The Re-Branding of Mormonism

For generations, members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints proudly called themselves Mormons.
It wasn’t a slur—it was a legacy. A name wrapped in pioneer sacrifice, American pride, missionary zeal, and a sense of eternal family. “I’m a Mormon” was once spoken with confidence and pride.

But now, the name is quietly vanishing.

The Church has been rebranded. The term Mormon is out. A new emphasis is in:
“We’re Christians too. We’re the restored Church. We’re the Church of Jesus Christ, of latter-Day Saints.”

The name has changed. But the doctrines remain:

God the Father is believed to be an exalted man with a body of flesh and bones.
Jesus and Lucifer are still taught to be spirit brothers.
Human beings are promised godhood and eternal families sealed in temples.
So, what’s really happening?

It’s not repentance. It’s rebranding.
A reshaping of image to appeal to a new generation. A softening of language to sound more biblical.

A marketing strategy—not a return to the Church Christ founded.

And here’s where I must be clear:

I do not speak out of rivalry. I do not mock. I do not attack.
I speak because I love. And because I know what it means to be drawn to something beautiful… only to find that what lies beneath is not what it claims to be.

As a Catholic—and a painter by trade—I’ve seen this before.

You can take an old rotting wall and cover it with clean paint. From a distance, it may even look new.
But if the structure underneath is weak, no amount of paint will make it sound.
Eventually, the truth bleeds through.

That’s what this rebranding feels like.
Not transformation—but a new coat of image over the same foundation.
Not a return to Christ—but a reshaped message to win Christian approval without surrendering the false doctrines beneath.

Jesus doesn’t need to rebrand.
The Church He founded doesn't shift with public opinion.
Truth doesn’t evolve—it endures.

And here’s the simple wisdom we all know in our bones:

Everything that glitters is not gold.

But for the Mormon who begins to question, the cost of truth can feel unbearable.

Jesus said,

“Whoever does not take up their cross and follow Me is not worthy of Me.” —Matthew 10:38

And for someone raised in the LDS faith, that cross may look like the loss of everything:
Their identity. Their community. Their eternal family.

It doesn’t feel like an invitation—the cross feels like a threat.

But here is the greater truth:

The Cross doesn’t take your family away.
It fulfills the love you were made for.

We learn to love in family units. In bedtime stories and Sunday dinners.
And yes—in loss.

Because love isn’t just taught through presence.
It’s etched into us through absence.

Ask anyone about their first heartbreak, and it often began small:
The death of a pet.
A grandparent’s funeral.
A move away from childhood friends.

These moments hurt not because we were fragile—
but because we were learning what love costs.

We are born with expiration dates.
Every face we love will someday fade.
And yet through it all, we begin to sense that there must be more.

We weren’t made for temporary love.
We were made for a love that never ends.

Earth teaches us to love in pieces.
But Heaven completes the picture.

In Heaven, love is not divided. It is multiplied.

As much as you love your son or daughter, your spouse, your grandparents—
in Heaven, you will love all as God loves all.

Not measured as we measure.

Not less—but more.
Not confined—but poured out.

You’re not giving up your family.
You’re giving them to Christ.

And in return, He gives you everything.

The doctrine of eternal families in Mormonism comes from a deep human desire—one God Himself placed in us.
But what the LDS Church offers is only a shadow of what Christ promises.

“Eye has not seen, ear has not heard, nor has it entered the heart of man what God has prepared for those who love Him.” —1 Corinthians 2:9

Heaven isn’t about clinging to one room of the house.
It’s about coming home to the entire household of God.

Pick Up the Cross—It Was Never Meant to Be Left Behind

This is the turning point.

Because if you were raised in the LDS Church, you were taught—subtly or directly—to move past the Cross.

Yes, it happened. Yes, it matters.
But the focus was shifted.

To the Garden.
To the Resurrection.
To ordinances.
To covenants.
To temples.
To exaltation.

And the Cross?
It became a moment on the way to something else.

But this is the devastating mistake—
the Cross is not the beginning of the Gospel.
It is the Gospel.

The Cross is not a steppingstone.
It is the door.

It is not a symbol of failure—it is the triumph of divine love.

“The message of the Cross is foolishness to those who are perishing,
but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.” —1 Corinthians 1:18

So when Jesus says,

“Whoever does not take up their cross and follow Me is not worthy of Me,”
He is not threatening you.
He is inviting you into salvation.

You were not meant to bypass the Cross.
You were meant to pick it up.

Not as a burden, but as a bridge.
Not as a punishment, but as a path.
Not as a curse, but as the clearest sign you are loved—fully, freely, forever.

Let that sink in:

The very thing you were taught to leave behind…
is the only thing that can bring you home.

Pick up the Cross.
Let it break you.
Let it free you.
Let it lead you into the arms of the One who died not to make you a god,
but to make you His. The Creator and His creation.

You were made for love that doesn’t expire.
Not one locked in a temple or sealed privately in a ceremony—
but one poured out on a Cross and risen from a tomb.

Jesus is not asking you to abandon love.
He’s asking you to finally receive it.

Not love that you earn.
Not love that must be proven.
But the kind of love that leaves Heaven just to find you.

“God proves His love for us in this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” —Romans 5:8

This isn’t about trading one system for another.
It’s about letting go of shadows and stepping into the light.

Yes, there will be a Cross for you.
Yes, there may be pain.

But the Cross is not just the cost—it’s the proof.

That you were worth dying for.
That your family is not forgotten.
That your soul is not sealed in uncertainty—but destined for glory.

Jesus is not your rival.
He is your Rescuer.

And He is calling you—gently, patiently, right now.

So no, I do not write this to tear down.

I write it because I believe—
You are loved by a God who is bigger than temples, deeper than doctrine,
and closer than your next breath.

If what I’ve said is false—reject it.

But if it’s true…

Then come home. Run to the Cathedral of the Madeline in Salt Lake City and enter through her doors. It’s what I did 25 years ago.

Because truth does not attack—it heals.
And what you fear to lose
is nothing compared to the One who’s been waiting for you all along.

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