Joseph Smith Is Correct Because Joseph Smith Said So

This passage has been taken from Joseph Smith's Translation of the Bible, also referred to by the Mormons as the Inspired Version of the Scriptures:

[Genesis 50] 24 And Joseph said unto his brethren, I die, and go unto my fathers; and I go down to my grave with joy. The God of my father Jacob be with you, to deliver you out of affliction in the days of your bondage; for the Lord hath visited me, and I have obtained a promise of the Lord, that out of the fruit of my loins, the Lord God will raise up a righteous branch out of my loins; and unto thee, whom my father Jacob hath named Israel, a prophet; (not the Messiah who is called Shilo;) and this prophet shall deliver my people out of Egypt in the days of thy bondage.

25 And it shall come to pass that they shall be scattered again; and a branch shall be broken off, and shall be carried into a far country; nevertheless they shall be remembered in the covenants of the Lord, when the Messiah cometh; for he shall be made manifest unto them in the latter days, in the Spirit of power; and shall bring them out of darkness into light; out of hidden darkness, and out of captivity unto freedom.

26 A seer shall the Lord my God raise up, who shall be a choice seer unto the fruit of my loins.

27 Thus saith the Lord God of my fathers unto me, A choice seer will I raise up out of the fruit of thy loins, and he shall be esteemed highly among the fruit of thy loins; and unto him will I give commandment that he shall do a work for the fruit of thy loins, his brethren.

28 And he shall bring them to the knowledge of the covenants which I have made with thy fathers; and he shall do whatsoever work I shall command him.

29 And I will make him great in mine eyes, for he shall do my work; and he shall be great like unto him whom I have said I would raise up unto you, to deliver my people, O house of Israel, out of the land of Egypt; for a seer will I raise up to deliver my people out of the land of Egypt; and he shall be called Moses. And by this name he shall know that he is of thy house; for he shall be nursed by the king’s daughter, and shall be called her son.

30 And again, a seer will I raise up out of the fruit of thy loins, and unto him will I give power to bring forth my word unto the seed of thy loins; and not to the bringing forth of my word only, saith the Lord, but to the convincing them of my word, which shall have already gone forth among them in the last days;

31 Wherefore the fruit of thy loins shall write, and the fruit of the loins of Judah shall write; and that which shall be written by the fruit of thy loins, and also that which shall be written by the fruit of the loins of Judah, shall grow together unto the confounding of false doctrines, and laying down of contentions, and establishing peace among the fruit of thy loins, and bringing them to a knowledge of their fathers in the latter days; and also to the knowledge of my covenants, saith the Lord.

32 And out of weakness shall he be made strong, in that day when my work shall go forth among all my people, which shall restore them, who are of the house of Israel, in the last days.

33 And that seer will I bless, and they that seek to destroy him shall be confounded; for this promise I give unto you; for I will remember you from generation to generation; and his name shall be called Joseph, and it shall be after the name of his father; and he shall be like unto you; for the thing which the Lord shall bring forth by his hand shall bring my people unto salvation.

34 And the Lord sware unto Joseph that he would preserve his seed forever, saying, I will raise up Moses, and a rod shall be in his hand, and he shall gather together my people, and he shall lead them as a flock, and he shall smite the waters of the Red Sea with his rod.

35 And he shall have judgment, and shall write the word of the Lord. And he shall not speak many words, for I will write unto him my law by the finger of mine own hand. And I will make a spokesman for him, and his name shall be called Aaron.

36 And it shall be done unto thee in the last days also, even as I have sworn. Therefore, Joseph said unto his brethren, God will surely visit you, and bring you out of this land, unto the land which he sware unto Abraham, and unto Isaac, and to Jacob.

37 And Joseph confirmed many other things unto his brethren, and took an oath of the children of Israel, saying unto them, God will surely visit you, and ye shall carry up my bones from hence.

38 So Joseph died when he was an hundred and ten years old; and they embalmed him, and they put him in a coffin in Egypt; and he was kept from burial by the children of Israel, that he might be carried up and laid in the sepulchre with his father. And thus they remembered the oath which they sware unto him.

We now shall proceed to offer a few concise critical comments on the above passage:

The above cited text was authored by none other than Joseph Smith. It is not found in any extant copies of the Hebrew text of Genesis. It is not found in any existing ancient translations of the Bible. This is highly unusual for a religion that claims to be from before Christ's birth.

Mormonism would more closely resemble the religions of the pagan nations, which Joseph and later Jewish descendants learned to despise, due to their pantheons of gods. Mormons do not believe in only one true God. They are just like the "Gentiles" they declare themselves not to be. But here is the twist: we are not dealing with real history, or even claims that are plausible for their times. Mormonism maintains that everything has been corrupted, making it elusive to intellectual challenges by external standards. We are dealing with an instance of ad absurdum.

