I was well into adulthood before I discovered that there was such a thing as “atonement theory” and I only stumbled across it by chance. I was preparing to lead a discussion in Elders Quorum on the Atonement of Jesus, and (like most people, I think) decided to do a quick internet search for “atonement” to see what came up. I ended up on a Wikipedia entry that outlined multiple ways to understand Jesus’s atoning work. I was flabbergasted. Like, jaw-on-the-floor stunned.

Up until then, Jesus’s atonement seemed like a pretty simple concept: I was mortal; that meant I was going to die. Because of Jesus’s atonement I would be resurrected. Being mortal also meant I was going to sin, and punishment was required for my sins. But because Jesus took upon himself my punishment for my specific sins I could (if I went through the proper steps) be forgiven and eventually exalted.[1] That was how the atonement worked.[2] Full stop. That was how it was taught to me, and how I taught it on a mission.[3] Until I landed on that Wikipedia page, I had no idea that thinking about it differently was even an option.

With new-found enthusiasm, I navigated away from Wikipedia and went down a rabbit hole, excitedly digging up everything I could find on atonement theory. Eagerly (and a little naively, I realize now), I shared my findings with the Elders Quorum. My presentation floated like a lead balloon and was met with reactions that ranged from “what??” to “hmmm…” to “I think you just need to stick to the scriptures” (in response to this last point, I noted my then-recent discovery that the scriptures do not, in fact, present a consensus view on how the atonement works and attempted to provide some examples; I was not very convincing). The Elders Quorum’s lack of interest notwithstanding (and I think that was mostly attributable to my presentation being inadequate), I felt like I had swallowed the red pill; there was no going back.

Over the next few years, I explored everything I could find on my own about atonement theory. Later, in my systematic theology courses at Wesley Theological Seminary, I was introduced to various approaches to understanding atonement in a more structured way. I found the insights thrilling, even exhilarating. I began to understand that for Christians “atonement” is a foundational organizing element that impacts how we see, make sense of, and interact with the earth, other people, animals, and even the cosmos. For instance:

• If we view Jesus’s atonement as exclusively focused on addressing the inevitably of individual human sin, then we see other humans as inherently sinful and the universe (and all it includes) as little more than a backdrop to the human drama associated with whether individuals choose punishment or reward.[4]
• If we view Jesus’s atonement as the culmination of a life spent teaching and encouraging a new way of living/being, the then we see in those around us, and potentially in the social systems we occupy, opportunities to follow Jesus’s example and become better and do better, with the cosmos (again) largely in the backdrop.[5]  
• If we view Jesus’s atonement as the apogee of his efforts to identify with and liberate the oppressed, then we are driven to expose systems of oppression, encouraged to see the visage of Jesus in the victims of these oppressive systems, and inspired to understand Christianity as synonymous with breaking these systems and freeing everything in creation that needs to be freed.[6]
• If we view Jesus’s atonement as fundamentally restorative[7]—that is to say not focused on “sin” per se, but instead on being present anywhere suffering exists and ushering in newness—then we see Jesus anywhere any part of creation suffers, and we are sensitized to the movement toward healing/restoration. Additionally, we see the potential to be partners in being present where suffering exists and feel called to join in Jesus’s restorative work.[8]

Prior to my exposure to different ways of understanding atonement, it was as if I had spent my life admiring a painting but with my nose pressed against the canvas—I could only see the flecks of paint that were immediately in front of me (they were nice flecks of paint, and I thought they were all the paint). But when I began to glean new insight and perspective from different perspectives on atonement, it was as if I was moved to part of the room with a better vantage point, where more and more of the canvas came into view. And from this new perspective, I saw a painting that was more remarkable than I could have ever imagined.

Having said all this, my purpose here is not to discuss the differences among, and the relative strengths and weaknesses of, the recapitulation, ransom, Christus Victor, satisfaction, penal/substitutionary, moral influence, liberation, or governmental theories of atonement (and this is by no means a comprehensive list of theories). My point in this essay is only that—in my view—Christians generally, and the LDS church members specifically, can benefit greatly from embracing the beauty and insight that can be gleaned from trying to understand Jesus’s atoning work in multiple ways, from multiple perspectives, and with multiple frameworks. While a given approach may resonate more for some than others, I believe all of them contain elements that can be nourishing and lifegiving. And spending time carefully considering these unique approaches to atonement and pondering how each connects to, and might expand, our own relationship with God and Jesus can be (again, in my experience at least) among the most rewarding, convicting, and powerful activities we undertake on the path of Christian discipleship. 

Former Apostle Bruce R. McConkie said, “the atonement of Christ is the most basic and fundamental doctrine of the gospel, and it is the least understood of all our revealed truths.” And in a similar vein, Terryl Givens, after surveying a variety of LDS leadership perspectives and ideas alongside atonement-related scriptures from across the standard works finally concludes, “the essential mystery of the atonement remains for Mormons just that—a mystery.”[9] And that is exactly why those of us who profess belief in Jesus’s Restored Gospel need to spend more time expanding our vision of the atonement.

[1] I now know this approach is generally consistent with the penal/substitutionary model and is potentially an expansion of, or further refinement of, Anselm’s 11th century satisfaction model (though there some scholarly debate about whether there is a direct connection).

[2] See my prior essay discussing the ways in which this view seemingly ignores, or at least sidelines, the impact of our actions on other people.

[3] For the LDS church, this view is captured in the plain-language reading of stories like Gordon B. Hinckley’s recounting of “Big Tom” who took Jim’s punishment for stealing or Boyd K. Packer’s “The Mediator.” This model is common across many different Christian denominations; that is to say, it is not a uniquely LDS approach.

[4] This approach, as noted above, is generally consistent with the penal/substitutionary model.

[5] This approach is generally consistent with the moral influence (or exemplar) model, usually closely linked to Peter Abelard. There a case to be made that the moral influence approach could be extended to how we interact with creation, but that’s not how it was initially conceived.

[6] This approach is generally consistent with the liberation theology movement, which has been expressed in various ways by the likes of Gustavo Gutierrez, Jon Sobrino, Leonardo Boff, James Cone, Rosemary Radford Ruether, Renita Weems, and Delores Williams.

[7] I discuss this idea, in slightly different context, here.

[8] This approach is generally consistent with incarnation/creation-focused theologies, such as those which have been expressed by the likes of Elizabeth Johnson, Niels Gregersen, and Denis Edwards (building, in many ways, on the work of Karl Rahner).

[9] Terryl Givens, Wrestling the Angel, The Foundations of Mormon Thought: Cosmos, God, Humanity, 2015 (Oxford Univ Press: Oxford): p. 231.

Years ago I attended a meeting encouraging junior employees to increase “business development” — i.e. sales.

“Your clients are all around you!” exclaimed one up-and-coming manager. “Start with your friends and family. Make sure they know what services you offer. Last Thanksgiving I was surprised to discover my brother-in-law, who is a soccer coach, needed my expertise!”

“Or start with your hobbies,” interjected a senior rainmaker. “Like you!,” he targeted someone at random. “What are your hobbies?”

“Uh…walking my dog?” answered the startled employee.

“Great. And where do you walk your dog?”

“Near my apartment? — up by American University.”

“Wrong answer. You now walk your dog in Georgetown at 6:30 am.”

*stunned silence*

“Dogs are great icebreakers,” the rainmaker continued. “If you want to build a book of business, you need to meet D.C.‘s wealthy powerbrokers where they are.”

The rainmaker then circled the table, asking about everyone’s hobbies and improvising how they could use cooking, photography, and recreational sports to cultivate relationships that would someday convert into cash.

I left disgusted. The meeting’s import was clear: to succeed among East Coast elites, I was expected to rank my friends and prioritize my hobbies based on who was most likely to entrust me with millions. Something deep within my soul rebelled. I had answered “board games” when the rainmaker had circled around to me. But that wasn’t quite accurate. By the “any extracurricular that isn’t work” definition he was using, my top “hobby” was Church. I didn’t dare volunteer that in the context of that meeting. Scriptures lauding the worth of every soul (e.g. D&C 18:10) scrolled across my mind, juxtaposed against condemations of wealthy hypocrites (e.g. 1 Timothy 6:10). I refused to evaluate “individual worth” by literal reference to net worth.

Church is not a business transaction—or at least it shouldn’t be. Christ could not be clearer: we can not serve God and money (Matthew 6:24). Church is about trying to build a Zion society, where every person is a beloved child of God, and where there are no poor among us (Moses 7:18). Intentionally using Church to exploit spiritual trust in order to befriend the wealthiest members is so abhorrent as to make me physically ill.

And yet. In stewing over this “business development” advice, I’ve come to an uncomfortable realization. My friends and I use Church to network our way into more business and better jobs all the time. Our faith communities are constantly engaged in a milder version of what my ex-boss had explicitly encouraged: banking on gospel authenticity to generate business leads. In every ward I’ve ever lived in, the dentists and mechanics and real estate agents have always been flush with ward clients. Meanwhile the academics and Ivy League grads flock together, championing each other’s successes. I’ve seen start-up ventures launched at informal ward barbecues. Just a year before I had hired one of my best Church friends to be an expert witness. One reason the “you now walk your dog in Georgetown” rainmaker had struck a nerve was because his words both horrified and condemned me in the same breath. I was loathe to admit it, but we were already modern-day money changers outside the temple.

Sure, some transactions are expected in any neighborly social community. But—just like the false doctrine of the “prosperity gospel”—its wrong to tie financial benefits so explicitly to faith. Variations on this dynamic cause real harms. Friends deeply hurt to have been invited to a standard Sunday get-to-know-you dinner, only to discover it was a pitch for another family’s latest multi-level marketing scheme. Professionals expected to provide their expertise for free (and socially ostracized if they refuse) solely because of their status as a congregant. One guy in a singles ward was infamous for scanning gatherings for the wealthiest men and the prettiest women; anyone and everyone else fell beneath his notice. A childhood bishop was once excommunicated for leveraging his position to request personal loans from the ward’s highest tithepayers. Elsewhere, stake leaders have been indicted for affinity fraud. All of these tales are grounded in the same sin: prioritizing the money you can make from your faith community over the community itself.

So years later, when a friend semi-jokingly remarked that he attended church because it was such great “business development,” I lost my temper. No. No. NO! Church is not the space to celebrate capitalism. It can’t be. It simply can’t, and remain a place for faith-building. My richest experiences at Church all stem from humility — from service, from love, from confessing error, from daring to be weak instead of masking perfection. The beauty of Church is found in our shared vulnerabilities. Every week, amateurs make flawed music aided by the spirit. Every week, teenagers stumble through talks that nonetheless reflect the spiritual crises of their lives. Every week, babies giggle and scream in the chaotic backdrop. Just today, my 1-year-old cheerfully stole a missionary’s water bottle, to the great amusement of everyone in the surrounding pews. That IS the Zion experience. Where every flawed person is a beloved member of the body of Christ.

And so I have found myself recommitting to engaging with the daily life of my ward community. I didn’t attend Church in person at all for two years of the pandemic, first to follow public health guidelines generally, and later to specifically protect my baby’s health while I was pregnant and after he was born but before he could be vaccinated. But I find myself making the effort to attend more and more now, not just on Sunday but the extra activities too. My career is going well, but I can’t live a life consumed by billable hours. I need space for repentance and authenticity, where the Spirit teaches me to listen with an open heart to the story of every soul.

In choosing to engage in that vision of Church, however, I’ve also found myself imposing some new boundaries. Just as it’s wrong for me to trade on spiritual amity in a quest for personal riches, I’ve decided it’s even more of a boundary breach for the Church as an institution to be rigidly transactional towards its members. If our communities are supposed to be safe for repentance and healing, they ~can’t~ also punish members for admitting our vulnerabilities. In that sense, temple recommend worthiness interviews, ecclesiastical endorsements for Church education and employment, and other faith tests to qualify for temporal assistance, are frankly offensive. Except in a narrow set of cases where an individual is a criminal threat to the health and safety of a faith community, we shouldn’t be cutting off anyone who wants to worship with us. Turning away perceived “sinners” bears no resemblance to the Christ I know. He’s just happy we’re home. (See Luke 15.)

“Then the kingdom of heaven will be like this. Ten young women took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish, and five were wise. When the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them, but the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps. As the bridegroom was delayed, all of them became drowsy and slept. But at midnight there was a shout, ‘Look! Here is the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.’ Then all those young women got up and trimmed their lamps. The foolish said to the wise, ‘Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.’ But the wise replied, ‘No! there will not be enough for you and for us; you had better go to the dealers and buy some for yourselves.’ And while they went to buy it, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went with him into the wedding banquet, and the door was shut. Later the other young women came also, saying, ‘Lord, lord, open to us.’ But he replied, ‘Truly I tell you, I do not know you.’ Keep awake, therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour. (Matthew 25:1-13)

If necessary, I am pretty sure that I could prove that every generation of Christians from the very beginning has seen itself as the last generation before the end of the world. Sometimes this involves detailed calculations derived from the apocalyptic books of the Bible (Daniel and Revelation). Sometimes it involves sophisticated readings of the “signs of the times” such as wars, rumors or wars, and earthquakes.

Apocalyptic eschatology is woven into the fabric of Christianity. The whole religion doesn’t seem to work without it. Mostly, it makes us act like idiots because we imagine that Jesus will swoop down and get us out of whatever messes we get ourselves into. Debt ceiling negotiations fail, and we default on our bonds? No big deal; the Big Guy will be here soon. Climate change? Fuggedaboutit. It’ll be plenty hot at Armageddon. No money in the Kirtland bank? Pshaw Jesus is our security. There is no consequence so great that it won’t be neutralized by the immanent eschaton..

