I was asked to give a "talk" (akin to a sermon) in church today, and had to cut down all of my thoughts (below) into something about half as long for time. Below is the "full" version of my thoughts on Stories vs Testimonies.

Read time: 15-20 mins (yes, it's long. I have lots of thoughts! :)

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Have you ever wondered if what you believe is really true, or if it's just a story you've been told?

I recently read a book that said: “Everything is just a story”

"Everything" is absolute. If that statement is true, then everything we experience, everything we believe, everything we say, is just a story.

If we take that at face value, then every emotion we experience—sadness, depression, frustration, elation, joy, gratitude—all stem from the stories we tell ourselves about what's happening to us.

The person who cuts you off in traffic? You tell yourself a story about their character, their respect for you, maybe even about how the world is getting worse. That story creates your anger.

You didn't get invited to that party everyone's talking about? You tell yourself a story about your worth, about whether people really like you, about your place in the social order. That story creates your loneliness, depression, and sadness.

The scriptures you read this morning? You tell yourself a story about what they mean, how they apply to you, whether they're really true. That story shapes your faith.

Stories are powerful. They determine how we interpret reality, how we feel, how we act. The book I read argues that if you want to change your life, you simply need to change your stories.

But I think there's something the book is missing, something we (as members of the Church) understand that the world doesn't.

Paul wrote to the Hebrews that "faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." (Hebrews 11:1). Moroni taught us in the book of Ether that, "[we] receive no witness until after the trial of [our] faith." (Ether 12:6). That sounds different than a story. 

But how? That’s what I wanted to find out and share with you today. 

Stories can change. Truth is eternal. 

Stories can be told by anyone. Truth comes from God. 

Perception shapes our reality. Truth is what’s real. 

There's a difference in elevation. Stories are down here. Truth is up there. “That person wronged me, so I am upset” vs. “That is my brother, my sister, my eternal companion. I love them completely.” One leads to hurt, the other to gratitude and charity and love. 

Truth is implicit—it gives you the 2 + 2 and invites you to discover the answer for yourself. Stories are explicit—they hand you the 4. The interpretation is complete, pre-packaged, ready to consume without any work on your part.

There's no discovery required on your part. No personal revelation. No seeking. Just acceptance of someone else's conclusion.

That's why stories can manipulate so effectively. They bypass your own discernment and give you a pre-packaged meaning. They tell you what to think, what to feel, how to interpret events. And depending on who's telling them, the same facts can lead to completely different stories with completely different meanings.

"Truth is a knowledge of things as they are, and as they were, and as they are to come; And whatsoever is more or less than this is the spirit of that wicked one who was a liar from the beginning." (Doctrine & Covenants 93:24-25)

Testimony is based in truth. Knowledge is transmitted and received. Can you know a story? You can remember and recount one, but can you know the truth of a story? I don’t think so. 

But stories are how truths and knowledge are transmitted. They are the seeds that sprout into knowledge.

Testimonies work like implicit storytelling—God gives us the 2 + 2, and through the Holy Ghost, we discover the answer for ourselves. This is why two people can read the same scripture and receive different personal revelation. The truth is there implicitly, waiting to be discovered, not handed down explicitly.

So there's a moment, a threshold, where once passed through, story becomes testimony. You know, not just remember.

But it's not always what we expect.

We imagine the threshold will be dramatic—a vision, a burning in the bosom so intense we can't deny it, an undeniable witness that removes all doubt in a single moment. We read about Paul on the road to Damascus, struck blind by light and voice. We read about Alma the Younger, shaken by a thunderous angelic voice which caused the earth to shake. We think that's what crossing the threshold looks like.

For most of us, it's much, much quieter than that.

It's the moment you realize you're no longer repeating what you were taught—you're speaking from what you know. It's the recognition that something has shifted inside you, that the external story has become internal knowledge.

My wife and I have talked about this. She's wondered if she's ever really crossed the threshold, if her testimony is "real" compared to others who seem so certain. I think many lifelong members feel this way. We've been in the church our entire lives. We've heard the stories since Primary. How do we know if we actually know, or if we're just really good at remembering and obeying?

Here's how you know: You've crossed the threshold when you can't deny it even when it would be easier to.

When your choices misalign with what you know to be true, and you feel that pain—that's evidence. When you try to walk away and find you can't, not because of social pressure or family expectations, but because you know something you cannot unknow—you’ve crossed the threshold.

The transformation happens when an external story becomes internal knowledge. You can know about Christ without knowing Christ. You can remember the story of the First Vision without knowing it's true. You can recite the Articles of Faith without having faith.

The threshold is when "I was taught that..." becomes "I know that..."

But crossing requires something most of us would rather avoid: honesty about where we actually are.

