INSTITUTE NOTES – TEACHINGS AND DOCTRINE OF THE BOOK OF MORMON COURSE

Lesson 17 – Belonging to the Lord’s Church

In what ways has participation in the Church helped you to draw closer to Jesus Christ?

Through my participation in the Church, I feel that I have at least grown in spiritual self‑awareness. I recognize what I still lack as both a disciple and a person. Many times, I ignore or forget what I learn — much like Laman and Lemuel — and become absorbed in myself: my needs, desires, problems, and stress. Yet at times, I catch a glimpse of the right way to live and exercise faith. However, I often react by searching for excuses not to be faithful. I slip into a chronic self‑pity that tries to justify small rebellions whenever I sin. These reactions happen almost instinctively, more reflexively than by deliberate choice, but they are not unknown to me. They are weaknesses I know I must confront and change.

Whenever I come across inspired teachings — whether from Church leaders, others, or scripture — I feel I understand what it means to live a Christ-centered life: what it signifies and how it manifests. And yet, I often find myself too comfortable in my circumstances to make the drastic changes that discipleship sometimes requires. Not that this “comfort” is truly comfortable. I know that the Church is true and that the Book of Mormon is sacred scripture, divinely inspired and translated by Joseph Smith; of that I have no doubt. But at times, I fear looking too deeply at how insufficient I am — how flawed and impure my nature is — and fear that if I fully recognize the depth of the pit I am in, nothing will lift me back to the surface.

Still, I recognize — through the Bible, the Book of Mormon, prophetic counsel, and all scripture — that discipleship often begins in such places. I think of Peter the Apostle, who leapt from the boat to walk on the water and cried out to Jesus as he began to sink. Discipleship is a leap of faith that surrenders one’s entire life to Christ. And because of the very self‑awareness I described, I sometimes fear being poorly loved by the Lord — fear that my rebellious choices have distanced me from Him to the point that His gaze might appear full of justified indignation if I dared to meet His eyes, as if His mercy were too distant to reach me in the despair I helped create.

Jesus taught about the sacred purpose of the sacrament: that those who partake worthily will never hunger nor thirst, but will be filled. I understand this — at least in part — as something that applies to me now: that the sacrament fills the soul where it is lacking. When I seek forgiveness with sincere humility and acknowledge my need for salvation — my need to repent — my needy, hungry, and desolate soul can be filled with love and compassion through the Atonement of Jesus Christ. He offered His body and shed His blood for this purpose — to be received through a broken heart and a contrite spirit.

I am still learning what it means to have a contrite spirit. For a long time, I assumed it meant having a “broken” spirit — being so worn down by life that I either give up or become desperately willing to do whatever it takes to improve. I now understand that it involves an intentional and active choice: restraining my pride and replacing it with a profound desire to center my life, my decisions, and my actions on Christ. I have not yet fully integrated this into my life, and I continue to strive to understand how to apply it more fully.

When I consider how to make the sacrament and sacrament meeting the most sacred part of my Sunday worship, I see that — given my spiritual conflicts, my desire to be a genuine disciple contrasted with my inconsistent actions — I can at least allow myself each week to look honestly at my relationship with the Savior and surrender myself to Him in sincere repentance as I partake of the sacrament. I do not yet know how to transform daily repentance into a constant source of joy, but as a beginning, I can repent in a true, appropriate, and consistent way.

What can I do to be more welcoming and inclusive, helping God’s children feel they have a place in the Lord’s Church?

I am certain that I can, at the very least, share what I feel and bear testimony — demonstrating confidence, faith, and hope despite struggles, pain, doubts, and negative emotions — in the hope of uplifting others and, in turn, receiving the same relief myself.

How will you become a more capable and reliable disciple of Jesus Christ because of what you have learned?

As disciples — or aspiring disciples — we need to invite people to feel that they belong with us, wherever we may be. Before Christ established a formal Church, “church” existed wherever He was and among those with whom He associated. I imagine that a “home‑centered” gospel was precisely how Jesus lived His everyday life: He centered the gospel on Himself and invited others to draw near to Him. He was the home to which people returned; the Church simply supported Him.

The Savior expects me to reflect this example: to welcome people, to help them feel a sense of belonging when they are with me, and to bring them with me into the Church so that the Church can support them in whatever they may need.

What will you do based on what you’ve learned?

I will share my testimony in the upcoming Sunday meetings. I know that this is where the Savior wants me to belong, regardless of how different I feel at the moment. I want to express my faith in my decision to remain with the group — despite my feelings, despite my uncertainties. Although I have not personally heard the Savior’s voice, nor felt with great intensity that He sustained me through my pain and suffering, I know why He would, and I know that He did. The gospel does not marginalize; people marginalize people — and, most of the time, I find that “people” refers to myself. I often marginalize, exclude, and blame myself.