I like to think that Jesus anticipated this kind of irresponsible reasoning, and that is the reason that, immediately after giving his apocalyptic prophecies in Matthew 24, he gives the Parable of the Ten Virgins (Matthew 1:1-13), whose entire message is that we shouldn’t expect God to come and solve all of our problems for us. Unfortunately, this is also one of the parables that people misread the most.

The misreading goes like this: the wedding represents the Kingdom of Heaven, and the Bridegroom represents Christ—so the ten virgins are waiting for the coming of Christ. The oil in their lamps, then, represents the things that they will need when Christ comes: a testimony, a righteous life, a store of scriptural knowledge, and so on. The wise virgins represent those who will be prepared when Christ comes. The foolish virgins are those who will be unprepared. And the overall message we are told to draw from this parable is something like, “you never know when the Second Coming is going to happen, so you had better be prepared at all times.”

This is certainly a fine message, but it can’t really be derived from the plain sense of the text. The interpretive error that most people make is to assume that the women need the oil to get into the wedding feast. But that is not how it worked. Nobody needed oil once they were inside the party grounds. The families would pay the lighting bill once the party started. People didn’t have to bring their own lamps to be able to see all the food they were eating at a wedding feast.

Even if this had been some weird “bring your own lamp” wedding feast, the foolish virgins would have been fine. They could have just shut their lamps off and waited in the dark. Except that waiting in the dark was not an option. Women without lamps in a wedding feast are fine. But women can’t go wandering around in the dark outside of the walls. They could get lost, or robbed, or mauled by wild animals. They absolutely had to have oil in their lamps while they were waiting for the bridegroom.

The foolish virgins came without extra oil because they thought that the bridegroom would come sooner than he did. They thought that they were prepared because they never imagined that it would take so long. They thought that the bridegroom would come and solve their lighting needs before it became a problem. They were prepared for the wedding, but they were not prepared for the wait.

Read this way, the Parable of the Ten Virgins is a necessary corrective to the common notion that Christ’s coming will ever be so immanant that we won’t need to take care of stuff in the meantime. I have known people who declined to attend college or train for employment because they were absolutely certain that the end of the world would happen before they got through. I have had other people tell me that there is no point in trying to solve serious social problems because the current social order won’t be around long enough to make solutions necessary or even possible.

This has been a distressingly common opinion for 2,000 years, and it has never been right. But it has caused a lot of people to do a lot of stupid things and ignore a lot of serious problems. Smart virgins should factor the end of the world out of their moral and practical calculations, both personal and public. It’s the only way to get there with lamps full of oil.

Unity. Righteousness. As much as these words are an invitation to Godly action, they can also be, in my view at least, fraught with difficulty. Let me explain.

It has been my experience that the word ‘unity,’ is too often used to sow divisiveness. Throughout history, the call for ‘unity’ has sometimes been used to push out those who do not agree with a prevailing sentiment.  Too often, the language of ‘unity’ is not a challenge to reach out to others, but rather an excuse to sink inward. It is sometimes synonymous with ‘see things like me,’ ‘believe like me,’ or ‘act like me,’ leaving those who see, believe, and act differently branded as unfaithful and pushed to the edges.  I have occasionally seen the call for unity as the very thing which breeds division.

And it has been my experience that the word ‘righteousness’ is too often used to reinforce the status quo. ‘Righteousness’—maybe especially when used by those who benefit most from a contemporaneous cultural arrangement—has sometimes been transformed to become a description of social power, not a statement about spiritual power. Those who support and outwardly align with cultural expectations are labeled as ‘righteous’ and those who do not are dismissed as wicked, impure, unworthy.  Too often I have witnessed the word ‘righteousness’ used to justify the unfair treatment of others and as a basis to relish in the downfall of those we dislike or who are not like us.

Of course, this is not always the case. It certainly happens that discussions of unity and righteousness can help to create lasting bonds. I wish it happened like that all the time. But—even for those who profess Christ—the language of ‘unity’ and ‘righteousness’ has, at times, torn apart individuals, families, communities, and nations. Human history shows that God’s children too often devour themselves using the language of ‘unity’ and ‘righteousness.’

And yet, it still remains true, and is clear from the scriptures, that unity and righteousness are central components of a Christian lifestyle. In fact, we find calls for both throughout the LDS standard works, and often in close proximity to each other (for instance, Mosiah 18:21, Colossians 2:2, Moses 7:18). So, because I worry that I might fall into the trap I just described and, rather than inspiring interconnectedness, I might inadvertently sow division and discord, for this brief essay, I do not want to write about unity and righteousness. Instead, I simply want to show what unity and righteousness look like in practice by drawing on examples from Jesus’s life.

First, Unity. Throughout his life, Jesus fostered unity. Jesus regularly interacted with those who, for a variety of reasons, were on the margins of society. For instance, Jesus socialized to the Jews that worked as tax collectors for the Romans occupiers; he ate dinner with them (Matthew 9:10-17, Mark 2:15-22, Luke 5:29-39), he visited the house of Zacchaeus (Luke 19:1-10), and even called a tax collector, Matthew, to be one of his apostles (Matthew 9:9–13, Mark 2:13–17, Luke 5:27–28).  Jesus also engaged personally with the sick (e.g., Matthew 12:15, Matthew 14:14, Luke 4:40, Mark 3:10) the demon possessed (Matthew 8:28–9:1; Mark 5:1–21; Luke 8:26–40), and the ritually impure (Matthew 8:1–4, Mark 1:40–45, Luke 5:12–16 and also Matthew 9:20–22, Mark 5:25–34, Luke 8:43–48). More than just visiting the lost sheep, Jesus actions were about extending boundaries of the fold to ensure all of his sheep were included.

As another example, when his friend Lazarus died, Jesus still took time to mourn with those who mourned (Romans 12:15, Mosiah 18:9).  In in a touching gesture of unity, Jesus—the one who knew Lazarus’s death was not the end, the one who would shortly bring Lazarus back to life, and who would eventually open the doors of resurrection—still, in a show of solidarity, carved out a brief moment in his eternal ministry to weep with those who grieved the loss of someone they loved.  This was unity on the smallest, and yet grandest, scale (John 11:1-43).

And then there is the great intercessory prayer—the prayer delivered immediately before Jesus was taken into custody by the Romans. In this prayer, after affirming that he had done the will of his father, Jesus’s deepest desire was that we would be “one” (John 17:20-21) and be united together, and with Jesus, and with God.  It is striking that, at a time when Jesus was facing down his death and when could have prayed for anything, that unity was the focus of his attention and the prayer of his heart.

Second, Righteousness. Throughout his life, Jesus forced those around him to reconsider taken-for-granted ideas about righteousness. Knowing that alignment with a specific brand of Sabbath day observance was a key litmus test for the ‘righteousness culture’ of his day, Jesus asked the religious experts whether it was lawful to heal on the Sabbath. Unsure of what to say, they held their tongue, meanwhile Jesus proceeded to heal a man suffering from disease and in so doing broke through narrow ideas about ‘righteous’ Sabbath worship (Luke 14:1-4). Similarly, Jesus chastised the religious leaders of his day for being overly concerned with things like how well they prayed in public and the value of tithes they paid at the temple, while they were simultaneously omitting what Jesus called the “weightier matters of the law, justice, mercy, and faith” (Matthew 23:23).

Or, when presented with the woman taken in adultery, Jesus turned the tide of accusation with the simple phrase, “let him who is without sin cast the first stone,” and, when all her accusers left, he then uttered one of the most marvelous phrases in all scripture: “neither do I condemn thee, go thy way and sin no more” (John 8:1-11).  Jesus made clear that righteousness is more concerned with helping people moving forward, than it is about stoning those who sin differently than we do.

In fact, at least twice Jesus was asked a version of the question of “what is righteousness?” One time, a young rich man came to Jesus and after affirming that he had followed all of the commandments from his youth was still compelled to ask: “what lack I yet?” (as an aside, I find it interesting that this young man, who was apparently living what would be considered a ‘righteous life,’ somehow felt that even in keeping all of the commandments he was missing something) (Matthew 19:16-20). And once Jesus was asked by a religious expert of the day “Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?” (Matthew 22:36). Though potentially not as sincere as the young rich man’s question, the question was essentially the same.

Jesus’s answers to the rich young man and to the religious expert are phrased slightly differently. Yet in these separate answers he delivered the same core message. To the rich young man he said in effect, “give all you have to the help the people around you and come follow me” (Matthew 19:21). To the religious expert said, quoting the Law of Moses, “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself” (Matthew 22:37-40). In both situations Jesus reminds us that righteous discipleship is ultimately and primarily an expression of love. 

Even these examples constitute a woefully incomplete list of the ways Jesus demonstrated unity and righteousness. Yet, this brief list is sufficient to makes clear that unity and righteousness are an inevitable outcome when one is guided by love. Time and time again, it seems, the core of Jesus’s message comes down to that one word: love. [1] I am embarrassingly aware of my need to do better when it comes to developing this attribute.  However, I also believe that Jesus is willing to help me every step of the way.

[1] It is interesting to note the consistency that Jesus’s focus on love has with the “principles of righteousness” discussed in Doctrine and Covenants 121 which include long-suffering, gentleness, meekness, love unfeigned, and kindness (D&C121: 36, 41).

Part I came out a few weeks ago. Sorry for the big delay. Philip Wentworth told of his upbringing in a faithful Presbyterian household, his admiration for his minister, and his desire to pursue the ministry by going to HARVARD of all places. His preacher warned him of the slick temptations of academia, but the local church board voted to finance his education. That was the last post in a nutshell. Wentworth will tell us, “What happens to this nicely rationalized system of religious beliefs when scientific notions are superimposed upon them?”

From his Harvard experience at least, Wentworth observes that college does something to nine out of ten students’ faith. Education, he claims, is poison to faith. It’s all about reasoning (thinking critically). It’s like a virus. Sometimes it’s just mild skepticism, but for many, it’s acid that eats all the way through credulity.

Devout parents and clergymen have frequently observed this phenomenon and deplored it. When they discuss it, however, as they often do, they betray a common failure to understand the intellectual chemistry which has produced this wholesale apostasy of the younger generation.

Wentworth outlines his own troubled journey through university.

1. History. Society evolved by laws of Cause and Effect. One lecture on the history of God was memorable: Yahweh began as a blood-thirsty fierce tribal deity of some Semitic nomads who through well-defined stages emerged in the New Testament the loving Father of mankind.
2. Science. The universe was an orderly system whose successive states could be traced with mathematical predictive precision. No place for a wonder-working outlaw God.
3. Morals. Without the omnipotent God to reward virtue and punish evil, was the “good life” illusory? He couldn’t answer convincingly.
   

Wentworth believed that these matters might be shunted aside by setting God as the First Cause. The power behind the throne of natural law. This Deistic move looked good to him, but then God seemed to lose all the other cherished meaning of the speaking, moving, prayer-responding all-hearing, all-seeing, all-loving being of Scripture. Identifying a philosophical reductive-logic-being as God seemed empty. Wentworth and his fellow students were deeply interested in the Scopes trial proceedings. For them, Scopes was really about their hometown versions of Genesis and the science of evolution. They saw Scopes as a trap for God if God was within natural law. God was deprived of his freedom to act outside natural law, no longer the “Cosmic Policeman,” God was policed by the laws of physics. The behavioral strictures of religion lost force. Besides that, the now visible growing conflict between Protestant fundamentalists and “modernists” made the former look bad, even foolish.

Wentworth stayed in Boston over summers but he wrote home about all his internal deliberations. His parents and new pastor were concerned. And they responded in ways that seem familiar: pray more with more earnestness, and read scripture constantly. “If I did this, doubts would surely pass, for God was testing me and would not desert me if I proved steadfast.” Finally, they wrote that his going to Harvard “had been a ghastly mistake.” Wentworth and his father exchanged many letters, the former insisting that a return to the hothouse Presbyterian home college would never work. His father gave it up and let him stay at Harvard. Wentworth went on to graduate school. His musing on the experience ends with caution: religion, in beginning to lose hold of many it took for granted, has turned to the government to enforce its former restrictions in temperance, birth control, etc. And he finds a dark side for youth who leave faith behind: where do they get a moral compass now?

Next, Roberts responds.

The story of Zacchaeus, found only in Luke 19:1-10, is a pericope that does not get much discussion in LDS circles (in my experience at least).  In fact, this story has only been referenced in seven General Conference talks…ever.[1] More personally, I do not believe I have ever had a lesson about this story in Church, even though it has been highlighted in past lesson manuals (and is again in this week’s Come, Follow Me materials). So, consistent with what Jesus does in the Gospel of Luke’s narrative, I thought it was important to stop for a moment and pay attention to Zacchaeus.

In this story, Jesus is passing through Jericho when the narrative pauses to introduce Zacchaeus by name. On the surface, Zacchaeus may seem an unlikely individual to merit such focused attention. First, Zacchaeus is a tax collector, a group which scholars note is “portrayed negatively in almost all Greco-Roman literature” including the New Testament.[2] What’s more, Zacchaeus is the “chief tax collector” (19:2), a title which does not appear anywhere else in the New Testament (quite a distinction!). Though Luke sometimes complicates the stereotypical image of tax collectors—e.g. Luke notes that Levi, a tax collector, left his post to follow Jesus (5:28), and just one chapter earlier Jesus relays a parable contrasting a tax collector and a Pharisee in which the tax collector’s humility is held up as superior to the Pharisee’s self-righteousness (18:9-14)—it is still the case that, generally, in the Gospel of Luke tax collectors are regularly lumped in with the “sinners.”