My sons are approaching major covenant decisions like receiving the priesthood, preparing for missions and temple covenants. They're at the age where everyone around them expects certainty. Youth are asked to bear testimony, to declare they "know the church is true," often before they've had the chance to actually pursue that knowledge for themselves.

Here's what I want them—and every young person here—to understand: It's okay to not know yet. The absence of testimony at 12, 14, 16 isn't failure. It's the starting point of that pursuit.

You cannot be pushed across the threshold. Your parents can't push you. Your bishop can't. Your seminary teacher can't. You have to choose to step. That choice requires agency, focus, and commitment. It requires you to do what the prophets did—pursue truth over story, even when it's uncomfortable.

Joseph Smith didn't accept the conflicting stories around him about which church to join. He went directly to the source. He asked. He sought. He risked ridicule and rejection to get an answer for himself.

Alma didn't coast on his father's testimony. He went his own way, rebelled, until an angel appeared. But even after that dramatic intervention, notice what he says: he spent three days in the "most exquisite and bitter pain" as he sought redemption. The angel got his attention, but Alma still had to cross the threshold himself through repentance and seeking.

Every prophet pursued truth over comfort, knowledge over inherited story.

I crossed that threshold as a teenager. I'd been raised in the church, heard all the stories, attended all the meetings. But there was a moment—not dramatic, but definitive—where belief became knowledge.

I sat in prayer, seeking an answer about whether what I'd been taught was really true. I wasn't looking for a burning bush or expecting a thunderous voice from the heavens. I was looking for peace, for clarity, for something beyond the stories I'd inherited.

And it came. Quietly. Not a voice, not a vision. A knowing. A witness from the Holy Ghost that what I'd been taught was true, that it was mine now, not just my parents' or my leaders’.

That moment changed everything. Not because my behavior changed dramatically—I was already doing most of the "right things." But because the why behind it all shifted. I wasn't living the gospel because I was told to. I was living it because I knew it was true.

When you cross the threshold, the explicit story you were told becomes implicit knowledge—something you discovered for yourself through the Holy Ghost. That's why it can't be taken away by someone else's arguments or stories.

My story that became testimony is why I stand here before you today. Why I'm here every week. Why my family is here. Why I serve, why I live the way I do. I am so grateful that my pursuit in my teens led to a moment where belief and hope became knowledge and testimony.

But here's what I need you to understand: crossing the threshold once doesn't mean you stay on the other side forever without effort.

What separates an individual who falls away and abandons their testimony, and one who is in relentless pursuit of what's true?

Stories.

One has told themselves that their current story is no longer serving them, so they find a new one. The other wants to know the truth and align their lives with that truth so they can obtain, like Adam and Eve, knowledge.

We are convinced to change by hearing the stories of those who risked and triumphed. But we cross the threshold by seeking our own witness, our own knowledge, our own relationship with God.

There have been many times in my life where Satan has tried to turn my testimony back into just a story.

In moments of doubt, when I've wondered if I was deceived as a teenager—was it real or just emotion? 

In moments of pain, when I've questioned why a loving God would allow suffering. 

In moments of sin, where I used my agency for pleasure rather than for Godly pursuits, and wondered if I was irredeemable, too far gone, unworthy to return to his presence and be forgiven. 

The attack is always the same: "It was just a story you told yourself. It's not real. You can walk away."

But here's what I've learned: A testimony that has crossed the threshold cannot be argued away, but it can be neglected.

Satan doesn't need to disprove what you know. He just needs to get you to stop pursuing it. To get you busy, distracted, comfortable. To get you to coast on yesterday's witness rather than seek today's.

For our youth, this battle often comes through peers and social media. Someone posts a thread "debunking" church history. A friend says, "You only believe that because your parents do." A video goes viral challenging prophetic statements or church policies.

Satan's strategy is to make everything explicit again—to turn your implicit knowledge back into an argument, a debate, a story that can be picked apart and discarded.

The British philosopher Iain McGilchrist wrote about this. In his paper on the divided brain, he observed:

This is exactly what Satan attempts. He wants to reduce your sacred, personal witness—your implicit knowledge received through the Holy Ghost—into explicit arguments that can be debated and dismissed.

He wants to take what you know and make it into what you were told.

For adults, this battle looks different but follows the same pattern. The demands of careers, the exhaustion of parenting, the disappointments of unanswered prayers, the weight of callings that feel beyond your capacity—all of these create opportunities for Satan to whisper: "See? It's not working. The story you believed isn't serving you anymore."

I cannot deny my testimony. But I also cannot escape the pain when my choices or my use of agency aren't in alignment with the eternal truths God has given me. That pain is evidence—it proves I know something true, even when I act against it.

