How do I learn the things of God? How do I teach them to others?
Faith Matters resources to accompany your Come Follow Me study: Jan 26-Feb 1
Sin limits my ability to see, feel, and hear the things of God.
Elizabeth Oldfield: Fully Alive
In this conversation, Elizabeth points out that the seven deadly sins aren't a legalistic list of ways to be in debt to God, but a loving guide for how to be in right relationship with the people around us.
“The Bible is not merely the history of God's self-revelation to man, it is the history of the making of man capable of receiving the revelation.”1
The limited ways in which God’s revelation comes to us is not a consequence of his silence. Slowly, we are being made capable of receiving it. There is an apprenticeship to it. As we cultivate a life of studied reflection (the “pondering” that preceded Joseph F. Smith’s great vision of the dead and Joseph’s section 76), and the “study[ing] it out” to which Oliver was commended (9:8), we prepare ourselves to be receptive to the highest influences.
—Terryl Givens, “Learning to Receive”
God calls me to do His work despite my weaknesses. God can help me do hard things.
Even as we diligently seek Christlike attributes and eschew their inverses, we must remember that such strength is grace granted to those who are humble before God. “Because thou hast seen thy weakness thou shalt be made strong” (Ether 12:37). Our weaknesses must be revealed for this strengthening process to start. Perhaps Kierkegaard said it best: “To need God is Man’s highest perfection.”
—Spencer Holte, “Moroni’s Grace”
The gospel of Jesus Christ was taught from the beginning.
The third covenant that we make in the temple is the Law of the Gospel. The Higher Law. The New Covenant. Jesus’s “Kingdom Manifesto.”1 It is the only covenant that bears the shape of a cross: with it, we promise to embody the two great commandments spoken by Jesus—the vertical command “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and mind,” and the horizontal command “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Forming not only the heart of Christian discipleship but the very shape of the cross itself, the Law of the Gospel is an invitation to fashion our lives into a cross of love. The breathtaking invitation in this covenant quickens and expands my theological and spiritual imagination.
Jesus’s “higher law” teaching is often synonymous with his Sermon on the Mount in Matthew’s gospel (5:1–7:29). This sermon, unlike any of Jesus’s other messages, is an extended monologue that contains no parables. Although many assume the intent of this “Kingdom Manifesto” is to answer the question of how one attains a secure place in a heavenly afterlife, I see Jesus turning our attention away from life after death and towards this world—here, now, in this aching masterpiece of creation, fractured and full of grace. In giving us the Law of the Gospel, Jesus is inviting us not to linger in familiar patterns of thought, but, instead, to behold with renewed minds the unfolding of the Kingdom of God in the present moment, where righteousness reveals itself in the rhythm of a life aligned with divine love.
—Jenny Richards, “Homeless Jesus”
This vision of a church that persists as a continuous thread in the world’s history, consisting of devout souls and inspired voices, finds expression again and again in our scriptures and teachings, though it has often been overwhelmed by simplistic distortions and assumptions about truth monopolies. The Lord refers to “holy men [and women]” that are unknown to most of us but not to Him; Joseph himself taught of the need to seek out the best “words of wisdom” from our textual heritage, and to “gather all the good and true principles in the world,” from every religious tradition available to us.1 We should search for and be taught by these “voices in the wilderness,” not to corroborate what we believe but to enrich and expand and enlighten our limited perspectives.
We know—but it bears repeating—that the LDS church is one historical instantiation of a broader fullness. A narrow definition of that “fullness,” however, may have taken our minds in directions that poorly serve history and the church. The term deserves interrogation, and a broader, richer understanding of it may lead us toward new, more creative ways of conceiving of our institution and our personal engagement in God’s work.
—Terryl Givens, “The Abounding Church”
“Teach these things freely unto your children.” Heavenly Father wants parents to teach their children.
Faith in Christ, repentance, baptism, and receiving the Holy Ghost prepare me to return to God.
My search for a life in Christ requires a new kind of seeking and an entirely different orientation to my works. Works stop being a way to carry me into future grace and start being a way to orient me to present grace.
Consider baptism, one of the many works we do. I was baptized by my dad when I was eight years old. I have a photo of my baptism day, standing in front of the stake center with my family. With the summer sun in my face, I am smiling and squinting. I don’t remember much about that day. I remember a boy in my Primary class also got baptized. And I remember the water was warm. I assume that I was pleased to be making that big step. I made a choice I didn’t remotely understand. But I did it gladly.
Afterwards, I learned more about what this decision meant. I went to Primary and Young Women’s. I learned about the temple and the promises we make there and how everyone would have the chance to be baptized in either this life or the next. I tried to choose the right and sometimes chose wrong. The sacrament was a way to renew the covenants I had made at baptism. These covenants, I learned, were like a two-way contract between us and God. We made promises, and God reciprocated. We lived good lives, and God would eventually welcome us home.
Many years later, though, questions arose. What was it about baptism that made some people fit for heaven and others not? Why require such a seemingly arbitrary entrance requirement for heaven? Sure, there is deep symbolism built into baptism, but wasn’t it still just symbolism? It seemed that when all was said and done, God would be less interested in the symbol and more interested in the real thing—the transformed heart.
While these questions simmered, I heard a Jewish rabbi speak, and something became clear. While this rabbi was only tangentially speaking about covenants, he reframed them for me. He said that he was sometimes asked by people who were not Jewish, “What makes you so special?” The implication was, “What gives you the arrogance to call yourselves a chosen people?” Latter-day Saints could ask themselves this same question: among the billions of people who have lived on earth, why would God give this unique piece of saving information to just a few favorites? Who made us the teacher’s pet?
The rabbi’s response to this question was simple: God chooses those who choose Him.
This felt like a mic drop moment. It was so basic. Could it be that this was the essence of covenant? Fundamentally, it’s not about reciprocal duties, but rather, reciprocal relationship?
And could it be that at the heart of every covenant we make is this one same truth? It’s not just separate and distinct agreements made at baptism, during the sacrament, and in the temple. It’s not a legal contract with pages of clauses. It’s one promise. It’s one choice. It’s saying yes to gracing. Fundamentally, it’s not making covenants (plural), it’s living in covenant (singular). It’s living in Christ.
Baptism is not fundamentally about keeping some people out of heaven and letting others in. The symbol is an invitation. Baptism says, “Salvation is here.” Right now. Enter God’s presence and start living life as it was meant to be lived. Baptism says, “In Christ, your old self has died and your new one has risen.” Don’t wait. Enter into the divine dance now, so that when you mourn with those who mourn, and comfort those who stand in need of comfort, you will do these things differently. You will do them in Christ.
—Hannah Packard Crowther, “Gracing”
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