Second, Zacchaeus is rich (19:2). Though the formulations vary slightly among Bible translations, Zacchaeus’s wealth is always a highlighted point of emphasis and a distinguishing characteristic. He is never the “wealthy chief tax collector” he is always the “chief tax collector and he was rich.” Unlike Luke’s more nuanced view of tax collectors, Luke’s portrayal of the rich can be scathing. In at least four different places^[3] Luke’s Gospel attacks greed, inequality, and selfishness^[4] (Michael Austin has explored some of these instances, with more nuance that I have just used, in a few different posts: see, for instance, here and here).

And, third, Zacchaeus is “short in statue,” which is why he had to climb the tree to see Jesus who was in the midst of a crowd (19:3).[5] In fact, this is such an important characteristic that an entire verse is dedicated to it. It is unclear if he was just below average in height or if he had some sort of medical condition. However, if it was the latter, then his condition could have been stigmatizing given scripture that prevents priests “blemished” in this way from approaching the Holy of Holies (Lev. 21:16-21).^[6]

The point is, in almost every way possible—professionally, socially, and physically—Zacchaeus had strikes against him.

Returning to the narrative, when Jesus sees Zacchaeus in the tree Jesus initiates the conversation and says to him, “make haste, and come down; for to day I must abide at thy house” (19:5). Luke’s Gospel records that Zacchaeus “made haste, and came down, and received him joyfully” (19:6). And when he comes down from the tree, Zacchaeus does something interesting: unprovoked, Zacchaeus declares to Jesus that he gives half of his possessions to the poor[7] and makes four-fold restitution when required (19:8). That is to say: Zacchaeus does not tell Jesus about his personal piety (prayer, scripture study, offerings at the temple, etc), he recounts his efforts to care for those on the margins.  And Jesus’s response? “This day is salvation come to this house, forsomuch as he also is a son of Abraham. For the Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost” (19:9-10). Not tomorrow, not next week, but “this day” salvation came to Zaccheaus. How can this be and why?

On one hand, Luke equates “salvation” with the physical presence of Jesus (2:30). So, the fact that Jesus goes to Zacchaeus’ house is literally salvation (i.e. Jesus) coming to Zacchaeus’s household. Taking this a step deeper, as Mark Allen Powell notes, “when Jesus tells Zacchaeus that salvation has come to his house, his main point is probably not that Zacchaeus will go to heaven… but rather that Zacchaeus has been set free from slavery and mammon and is now able to experience life as God intends.”^[8] Consistent with this approach, another commentator, Brian K. Blount equates Zacchaeus’ social status to the exclusion felt by minorities and concludes that, “like the woman bent over for eighteen years (13:10-17), Zacchaeus is restored socially and racially.”^[9] Indeed—and this is a message throughout Luke’s Gospel—Powell suggests that Jesus is teaching Zacchaeus that salvation is a “reality to be experienced here and now.”^[10]

On another hand, in Luke’s Gospel there is a prevailing concern for the poor.^[11] Scholars Jane Schabert and Sharon Ringe note, “Luke writes about ‘the poor,’ but to those whom Jesus has called to accept a special responsibility for those pushed to the margins of society.”^[12] In fact, in Luke’s Gospel the focus of Jesus’s ministry is identified by Jesus himself as: “to preach the gospel to the poor… to heal the brokenhearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised” (4:18). And because Zacchaeus’s efforts to help those on the margins of society is in the present tense (this is not something Zacchaeus “will do” but something he “is doing”^[13]) Zacchaeus’s actions, in a small way, mirror Jesus’s mission.[14] Zacchaeus becomes a model for what Jesus’s message of salvation looks like when enacted in in the lives of his followers.[15] In fact, Blount notes that Zacchaeus’s actions were commendable precisely because “Zacchaeus understands that one’s heavenly relationship with God is connected to the good one does on earth.”^[16]

So, what is the lesson from Zacchaeus? At least one lesson is that our professional, social, or physical situations are less important than the concrete, real-world steps we are taking to be connected to Jesus by being part of Jesus’s ministry to the poor, brokenhearted, captive, blind, and bruised. This story reinforces the truth that Zacchaeus’s actions to help the marginalized serve as Zacchaeus’s link(s!) to salvation: Zacchaeus’s actions (1) bring salvation into his life and (2) allows him to enact Jesus’s message of salvation in the lives of others. Even more importantly, in the end, Zacchaeus’s story shows us that these two things are really the same thing. In fact, Zacchaeus’s work with the marginalized anticipates the situation in Acts (a book to which Luke’s Gospel was originally connected) where believers (even tax collectors) lived with all things in common and held nothing back (see Acts 2:42-47 and 4:32-35), a vision of Zion-like living that is echoed in in the Book of Mormon, Doctrine and Covenants, and Pearl of Great Price which all include a strong social ethic, including addressing socio-economic disparity, as an marker of and requirement for living the life God intends (see Alma 1:30, 4 Nephi 1:3, Moses 7:18, D&C 104:18, for example). The story of Zacchaeus seems to suggest that since Jesus is ushering in salvation for the marginalized today, the only question is whether we, like Zacchaeus be both recipients of, and partners in, that effort.

[1] This is based searching for the term “Zacchaeus” on the Scripture Citation Index, the LDS General Conference Corpus, and the LDS church’s website.

[2] “Tax Collectors,” Society of Bible Literature, https://www.bibleodyssey.org/glossary/tax-collectors/

^[3] The identification of these four specific instances–Luke 12:13-21; 16:1-13; 16:14-31; 18:18-43–comes from Brian K. Blount (ed). True to our Native Land. Fortress Press, Minneapolis, MN (2007). Pgs. 172, 175, 176, 178.

^[4] See Patte, Daniel (ed). Global Bible Commentary. Abingdon Press, Nashville, TN. (2004) pgs.396-397.

[5] As a fun tidbit, the Greek is actually a little unclear on this point: though readers generally assign the “shortness” which prevents Zacchaeus from seeing Jesus in the crowd to Zacchaeus, there is ambiguity in the syntax. The phrase could also be read that Jesus was short and that is why it was hard to see him in the crowd. However, it is because Jesus’s height is never mentioned as a defining characteristic (good or bad) anywhere else in the New Testament that the shortness is most often ascribed to Zacchaeus.

^[6] For a thoughtful analysis of the implications of Zacchaeus’ “shortness” see, Amos Young, “Zacchaeus: Short and Un-seen.” Christian Reflection Project: Disability. Baylor University. Available at: https://www.baylor.edu/ifl/christianreflection/index.php?id=92612

[7] Mark Allen Powell notes that in Luke “‘the poor’ [is] a category of people that seems to refer primarily to those who are economically deprived… [or] lacking in honor.” Powell, Mark Allan. Introducing the New Testament. Baker Academic, Grand Rapids, Michigan. Pg. 159.

^[8] Ibid. Pg. 163.

^[9] Blount (ed). True to our Native Land. pg. 179.

^[10] Powell. Introducing the New Testament. Pg. 161. Powell points to Luke 2:11, 4:21, 5:26, 19:5, and 19:10.

^[11] Powell,. Introducing the New Testament. Pg. 159.

^[12]  Schaberg, Jane D. and Sharon H. Ringe. “Gospel of Luke.” In Newsome, Carol A., Sharon H. Ringe, Jacqueline E. Lapsley (eds). Women’s Bible Commentary (10th Ed). Westminster John Knox Press. Louisville, KY. (2012). Pg. 494. Emphasis original.

^[13] διδωμι—the word in Luke—is present tense meaning “I give;” the future tense would be δώσω, meaning “I will give.” See Verbix 2023, Greek, Ancient verb ‘δίδωμι’ conjugated, <https://www.verbix.com/webverbix/go.php?D1=206&T1=δίδωμι&gt;

[14] In this sense, Zacchaeus stands in stark contrast to the rich man in Jesus met earlier in Luke (apparently, an obedient Jew) did not give to the poor.

[15] Interestingly, in Zacchaeus’s giving to the poor he anticipates the situation in Acts (a book to which Luke’s Gospel was originally connected) where believers (even tax collectors) lived with all things in common and held nothing back (see Acts 2:42-47 and 4:32-35).

^[16] Blount (ed). True to our Native Land. Pg. 179.

In my last post, I wrote about the 60 Minutes segment on Ensign Peak Advisors. As part of that segment, the interviewer asks Bishop Waddell, “But don’t you agree this would be a nonissue if there were more transparency?”

He responds, “No. Because then everyone would be telling us what they want us to do with the money.”

Frankly, I think he’s wrong. But for now let’s respect that. For purposes of this post, I’m going to assume that the church will maintain a significant investment portfolio. And whatever I think about it,[fn1] I’m going to be indifferent to whether and how it should spend down that portfolio. Because I think EPA’s current status, as an external tax-exempt investment advisor, is ultimately untenable, notwithstanding the fact that it’s legal.

What do I mean? Well, as a general rule, investment managers are for-profit, taxable endeavors. EPA is a nonprofit, tax-exempt organization. (Critically, “nonprofit” doesn’t mean it can’t earn a profit. Some nonprofits—including, notably, hospital chains—are tremendously profitable. The “non” in nonprofit means that the profit earned can’t benefit any individual. While this is a little over-simplified, it basically means a nonprofit can’t distribute its profits as dividends.)

Nonprofit status is governed by state law. Some states require that a nonprofit engage in one of an enumerated list of purposes. (Illinois has a list of 35 purposes a nonprofit can be organized to pursue.) Other states allow a virtually unlimited range of purposes. (Utah, for instance, following the modern trend, allows a nonprofit to be organized “to engage in any lawful act,” with one or two exceptions.)

Not all nonprofits are exempt from the federal income tax, though. To qualify as tax-exempt, an organization has to meet an organization and operation test. The organizational test requires that the organization’s governing documents limit its purpose to one or more charitable activities (and the Internal Revenue Code lists the acceptable charitable activities) and prevent it from engaging in more than an insubstantial amount of noncharitable activities. The operational test looks at whether the organization does, in fact, limit its activities primarily to charitable activities.

So right here, EPA runs into a theoretical wall. The church itself clearly qualifies as exempt—religion is one of the explicitly-listed charitable purposes. But investment management? Nope.

Prior to about 1997, that didn’t matter. The church had an internal investment management team. And an exempt organization can manage its assets. But once EPA was separately incorporated, if the church wanted it to be exempt, it had to figure out how that would work.

And look, EPA probably an “integrated auxiliary.” An integrated auxiliary has to qualify as exempt, has to be affiliated with a church, and has to essentially support itself or receive its support largely from the church.[fn2]

But the thing is, if an investment advisor just sits on the money, it doesn’t look like it’s doing anything charitable. Decades ago, the IRS issued a ruling creating the commensurate-in-scope rule, which basically says that to qualify as exempt, an organization has to spend a commensurate part of its assets on charity. I’ve argued that this rule doesn’t apply to integrated auxiliaries, and the New York State Bar Association says its scope and application are generally unenforced and also unduly vague, especially in light of the fact that Congress is capable of imposing distribution requirements if it wants to.

It’s also worth noting that it turns out that EPA does distribute money back to the church on a pretty regular basis, which undercuts the idea that it’s not doing anything charitable with its money.

All of that said, it still strikes me as weird and uncomfortable that we have an exempt organization, the whole role of which is to manage a multi-tens-or-hundreds-of-billions-of-dollar portfolio.

So what should be done? Honestly, I think EPA should give up its tax-exempt status. I mean, it’s not the only exempt money manager out there—Harvard Management Company is also a 501(c)(3) organization. But unlike EPA, HMC files public disclosures of its finances and doesn’t appear to actually hold Harvard’s endowment; it just manages it.

What are the consequences of converting EPA to a for-profit investment manager? There’s one substantive one. It would pay taxes on its income. And what is its income? Presumably the church pays its something for managing the church’s assets. It has to pay its employees and rent and other expenses.

Which means it would be slightly more costly to operate. But the church has the resources to pay slightly more; in fact, the vast majority of its for-profit endeavors are separately incorporated in taxable entities.

And converting EPA to a for-profit entity eliminates questions of whether it’s actually engaged in charitable activities, and whether it actually merits tax exemption. It wouldn’t be! And that would be just fine!

And doing so also future-proofs EPA against legislative or regulatory changes that put increased emphasis on the commensurate-in-scope doctrine. And they frankly undercut any argument that EPA should be more transparent than just filing its 13Fs.

So, in spite of the marginal tax costs, I believe that converting EPA to a for-profit investment advisor would be better for society and for the church.

[fn1] I think the church should very publicly and accountably promise to spend X% of its principal annually on certain charitable endeavors.

[fn2] This history of “integrated auxiliaries” has an interesting Mormon pedigree. In 1969, Congress made some significant changes to the rules governing tax-exempt organizations. Senator Wallace Bennett of Utah worried that those changes would provide worse treatment for church auxiliaries like Relief Society, MIA, and other organizations that, at the time, were still separately incorporated. So he added the word “auxiliaries.” Congress prefaced it with “integrated,” though integrated auxiliaries was not an actual real thing, to ensure that there would be a close relationship between these organizations and the relevant church.

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

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For most of this year, I have been advancing a version of the position that biblical scholars call the “post-millennial” understanding of the New Testament. This view holds that the Kingdom of God is not inherited in an afterlife by those who obey Jesus’s commandments, but created in this life by those who follow his instructions. For postmillennialists (as the name implies) the Millennium is something that humans create through their actions, and the Parousia, or the Second Coming of Christ, can only happen after human beings create a godly world for him to rule.