This "prophecy" is self-referential. Smith wrote a prophecy about himself and his own teachings. Followers are obviously expected to accept all of this as incontrovertibly true. Outsiders are to come to believe these claims. It is a circular appeal, which is inherently absurd. Anyone can write a "prophecy" about himself. It is self-fulfilling, giving the appearance of being "true" even though it is not.

There is a broader element of irony about this "translation" of the Bible, namely, it is not the primary text which Mormons use, even though it is indeed considered an inspired text by them. They usually consult the King James Version above all else.

The Long Obedience Of Love

          “[Love] bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” (1 Corinthians 13:7)

          Paul’s crescendo of agape reaches its most resilient expression in verse 7. If the previous verses dismantle ego and expose love’s moral clarity, this verse reveals love’s tenacious heart. It is a litany of spiritual stamina, four declarations that stretch love beyond sentiment into the realm of perseverance. Here, love is not fragile. It is fierce. It is not passive. It is persistent.

          “Love bears all things” is not a call to silent suffering, but to sacred sheltering. The Greek word suggests covering, protecting, shielding. Love does not expose weakness—it covers it. It does not broadcast failure. It absorbs it. In a world quick to shame and slow to shelter, love becomes a refuge. It bears the weight of others’ burdens, the sting of betrayal, the ache of disappointment. It is the roof that does not collapse under pressure, the cloak that does not slip in the storm.

          “Believes all things” is not gullibility. It is spiritual trust. Love chooses to believe the best, even when the worst is easier. It is not naive. It is hopeful. It does not ignore reality, but it refuses to be cynical. In relationships strained by suspicion, love leans toward grace. It believes in redemption, in possibility, in the image of God still flickering in the fallen. Love does not build walls of doubt. It builds bridges of belief.

          “Hopes all things” is love’s refusal to give up. It is the forward gaze of faith, the stubborn insistence that the story is not over. Love hopes when others despair. It hopes when the diagnosis is grim, when the prodigal is far, when the night is long. This hope is not optimism, but is eschatological. It is rooted in the resurrection, in the promise that all things will be made new. Love hopes because it knows who holds the future.

          “Endures all things” is love’s final defiance. It is the grit of grace, the long obedience in the same direction. Love does not quit. It does not flinch. It does not flee. It stays when staying is costly. It endures betrayal, misunderstanding, silence, and sorrow. It is the love that walks to Calvary, that hangs on a cross, that rises again. In this, love is not weak. It is indomitable.

          Together, these four verbs form a spiritual architecture of endurance. They are not sentimental, but sacrificial. They do not describe a feeling, but a force. Love bears, believes, hopes, and endures, not because it is easy, but because it is eternal. This is the love that outlasts gifts, outshines knowledge, and outlives death. It is the cruciform love of Christ, who bore our sin, saw our need, hoped for our return, and endured the cross for our redemption.

          In practicing this love, we do not merely imitate Christ. We participate in His mission. For love, Paul insists, does not collapse under pressure. It carries. It trusts. It dreams. It perseveres. And in doing so, it becomes the most powerful force in the universe, the love that never fails.

Agape’s Delight: Truth Over Transgression

          “[Love] does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth.” (1 Corinthians 13:6)

          Paul’s anatomy of agapē continues with a moral calibration of the heart. If verse 5 exposes love’s restraint, its refusal to be rude, self-seeking, reactive, or resentful, then verse 6 reveals love’s moral compass. Here, love is not merely relational; it is ethical. It is not blind affection, but discerning allegiance. It does not celebrate what wounds, distorts, or deceives. It rejoices in what heals, reveals, and redeems.

          “Love does not rejoice in iniquity” is a sobering indictment of spiritual complicity. Iniquity, unrighteousness, injustice, moral failure, is not entertainment for love. It is grief. Love does not gloat over another’s fall, nor does it find satisfaction in scandal, cruelty, or sin. In a culture of voyeurism and vengeance, where failure is monetized and pain is politicized, Paul insists that love refuses to cheer for brokenness. It does not delight in the downfall of enemies or the exposure of flaws. It does not weaponize truth to shame, nor does it twist grace to excuse. Love is not a spectator of suffering—it is a healer of it.

          “But rejoices in the truth” is love’s moral joy. Truth here is not mere factuality. It is reality as God sees it. It is the unveiling of what is good, right, and holy. Love celebrates integrity, not image. It delights in repentance, not reputation. It rejoices when justice rolls down like waters, when mercy triumphs over judgment, when the light pierces the shadows. In this way, love is not neutral—it is fiercely loyal to the truth that liberates. It does not bend to sentimentality or tribalism. It rejoices when the truth is spoken, even when it costs. It rejoices when the truth is lived, even when it hurts.

