Famine in Zion
Preface: Let Us Reason Together
"Woe to them that are at ease in Zion..."
(Amos 6; 2 Nephi 28)
This book is written as a faith-promoting critique—one born not out of rebellion, resentment, or disillusionment, but out of reverence for the gospel of Jesus Christ and deep concern for the spiritual well-being of the Saints.
For many months, I have hesitated to write this. I had hoped that perhaps I could keep these thoughts to myself—quietly wrestling with them, praying them away, or simply sharing them with my wife during our Sunday commutes to and from church. For years, I have carried these feelings silently, hoping they would fade. I have pleaded with the Lord to remove this burden from me, to lift the weight of these impressions so I could focus more simply on my work, my writing projects, my calling(s), and my family. But instead of diminishing, they have intensified. With each passing week, I find myself more overwhelmed and heartbroken by what I see, hear, and feel among the Saints—a spiritual emptiness, a hunger we don’t yet know how to name.
This book is not an attempt to lecture the Church, correct its leaders, or position myself as any kind of spiritual authority. I sustain the President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints as the only person on the earth authorized to exercise all priesthood keys. I sustain the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles as prophets, seers, and revelators. I believe they are called of God and inspired by Him. I likewise sustain the other General Authorities and local leaders of the Church. I do not advocate schism, rebellion, or alternative paths. I reject the spirit of defiance and contention. What I offer here is not a challenge to the Church’s structure, but a heartfelt appeal to its very soul.
And yet, I am not naive. I am fully aware that these reflections may be misunderstood or misinterpreted. I know that some members—good, faithful, devoted members—may find these words uncomfortable or even offensive. I understand that this book, though carefully intended, could be misread as pure criticism rather than genuine concern, or as agitation rather than affection. It could cost me friendships, both current and future. It could raise questions about my loyalty. It could even cost me certain callings, limit opportunities, or potentially lead to a membership council. These are hypothetical risks, and I have prayerfully considered them. And still, I feel compelled to write these words.
I do not write these things because I lack love for the Church. I write them precisely because I love it so deeply. I was not raised in this faith. I chose it. I embraced it. And I have remained committed to it—through doubt, through discovery, through joy and disappointment alike. The gospel of Jesus Christ has taken root in my life not as a cultural inheritance but as a personal covenant. Indeed, I have covenanted not only to sacrifice my life in the service of the Lord, but to consecrate it wholly as a sacred offering to his gospel and to his Church.
For over a decade, I have studied the Standard Works with intensity and awe. I have taught seminary, Gospel Doctrine, and Elders Quorum. I’ve written hundreds of pages of scripture commentary and am currently working on a comprehensive verse-by-verse treatment of the Latter-day Saint canon. My love for scripture is not simply academic—it is existential. And behind all this labor is my love for the members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, whose kindness, patience, and compassion brought me into the fold. Without their examples of meekness and love, I would not be here at all.
But love, if it is true, must at times be brutally honest. This book is an attempt to speak hard truths in a spirit of hope. The prophet Amos warned that a day of great famine would come—not a famine of bread or of water, but “of hearing the words of the Lord” (Amos 8:11). In Latter-day Saint tradition, this verse is often understood to refer to the Great Apostasy, the centuries-long period when priesthood authority and divine revelation were absent from the earth following the deaths of Christ’s apostles. And indeed, the restoration of the gospel through the prophet Joseph Smith is a fulfillment of Amos’s prophecy in one sense—the famine ended when the heavens reopened.
But prophecy is rarely so limited in its reach. Like so many scriptures, this verse may well have layers that stretch beyond a single moment in time. If the Restoration brought a complete end to the famine, then it begs the question—why are so many among us still spiritually starving? Today, we have access to more scripture, more teachings, more programs, and more prophetic messages than at any point in history. And yet, many Latter-day Saints find themselves spiritually malnourished—bored, disoriented, and disconnected from the word of God. The famine that Amos foresaw may not be behind us. It may, in fact, be unfolding again within us.
We must understand this famine not as a lack of available scripture or official messages, but as a deepening absence of spiritual appetite and an increased scriptural disengagement. Ours is not a famine of resources—it is a famine of reception and of distribution. In a world saturated with information, Saints may still wander “from sea to sea” (Amos 8:12), seeking something that feels alive, urgent, and divine, and finding only spiritual substitutes.
This famine must not be met with panic, dismissal, or shame. It must be met with purpose. With teachers who feed rather than entertain, with Saints who feast rather than flounder, and with a renewed understanding that the scriptures were meant to be consumed, digested, and become part of our very being.
I hope this work will be received in the spirit in which it was written—as an offering from an earnest fellow Saint who longs not to tear down Zion, but to feed it. The Savior himself declared that one of the defining marks of his true disciples would be their willingness to feed the hungry—“For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat” (Matthew 25:35). Though he spoke of physical need, the principle extends equally to spiritual hunger. In a time of quiet famine, the call to feed—not merely attend, manage, or maintain—becomes a sacred duty.
This book is written for a wide and varied audience, united by shared proximity to the inner workings of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
It is first for those faithful Saints who feel a growing sense of spiritual hunger, though they may not yet know why. They love the gospel. They serve diligently. They have firm testimony. They attend their meetings, fulfill their callings, and seek to raise their families in righteousness. And yet, in quiet moments, they may sense a kind of hollowness. It is a yearning that cannot be satisfied by familiar routines or well-worn platitudes. To these members, I hope to offer language for what may have gone unnamed, and a framework for what has only been dimly felt.
Secondly, for those who do know why they are hungry—those who have articulated their concerns, raised their voices, or gently questioned the spiritual atmosphere around them, only to be met with confusion, discomfort, or even disciplinary caution. These individuals may have been told that their feelings reflect a lack of faith or personal righteousness, when in truth their hunger may reflect a surplus of spiritual sensitivity. This book seeks to validate their perceptions and honor their courage.
Third, this book is for those who no longer identify as members of the Church—those who have stepped away, quietly or publicly, from the pews they once called home. To you, I do not write with any expectation of return. Nowhere in this work will I attempt to rationalize your decision, minimize your experiences, or offer formulaic reasons for why you “shouldn’t have left.” I am not here to negotiate your reentry. Rather, I write to extend something that many of you have long needed but rarely received from within the faith—a sincere acknowledgment of what was missing, and perhaps even an apology on behalf of a Church culture that did not always know how to properly feed you. Consider this a no-strings-attached olive branch for the sake of closure, clarity, or healing.
Finally, this book is for those who remain unconvinced that any serious problem exists. There are many faithful Saints, including leaders and authorities, who believe that concerns about spiritual hunger or scriptural disengagement within the Church are exaggerated or unfounded. To such readers, I simply ask for the opportunity to reason with you. What follows is not an emotional outburst, but a carefully studied position grounded in scripture, theological reflection, historical awareness, and pastoral concern. I do not pretend to speak for the Church or its leaders, nor do I ask for agreement on every point. But I do ask for a hearing, and I do so in the spirit of Moroni—“I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true" (Moroni 10:5).
Whatever your relationship to the Church—deeply engaged, quietly unsettled, long departed, or cautiously skeptical—this work is offered with open hands and a full heart. It is not written in bitterness, but in mourning. It is not written to wound, but to awaken. It is not written to divide, but to invite. And most of all, it is written in the hope that the famine which now quietly spreads among us might be recognized, named, and met with the living bread and water that alone can satisfy.
