A Case For The Critic

This past summer, I took an English class at BYU on the concepts of literary taste, theory, and criticism. Throughout the compact, 6-week term, we read a range of perspectives from literary theorists and cultural critics on the role that criticism is intended to play––not merely in the lives of scholars, but in the lives of the everyday person. In one class discussion, which my professor titled “The Death of the Critic?”, we mulled over article after article about the seemingly abrupt deterioration of critics in all spaces––food, theater, literature––as a result of a growing opinion that such people are nothing more than pretentious, elitist, doom-and-gloom cynics hellbent on shutting down restaurants, defaming budding artists, and destroying the dreams of starry-eyed entrepreneurs. The New York Times’s stuffy food critic, Pete Wells, defended his livelihood with a retort that surprised me: I’m a critic because I love food and want people to only purchase meals that will be worth their money. 

After we left class that day, the conversation remained with me for the rest of the week. As one who had long held the notion that critics were, well, jerks, I was perplexed by this paradigm shift. All of us––from my professor to my classmates––appeared to be in agreement that the critic played a misunderstood yet necessary role in society, and that the disappearance of critics would ultimately be irreparably damaging for all institutions. After all, improvement in any organization or field has historically depended upon a person with a sensitive and vested interest in excellence who was willing to be honest, if even sometimes brutally so, about the failures to live up to that standard. In many ways, “the critic” was an activist––a person willing to offer their perspective on how something could improve, evolve, and better meet the demands of its purpose. Losing that person in any organization meant losing sincere, grassroots progress toward more goodness, more growth. 

Equally perplexing to me, then, was the question of how this topic applied to my faith. In the nineteenth century, Mormons were not known for their ability to get in a single-file line and march, unanimously, behind a uniform framework of ideological tenets. Mormons with critical minds have been a part of the religious tradition since its beginning. I’ve read accounts of vivacious Relief Society meetings in the Victorian era where women debated theology and doctrine with fervor. There’s a documented history of disagreements even within the Church’s Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and First Presidency on countless consequential issues, including the Church’s race-based temple and priesthood ban, which took decades to overturn due to the holding out of one or two senior apostles with racist views of Black people. 

In 1964, then-apostle Delbert Stapley sent a letter to Mitt Romney’s father, George––who was then serving as the governor of Michigan––expressing his profound disapproval for the politician’s strikingly progressive advocacy for Civil Rights. While Stapley insisted he was not speaking on behalf of the Church, he weaponized racist rhetoric and publications from past church leaders and prophets, coupling them with a bizarre story of a Civil Rights advocate who drowned, to issue a warning to Romney. Stapley doubled down, writing, “the position of the Church cannot change until the Lord changes it Himself” (Link). The message was clear: sit down, shut up, get in line. If you don’t, your demise may be fatal. Unwavering and undaunted, Romney remained committed to his support for racial equity, as well as sharply critical of the racism that pervaded housing, education, and healthcare. In July of 1964, The Civil Rights Act was signed into law by President Lyndon B. Johnson with Romney’s full support––an unpopular stance for a Mormon of his time.

A similar spar between leader and member occurred between scholar Eugene England and apostle Bruce R. McConkie in 1981. England had theorized that, in keeping with the cherished Latter-day Saint doctrine of eternal progression, God, by nature, was still learning and growing, even though He was in an exalted state. The “mysteries of God” and the ongoing restoration were not cheap platitudes or bugs of the system, but the beautiful and at times frustrating products of a deity who was progressing alongside us. While obviously heretical to the mainline Protestant, this position was also not received well among highly orthodox Mormons who felt that God’s exaltation meant the conclusion of His progression. In an era where Latter-day Saint leaders were desperately trying to receive integration and validation from mainstream Christian sects (even though such groups never have and likely never will truly accept Mormons), this provocative theological perspective would be yet another opportunity for White Evangelicals to argue that Mormons were not truly Christian. 

Unsurprisingly, once Church Headquarters caught wind of England’s eternal progression discourse, McConkie drafted a scathing letter to the BYU professor. While England was both humble and eager to collaborate with the brethren on answering this theological question, McConkie’s tone was quite the opposite: “It is my province,” he wrote, “to teach to the Church what the doctrine is. It is your province to echo what I say or to remain silent. You do not have a divine commission to correct me or any of the Brethren. The Lord does not operate that way” (Link). Yet again: sit down, shut up, get in line. England’s desire to obediently comply with the apostle’s admonition left him silenced. Like always, it became an exercise of waiting for the right people to die. Following McConkie’s death just four years later, England finally began discussing his theory of an eternally progressing God with BYU students enrolled in his courses.

The list of “critics” working for progress in the Church goes on and on: The Exponent II magazine, which began in Massachusetts, continues to publish articles highlighting the voices of underrepresented gender and sexual identities within the Church. Mormon feminists donning polka dot pants and cardigans firmly petitioned the Church for improved gender equality and female ordination in the early 2010s. While the excommunication of the controversial Kate Kelly signaled another silencing of a Mormon activist, her movement––and Mormon feminism broadly––likely influenced the Church’s recent allowance for women to serve as witnesses for ordinances and for sister missionaries to wear pants. In 2017, former bishop Sam Young advocated for church policies that would better protect youth in worthiness interviews for their temple recommends. Driven by a desire to prevent sexual abuse within the church, he became a pariah in the eyes of members and leaders, not unlike Kelly, and was excommunicated in 2018. Not long after, the Church allowed parents to sit in with their children during interviews with the bishop, especially if such interviews involved discussions of chastity and sexuality. 