I fundamentally believe that this is the best way to interpret the Sermon on the Mount, the Kingdom Parables, and nearly all of the moral teachings of the New Testament. I am also convinced that this is how Joseph Smith and much (but not all) of the first generation of Latter-day Saints understood their role in sacred history, which lead to the urgency they felt to create Zion. The Latter-day Saint movement contained elements of both pre- and postmillennial thought, but they understood the Kingdom of God primarily in experiential terms—not as something that will happen after Christ comes, but something that has to happen before Christ comes.

Perhaps the greatest textual challenge to the postmillennialist position comes in the Olivet Discourse, a conversation that Jesus had on the Mount of Olives with several of his apostles on the Tuesday of Holy Week. The fullest record of the Olivet Discourse occurs in Matthew 24-25. It is also recorded in Mark 13 and Luke 21. And, for Latter-day Saints, it is the subject of one of the only two passages in Joseph Smith’s revision of the Bible that has been formally canonized. It appears in the Pearl of Great Price as Joseph Smith—Matthew.

As the disciples looked down on Jerusalem and the Temple (according to Mark it was Jesus, Peter, James, John, and Andrew), Jesus remarks, “See ye not all these things? verily I say unto you, There shall not be left here one stone upon another, that shall not be thrown down” (Matthew 24:2). Naturally curious, the disciples ask him when this is going to happen and how they will know, which leads Jesus to deliver a series of prophecies that have shaped Christian beliefs in the Apocalypse for 2000 years. Among the most important things he says are:

• False Messiahs will come and deceive many (Matt 24:5)
• There will be wars and rumors of wars (Matt 24:6)
• Famines and earthquakes in diverse places (Matt 24:7)
• The faithful will be persecuted, and many will fall away (Matt 24:9-10)
• The Son of Man will be seen “coming on the clouds of heaven with power and great glory” (Matthew 24:30)
• “This generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place.” (Matthew 24:34)
• Nobody, not even Jesus Christ himself, knows exactly when this will happen. (Matt 24:36)

Perhaps the biggest interpretive that we have to face with the Olivet Discourse is that the Second Coming has not happened yet, despite Jesus saying clearly that “this generation shall not pass away until all these things have taken place.” In his massively influential book The Quest for the Historical Jesus (1906), Albert Schweitzer suggested that this was a fatal flaw in any New Testament-based argument for Jesus’s divinity of a future Second Coming. If we take the Bible at its word, Jesus delivered a time-based prophecy that did not come true in the allotted time frame. To take the text seriously, we have to deal with this problem.

Joseph Smith—Matthew faces this interpretive problem head-on by changing verse 34 to read, “This generation in which these things shall be shown forth, shall not pass away until all I have told you shall be fulfilled.” Thus, the generation that Jesus refers to as “this generation” refers, not to the generation of people that he is talking to, but to the generation that first sees the signs described in the text.

I find this approach ingenious, but not particularly helpful, since the signs described in the text—wars, rumors of wars, famines and earthquakes in diverse places, persecution, and the love of many waxing cold—have pretty much always been present in human history. This is just how humans (and tectonic plates) act and have always acted. And I have never seen any evidence that convinces me that wars, famines, earthquakes, and persecutions are greater now than they have been in the past.

Many contemporary biblical scholars respond to this argument by pointing out that the Gospels were written after the destruction of the Temple. The time-based prophecy (they say) referred to the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple in 70 AD, during which the Jews experienced much of the persecution and calamity described in the Olivet Discourse. Since the 16th century, a school of Christian thought called preterism has argued that many (and, for some preterists, all) of the prophecies in both the Olivet Discourse and the Book of Revelation have already been fulfilled.

This approach also fails to satisfy me, since there is no indication in the text that the destruction of the temple would occur on a different timeline than the Son of Man “coming on clouds of heaven with power and great glory.” We still have to deal with the fact that Jesus did not return to earth, trailing clouds of glory or anything else, before the generation that heard these words passed away.

Except, for people who accept the Book of Mormon, he did.

This is the argument that Heather Hardy makes in her brilliant article “‘Saving Christianity’: The Nephite Fulfillment of Jesus’s Eschatological Prophecies.” All of the things that Jesus prophecies in the Olivet Discourse—wars, earthquakes, persecution, and all the rest—happen sequentially in the first ten chapters of 3 Nephi, after which Jesus descends in a cloud with oodles of power and glory. It would be difficult to imagine a clearer fulfillment of Christ’s prophecies than this. And it all happens within the lifetime of the generation that first heard the words.

But here is the problem: in order for Christ’s coming in the Book of Mormon to count as “the end of the world,” the world would have to have ended. And it didn’t. The society had peace and love for 200 years, after which the wars and rumors of wars started again, society was destroyed. and everything started over again. The appearance of Christ in the Book of Mormon was not an eschatological event in the ways that Christians have always understood the eschaton to work. The world did not end.

But their world ended. The society described in the Book of Mormon ended and was replaced with something very like the Kingdom of God. The society that replaced it went on to end again 400 years later—but before it did, one of its last inhabitants recorded the destruction of yet another society—the Jaredite nation—thousands of years before.

I am convinced that this is the primary narrative difference between the Bible and the Book of Mormon. The Bible plots spiritual history on a straight line. It begins in Genesis and ends in Revelation, after which it is replaced by something that humans cannot begin to imagine. The Book of Mormon plots the same spiritual history on a circle—or, in its own words, “one eternal round” (1 Nephi 10:19. Alma 7;20, Alma 37:12). Its record contains, or at least hints at, multiple creations, apocalypses, parousias, and millennial reigns.

And in all of these, the Kingdom of God is ours to create and ours to lose. After all, just because it is the end of the world doesn’t mean it is the end of the world.

David Aubril is a regular guest author at BCC. He is a French teacher who is fond of didactics, literature, UNIX systems and free diving (with no order of preference). He follows with great interest the contemporary debates on Gospel and Church matters, but from afar, from “the other side of the water”, as Pascal says.

While, in his talk, President Nelson focused on the former part of the name, I’d like to talk about the latter part. In English, if I understand well, “latter” refers to the second and last item in a series of two. It is opposed to “former”. “Latter-Day Saints” is indeed a very interesting phrasing : it establishes a connection between early Christian disciples and today’s members. It opposes two eras, the first Christian era and today, suggesting a restoration of that heritage. 

But there are many languages where the word “latter” has no equivalent. How is the non-negotiable name of the Church translated then ? I did a quick test. I took the name of the Church in several languages and used Google to do a reverse translation back to english. Of course, with the full name, Google always gives “The Church of Jesus-Christ of Latter-Day Saints”. It finds the reference instead of giving a real translation. So I just isolated the last words to see how Google would translate “latter-Day”. Below are Google translations.

• Afrikaans : Die Kerk van Jesus Christus van die Heiliges van die Laaste Dae (die Laaste Dae : the Last Days)
• Aymara (Peru, Bolivia) : Jesucriston Khep Khepürunacanquiri Kollananac Tamapan (Khepürunacanquiri Kollananac : the Holy Ones of the Last Days)
• Bahasa (Indonesia,Malaysia) : Gereja Yesus Kristus dari Orang-Orang Suci Zaman Akhir (Zaman Akhir : Latter Days ; but Zaman means Time, and Akhir End, so I guess Google finds the reference to the Church instead of translating. For Zaman Akhir, Deepl gives The End Times or The Last Days)
• Cebuano (Philippines) : Ang Simbahan ni Jesukristo Sa mga Santos sa Ulahing mga Adlaw (sa Ulahing mga Adlaw : in the Latter Days)
• French : L’Église de Jésus-Christ des Saints des Derniers Jours (Derniers Jours : Last Days)
• German: Die Kirche Jesu Christi der Heiligen der letzten Tage (letzten Tage: Last or Final days)
• Guarani (Bolivia, Paraguay) : Jesucristo Tupao SantoKuéra Àra Pahapegua (Àra Pahapegua : The Last Days)
• Igbo (Nigeria) : Nzukọ nke Jisus Kraịst nke Ndị-nsọ Ụbọchị-ikpeazụ a (Ụbọchị ikpeazụ a : This last day ; Ụbọchị-ikpeazụ a : This deadline)
• Lingala (Dem. Rep. of the Congo) : Eklezia ya Yesu Klisto ya Basantu ba Mikolo mya Nsuka (Mikolo mya Nsuka : The last Days)
• Portuguese : A Igreja de Jesus Cristo dos Santos dos Últimos Dias (Últimos Dias : Last Days)
• Quechua (Peru, Argentina, Ecuador, Bolivia) : Jesucristoj Iglesiampa Qhepa P’unchaykunapi Allin Kawsajkunapaj (Qhepa P’unchaykunapi Allin Kawsajkunapaj : For the Good of the Last Days)
• Samoa (Samoan) : Le Ekalesia a Iesu Keriso o le Au Paia o Aso e Gata Ai (o Aso e Gata Ai : the Last Days)
• Spanish : La Iglesia de Jesucristo de los Santos de los Últimos Días (los Últimos Días : the Last Days)
• Tagalog (Philippines) : Ang Simbahan ni Jesucristo ng mga Banal sa mga Huling Araw (sa mga Huling Araw : in the Last Days)
• Yoruba (Nigeria) : Íjọ Jésù Krístì ti Àwọn Ènìyàn Mímọ́ ti Ọjọ́-Ìkẹhìn (Ọjọ́-Ìkẹhìn : the Last Days)

It’s a rough sketch, but you see my point. In most translations, “latter-day” becomes “of the last days”. Even though the name “Church of Jesus-Christ of the Saints of the Last Days” can be catchy, it doesn’t mean quite the same thing, and you don’t get the same feeling as with the “correct name” of the Church. Instead of pointing to a former era, that phrasing only points to the end. You lose the reference to the first Christians, but you get the crepuscular perspective of a dying world. It isn’t just a label. It defines us, for the outside world, but especially for ourselves. It shapes our understanding of who we are. And it’s not the same thing to be a Latter-Day Saint and a Saint of the Last Days.

Picture missionary work with such a name. Explain to your friends or colleagues you belong to “The Church of Jesus-Christ of the Saints of the Last Days” (most languages), or, even better, “The Church of Jesus-Christ of the Saints of this Last Day” (Igbo). Annonce to your family that you are going to get baptized in “The Church of Jesus-Christ of the Holy People of the End of Times” (Bahasa). Picture your children growing up with such a Church’s name. Until 2020, in the United States, the youth grew up with a magazine entitled “New Era”. There was hope, and a bright future ahead. But everywhere else, the youth of the Church grow up in “the Last Days”. 

Is there a better way to translate “latter” ? I don’t think so. The word has no equivalent in most languages. So you have to take a step back. “Latter” connects today’s members with the first Christians. And I think this is what should remain : we are the Saints of this time. Reverted to English, it would give something like “The Church of Jesus-Christ of the Saints of our Days”. This is less literal but closer to the real meaning of the name of the Church.

In October 2018, President Nelson affirmed : “So, what’s in a name? When it comes to the name of the Lord’s Church, the answer is : Everything !”(Russell M. Nelson, The Correct Name of the Church, October 2018). Well, let’s take it seriously. The name of the Church doesn’t stop at the fourth word. I wish we too, foreigners, could benefit from “the correct name of the Church”, from the beginning to the end.

Sunday night, 60 Minutes aired a 13-minute segment on Ensign Peak Advisors. And honestly, if you’ve been following the story closely (I have!), there’s not a lot of new information here.

But not a lot isn’t no new information. And, in any event, the piece featured David Nielson, the whistleblower from 2019, speaking publicly for the first time, as well as Bishop Waddell, First Counselor in the Presiding Bishopric representing the church’s point of view. (It also featured an interview with Phil Hackney, a law professor at Pitt and, full disclosure, a friend, colleague, and coauthor of mine.)

I’m not going to give a full rundown of the piece. I’ve written about the tax and securities issues previously. And anyway, at 13 minutes (half that if you watch it at 2x speed!), watching it isn’t a heavy lift. Instead, I’m going to highlight a couple things that I found interesting and important.

Beneficial Life

In 2019, Nielson wrote that the church had “silently bail[ed] out Beneficial Financial Group … to the tune of $600 million[.]” It had “paid $1.4 billion … to shore up cost over-runs … in the construction of the opulent City Creek Mall[.]” And beyond those two things, it had “distributed 0% of its assets in each of the other 16 years since it was hastily incorporated[.]”

Early in the 60 Minutes segment, Nielson says, “Like, I’m not an expert on charities. But I’ve been around the block enough to know that charitable organizations can’t bail out for-profit businesses and maintain their charitable status.”

And he’s right, kind of. That is, once you donate money to a tax-exempt organization, that money can’t just be transferred to a for-profit organization. Rather, it has to stay in the tax-exempt world.

Sometimes a tax-exempt organization stops operating and shuts down. When it does that, its remaining assets have to go to other tax-exempt organizations; it can’t just distribute them to individuals or for-profit organizations. And sometimes a tax-exempt organization decides to transform into a for-profit entity (think especially nonprofit hospitals, which often enjoy huge amounts of revenue). Without getting too deep in the weeds, this generally involves the nonprofit selling its assets to the for-profit. But then, the nonprofit has to distribute the sales proceeds to other charitable organizations.

But that doesn’t mean that a tax-exempt organization can’t ever give money to a non-exempt person or organizations. My employer is a tax-exempt, nonprofit university. But it pays me a salary. And it’s not just that it pays me a salary: it pays, for instance, Microsoft, a very for-profit corporation, for the right to use Office 365.