I want to share these feelings simply because, although I have not heard the Savior say, “I know how you feel,” I now feel peace and comfort. And just as I have struggled for so long, blamed myself, and often excluded myself, the possibility exists that someone in the congregation is still suffering in the same way. At the very least, I can make clear that I know what that feels like — and that by coming to Church, that person also belongs to the Lord’s flock. If the Church is a hospital for the sick, then if I am not the doctor, I hope at least to help others feel that it is acceptable for us to be wounded and healing together in this spiritual hospital that is the Church.

As I acknowledge and confront my negative feelings about whether I deserve to be counted among the Lord’s flock, the facts remain: my name is on the Church membership record — I was baptized, confirmed, ordained to the Melchizedek Priesthood, and I fulfilled my missionary service. Yet I must admit that at times I feel that I do not belong — or that I do not deserve to belong — that I feel unworthy of belonging. Many others feel the same.

I have not yet received a decisive impression, a striking personal revelation, or a great spiritual awakening like that of Alma the Younger, when the Savior’s love encircled him, and he knew with certainty that he was redeemed and had a place prepared among the Lord’s flock. I often see myself as the lost sheep — or the “black sheep” — standing in contrast to the white, bright, joyful sheep of the Savior’s flock. I feel out of place, carrying pain, suffering, darkness, and discouragement. Because of that contrast, I wander away on my own, believing I do not deserve to consider myself an equal with the other members of the flock.

I have not yet learned, as Alma did, to fully recognize the feeling of being rescued and brought back. However, I feel greater peace and comfort when I pray wholeheartedly for rescue — as happened with Oliver Cowdery — I need to accept and learn to recognize that this peace and this comfort are the greatest testimony of my rescue, and the evidence, for me, that I truly belong to the Savior’s flock.

“The gospel of Jesus Christ does not marginalize people. People marginalize people, and we need to fix that.”
“We must remember that the Church is a hospital for the sick, not a monastery for the perfect.”

Conclusion

I attended a session at the temple and, surprisingly, nothing stood out dramatically, as if to declare, “Here is the solution to all your problems.” But one teaching captured my attention: the law of sacrifice. When it was mentioned, I wondered, “What great sacrifice must I make to change my life? What trial — of Abrahamic proportions — must I offer to receive a heavenly manifestation that removes my pains and challenges?”

The message that followed — lightly paraphrased — was this: “To live this law, you will offer a broken heart, a contrite spirit, and sacrifice everything the Lord asks of you.”

This is how Adam first offered sacrifices to the Lord. When the angel asked, “Why do you offer sacrifices?”, Adam replied, “I do not know, except that the Lord commanded me.”

Recently, I watched a segment from the series The Chosen, in which Christ meets two friends, Shula and Barnabas: the man is lame and struggles to walk, and the woman is blind. They share a meal with Christ. Later, Barnabas witnesses the Savior heal a blind child and realizes the opportunity he missed by simply sharing a meal without asking for healing.

Determined not to miss another opportunity, he brings Shula to Jesus. Standing before the Savior, Barnabas says nothing initially— and gestures to Shula. Christ understands and heals the woman. She then asks, “And him?” — hoping her friend will also be healed. However, Barnabas responds, “Today is about you, not me. Maybe another opportunity will show itself.”

Touched by Barnabas’s humility, Christ places a hand on his shoulder and lets him go. After taking just a few steps, the man realizes he, too, has been healed — and he is overcome with gratitude and joy.

Why do I mention this story, seemingly unrelated though deeply moving? Because I relate to that man. After such personal experiences that testified to Christ’s love for me, I still miss opportunities to “sacrifice” my pain to Him — opportunities to place my burdens fully on His altar. Watching Christ heal others reminded me of the law of sacrifice taught in the temple.

There is nothing I can do, by my own power, to heal myself of pain and suffering completely. I can ignore them, silence them, or seek temporary relief by investing effort in discipleship through scripture study, prayer, and fulfilling my Church responsibilities — but these are still attempts to resolve spiritual challenges through my own strength.

I thought of Oliver Cowdery, who attempted to translate the Book of Mormon, and of Cain, who offered sacrifices to the Lord.

The common thread is this: both attempted to accomplish divine tasks solely through their own power. Oliver — though authorized and gifted to translate — failed because he did not offer his gift back to God, allowing God to work through him; he attempted to rely on his own wisdom and strength. Cain — though there are many reasons for the rejection of his offering — acted rebelliously and listened to Satan, offering the fruits of the field when the Lord had commanded Adam and Adam’s posterity to offer the firstlings of the flock. Therefore, the Lord accepted Abel’s offering and did not respect Cain’s.

As I pondered this, I felt — or was instructed by the Spirit — that my own error was clear. I already knew it, but like Oliver and Cain, I still sought to protect my pride, believing that eventually my efforts would earn me merit, respect, and acceptance from the Lord. I continued reading the scriptures, praying, fasting, attending Church, and worshipping in the temple as if these were bargaining chips — offerings born of my effort so that God would judge me worthy of acceptance, love, and forgiveness.

Yet subconsciously, I was saying:

“Lord, see the fruits of the field I have plowed, the trees I have planted, the harvest I have gathered. See my effort, the sweat of my brow throughout my life. Forgive my failings, my sins, my mistakes — for all this I offer to Thee as sacrifice.”