Why Romney and England were not excommunicated, but Kelly and Young were, clearly comes down to the level of aggression and mobilization underpinning the activism. Kelly and Young were criticized for rallying people against church leaders, with some feeling that their intentions were good but their methods were antagonistic. I understand and empathize with feelings of weariness toward aggressive activism. Defaming leaders, inciting riots, and engaging in polemics to humiliate and ruthlessly attack others is often more destructive than progressive. It’s also true that the quieter, more subdued activism of Romney and England is likely what kept them their memberships. It would be completely fair to argue that Romney should have been more critical of the racism within his own Church while he was advocating against it in political spheres. Some cases simply call for stringent activism. Compromising for middling, half-baked solutions that permit the continued oppression of others is unacceptable, especially in cases of racial justice, human rights, and equity. However, I did not exist in the time these men did, and I also know that their approaches remained effective in easing the Church toward positive change. 

Regardless of the myriad approaches in these examples, I feel an appreciation for all of these individuals in their roles as activists. They endured scrutiny, obedience shaming, and social marginalization, often at the hands of leaders they were diligently trying to sustain. I deeply value that they recognized a disparity between the current state and the ideal––a quest toward perfection for which all Christian disciples are striving. That they were willing to speak to that disparity and call for change is a noble thing. It is true, too, that the unique contributions of Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X––two figures whose approaches to activism often differed––were jointly essential to progressing the cause of racial equity in the United States. I believe that the same can be true for progress and improvement in my religion, too.

Being active in a Church whose leaders have increasingly cracked down on activism––and outright condemned criticism of leaders––has been disheartening. Ahmad Corbitt, a general authority, delivered a devastating blow to activism in 2022 when he insisted that it was a tool of Satan to turn disciples of Jesus Christ into faithless detractors (Link). In a later general conference talk, he urged parents to not criticize leaders in front of their children, insisting, “If your child struggles with a gospel principle or prophetic teaching, please resist any type of evil speaking or activism toward the Church or its leaders. These lesser, secular approaches are beneath you and can be lethal to the long-term faithfulness of your child” (Link). 

Corbitt’s conspicuous disregard of power dynamics is merely one of many cases where church leaders have failed to understand the power they hold––the capability they have of harming many when speaking as an authority of God over a pulpit. Urging parents to prioritize the image of church leaders over their love for their child is short-sighted, cruel, and entirely removed from what Jesus would do. Forcing a choice between church leaders and one’s child does the opposite work of the core intentions behind the restored gospel. Rather than fusing communities together through loving bonds, it drives wedges between parents, children, spouses, siblings, and friends by preventing believers from wholeheartedly supporting those who have been profoundly hurt by church leaders. It is hypocritical as well, given that Corbitt’s race would have prevented him from holding the priesthood or serving as a general authority just four decades prior were it not partially for members who petitioned church leaders to repeal the Church’s racist doctrines. But in the context of our topic, such teachings ultimately seem to ignore that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has quietly, perhaps even subconsciously, been moved toward progress and positive change as a result of the activist efforts of critical lay members. 

I will be the first to admit that I’m a critical person. I’m acutely and outspokenly critical of institutions and people, especially when I feel that they are causing harm. It is a trait of mine that I am both proud and ashamed of all at once. It has benefited and cost me greatly throughout my life. Over the last few years, I have worked toward minimizing my criticisms of individuals, because I believe people generally need more grace and compassion than iron-fisted censures when they fail. I know I do, because I’m already my own harshest critic. I worry constantly about being the best husband, son, brother, friend, disciple, and neighbor that I can possibly be. I feel, too, that the massive gap between where I am now and where I need to be in order to truly emulate Christ is daunting. It terrifies me knowing how much divinity I lack. But instead of shaming myself for my shortcomings or wallowing in my natural man-ness, (or worse, responding to criticisms with an insistence that I am beyond reproach), I try to focus on improvement. Like Pete Wells, I strive for my critical nature to be driven by my love for others.

I believe in the power of progress driven by activism and thoughtful criticism, and unlike many, I feel that it plays a necessary role in the ever-unfolding, ongoing restoration in which we are called to participate. While balancing activism with obedience is difficult, I am not convinced by the assertion that activism is mutually exclusive with a faithful disposition. I am also not convinced by the insistence that members are incapable of changing the Church. Instead, I can point to a heaping paper trail––a mountain of discarded golden calves––evidencing how activism has generated expansive and needed changes within the Church, and I imagine that will continue to be the case for the rest of my life. 

I value the critic. I am grateful for the men in my elders quorum who push back when I teach something they don’t agree with, and push against one another when the diversity of their experiences clash with magnificent, sacred tension. As frustrating as it can be, it’s in those experiences of listening respectfully and critically that the Spirit has allowed me and those I teach to learn and find harmony with one another. I am grateful for those who have stood up for “the least of these,” who have faced hegemony, power, and authority with quiet or loud petitions for healthy change. If studying church history has taught me anything, it is that the critic plays a necessary role in ushering in progress, in pushing us one step closer toward a Zion where all can belong, even if the process of getting there is uncomfortable and occasionally fraught. At the end of the day, those who sit down, shut up, and get in line rarely ever champion the changes we need to push ourselves an inch closer to goodness.