And it’s not just that: tax-exempt organizations can invest in for-profit entities. And honestly, that take City Creek off of the board in terms of potential wrongdoing. In his interview, Waddell is clear on this, explaining that “[t]he mall was not a bailout. The mall was an investment.” There is absolutely no question that the church can make investments.

But what about the payment to Beneficial Life, the one Nielson originally alleged represented a silent bailout? Well, Waddell also characterizes it that way: “The church actually owned Beneficial Life. And fortunately, the church had the resources to bail out Beneficial Life during the financial crisis, 2008,. 2009.” He goes on to say that most of that money has been repaid.

Honestly, it depends on what Waddell means by a “bailout.” If it had been a capital contribution, there would likely be no problem (especially as a wholly-owned subsidiary—if there were other noncontributing shareholders, that could present a problem). If it were a loan, it would probably be fine. There are IRS has acknowledged that tax-exempt organizations can make loans (though there may be tax consequences to the receipt or non-receipt of interest under certain circumstances). But if it’s just a transfer of money to a for-profit organization, it’s not permissible, as Hackney points out.

Phil and I are attorneys. As such, we appreciate—and strive for—specificity in language. But here, the language of “bail-outs” doesn’t provide that kind of specificity. I suspect, based on Waddell’s statement, that this was a loan from EPA to Beneficial Life. But he’s not careful with his language and, without more information, I can’t be certain.

And this leads us to my second thought:

Bishop Waddell

Look, there’s no nice way to put this: Waddell went in unprepared and did a terrible job. It’s not just him characterizing the transfer from EPA to Beneficial Life as a bailout. At one point, the interviewer asks Waddell about the idea that “secrecy builds mistrust.” He replies, “We don’t believe it’s being secret. We believe it’s being confidential.” She proceeds to ask the logical follow-up question: what’s the difference between secret and confidential. And he’s stumped.

The thing is, this isn’t any kind of gotcha question. He posited a meaningful difference between the two words, but had no explanation of what that difference entailed. Which, to me, suggests that he went into the interview either unprepared or, at least, underprepared.

Frankly, as a practicing member of the church, I’m not shocked. I’ve been to too many Stake Conferences where a visiting General Authority gives a 40-minute talk that is clearly extemporaneous and unprepared. And almost inevitably, it’s terrible, rambling, and pointless.

And that’s not unexpected. Most of us aren’t good at speaking without preparation. And honestly, we’re nice people and we don’t boo them.

But this idea that they can speak off-the-cuff, without significant preparation, comes back to bite them when they’re not talking to an audience that won’t call them on it.

I don’t litigate, but I know litigators. And litigators who argue in front of the Supreme Court inevitably moot their argument beforehand. That is, they get a number of their colleagues to play the part of Justices and ask them hard questions. They do that both to try to determine what kinds of questions the Justices will have and practice their responses. (Heck, whenever I get an email from a journalist, I spend at least half an hour or an hour refreshing myself about whatever topic they’re asking about.)

All of the 60 Minutes questions could easily have been anticipated. Waddell could have prepared. But, for whatever reason, he chose not to.

That’s not the only thing, though: right after I watched it, a friend messaged me about the piece. My friend, who is not a member of the church but is, frankly, tremendously friendly to the church, wrote, among other things, that he came across as “[p]atronizing, know-it-all, mildly creepy.”

In short, he was unprepared for inevitable questions. He came across poorly. And he seems to have lacked understanding about the transactions he was there to talk about. That kind of lack of preparation isn’t ideal for Stake Conference talks. But it’s far worse for communications with people who aren’t inclined to give our spokespeople the benefit of the doubt in all things.

Nielson Undercut His Assertion

Finally, Nielson’s big argument that EPA had violated its tax-exempt status is that it had never used its assets for charitable purposes.

Waddell disagreed—he said that the church takes money out of EPA 8 or 9 times a month.

And the thing is, Nielson agreed with that assertion! But, he said, ‘Money’s going in and out of the cash accounts all the time. But Ensign Peak’s funds were never used for any charitable purpose, to my knowledge, the whole time I was there.’

There are a couple things to unpack here. First, I have to admit I don’t have any idea what Nielson means by “cash accounts.” I looked it up on the SEC’s website: a cash account is a brokerage account that doesn’t let you buy securities using borrowed money. That’s clearly not what Nielson is talking about. (Also, for tax reasons, tax-exempt organizations don’t borrow money to make investments.)

Nielson does give a metaphorical example of what he means: he compares this cash account to a checking account, as opposed to the body of the investments, which is like a savings account. But that really doesn’t do anything to help his assertion. I have savings and checking accounts, too. I pay for stuff out of my checking account. But when I need more cash there, I transfer it from my savings account. And when I have more than I need in my checking account, I transfer it to my savings account.

In fact, for purposes of allowing the church to use the invested money charitably, it’s necessary to have an account filled with cash. EPA generally isn’t going to distribute securities to the church; in most situations, it will sell the securities and distribute cash.

And that’s the thing: if making charitable distributions is a requirement for an integrated auxiliary like EPA (and I would argue that, whether or not it should be, under current law it is not), if money is going out of EPA accounts to the church “all the time” (again, Nielson’s words), then that money is, in fact, being used for charitable purposes. Which undercuts his big argument for why EPA violated its tax exemption.

Final Thoughts

I’m not trying to impugn Nielson’s or Waddell’s good intentions here. I have no doubt Nielson legitimately feels like EPA violated tax law (and he’s right that it violated securities law). And I have no doubt Waddell believes that the church acted appropriately. But neither of them manages to make a strong case for their view. And that’s my takeaway from Sunday’s 60 Minutes.

For Further Reading

Plenty of other people have written about this too. On RNS, Jana Riess wrote about six things that we might now know about the church’s wealth.

Over on the Nonprofit Law Prof Blog, my coblogger and friend Darryll Jones wrote what I find to be a remarkably (and unsurprisingly) fair and thoughtful reaction to the segment.

The Salt Lake Tribune believed that Nielson came off well, while the church didn’t. (To be fair, while Nielson undercut his allegation, he did come across as measured and confident.)

The church issued a press release saying it was “unfortunate ‘60 Minutes’ sought to elevate a story based on unfounded allegations by a former employee who has a different view on how the Church should manage its resources.” (I have to confess I have little patience for this kind of after-the-fact press release; 60 Minutes gave the church a full opportunity to respond and explain its side of the story. It’s not the show’s fault that the church flubbed its response.)

Image by National Museum of American History Smithsonian Institution. CC BY-NC 2.0

Once a traveler happened upon a great field filled with people toiling away in the soil. Approaching the those in the field, the traveler asked aloud, to no one in particular, “What are you all doing?”

A voice replied with obvious enthusiasm. “We are building foundations!”

Upon turning to face the person who replied, the traveler saw someone covered in sweat and dirt from days and days of hard labor. The individual was surrounded by holes of various shapes, sizes, and depths. “I don’t understand?” the traveler questioned.

“Look here,” said the laborer pointing to a set of tools neatly arrayed, carefully placed on the ground nearby. The traveler’s eyes fell upon a vast array of tools: pickaxes, trowels, shovels, hoes, rakes, spades, and many more such implements. The tools were well used and well cared for. The various blades, tangs, and edges were sharp and clean; the handles were oiled and polished. The tools glisten in the hot sun.

“I’ve been practicing my whole life to become an expert in each of the tools,” said the laborer humbly. “I am not perfect at all of them, but I am better than I’ve ever been.”

“Show me,” said the traveler. “Let me see.”

The laborer picked up one tool after the other and lovingly caressed each, explaining to the traveler each the tool’s history and method of use. Then, wielding the tools with a precision that only comes from a lifetime of practice, the laborer demonstrated proper technique for each and every tool, slicing and moving the ground with an efficiency and economy of movement which left the traveler speechless. “This is indeed a skilled worker,” the traveler thought.

When the explanations and demonstrations concluded—and the tools had been meticulously cleaned and returned to their resting location—the traveler noticed all of the new holes of various shapes, sizes and depths that resulted from the laborer’s demonstration.

Curiously, the traveler asked, “I thought you said you were building foundations? I see holes of various shapes and depths but nothing that looks like a foundation. When will you begin to do that?”

The laborer replied, “when I am finally an expert with these tools, then… then, I will begin to build foundations. Perhaps I’ll even expand some of these smaller holes I’ve started.” Then looking back to the field, the laborer said kindly, and almost apologetically, “now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my work.” And with that the laborer retrieved a tool and continued the practice of refining each movement by digging new holes here and there.

Realizing no more information would be provided by this laborer, the traveler looked for someone else to question. Nearby, the traveler spied another laborer working diligently. At first the laborer was hard to see—only a head was visible peaking above the surface of the field—but as the traveler approached, a vast hole came into view. The hole had edges that were smooth and straight, and corners that were neat and square. A small set of earthen stairs led into the pit.

This laborer was as sweaty and dirty as the first.

 “Hello!” shouted the traveler, “may I come and speak with you?”

“Very well,” replied the second laborer looking up. “Please come down the stairs carefully.”

The traveler entered the deep depression in the earth and approached the laborer. The same tools surrounded this laborer as those used by the previous laborer. The uneven wear on this laborer’s tools suggested a less-skilled hand wielded them.

Observing the laborer at work reinforced the traveler’s suspicions. This laborer used the tools satisfactorily but struggled to use them with the same efficiency as the first. Compared to the first laborer’s graceful, finely-honed movements, this individual’s efforts were choppy and uneven. When questioned, this laborer did not know much about the history of the tools being used nor was this laborer able to demonstrate proper technique. And there were a few tools that looked as if they had hardly been used at all.

And yet, the traveler examined the walls which surrounded him. They were remarkably sturdy and well built. It was a beautiful foundation. Puzzled at the incongruity between the way the laborer seemed to work and end result, the traveler asked, “tell me, friend, how is it that someone like you, who is not —if you don’t mind my saying—as skilled or knowledgeable as others, could build such a beautiful foundation? You haven’t even used all of the tools.”

The laborer hesitated, trying to formulate a response. “I don’t know what you mean?” A furrowed brow belied a sense of confusion. “My Master has not asked me become an expert at tools… and not every tool works for me, I use the tools that I need when I need them.” A pause on the part of the traveler implied that further explanation was needed, so the laborer, took a breath and asserted (with a sense of finality and a hint of frustration): “My Master has asked me to build foundations; that is what I am doing.”

Recalling the conversation with the first laborer, the traveler responded, “but mustn’t you first become an expert in tools before you build a foundation—mustn’t you use all the tools?”

The laborer pointed unpretentiously to the four sturdy walls surrounding them and said thoughtfully, “I guess not.”

I just finished Michael Hicks’ new memoir Wineskin: Freakin’ Jesus in the 60s and 70s (published by Signature). It was a terrific read. The only person who might be able to write as interesting a BYU prof memoir is Steve Peck, and he wrote the foreward to this volume. There were bits and pieces I already knew about: growing up in California, his (stunningly gorgeous) artist mother and the string of men in her life, his Jesus freak phase and the Wineskin coffee house, bailing on his mission to Germany three months in (tying his garments together to fashion a rope for the escape!) I knew about his youthful excommunication, but I didn’t have a good handle on the Anne cult.Trust me, you want to read this book.

The story ends as Michael graduates and begins grad school at the University of Illinois. I would first meet him about two years later.

I grew up in Illinois, so I always had the idea of going to grad school there in the back of my mind. (Undergrad was of course BYU to find a wife.) One of my sisters went there to study science, and she later attended Rush for her MD and worked as a doctor in Minnesota (she is now retired). My friends and I would sometimes drive the three hours south to ply pickup basketball or attend a Mormon youth dance.

I definitely wanted to do grad school at Illinois. For about a year that was going to be a doctorate in classics. But it was a horrible recession, and I now had a baby girl, so I had to get practical and like so many others I opted for law school.

We went to Urbana right after graduation and moved into married student housing. I immediately tried to get a job, but the recession was fierce. When I walked into McDonalds to ask about a job they just laughed at me. I tried and tried, but nothing worked out.

About three days in to this horror show, there was a knock on our door. It was Michael and his wife Pam. Michael was the EQP and was there to welcome us to the ward. I had no idea how they even knew we were there. But they were angels from heaven. We had so much in common, and we talked for a really long time. And when they left, I knew everything would be alright. And indeed, it was.

The student ward was awesome, and Michael was a big part of the reason for that. To name just one example he put on An Evening at the Polysophical Society, where elders could sign up to make presentations on whatever they felt like. My contribution was scripture readings in Hebrew and Greek so folks could hear what they sounded like in the original languages.

That next summer, Michael and I got jobs working on the research farm. I had done farm work as a boy, so this was perfect for me. Our assignments were such that we were by ourselves away from the real farmers, so we just had a wonderful running conversation that entire summer. (While the real farmers played cards over the lunch break, Michael and I sat off to the side and read. That summer I was reading Xenophon’s Anabasis in Greek. Imagine having free flowing conversations with Michael for a whole summer!

Eventually we both graduated, and we went our separate ways, me to the Chicago area to practice law and him to the Provo campus as a music prof. But my mother and several siblings lived in Utah, so we would often go there for vacations, and of courlse we would always visit Michael and Pam at there home in Orem. Because we had so much shared history together, the conversations were easy and natural. (I even got to see Spencer Kimball’s record collection in the garage before Michael wrote the book!

The main point of this nostalgia is to encourage you to read the memoir. Trust me, you’ll be glad you did.