The battle is ongoing. Crossing the threshold once doesn't end it. But there's hope: frequent pursuit of knowledge reinforces testimony.

You don't maintain a testimony by protecting it like a fragile thing. You maintain it by using it, by testing it, by returning to the source again and again.

Every time you pray with real intent, you're reinforcing the neural pathways of faith. Every time you act on a prompting, you're proving to yourself that the Spirit is real. Every time you choose to align your behavior with what you know rather than what feels convenient, you're deepening the grooves of testimony.

This is why Satan wants you distracted. If he can keep you from prayer, from scripture study, from temple worship, from service—not through dramatic rebellion, but through simple neglect—he can slowly erode what you once knew into what you used to believe.

The testimony remains true, you just stop accessing it. And when you stop accessing it, when you let weeks and months and years pass without seeking fresh revelation, without crossing back over that threshold to commune with God, the implicit knowledge starts to feel like an old story again.

This is the battle. Not a single dramatic moment of apostasy, but a slow drift away from pursuit.

The antidote is simple, though not easy: return to the pursuit. Daily. Weekly. Continually.

Not to earn God's love—you already have that. But to maintain your connection to the source of truth that once transformed story into testimony for you.

Every day we're presented with a choice: Will we live by story or by testimony?

The difference isn't always obvious. Both involve belief. Both shape behavior. But they orient us in fundamentally different directions.

President Nelson has urged us to "think celestial." This is the testimony orientation—making decisions not based on immediate comfort or social approval, but based on eternal truth.

Here's what this looks like in practice:

When someone wrongs you, hurts you, betrays you—the story you tell yourself determines your response. "That person wronged me, so I am justified in my anger. They don't deserve my forgiveness. I have every right to be upset."

That story is down here. It focuses on the immediate pain, the social dynamics, your wounded ego.

But testimony elevates: "That is my brother, my sister, my eternal companion. I love them completely. They're struggling, just as I struggle. Christ asks me to forgive, not because they deserve it, but because I need it."

One story leads to hurt, resentment, separation. The testimony leads to gratitude, charity, connection, love.

The same choice presents itself in how you respond to doubts. The story says, "This doesn't make sense to me right now, so it must not be true." The testimony says, "This doesn't make sense to me right now, but I know God is real, and I trust Him more than I trust my current understanding."

For parents, the story says, "My child is making bad choices, which reflects poorly on me as a parent." The testimony says, "My child is exercising agency, just as I do. I will love them perfectly while they figure out their own relationship with God."

For youth, the story says, "Everyone else seems to have more freedom than I do. These rules are holding me back." The testimony says, "These commandments protect me and help me become who I'm meant to be. Short-term sacrifice leads to long-term joy."

The distinction becomes clearest in moments of pain or temptation. Stories justify. Testimonies anchor.

There are two sides to every story—yours and theirs, what happened and what you wish had happened, the version that makes you look good and the version that's actually true.

But there's only one side to a testimony. It's yours. It's personal. It's the truth God has revealed to you through the Holy Ghost. No one can argue it away because no one else was there when you received it.

Stories can hurt, harm, and destroy. They can tear down marriages, fracture families, justify sin, and lead us away from God. They can make us victims when we should be penitent, righteous when we should be humble, certain when we should be seeking.

Testimonies can only lift, build, connect, and help you grow and progress. A true testimony—one received through the Holy Ghost—will never lead you away from Christ. It will always draw you closer.

This is how you can test whether you're living by story or testimony: Does it draw you toward God or away from Him?

If your "testimony" is leading you to judge others harshly, to feel superior, to justify unrighteous behavior—it's not a testimony. It's a story you're telling yourself.

If your testimony makes you more patient with your spouse, more loving toward your wayward child, more humble before God, more willing to repent, more eager to serve—that's the real thing.

Living by testimony doesn't mean life gets easier. It means you interpret the hardness differently.

The same trial that breaks someone living by story strengthens someone living by testimony. Not because they're stronger, but because they're anchored to something that cannot be moved.

So let me ask you: Do stories become testimonies? Or are they separate things entirely?

I think they're connected but distinct. Stories are the seeds. Testimonies are what grows when those seeds are planted in good soil, watered by the Holy Ghost, and tended through faithful pursuit.

The same story—"Jesus is the Christ"—can remain just a story you were taught, or it can become a testimony you know.

The difference isn't in the words. It's in the relationship behind them.

I want you to walk away from this talk feeling like you need to audit your own stories. Not in a guilt-inducing way, but in an honest, hopeful way.

Which stories are you living by that need to become testimonies?

Maybe it's the story about temple marriage being important—something you were taught, something you believe is probably true, but something you haven't actually sought a witness about for yourself.

