Many people want to be respected and appreciated as religious authorities. They want their understanding to be recognized, their counsel to be sought, and their teachings to influence others. We want to believe that we have something important to offer, and we want others to recognize its value. Even when our desire to teach begins sincerely, the desire to be regarded as a wise teacher can quietly become an end in itself.

But at the end of the day, none of us has any business expecting to be respected or taken seriously as a religious teacher as long as we have serious sins that need to be repented of. This is something God has plainly taught me.

I recognize this in myself. I want people to take seriously the things God has taught me. Yet I still have faults I recognize and sins I have not fully forsaken. That creates an uncomfortable question: Why should I expect others to place great confidence in my spiritual judgment when there are areas of my life in which I knowingly fail to follow what I already understand?

This question should give me far more motivation to repent than to complain about being disregarded. Before I become preoccupied with whether people appreciate my teachings, I ought to consider how faithfully I live them.

What Our Conduct Says About Our Teaching

A teacher’s conduct matters because people reasonably expect truth to produce something in the person who claims to understand it. If I speak about love but treat my family harshly, my family has reason to question my understanding of love. If I preach humility but become defensive whenever someone corrects me, others have reason to doubt how deeply humility has entered my heart. If I urge people to trust God while manipulating them into following me instead, my behavior contradicts my message.

The contradiction becomes especially serious when I knowingly excuse in myself what I condemn in others. At that point, the problem extends beyond weakness. I am applying a standard selectively, demanding that others submit to truths from which I have granted myself an exemption. Whatever insight I may possess, that exemption undermines my credibility.

Paul confronts this directly when he asks those who teach others whether they heed their own teachings. Then he names specific contradictions between their preaching and their conduct. (Romans 2:21–23).

These questions turn the teacher’s attention inward. Knowing what another person ought to do does not relieve me of the obligation to do it myself. My ability to explain righteousness makes my disobedience more serious, because I cannot honestly claim that I did not understand.

People who hesitate to trust such a teacher are not necessarily rejecting God. They are responding sensibly to a discrepancy the teacher would prefer they overlook.

Truth Can Come Through an Imperfect Messenger

Nevertheless, we must distinguish the truth of a teaching from the credibility of its messenger. A principle does not become false because the person explaining it fails to live it. An impatient man may correctly teach patience. A dishonest person may accurately describe the necessity of honesty. We would make ourselves easy to deceive if we accepted every statement from someone we admired, and equally foolish if we rejected every truth spoken by someone with faults.

This distinction places responsibility on both the speaker and the listener. The listener should consider whether a teaching is true instead of using the messenger’s defects as an excuse to dismiss it. The speaker should acknowledge that correctly stating a truth does not establish his spiritual maturity, or superiority, or entitle him to personal trust.

I may understand something worth sharing while remaining far less transformed by it than I should be. Intellectual understanding often develops much faster than character. I can explain a principle convincingly before I have learned to practice it consistently. Recognizing that gap should make me careful about the claims I make for myself.

The appropriate response is to share what I clearly understand, acknowledge the limits of my own conduct as an example, and take responsibility for closing the distance between my words and my life.

Struggling With Sin and Protecting It

There is also a meaningful difference between struggling against sin and arranging our lives to conceal it. A person who acknowledges his failure, accepts correction, and takes concrete steps to change is responding differently from someone who conceals his conduct, shifts blame, or insists that his religious importance makes accountability unnecessary.

So often, idealists such as myself, assuage our own guilt by focusing on the faults of others as a means of evading the guilt we should feel by our own misdeeds. This is classic human nature. And it is one of the most common ways we lie to others and to ourselves by pretending to be far better than we really are by focusing on truths we understand and the faults that are easy to point out in others.

So often, we describe our own battles with sin as “struggling.” But we should be careful here, because it is easy to describe ourselves as “struggling” when we are mostly blatantly indulging. Feeling guilty afterward does not mean we are making a serious effort to change. Neither does admitting a fault repeatedly while preserving every condition that allows it to continue. Honest repentance eventually requires decisions and decicive actions: giving something up, repairing harm, accepting and facing consequences, seeking help, or changing habits we would prefer to keep.

The Danger of Feeling Superior

Whatever our particular faults and strengths, we have no grounds for treating other sinners with contempt. We may differ in knowledge, conduct, or social respectability, but possessing a religious vocabulary does not place us above the people whose weaknesses are easier to see. Neither does recognizing someone else’s error establish our own righteousness.

Jesus’ parable of the Pharisee and the publican exposes this danger. The Pharisee’s prayer becomes a rehearsal of his superiority over others, while the publican acknowledges his need for mercy. Jesus identifies the publican as the one who returns home justified. (Luke 18:9–14) This parable is especially searching because the Pharisee’s religious practices are not the central problem. His over-confidence in his own righteousness has become the catalyst for his contempt for others.

It is easy to experience that attitude while criticizing religious pride. We may congratulate ourselves for seeing through corrupt leaders, rejecting false traditions, or understanding truths others have missed. Soon our supposed enlightenment becomes another basis for false superiority. We have changed the reasons for our self-satisfaction without surrendering the self-satisfaction itself. This can be a very debilitating sin that needs to be repented of.

John warns that claiming to have no sin is self-deception. (1 John 1:8) That warning should keep us humble, meek, and teachable. There may be faults we have not recognized, harm we have minimized, and motives we have described more generously than they deserve. A clear conscience should make us grateful and attentive, leaving room for God to reveal what we still need to change or improve.

Our Own Repentance Comes First

Jesus’ instruction about the beam in our own eye establishes an order of responsibility. We are to address our own faults and obstructions so that we can see clearly enough to help someone else with theirs. (Matthew 7:3–5) The condition of the helper affects the quality of the help.

That means my own repentance deserves more attention than my disappointment with other people’s unwillingness to heed my teachings. Their agency is theirs. My response to the light I have received is mine. I can spend years lamenting someone else’s stubbornness while overlooking the habits I continue to defend.

For those of us who enjoy studying, discussing, and writing about religious ideas, this danger is substantial. Explaining a principle can give us a satisfying sense of progress without requiring us to practice it. I may feel spiritually productive because I have produced another essay, delivered another lesson, or identified another error. Meanwhile, the difficult conversation remains unspoken, the apology remains ungiven, and the familiar sins remains intact and unresolved.

Continuing to Teach Without Demanding Deference

None of this requires us to remain silent until we become flawless. If everyone waited for complete sanctification before sharing anything useful, much good would go undone. We can testify of what we have learned, describe the help we have received, and invite others to consider principles we believe are true.

But we should do so without demanding a standing our lives have not earned. We should allow people to examine our claims, question our judgment, and decide how much confidence to place in us. And most importantly, we should place highest priority on our own repentance, not on preaching it to others.

The Book of Mormon describes priestcraft as preaching in a way that sets oneself up as a light in order to obtain gain and praise, while neglecting the welfare of Zion. (2 Nephi 26:29) That warning reaches beyond paid religious offices. Praise itself can become a reward we pursue. A person can seek followers, admiration, and spiritual prominence without ever charging money or asking for financial support.

A useful teacher helps people become more capable of recognizing and following truth. And the most important sermons we preach are by example, not by words. And if the example we set undermines our words, then the damage done is exponentially greater than if we had never tried to preach at all.

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