Never Take Counsel

In October 2023, President Russell M. Nelson gave a talk at General Conference that included this counsel:

When someone you love attacks truth, think celestial, and don't question your testimony. The Apostle Paul prophesied that "in the latter times some shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits, and doctrines of devils."

There is no end to the adversary's deceptions. Please be prepared. Never take counsel from those who do not believe. Seek guidance from voices you can trust—from prophets, seers, and revelators and from the whisperings of the Holy Ghost.

When I first heard this, I was already out of the church. But I remember thinking about my family, my friends still in, and how this message would land for them. Because this isn't pastoral care. This is information control dressed up as spiritual guidance.

The Used Car Salesman

Here's an analogy that keeps coming back to me.

Imagine you're at a car dealership. The salesman is friendly, confident, and assures you this is the best vehicle at the best price. He tells you not to bother checking other lots—he's already done the research for you. Trust him.

Then a close friend pulls you aside. Someone you've known for years. Someone who has no stake in which car you buy. They say, "Hey, I've heard that model has some serious safety issues. You might want to look into it before you sign anything."

Now, in any normal circumstance, what would you do?

You'd probably thank your friend and do some homework. You'd search online, read reviews, maybe check recall databases. If the concerns turned out to be valid, you'd be grateful your friend spoke up. If you couldn't find any corroborating evidence, you might ask your friend where they heard it, or conclude they were misinformed. Either way, you'd investigate.

What you wouldn't do is label your friend's warning as an "attack." You wouldn't decide that because your friend contradicted the salesman, they must be working for a competing dealership or have been deceived by evil forces. You wouldn't conclude that the very act of raising concerns disqualifies them from being heard.

But that's exactly what President Nelson is asking members to do.

Reframing Love as Attack

Notice the language: "When someone you love attacks truth."

Not "questions." Not "expresses concern." Not "shares what they've learned." Attacks.

This framing does something insidious. It takes the most trusted relationships in your life—family, close friends, people who have earned your confidence through years of demonstrated care—and preemptively recategorizes anything they might say as hostile action.

Your sister who left the church and tries to tell you why? She's attacking truth. Your college roommate who sends you a CES Letter link? Seducing spirit. Your own child who comes to you with questions about church history? Giving heed to doctrines of devils.

The people who love you most, who have the least institutional stake in your beliefs, who might genuinely be trying to help you—they're recast as adversaries the moment they say anything that contradicts the approved narrative.

And the people who do have institutional stake? The ones whose livelihood, identity, and authority depend on you staying in the fold? Those are the only voices you can trust.

This is not how honest inquiry works. This is how information control works.

The Epistemological Trap

"Never take counsel from those who do not believe."

Let's sit with that instruction for a moment.

It means that the only people qualified to advise you about the church are people who already agree with the church. The only perspectives worth considering are perspectives that confirm what you already believe. The only research that counts is research conducted by those who started with the conclusion.

This is circular reasoning elevated to spiritual principle.

In every other area of life, we understand that outside perspectives have value because they're outside. We seek second opinions from doctors who aren't invested in the first diagnosis. We read reviews from customers, not just manufacturers. We value journalism precisely because reporters aren't employed by the institutions they cover.

But when it comes to the most consequential questions of your existence—the nature of God, the purpose of life, where you'll spend eternity—you're told to only consult sources that have already committed to one answer.

And if that answer happens to be wrong? You'll never find out. Because everyone you're allowed to listen to has the same blind spots you do.

What an Honest Institution Would Say

Here's what strikes me most: a confident truth doesn't need this kind of protection.

If the church's claims are true—if Joseph Smith really saw God, if the Book of Mormon is genuine ancient scripture, if the priesthood authority is real—then investigation should strengthen faith, not threaten it. The more you look, the more evidence you'd find. Critical questions would lead to satisfying answers. Loved ones who left would be demonstrably wrong in ways you could articulate.

An institution confident in its truth claims would say something like: "We encourage you to study church history from multiple sources. We have nothing to hide. Compare our teachings to the evidence and see for yourself. If your family members have concerns, listen to them carefully and then examine whether those concerns hold up. The truth can withstand scrutiny."

But that's not what President Nelson said.

Instead, he said: Don't listen to people who disagree. Don't question your existing beliefs. The very act of raising concerns is an attack. Trust only the voices that confirm what we've already told you.

This is what an institution says when it knows scrutiny is dangerous.

The Cruelty Beneath the Concern

There's something deeply cruel about this counsel, though it's wrapped in the language of care.