David Aubril is a regular guest author at BCC. He is a French teacher who is fond of didactics, literature, UNIX systems and free diving (with no order of preference). He follows with great interest the contemporary debates on Gospel and Church matters, but from afar, from “the other side of the water”, as Pascal says.

There was recently a study about the benefits young women can get from their mission : “Lifelong benefits may await those Latter-day Saint women who opt to serve a religious mission during their college years, a new study from Utah State University’s Utah Women & Leadership Project suggests” (The Salt Lake Tribune, Feb. 9, 2023). I was pretty sure that it would come up as an argument in support of missions in the April General Conference. 

I remain skeptical, though, about these conclusions. As the study indicates : “With time away from school, there is an increased risk that students will simply not return to college after completing a gap experience. However, our research on female students at BYU suggests this may be a minimal concern in Utah” (Utah Women & Leadership Project, Research & Policy Brief, February 2023). But the relation between mission and university can be far more complex in other parts of the world. Here, in France, for example, public universities are very inexpensive and offer often high-quality superior education. But there are few places, and therefore the selection is severe. If your file isn’t good enough, if you’re not in good timing, if you get off track, it’s over. 

It makes it very hard to leave for two years. I know a faithful young man who is currently studying medicine. At the end of the first year, he asked his university if he could leave to serve a mission. The answer was “you can take a year off, but not two ; maybe at the end of next year”. He asked again at the end of the second year. Same answer. The third time he asked, it was  a definitive no. This committed young man, after many prayers, chose to stay, but was brokenhearted, and felt guilt for years. In France you can usually take a year off, but not two. Since mission length is two years, many of our youth, like this young man, have to choose between studies and mission. Sometimes, they leave in December and come back two years later. Here, you can’t start when you want : the beginning of the year is September, and that’s it. So they have to wait another year. Maybe in the U.S. it’s fine to stop your studies and get back to them afterwards. In France, it’s not, and it’s very hard to get back in.

Of course, young people can go to BYU to study or register in BYU-pathways. That’s the advice French missionaries often get from their mission president when they ask to leave the mission field earlier. In fact, I suspect that it’s because the U.S. University calendar is so flexible that the mission length isn’t. Like many programs in the Church, it is designed with an American background. But what about the young people who want to study in the universities of their country ? I guess France is not the only one with selective systems. BYU is, indeed, very attractive for many of our youth. For them, often sole members in their schools, BYU is the place to be. As the sole member in my family, in my workplace, in my neighborhood, in about every place I go and everything I do since I converted thirty years ago, I understand the need for belonging. Though, I think that each youth who is leaving for BYU is a loss for our country. Most of the time, they graduate, get married, and settle in the U.S. I’ve rarely seen one come back. 

There are plenty of good things in BYU. I know lots of people who have studied there, and they’re great. I just wish this university wouldn’t be the measure of all things. I also really wish mission length would be more flexible, so that our youth can benefit from the high-quality superior education their country has to offer. In France, like in the U.S., many of our youth are leaving the Church. If we don’t help the faithful ones to study in their country, who will remain?

Photo credit: Amphithéâtre Richelieu, Université Paris-Sorbonne (Paris IV). (Picture from Sébastien Calvet)

Next year will mark the 70th anniversary of the so-called Johnson Amendment, the provision in section 501(c)(3) that prohibits tax-exempt organizations from endorsing or opposing candidates for office. We really don’t know much about the purpose or motivation of the provision: it was introduced by the-Senator Johnson and approved, without debate, by voice vote, so there’s no legislative history explaining its purpose.

The substance of the prohibition is pretty clear, though: to qualify for tax exemption, an organization must do a handful of things and refrain from doing a handful of others. Under the Johnson Amendment, a tax-exempt organization cannot “participate in, or intervene in (including the publishing or distributing of statements), any political campaign on behalf of (or in opposition to) any candidate for public office.”

And that’s it: a blanket prohibition on endorsing or opposing candidates. And what are the consequences for an organization that violates the prohibition?

In theory, there are up to two. The first is, it doesn’t qualify as tax-exempt (because it doesn’t meet the requirements).

The second is an excise tax. The tax is 10% of the political expenditure, plus a 2.5% tax on any manager who approved it. If the expenditure isn’t corrected, those amounts rise to 100% and 50%, respectively.

There are, of course, a couple other details that are relevant here. The first is, neither penalty is self-enforcing. The IRS is tasked with revoking exemptions and with imposing excise taxes. And the thing is, while the law is clear, the IRS has administrative discretion in deciding how to deploy its enforcement resources and enforce the law. If it decides not to revoke an organization’s exemption, there is literally nothing the general public can do to force it to act. (I explain the why and the how of it in this article, if you’re interested.)

And how is the IRS’s enforcement? Well, according to a self-study it did earlier this century, pretty much non-existent.

What does this have to do with Mormon blogging?

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has an explicit policy of staying politically neutral. It does, however, “[r]eserve the right as an institution to address, in a nonpartisan way, issues that it believes have significant community or moral consequences or that directly affect the interests of the Church” (emphasis added).

One thing that I need to point out here: tax-exempt organizations, including churches, can lobby without risking their exemption. The Johnson Amendment only applies an absolute prohibition to supporting and opposing candidates. As long as an organization’s lobbying remains an insubstantial portion of its activities, it’s good with its obligations.

But here’s the thing: Donald Trump is the presumptive Republican nominee for president. And a Trump presidency poses significant community and moral consequences to the country. While I’m not going to list them all here (both for lack of space and because that’s not the topic of this particular blog post), Wednesday night’s CNN town hall demonstrates that he is allergic to the truth. He’s an admitted sexual harasser (who has also been held liable for sexual harassment by a jury), he refuses to accept the results of the 2020 election, he believes in the goodness of the January 6 insurrectionists. He’s willing to reinstate family separations at the border. He brings out and encourages the worst impulses in his fans. A second Trump presidency would be an utter moral (and political and democratic) disaster.

So a thought experiment: what if the church spoke out against him? What if the church invoked its “significant … moral consequences” clause to counsel members to vote against him at the primary and/or (but definitely and) level?

It clearly wouldn’t mean that no member of the church would vote for Trump. The idea that we’re automatons who obey every word from church leaders is a stupid stereotype. I mean, just look at Covid anti-vaxxers in the church.

But members were already at least a little skeptical of Trump; an official statement could provide an excuse for those people who are torn between their dislike of the candidate and their allegiance to the GOP permission, and perhaps incentive, to do the right thing. And Trump is aberrant enough (I hope) that church leaders could say, with complete justification, that the church will continue to stay neutral in normal partisan politics that don’t implicate the moral foundations of the country.

And what about the consequences to the church’s tax exemption?

Well, in the nearly 70 years since the introduction of the Johnson Amendment, one church has had its exemption revoked for violating it. Four days before the 1992 presidential election, the Church at Pierce Creek took out full-page ads in the Washington Times and USA Today. (For our younger readers: those were newspapers. They had big pages. And a full-page ad was kind of a big deal back in the pre-internet world of 1992.) I can’t find an image of the ad (though I swear I’ve seen it), but it was egregious enough that the IRS revoked the church’s tax exemption. The church appealed, and ultimately the Court of Appeals for the D.C. Circuit upheld the revocation.

Part of the court’s justification for revoking the exemption? That it was completely harmless to the church. The court said that, yes, its exemption was gone, meaning it had to pay taxes on its income and donors couldn’t take donations for their deductions. But the “unique treatment of churches” under the tax law means that “if the Church does not intervene in future political campaigns, it may hold itself out as a 26 U.S.C. § 501(c)(3) organization and receive all the benefits of that status. All that will have been lost, in that event, is the advance assurance of deductibility in  the event a donor should be audited.” See, churches—unlike other tax-exempt organizations—don’t have to apply for tax exemption. So a church that violates the Johnson Amendment temporarily loses its exemption, but, once it’s done violating, automatically gets it back. (For the record, I think this is wrong as a matter of law, but also, it seems to represent both the IRS’s and the D.C. Circuit’s view.)

So what would happen if the church emailed a letter to be read by all of the bishops in the U.S., a letter that said, “We have seen the damage that a wicked leader can do. While we generally refrain from participating in electoral politics, where it becomes a moral issue, we feel an obligation to speak. And electing Donald Trump would be morally disastrous, both to our members and to the country they live in. We encourage each member to register to vote and to vote against Donald Trump”?

Honestly, probably nothing. Again, the IRS would have to actively enforce the Johnson Amendment, a thing it generally does not do.

But if it decided to? The church would lose its exemption for an instant. But then that instant would end and, as long as the church then ceased to endorse or oppose candidates for office, it would automatically be exempt again. Moreover, even if courts were to decide that the D.C. Circuit was wrong, that represents a significant enough change that I suspect they would apply it prospectively only.

And what about the excise tax? I mean, I don’t know what drafting and sending an email to be read over pulpits costs (though I’m happy to draft it pro bono, if that helps reduce the cost!), but I suspect it is negligible, whether at 10% or 100%.

Should the church make this statement? I don’t know. On the one hand, I prefer political neutrality by churches. On the other, though, the specter of a Trump presidency is terrifyingly bad, and will, frankly, put the soul of our nation at significant risk.

But again, deciding whether or not to do this is far above my paygrade. But saying what the consequences would be if the church did it? On that, I’m good.

29.95 24.95

If you have not yet bought A World of Faith, BCC Press’s new edition of the classic children’s (and adult’s) illustrated tour of world religions by Peggy Fletcher Stack and Kathleen Peterson, then it is now officially your lucky day. In celebration of Peggy’s Mormonland interview, we are offering it at the ridiculously low price of $24.95. If you aren’t sold yet, you can listen to the whole interview here:

https://www.sltrib.com/religion/2023/05/10/mormon-land-richness-religious/?fbclid=IwAR0MaNPbNk7OMtCZdgCHwR-Oajrrnz-hpvsvRHMTGajx91r9c8Rfac8Hx2k

And be sure to check out our free sample section here:

Then they sent to him some Pharisees and some Herodians to trap him in what he said. And they came and said to him, “Teacher, we know that you are sincere and show deference to no one, for you do not regard people with partiality but teach the way of God in accordance with truth. Is it lawful to pay taxes to Caesar or not? Should we pay them, or should we not?” But knowing their hypocrisy, he said to them, “Why are you putting me to the test? Bring me a denarius and let me see it.” And they brought one. Then he said to them, “Whose head is this and whose title?” They answered, “Caesar’s.” Jesus said to them, “Give to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and to God the things that are God’s.” And they were utterly amazed at him. (Matt 12:15-22)

Few passages of scripture have been as interpretively elastic as Jesus’s clever answer to a disingenuous question about the morality of paying taxes. The story appears, with only minor variations, in all three synoptic gospels (Matt. 22:15-22; Mark 12:13-17; Luke 20:20-26), and it has been exported as a proof text in arguments about the separation of church and state, the morality of paying taxes to support war, the right of tax resistance, and the permissibility of civil disobedience. I strongly doubt the ability of the text, in its original context, to support this much interpretive weight. But it does mean something, so let’s dive in and take a look.

I suspect that the most important lesson we can draw from the Render unto Caesar passage is something like, “don’t be drawn into unnecessary conflicts by people who are trying to get you killed,” which is really good advice, even without the “trying to get you killed part.

All three versions are clear that this is not a sincere question, but a trap. The questioners want to force Jesus to take a position on the most controversial issue of the day. If he says that people should pay taxes, he risks being branded a traitor and a Roman collaborator in a population that is already on a collision course with Roman power. This could destroy his credibility with the people and even endanger his life. If he says that people should not pay taxes, he will be committing treason against Rome, in front of many witnesses, and his accusers will have the evidence they need to bring capital charges against him before a Roman tribunal.

Both Matthew and Mark indicate that the questioners include both Pharisees and Herodians—a strange alliance between religious and secularist factions that both saw Jesus as an obstacle to their objectives. They are trying to draw him into the overwhelming political and cultural conflict of the time because they know that, once he enters the conflict, one side or the other will destroy him.

Here is the most important thing to keep in mind while reading this passage: Jesus doesn’t need to be part of this fight. His message doesn’t require a position on the payment of taxes to Rome. His message, in fact, rejects the entire social and organizational logic upon which “taxes” and “Rome” are based. So he does what any politician does when faced with a similar dilemma: he gives an answer that will make nobody happy but which will also make nobody any more likely to try to kill him. He refuses to have the fight that his interlocutors want him to have.

This does not mean, however, that the answer is mumbo-jumbo. The overall question—how do we balance religious commitments with civic duties?—comes up in every society that has religious commitments and civic duties. But it seems to me that the core of Jesus’s teaching is more pragmatic than idealistic: balance them in a way that doesn’t get you killed unless it is absolutely necessary. This remains exceptionally good advice.

If we insist on situating ourselves within the metaphorical framework of Christ and Caesar, however, it is important to figure out who is who. Anybody living in the United States in the first quarter of the 21st century is closer to Caesar than to any colonized Galilean in early imperial Rome. Not only is America the military and economic equivalent of the Roman Empire. It is a participatory democracy in which the imperium is ultimately held collectively, by the people, and not by Tiberios Kaisar Sebastos or anybody else.

This means that the sharp distinction that Jesus drew between God and Caesar—or between the Kingdom of God and the Roman Empire—does not work for us in quite the same way that it worked for the subjugated population that Jesus was addressing in Jerusalem. We have the power—diluted but not non-existent—to change our own society. And, as a military and economic power comparable to Rome, we exercise an outsized influence on other societies as well. And that simply places us in a different category than a subjugated population whose only choices were to conform to imperial rule, to be crushed by overwhelming military force, or to wait around for an eschatological apocalypse.