Maybe it's the story about tithing, or the Word of Wisdom, or sustaining prophets. You do it because you're supposed to, because you've always done it, because good Latter-day Saints do it.

But have you ever asked God directly: Is this true? Is this really Your will for me? Will You show me why this matters?

For our youth preparing for missions or temple covenants—have you actually asked God if the Book of Mormon is true? Not recited the promise in Moroni 10, but really asked? And then waited for an answer? And been willing to hear either yes or no?

For lifelong members who wonder if their testimony is "real"—have you considered that the fact you're still here, still trying, still seeking, might itself be evidence? That the quiet, steady witness you've felt all these years is the testimony you've been looking for?

Here's what I need you to understand: Testimonies can't be given to someone else. They can only be discovered through your own pursuit.

I can't give you my testimony. Your parents can't give you theirs. Your bishop, your leader, your seminary teacher—none of them can hand you theirs.

They can tell you their stories. They can point you toward the threshold. But you have to cross it yourself.

And if you haven't yet—if you're sitting here realizing you've been living by inherited story rather than personal testimony—that's okay. You're not behind. You're not failing. You're exactly where you need to be to begin the pursuit.

The question isn't, "Why don't I have a testimony yet?"

The question is, "Am I willing to pursue one?"

So how do you pursue testimony? What does that actually look like?

Testimonies don't just show up. You have to earn them through action—through pursuit. Searching, pondering, praying. The things you must do, not just think about doing.

Let me reframe something we've been taught our entire lives: Are the scriptures merely a collection of stories? Or are they a transmission of truth and testimony?

The writers of our scriptures—Nephi, Alma, Mormon, Paul, John—they didn't write down stories they learned as children. They wrote testimonies they gained through pursuit. Through personal revelation. Through encounters with God.

When you read their words, you're not just reading ancient history. You're accessing their testimonies. And when you read with real intent, asking God to confirm these truths to you—that's when the transmission happens. Their testimony becomes a catalyst for yours.

This is the pattern: Seek, ask, knock. Wait. Receive. Repeat.

If we want more joy, if we want more gratitude, if we want to be led and guided by our Heavenly Father, our Savior Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost—we must pursue knowledge.

We must spend time with Them. Not just read about Them. Not just hear others talk about Them. But actually commune with Them.

In prayer: Not recited words, but real conversation. Ask specific questions. Wait for specific answers. "Is this true? Will You show me? Help me understand."

In meditation: Sit in silence. Let the noise of the world fade. Create space for the still, small voice to speak. This isn't just prayer—it's listening.

In the scriptures: Not checking a box. Not racing through chapters. But pondering. Asking, "What is God trying to teach me through these words?" Letting verses sit with you for days.

In service: Not because you have to, but because you want to see what God sees. When you serve His children, you start to love them the way He loves them. That changes you.

In the temple: Not rushing through ordinances. But sitting in the celestial room afterward. Asking questions. Seeking answers. Using that holy space to commune with heaven.

These aren't checklists. They're not performances to earn God's approval. They're the means by which you access the source of all truth.

God already loves you perfectly. These practices don't make Him love you more. But they do help you feel His love, hear His voice, know His will.

The distractions of the world are Satan's attempts to keep you from this pursuit. Not through dramatic temptation necessarily, but through simple drift. Entertainment, busyness, noise, scrolling, binge-watching, constant stimulation—all designed to keep you from the quiet space where God speaks.

Satan doesn't fear your church attendance. He fears your genuine pursuit of God.

His greatest fear is your use of agency in that pursuit. Because when you actively choose to seek God—really seek Him, not just perform the motions—you become dangerous. You become someone who cannot be argued with, manipulated, or pulled away.

You become someone who knows.

So here's my invitation to you today:

For youth: Before you receive the priesthood, before you go to the temple, before you leave on a mission—pursue your own testimony. Not because someone expects you to, but because you deserve to know for yourself. Ask God if the Book of Mormon is true. If Jesus Christ truly atoned for your sins. If Joseph Smith truly was a prophet who restored Christ’s church to the earth. Wait for the answer. It will come.

For adults: Stop coasting. Stop performing. Stop assuming the story you inherited is enough. Go back to the source. Ask again. Seek again. Knock again. You might be surprised to find that God has been waiting for you to ask.

For everyone: Audit your stories. Abandon those that aren’t helping you have the life you desire. Identify which ones need to become testimonies. Then pursue them with everything you have.

The threshold is real. The transformation from story to testimony is possible. But it requires your agency, your focus, your commitment.

It requires you to choose truth over comfort, knowledge over story, pursuit over drift.

I promise you—I testify to you—that if you do this, God will meet you. The Holy Ghost will confirm truth to you. And what was once just a story you were told will become a testimony you cannot deny.