Think about what it does to families.

A mother discovers troubling information about church history. She's devastated—her whole worldview is crumbling. She wants to talk to her children about what she's learned, not to "attack" their faith, but because she loves them and doesn't want them to build their lives on something she now believes is false. She's doing what any loving parent would do: sharing important information with people she cares about.

But her children have been told, from the pulpit, by someone they see as a prophet of God, that Mom has been deceived by the adversary. That her concerns are "doctrines of devils." That listening to her means "taking counsel from those who do not believe."

The relationship most likely to survive honest disagreement—a parent's love for their child—is preemptively poisoned.

The mother isn't seen as someone working through a painful transition who deserves compassion and dialogue. She's seen as a spiritual threat. A vector for deception. Someone to be managed, pitied, or avoided—but not truly heard.

I've watched dynamics like this play out in families I know, including my own. The wariness in eyes that used to welcome without reservation. Conversations carefully steered away from anything real. And I know it's not because family members don't love each other—it's because they've been taught that loving someone and listening to them are two different things.

The Tell

Whenever I encounter rhetoric like this, I apply a simple test: What would this sound like if it came from a group we all agree is problematic?

Imagine a multi-level marketing company telling recruits: "When someone you love attacks our business model, don't question your commitment to the company. Never take counsel from those who haven't succeeded in the program. Seek guidance only from your upline and the voices of our founders."

We'd recognize that immediately as manipulation. We'd call it a cult tactic. We'd worry about our friend who was getting sucked in.

Or imagine a political party saying: "When someone you love attacks our platform, don't question your loyalty. Never take counsel from those who vote differently. Seek guidance only from our party leaders and approved news sources."

We'd call that authoritarianism. We'd see it as dangerous, anti-democratic, and a sign of an ideology that can't survive open debate.

But when a church president says essentially the same thing, it's framed as prophetic wisdom. Faithful members nod along, feeling spiritually strengthened, not realizing they've just been given permission to dismiss everyone who might help them see clearly.

The Pattern in High-Demand Religion

This isn't unique to Mormonism. High-demand religions—what some researchers call "high-control groups"—share common characteristics when it comes to information management:

• Us vs. Them framing: The world is divided into those who have the truth and those who are deceived
• Thought-terminating clichés: Phrases that shut down critical thinking ("doubt your doubts," "the church is perfect but the people aren't")
• Controlling the narrative: Approved sources are elevated while outside sources are demonized
• Reframing criticism as persecution: Any challenge to the group becomes evidence of the group's righteousness

President Nelson's counsel checks every box. Those who question are agents of the adversary. Those who left are giving heed to seducing spirits. The only safe sources are internal. And the very existence of criticism proves we're in the "latter times" when such attacks should be expected.

It's a closed loop designed to make the institution unfalsifiable.

No matter what evidence emerges, no matter what loved ones share, no matter what your own observations tell you—you've been given a framework that dismisses it all before you even encounter it.

What Critique Actually Is

Here's what I wish believing members understood: most people who leave the church and share their concerns aren't attacking anything.

They're processing. They're grieving. They're trying to make sense of a world that suddenly looks different than they were taught. And when they share what they've learned with people they love, it's usually not out of malice—it's out of the same impulse that would make you warn a friend about a car's safety issues.

When I talk about the church now, I'm not attacking. I'm describing what I see. I'm sharing the information that changed my perspective. I'm offering an alternative lens for people who might be asking the same questions I once asked.

That's not hostility. That's honesty.

But the church has trained members to hear honesty as hostility. To interpret questions as attacks. To see love as threat.

And that training serves the institution, not the people in it.

Where This Leaves Us

I don't share these concerns because I want to undermine anyone's faith. I share them because I remember what it felt like to be on the inside, receiving messages like this, and not recognizing them for what they were.

I thought I was being spiritually vigilant. I was actually being epistemologically crippled.

I thought I was protecting precious truth. I was actually being protected from uncomfortable truth.

I thought loved ones who questioned were spiritually lost. Many of them just saw something I wasn't allowed to look at.

If you're a believing member reading this, I'm not asking you to leave your faith. I'm asking you to notice what you've been told to do with information that contradicts it. I'm asking you to consider whether "never take counsel from those who do not believe" is the guidance of a confident institution or a fearful one.

And if someone you love has tried to share concerns with you—concerns you've been trained to hear as attacks—maybe consider that they're not your enemy. Maybe they're just someone who loves you enough to risk your disapproval by telling you something they think is important.

That's not an attack. That's what love actually looks like.