow me to restate that point for the sake of absolute clarity and gravity.

“Home-centered, Church-supported” was not the model instituted by Christ.

And anyone who insists otherwise is, in effect, demonstrating the very kind of scriptural illiteracy under discussion.

Christ ministered to the one and structured his Church to ensure no member was left without access to spiritual nourishment. A truly Church-centered system offers spiritual egalitarianism, ensuring that all, regardless of their circumstances, receive consistent and substantive doctrinal teaching through communal worship, organized instruction, and pastoral care.

This is cause for sober reflection. Just as ancient Israel came to love the scaffolding of the law more than the Lawgiver himself, are we in danger of becoming too content with what was meant to be transitional? Have we mistaken accessibility for sufficiency? Have we exchanged theological literacy for devotional familiarity? These are questions offered in love, and in the hope that we may yet reclaim the deep scriptural inheritance entrusted to the covenant people of God.

The following chapter will explore what I believe to be the probable long-term consequences of the current instructional paradigm within the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. But before proceeding, it seems fitting to address what may be a lingering question in the reader’s mind throughout this work—Why does any of this matter so much to me? Why invest so much energy, attention, and even criticism into an organization I profess to love? Why risk rocking the boat?

Some readers, having followed the argument thus far, may feel inclined to respond with a degree of resignation or relativism: Good for you. You clearly have a deep love for the scriptures and a higher understanding of gospel learning. But that doesn’t mean everyone must approach it the same way. Everyone learns differently. Everyone grows at their own pace.Indeed, one might even cite Elder David A. Bednar’s well-known “Patterns of Light” discourse as an apologetic defense of the view that spiritual understanding comes through diverse means, in diverse times, and by the Lord’s design.

That is not in dispute.

But such appeals, while comforting on the surface, often function as rhetorical diversions, disarming the urgency of serious institutional critique by appealing to general truths. Yes, people learn differently. Yes, spiritual insight unfolds at varied rates. But this does not excuse systemic malnourishment. Nor does it resolve the central concern—What if the very institution meant to nourish souls is contributing to their spiritual starvation?

The reason I care so deeply is simply because I do not want the Church to be the reason we are losing people, particularly our youth. I do not want the Church, through its own curricular inadequacies or pedagogical assumptions, to be complicit in the steady erosion of testimony. Christ’s warning in Matthew 18:6 should haunt us to our core—“But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.” The Greek term used here for “offend” (skandalísē) implies a stumbling block—something that causes another to fall away. This is not a casual warning. It is a sobering indictment.

As this work has attempted to establish, the current generation of Latter-day Saint youth is not receiving adequate spiritual nourishment, particularly when it comes to scriptural literacy. They are not consistently encountering the scriptures in Primary. They are not being deeply engaged with the word in Sunday School. They are not being formed by the text in Seminary, or in Institute, or even at Church-sponsored institutions of higher learning. They are not receiving it in the Missionary Training Center. And when they become adults, many do not receive it during their Sabbath experience either.

To borrow a phrase often used in the performing arts world—“You do the show you know.” In other words, the way one practices is the way one performs. If gospel instruction during a person’s formative years consists largely of superficial discussions, handout-driven devotionals, and oversimplified moral adages loosely attached to scripture, then that is the “show” they will continue to perform as adults. If they have never been fed spiritually—if they have never learned to feast upon the word—they will not magically begin doing so on their own. They will not become powerful gospel instructors in the home. They will perpetuate the pattern they have internalized.

And this, I argue, is precisely what is happening.

The children we are raising to be content with scriptural illiteracy will one day become the leaders of that same system—leaders who will continue to teach and administer within a structure that no longer knows how to nourish the flock. In this way, we are witnessing generations of starving sheep raising more starving sheep, until eventually no one remembers what spiritual nourishment ever felt like. And all the while, we will look around and wonder why we are so hungry…

The reason I care so much, perhaps to the point of obsession, is because those around me often treat this hunger as some great unsolvable mystery. It is not. It’s not mysterious at all.

We lament the increasing number of young people leaving the Church. We organize conferences, publish studies, and deliver talks to diagnose the trend. But have we paused just for a moment to consider the possibility that the system itself bears some responsibility? That we may be losing them because we fed them milk for years, spoonful by spoonful, and then one day they encountered something in Church history, or in policy, or even in the scriptures themselves, that required real spiritual muscle…and they didn’t have it. They hadn’t been trained to wrestle. They hadn’t been taught how to reason through contradiction, to endure nuance, to seek personal revelation in the face of complexity.

And what happens then?

Many feel betrayed—left to wonder if they were deceived or simply unprepared. Some question whether they ever had a testimony at all. Others lose the ability to discern the Spirit amidst the din of disillusionment. And for those of us who have been in the Church long enough, we know how this usually ends. A long, slow disengagement. A quiet withdrawal. Sometimes a sudden break. And eventually, the only plausible path back into the fold lies through fond memories, the grace of circumstance, profound kindness from others, and, frankly, a lot of prayer.

That is a brutally unfair way to treat the rising generation. It is spiritual starvation disguised as pastoral care. And it could have been prevented.

I’m convinced it still can be.

Next Section

Previous Section

Table of Contents