And like Cain, I became discouraged when pain and suffering continued, as though the Lord had rejected my offering. I did not overcome my weaknesses. I looked upon my own nothingness, feeling of less worth than the dust of the earth, and I did not find the spiritual deliverance that Alma the Younger described. I found myself still before the gates of hell, open and eager to consume me.

Then I understood: no effort, offering, or sacrifice of mine — regardless of how well‑intentioned — will solve the core issue of my challenges. I needed to surrender them — to offer them to the Lord.

Unlike Cain, I had to recognize: I did not make the soil fertile; I did not send the rain; I did not create the sun, the moon, day, night, wind, or shade; I did not create the earth, nor did I give myself life to cultivate it.

Yet there I was — attending a Church I did not found, reading scriptures I did not reveal, worshiping in a temple I did not consecrate — and saying to God: “See my efforts, my offerings, my exercise of faith,” as if negotiating the value of my repentance for blessings already prepared by divine grace was possible.

Do you see the problem?

In that realization, I finally offered a prayer in which I truly felt a weight lifted from my shoulders. In that moment, the Savior’s promise became deeply personal:

“Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Mortality — or, in other words, life — involves labor and the carrying of burdens, which inevitably bring challenges, pain, and suffering. When we fall into sin, we add to those burdens through our weaknesses. The Lord, however, invites us to take His yoke upon us, for Christ has already taken our sins and sorrows upon Himself.

This surrender becomes possible only when we give Him our entire burden — when we relinquish our desire to control the outcome, no matter how much we want to — and allow Him to carry the weight we can’t lift on our own.

Like Abraham, we must trust completely in the Lord — even regarding blessings God has already promised us. Abraham had to release his grasp on those promises. He had to believe that even if he offered his son Isaac, the Lord could raise Isaac from the dead so that the promises concerning him would still be fulfilled. Abraham trusted in a miracle he could not foresee, yet fully believed would come.

Repentance, by its very nature, is a complete surrender. It is the recognition that we have no power in ourselves to overcome mortality or cleanse ourselves from sin. No amount of good works can “bargain” for redemption; the price has already been paid. Good works are the fruit of obedience — not a savings account for spiritual debt.

And even after we are redeemed and do good, the Lord immediately blesses us again. As mortals, we receive life with every breath; we enjoy blessings we did not create; we serve others whose lives we did not give. As the book of Mosiah teaches, we remain forever unprofitable servants — our balance before the Lord eternally zero or negative — and yet He promises prosperity if we keep His commandments, for He does not change His word.

We often sew fig leaves together, as Adam and Eve did, to cover our nakedness — and we sometimes mistake that gesture for the correct action. When the Lord came to meet them — though He was omniscient — He still called for Adam. As we learn in the temple, He called him three times. When Adam and Eve finally emerged, the Lord did not point out their nakedness; they themselves acknowledged it. And they were not rejected for it. They explained what had happened — that they had listened to Satan — and still they were not rejected. Satan, however, was cursed when he was identified.

Even if we consider only the biblical account — without the added understanding given in the temple or by modern prophets — we see God’s mercy toward Adam and Eve. If, out of shame, they clothed themselves with fig leaves, the Lord made tunics of skin for them to wear.

Knowing the nature of God, everything He creates is sacred. God cannot produce something impure; if He could, He would cease to be God. If God were imperfect, His judgment would be imperfect — and an imperfect God could not be God. Therefore, the sacredness of the tunics of skin that God made for Adam and Eve represents His mercy — the forgiveness they received. Once forgiven, they were clean; yet the consequences of their choices remained. And the tunics, being mortal, served as a reminder of the means by which they would eventually be redeemed from sin.

Actions carry consequences, but when we surrender our actions — and their consequences — to the Lord, we are received with mercy. That has been my experience.

When I fully acknowledged my mistakes and my inability to make myself worthy of redemption — while still hiding in shame — I realized that what the Lord required of me was to take upon myself the yoke of Christ, who had already carried my burden.

The yoke of Christ — His burden, His cross — is light because He has already lifted it. He has already suffered; He has already overcome. If you have not yet overcome the pain you carry in your mind and soul, I bear testimony to this: among all the possible choices you could have made while seeking relief, you are here now. You chose to be where the Lord wants you to be. You are welcome here, and you belong here — regardless of how you measure your own worth.

If, after repenting, after changing your life, after turning to Him and committing yourself to the gospel, you still wait for “permission” to move forward, I ask you to believe this: the Lord loves you. Do not be as hesitant as the disciples on the road to Emmaus; keep moving toward Him. The Lord is at your side. If you have already felt His mercy, believe this truth: it is acceptable to move forward. The Lord has forgiven you. He has been patient and loving. He wants you to feel the joy that comes from recognizing how long He has walked with you — even when you did not notice. He has loved you with every step.

As Christ teaches, we must learn from Him meekness and humility of heart. Only then will we find rest for our souls, exactly as He promised. And of this I testify, in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.