In the symbolic logic of the New Testament, 21st-century Americans are best represented by the Romans, rather than the Samaritans, Judeans, or primitive Christians. Instead of deciding whether or not we should be rendering unto Caesar, we need to accept that we ARE Caesar—and that we have some choice in what to do with everything we have been rendered. That is not a flattering portrait, but it can be an empowering one. It means that we have the kinds of choices that Jesus’s original audience could not have imagined. we can choose to make our society more (or less) just, more (or less) compassionate, and more (or less) like the Kingdom of God. It is up to us what kind of Caesar we are going to be.

It’s been long enough that I don’t remember their names. I don’t remember who I was with. I don’t remember which area it was (I think it was my second, in São José dos Campos, but I’m not sure anymore).

But I remember what happened. We were at a young family’s home. She was an inactive member of the church. He wasn’t a member. Both were friendly and welcoming. And on this visit, he pulled out his guitar. He started to play and sing. And I was introduced to “Sampa,” Caetano Veloso’s plaintive ode to São Paulo, his adopted city and my Mormon mission.

It wasn’t common, but occasionally on P-day, the district or zone I was in would get permission to go to the center of São Paulo; it was outside of our mission boundaries, but it was also, to a kid who grew up in the suburbs of San Diego, my first experience in a truly urban area, with all that brings with it. And a necessary stop on those trips to the city center were the informal markets that popped up on bridges and side streets. There were always a couple tables filled with (undoubtedly pirated) CDs.

I didn’t go out of my way to listen to music on my mission; I obeyed our mission rules. At the same time, it was Brazil. There was music literally everywhere. (One time, we spent half an hour knocking doors on a block where nobody answered, but one house was blasting music so loud that, even outside, I could hear it better than if I’d had my radio on at home.) I picked up a handful of CDs on those trips, including a greatest hits by Caetano Veloso.

I also bought a greatest hits album by Rita Lee. Today I know that she was a member of the seminal Brazilian rock band Os Mutantes and the queen of Brazilian rock. At the time, though, I had no idea. In fact, almost everything I knew about her was that “Sampa” included this line:

Ainda não havia para mim, Rita Lee
A tua mais completa tradução

Roughly translated, it says

For me there still hasn’t been, Rita Lee
Your most complete translation

And that was enough. When I saw Meus Momentos – Rita Lee on a table under a canopy in the middle of São Paulo, I bought it. And brought it home.

Yesterday, at 75, Rita Lee passed away.

I hadn’t listened to her music in probably 20 years. But as I listened on Spotify, I remember the waterfall of synthesizer notes that leads off “Mania de Você” (and its lyrical sensuality). The Pink Floyd-esque “Doce Vampiro.” The Brazilian-inflected disco of “Chega Mais.” The sounds of Brazilian buses and streets and homes and shops. The sounds of being a young Mormon missionary.

So thanks to a man with a guitar who welcomed Mormon missionaries into his home, in fact havia para mim Rita Lee.

Photo: “Cantora Rita Lee em 2011” by Caio Webber. CC BY 2.0

In the LDS Church’s Gospel Essays section it notes, “Through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, everyone will be redeemed from the effects of the Fall. We will be resurrected…In addition to redeeming us from the universal effects of the Fall, the Savior can redeem us from our own sins. In our fallen state, we sin and distance ourselves from the Lord, bringing spiritual death upon ourselves.”[1] Language like this, which feels emblematic of the majority of the Church’s language about the Atonement of Jesus Christ, centers (nearly exclusively, it seems to me) on how the Atonement helps individuals, you and me, overcome spiritual and physical death: that is to say, it focuses on how to reconcile schisms in humankind’s relationship with God.[2]

However, this vision of reconciliation, while critically important, seems incomplete.  Though it may be true that a human-God schism is one result of sin that does need to be reconciled, it is equally true that sin does not only affect the relationship between the sinner and God.  With rare exceptions, sin also has real-world and lasting impacts on other people.[3] And many times, sin creates victims,[4] with sinners being the perpetrators of that victimization. So, though it may be true the “natural man” is an “enemy to God” (Mosiah 3:19), the natural man also hurts other people. German Reformed theologian Jurgen Moltmann frames it thusly: “the victims of injustice and violence are not the determining subjects of their actions; they are made the objects of the action from the outside… Their souls are traumatized by what is done to them against their will.”[5] If eternal life is “a continuation and sacralization of human relationships in an eternal sphere” and if “salvation is a communal enterprise,”[6] then the eternal healing of human-human schisms must be at least as important as healing the human-God schism.

And yet, because the human-God schism dominates official discussion of eternal reconciliation, considerably more time seems to be spent exploring the responsibility the sinner bears in healing a breach of relationality with God[7] than is spent on the responsibility of the sinners (the perpetrators) to heal the breach of relationality with other people (the victims). [8] To the extent there is discussion of/to victims, it seems largely focused on the victims’ responsibility to forgive the sinner.[9] This approach often gives short shrift to the responsibilities of the perpetrators to heal human-human schisms their actions have caused. It also implicitly prioritizes the human-God relationship over the human-human relationship.[10] 

And though victims need to forgive those who wronged them (it is, after all a commandment to do so), there is certainly more in the Atonement of Jesus Christ for victims then a charge to forgive and oblique references to divine help in doing so.[11] Failing to equally address both the import of eternal human-human relationality and the impact of sin on it (i.e., the perpetrator-victim schism) cuts short conversations on healing human-human schisms and how that is accomplished—conversations which are sorely needed. In fact, when one really internalizes the theological import of relationality among people, it seems responsible to ask ourselves: how can we increase discussion about healing human-human schisms, including specifically the steps sinners must take relative to those who have been harmed, and in what ways we can improve our support to those who have been victimized? Here are three brief suggestions:

First: Increase teaching on the importance of human-human relationality—Every aspect of the LDS Church’s doctrine is colored by the importance of human-human relations, from the creation to the Atonement of Jesus Christ, from embodiment to salvation, from priesthood to exaltation. We should do more to intentionally reinforce that human-human relationality is just as much a part of exaltation as human-God relationality. And we should continue to emphasize that this relationality includes the family unit, but also extends well beyond it. Relatedly, we can increase instruction and discussion relative to the critical need to reconcile human-human schisms, and specifically the importance of hearing, believing, and supporting victims.

Second: Prioritize relationality over individual piety— In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus teaches that human reconciliation, instigated by the perpetrator, should precede even required religious observance (Matthew 5:23-24).[12] Said more directly: in the eternal scheme of things, relationality might matter more than religious orthodoxy. More regularly exploring the implications of this notion in church and other meetings, and increased focus on the way in which this approach might be enacted “in real life,” could result in positive outcomes for the victims and the perpetrators of sin.

Third: Broaden our view of the sacrament—Alma observes that Jesus suffered “pains and afflictions… of every kind” (Alma 7:11). Each week, the sacrament demonstrates, in ritual form, this dimension of Jesus mission.[13] As sacrament trays make their way through the congregation, we see the tokens of one who suffered at the hands of others being brought to the lives of those who are suffering now; thereby individuals who may be suffering alone, are immediately brought into a community. This community building (i.e., relationality) is a first step to healing. But this is not all. The perpetrator and the victim may very well partake of the same sacramental elements (maybe even in the same Ward), and thus the sacrament enacts a proleptic vision of a healed community and, eventually, reconciliation.[14] All that to say, sacrament is more than just a place to think about the reconciliation of human-God schisms, we should more explicitly teach it is a place where human-human schisms can also begin repair.

Too many have been hurt. We have a solid foundation in healing the human-God schism. Now it is time to redouble our efforts to acknowledge and try to heal the human-human schisms caused by sin. This seems to be among the most important activities in which followers of Jesus may be called to accomplish in our day-and-age.

[1] The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “Gospel Topics: The Fall of Adam and Eve.”  Available at: https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/manual/gospel-topics/fall-of-adam-and-eve?lang=eng. Cf. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “Doctrinal Study: Atonement of Jesus Christ.” Available at: https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/manual/gospel-topics/atonement-of-jesus-christ?lang=eng. For the purpose of this essay, I am eliding discussion about atonement theory writ large and, specifically, what sin is and what the results of it are. Rather, I am simply accepting this statement as written. See also, see fn 4.

[2] Interestingly, German theologian Jurgen Moltmann argues that this focus results from the Reformed tradition’s reading of Pauline texts. See “Then and Now” Theology Today, Vol 69 No 1 (2017). Pg 13.  Given the strongly protestant influence that is present the LDS Church’s approach to “atonement,” it is not surprising that this perspective continues to resonate throughout the church.

[3] While the focus here is on human-human schisms, it is also no doubt true that sin results in a human-Gaia schism that also needs reconciliation.

[4] I realize using the language of “victims” can be polarizing, particularly when seen through the lens “victimhood culture.” To be exceptionally clear: I am using the word the word “victim” in this essay consistent with the Jurgen Moltmann’s use of the word in “We believe in the forgiveness of sins, but who justifies the victim?” in Comfortable Words: Essays in Honor of Paul F. M. Zahl. Ed. by John D. Koch, Todd H. W. Brewer. Wipf & Stock, 2013. Ch. 11, pp. 125-130.

[5] Moltmann, Jurgen. “The Unfinished Reformation.” Theology Today, Vol 69 No 1 (2017). Pg 16.  This essay relies heavily on Moltmann who most clearly articulates the need for Christian theology for victims.

[6] Terryl Givens. Wrestling the Angel. 2015. Oxford University Press. Pg 268, 272.

[7] See, for instance, Richard G. Scott, “To Heal the Shattering Consequences of Abuse,” General Conference, April 2008, https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/general-conference/2008/04/to-heal-the-shattering-consequences-of-abuse?lang=eng. Scott has a section entitled, To the Perpetrator which his focuses almost exclusively on healing the human-God schism. Of repairing the human-human schism, he only notes, “Show your desire to heal the anguish that you have caused others” and asserts that going through priesthood-leadership guidance repentance “will also bring relief to the abused and their families.” 

[8] Another example of a similar approach is Elder Kevin R. Duncan’s 1992 General Conference address, “The Healing Ointment of Forgiveness.” Though Duncan acknowledges that victimization can occur, the focus of the discussion is on the victim forgiving the perpetrator. There is no discussion of the perpetrator’s responsibility to make amends. https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/general-conference/2016/04/the-healing-ointment-of-forgiveness?lang=eng  

[9] See, for instance, Holland, Jeffrey R. “The Ministry of Reconciliation.” October 2018 General Conference. Available at: https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/study/general-conference/2018/10/the-ministry-of-reconciliation?lang=eng. Here, Holland uses language that is, I think, representative of much church discourse on this topic: “Surely each of us could cite an endless array of old scars and sorrows and painful memories that this very moment still corrode the peace in someone’s heart or family or neighborhood…. Please don’t give precious space in your soul to them any longer…. forgiving and forsaking offenses, old or new, is central to the grandeur of the Atonement of Jesus Christ.” In that same talk, Elder Holland alludes to the fact that the perpetrator should do something by quoting the scriptural charge to “Go thy way unto thy brother, and first be reconciled to [him/her], and then come unto me with full purpose of heart, and I will receive you” (12:23-24)—but that all that is offered by way of addressing the human-human/perpetrator-victim schism.

[10] The Church contains one aspect of human-human reconciliation that is not present in other religious traditions: work for the dead. The Church teaches that “[the dead] without us cannot be made perfect—neither can we without our dead be made perfect” (D&C128:15) and that the Earth would be “utterly wasted” (D&C 2:3) if generations are not bound together.  The doctrine that past, present, and future generations—who are temporally separated—can be brought together through proxy ordinances performed in the temple is part-and-parcel of the notion of reconciliation.  Human-human relationality is fractured by our temporal existence and temple work overcomes these fractures. Because the Church teaches that priesthood authority can bypasses restrictions of time and place, long-distant relatives from other parts of the world can be, quite literally, connected (i.e. reconciled) with families here-and-now.  It is no wonder that the beauty and power of this process is central to worship in the Church.  This aspect of reconciliation falls outside the scope of this discussion since the human-human reconciliation temple work affords does not speak to resolving the perpetrator-victim schism, but nonetheless deserved mentioning.

[11] Moltmann powerfully observes, “God does not only put the sinners right; he first of all creates justice for those who suffer violence.” See Moltmann, Jurgen. “The Unfinished Reformation.” Theology Today, Vol 69 No 1 (2017). Pg 18. Emphasis added.

[12] Blount, Brian et al. True to Our Native Land: An African American New Testament Commentary. Fortress Press, 2007. Pg. 92.

[13] Elder Neal L. Anderson noted that phrase ‘renewing our baptismal covenant’ is “not found in the scriptures.” He says this focus “is not inappropriate… but it is not something that is used in the scriptures, and it can’t be the keynote of what we say about the sacrament. See, Neal L. Anderson, April 2015 General Conference Leadership Training Meeting, quoted in Terryl Givens. Feeding the Flock. Oxford University Press. 2017. Pg 204.

[14] For a thoughtful discussion of the way in which the sacrament can work toward community, in the face of victimization, see Gutierrez, Gustavo. A Theology of Liberation. Orbis Books. 1988. 148-150.

As he was setting out on a journey, a man ran up and knelt before him and asked him, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus said to him, “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone. You know the commandments: ‘You shall not murder. You shall not commit adultery. You shall not steal. You shall not bear false witness. You shall not defraud. Honor your father and mother.’ ” He said to him, “Teacher, I have kept all these since my youth.” Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said, “You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” When he heard this, he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions. (Mark 10:17-22)

Mark presents him only as a man with many possessions. Matthew calls him a “young man,” and Luke describes him as a “ruler” who was “very rich.” The version that has come down to us through history is “the rich young ruler,” a composite taken from all three versions of the story. This amalgamation has not served it us well, as it gives us too many ways to resist identifying the man as ourselves. I am not young, and I am not a ruler. I can even stretch the definition of “very rich” so far out of context that it might not necessarily always include me.

But I am pretty rich, and I have lived a life of wealth and privilege that nobody in Jesus’s original audience could even have comprehended. Most people alive today could not comprehend it either. I have always had a comfortable home, a reliable vehicle, and plenty of food. I was able to get as much education as I wanted. And I buy an obscene number of books and electronic devices.

And I have no intention of selling everything, quitting my job, and helping people for the rest of my life. I am not even planning to sell half of my possessions and work half time, helping people for the other half of the time—even though I could do this without seriously altering my lifestyle or my living standard. I am not strong enough to do this. I like my stuff. And the thought of giving it all up fills me with dread. What if I need it later? What if I lose my job? How am I going to retire? Will I die homeless and penniless and without any friends? Surely that is not what Jesus wants me to do. Every time I read this story in the Bible, I come away grieving, for I have many possessions.

I think that we often judge the rich young ruler too harshly. He just wanted a checklist on how to be righteous,” we say. “he didn’t understand that it is about loving people and not about following all the rules.” And we say this as if we would have done better if we had been there. And we imagine that we would do better now if we had the kind of money that guy had—an amount that we never specify but know with moral certainty must be more than we have right now. Just look at his clothes in the Carl Bloch painting. He is clearly in a different category than me. Would a painter that everybody likes so much lie?

I do not believe that Jesus intended to give any of us places to hide from his injunction—”sell what you own and give the money to the poor.” He did not say sell your exrcess, or sell everything that you don’t need to live. And he didn’t really distinguish between rich and poor. He told the rich young ruler that the only commandment he still needed to obey was to sell everything, give it to the poor, and “come follow me.”

The last bit is really important. It is not enough to sell things or even to give to the poor. Jesus also asks for a humongous leap of faith, to consider the lilies of the field and trust that we can continue to exist, and in fact, experience more happiness and fulfillment without all of our stuff. His main point, as I read it, is similar to the main point of Buddhism or the Sufi variety of Islam: we have to get rid of our stuff because our stuff prevents us from progressing spiritually. It binds us to the economic system that gives it value and the political system that protects that value. It is impossible to imagine a better world, or even a different one, as long as we are tied through our possessions to a decidedly non-Godly social organization.

A famous scene in Dante’s Inferno helps us see how our possessions impede our spiritual progress. In the seventh canto, Dante and Virgil encounter the hoarders and the wasters—people whose obsessions seem antithetical to each other but who, in reality, are both tied firmly to material things. The hoarders save everything out of anxiety for the future, and the wasters spend everything in order to enjoy the present.

The people in both groups suffer the same fate. They are forced to roll huge boulders around in a circle for all of eternity, one group shouting, “why do you hoard” and the other shouting, “why do you waste.” Neither group understands that they are all being punished for the same sin of loving material things too much.

But here is the really interesting thing: nobody makes them do this. When I say that they are forced, I mean that they are compelled by their natures. There are no demons goading them along, nor is Satan standing behind them with a whip. At any time, they could all stop pushing the boulders, sit down, and spend all of eternity relaxing and conversing pleasantly with each other about other things. But they never will because they are tied to possessions, and the boulders are the only things in hell that they can possess. This is not the punishment for what they have done, but the consequence of who they have become.

This is what I mean when I say, as I have said almost every week this year, that heaven is constitutive, consequential, and sapiential and not regulative, transactional, and eschatological. The rich young ruler cannot inherit the Kingdom of God unless he is willing to give up all of his wealth because that is what the Kingdom of God means. It is a society that runs on different rules and a completely different logic than any society that exists today. Great wealth can’t exist in God’s Kingdom because nobody would even know what it means.

Both kinds of societies require a great deal of faith, in the New Testament sense of the word, which is more about trust than belief. It takes enormous faith in a system to recognize the instantly transferrable pieces of electronic information that we call “money” as something that conveys wealth. It only works because everybody expects it to work and believes that it will. The last time that people lost their faith in monetary policy, trillions of dollars vanished from the world in the blink of an eye. The Kingdom of God works on very similar principles, it will work when everybody believes that it can.

I lack the faith necessary to bring about the Kingdom of God. I cannot hide from this. And I have no way to mitigate the sorrow that I feel when I read the story of the rich young ruler and realize that I, too, must slink away in sadness because I have many possessions. I have no recourse to readings that let me off the hook—or even minimize the importance of the commandment that I am incapable of unwilling to accept. I stand convicted and condemned for my lack of faith.

In Matthew, Jesus turns to his disciples after the rich man leaves and says, “again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God” (Matthew 19:24). Few passages in the New Testament have been analyzed as thoroughly as this one, and most of the analysis focuses on ways that Jesus could not possibly have meant what he said. I strongly believe that Jesus meant exactly what he said, which leaves rich people like me with only one recourse, which is to stop being rich— not to qualify for heaven when I die, but to do everything in my power to create heaven where I live.

Luke 15 contains three parables, stacked one on top of the other: one about a lost sheep, one about a lost coin, and one about a man and his two sons. I think, given their proximity in the text, it is reasonable to believe that the Gospel’s author intended them to be read together and to inform each’s interpretation of the other. I will admit to having never done this previously; and when I did I was surprised to discover how the parables work together to reinforce the importance of making individualized accounting for each sheep/coin/individual over whom we have charge.

Because the bulk of Luke 15 is used to recount the story commonly called the Parable of the Prodigal Son,[1] that is where I intend to focus most of this essay’s energy. But before getting there, it is useful to consider, briefly, the stories of the lost sheep and lost coin.

In the first parable a shepherd has lost one member of his flock and leaves the remaining sheep (ninety-nine) to find the one.[2] The shepherd and his friends rejoice when the lost sheep is located (Luke 15:4-6). In the second parable a woman loses one of her ten coins. After much searching, she and her friends are joyful when she finds the coin she lost (15:7-10). In both instances, the text quotes Jesus saying here will be similar joy felt over “one sinner that repententh” (Luke 15: 17, 10). In all my church years, I was taught to understand the reference to the repentant sinner as directly tied to the now-returned lost sheep and now-found lost coin. But what, exactly, did the sheep and coin do wrong? Of what do the sheep and coin need to repent? Sheep, by nature, tend to stay with the flock unless something separates them, and coins cannot lose themselves. It seems that if anyone did anything wrong it was the shepherd and the woman.

In these parables, it is expressly noted that the shepherd and the woman “lose” (Luke 15: 4, 8) something of great value (perhaps because of inattentiveness, distraction, carelessness, or self-centeredness). The text does not say that the sheep decided to wander off as an act of rebellion, [3] nor that the coin intentionally hid itself in contravention of previous commands. In both instances, the text suggests that the onus for the sheep and coin becoming lost rests squarely on the designated steward. Thus, I think it is reasonable to entertain the idea that the “sinners that repententh” in these parables could also be seen as the negligent shepherd and the careless woman. Said another way, the shepherd and woman’s efforts to find the thing which they lost can be understood as an act of repentance (see Jacob 1:19), and, thus, the joy the shepherd and woman felt over the recovery of the lost items is the joy that accompanies the shepherd and woman’s return to wholeness.

I open with this framing of the lost sheep and lost coin because, I believe, it informs how we might understand the third parable, about a man and his two sons. But first, a very brief summary of the parable is in order: A man has two sons. The younger son demands his inheritance and leaves home. After a time, the younger son returns, and he is welcomed back by his father. A celebration feast is held in honor of the now-returned younger son, but the older son is not invited. The father reminds the older son that he will inherit the father’s estate.

So, to start, it is worth noticing a few features of the text. We are never told why the younger son decides to leave. The reference to “riotous living” (15:13) after his departure often feeds the narrative that the younger son was just a self-absorbed wild-child who wanted to “live it up.” But if we slow down and ask (to paraphrase Eleanor Longden) “what happened to the younger son?” we open up the possibility that the son had suffered some hurt, pain, or trauma in his home life that made leaving seem like the only option. The fact that the father apparently puts up no resistance to the younger son’s departure may even suggest a fracture in the relationship. Perhaps the younger son said something like, “It’s time for me to go, give me my inheritance and you’ll never see me again,” and the father perhaps responded with, “sounds about right; here you go.” Given that there is no mention of the father making any effort to go find his son after the son departed, this reading may not be such a stretch. In real ways, this starts as a story about a lost son.

Also, it is notable that the younger son’s decision to return home was driven by physical exigency and nothing else. Perhaps, if the younger son had been able to fend for himself, he would never have returned. But in his dire circumstances he seemed to have no choice (15:17-19). When he did return, it appears that whatever animosity existed was set aside for a time. The father-who-never-went-to-look-for-his-younger-son receives the returning son warmly, and the son-who-seemed-content-to-be-gone-for-good says what needed to be said in order to be welcomed home (15:20-22). To celebrate the reunion, the father holds a feast (15:23-24).

Yet, in celebrating his younger son’s return, the father fails to invite the older son to the celebration. It’s unclear if the father forgot about the older son or intentionally excluded him. Either way, the older son was, I think rightly, frustrated (15:25-30). The older son says, in effect, “how could you forget about me? I’ve done everything you asked, and then you throw a party for my younger brother without even inviting me?” I do not read this as a case of sour grapes; I sense hurt and pain. It is the emotional response of someone who feels discarded. In welcoming the younger son, the father alienates—i.e., loses—the older son. A second lost son. The father’s response to the older son contains no expression of sorrow, no recognition of wrongdoing, and no apology for the slight. Rather, the father says, effect, “don’t worry about it; I know you’re the consistent one. You’re going to inherit everything anyway” (15:31-32). The text never comments on whether the father’s response resonated with the older son, and there is no discussion about future family dynamics among the father and two sons. It does not feel like a stretch to imagine that the situation remained complicated.

From this analytical vantage point, what we call the Parable of the Prodigal Son, could reasonably be called the Parable of the Lost Sons. And when taken together, these three parables of lost things seem to reinforce the importance of making an individualized accounting for each sheep/coin/individual over whom one has charge.  Jesus seems to suggest that if something or someone one is lost, then the steward has the responsibility to find it. Seen through this lens, the father’s actions (or lack thereof) stand in stark contrast to the shepherd and the woman. Unlike the shepherd and woman who recognize their loss and actively search out that which was lost—that is to say, they account for their stewardship—in the parable of the lost sons, the father “had two sons, but he forgot to count.”[4] And in not counting, he could not account for his stewardship. In fact, in the Matthew 18’s version of the lost sheep parable, Jesus uses the parable as a warning to his disciples of the need to care for, and to be watchful over, the “little ones” (Matt 18:10, 14). Like Luke’s Gospel, Matthew’s recounting of the lost sheep is about the need for attentiveness by those acting as shepherds (not repentance for the sheep). Luke’s version of the parables seems to add that while it is easy (relatively speaking) to find a lost sheep or locate a lost coin, “making a lost child feel loved, is infinitely more difficult, and infinitely more important.”[5]

Thus, if these parables are about the stewards, then the “lost-ness” and “found-ness” of these parables is more about relationality and the need to heal brokenness than it is about compliance with religious rules or church policies (the Greek ekklesia, usually translated at “church” is never used in the Gospel of Luke). Remember, Jesus relates these parables to the religious experts of the day who were complaining that Jesus was talking to “publicans and sinners” (15:1). Jesus’s response to their criticism seems to be the lesson that using “compliance with religious law” as the primary method for distinguishing “us” and “them” is misguided. Rather, it is we who are responsible for others that have work to do; and we ought to be focusing on the individuals themselves (rather than our perception of the individuals). We need to ensure that every single individual is counted… including those who seem to be out of compliance with whatever rules we think should not be broken. And because each individual matters, in these parables—and in his life—Jesus teaches that true Christ-like stewardship is, ultimately, an expression of individualized care and love.

[1] Many modern commentators rightly point out that calling this section of scripture the “Parable of the Prodigal Son” prejudices our reading of the story itself and serves to predetermine our interpretive approach. Miroslav Volf’s stunning analysis of this story—under the heading “The Open Arms of the Father”—offers a very different framework to understand the parable. See Miroslav Volf, Exclusion and Embrace: A Theological Exploration of Identity, Otherness, and Reconciliation, Revised and Updated. 2019. (Abingdon Press: Nashville, TN): 161-171.

[2] Jesus does not identify a specific shepherd, but instead applies the parable to those (apparently men) to whom he was speaking, “What man of you, having an hundred sheep…”. Yet, in the context of the parable, Jesus asks them to consider what it is like to care for a sheepfold, and thus to be a shepherd.

[3] In Matthew 18, it is more explicitly stated that the sheep had “gone astray” (Matt 18:12). However, when the sheep is returned to the flock there is also no discussion of repentance for the sheep.

[4] Amy-Jill Levine and Marc Zvi Brettler (eds), The Jewish Annotated New Testament, 2^nd Edition, Fully Revised and Expanded. 2017. (Oxford Univ Press: NY, NY): 146.

[5] Amy-Jill Levine and Marc Zvi Brettler (eds), The Jewish Annotated New Testament, 2^nd Edition, Fully Revised and Expanded. 2017. (Oxford Univ Press: NY, NY): 146.