          Together, these twin postures, grief over iniquity and joy in truth, form the moral rhythm of agapē. Love is not passive. It is not permissive. It is not indifferent. It is morally awake, emotionally honest, spiritually courageous. It weeps with those who weep and rejoices with those who rejoice, but only when the rejoicing is righteous. In verse 6, love is not a mood—it is a moral movement. It is the ethic of Christ, who wept over Jerusalem’s sin and rejoiced in the faith of a centurion. Who confronted hypocrisy and celebrated humility. Who bore the weight of iniquity to unleash the joy of truth.

          In the divine economy, this kind of love is not sentimental—it is sanctifying. It does not merely feel—it forms. It does not merely comfort—it convicts. It is the love that exposes and embraces, that wounds and heals, that judges and justifies. It is the love that hung on a cross, not to rejoice in iniquity, but to rejoice in the truth that sets us free.

          And in practicing it, we do not merely echo heaven—we embody it. For love, Paul insists, does not rejoice in iniquity. It rejoices in truth. And in doing so, it becomes the truth that rejoices over us.

The Ethics Of Love’s Restraint

          “[Love] does not behave rudely, it does not seek its own, it is not provoked, it keeps no record of wrongs.” (1 Corinthians 13:5)

          This text continues Paul’s dismantling of spiritual pretense by deepening the anatomy of agapē. If verse 4 sketches love’s posture—patient, kind, unpretentious—verse 5 explores its restraint. Here, love is defined not by what it does, but by what it refuses to do. It is a portrait of self-governed grace, a love that resists the gravitational pull of ego, offense, and scorekeeping.

          The phrase “does not behave rudely” confronts the moral imagination with a subtle but radical ethic. Rudeness is not merely bad manners. It is the failure to recognize the dignity of the other. In a culture of spiritual performance, where giftedness can eclipse gentleness, Paul reminds us that love never bulldozes. It does not interrupt, dominate, or humiliate. It moves with reverence, not force.

          “Love does not seek its own” is a direct challenge to the self-centric spirituality that often masquerades as devotion. This is not a call to self-erasure, but to self-giving. Love does not orbit around personal gain, recognition, or control. It is centrifugal, always moving outward, always making space. In this way, Paul redefines greatness—not as accumulation, but as relinquishment.

          “It is not provoked” speaks to emotional discipline. Love is not reactive. It does not flare up at insult or injury. It absorbs without exploding, listens without lashing out. This is not weakness, but strength under control, a spiritual poise that refuses to be hijacked by offense. In a world addicted to outrage, love is a quiet refusal to be mastered by anger.

          Finally, “it keeps no record of wrongs” is perhaps the most scandalous of all. Love does not archive offenses. It does not weaponize memory. It does not build a case. This is not forgetfulness—it is forgiveness. It is the radical decision to release rather than retain, to heal rather than tally. In this, love mirrors the divine: the God who casts sins into the depths of the sea, who remembers them no more.

          Together, these negations form a spiritual counterculture. They resist the impulse to dominate, to demand, to retaliate, to remember. They invite us into a love that is spacious, selfless, serene, and merciful. Paul’s vision is not sentimental—it is sacrificial. It is not soft—it is sanctifying. In verse 5, love is not a feeling to be indulged, but a discipline to be embodied. It is the cruciform ethic of Christ Himself, who bore insult without retaliation, who gave without grasping, who forgave without ledger.

          In the divine economy, this kind of love is not optional. It is eternal. It will outlast prophecy, tongues, and knowledge. It is the ethic of heaven breaking into earth. And in practicing it, we do not merely imitate God—we participate in His nature. For love, Paul insists, is not provoked. It provokes transformation.

How King David Shatters The Catholic Confessional

        “For you will not delight in sacrifice, or I would give it; you will not be pleased with a burnt offering. The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.” (Psalm 51:16–17, ESV)

        King David’s moral collapse is one of the most infamous episodes in biblical history. His adultery with Bathsheba and orchestration of Uriah’s death were not mere lapses. They were deliberate, calculated violations of divine law. According to Roman Catholic theology, these acts meet every criterion for mortal sin: grave matter, full knowledge, and deliberate consent. Yet the biblical narrative offers no priestly absolution, no sacramental confession, and no ritual penance. Instead, it presents a direct encounter between sinner and God, mediated only by contrition and prayer.

        The account in 2 Samuel 12 is stark. After Nathan confronts David with a parable exposing his guilt, David responds simply: “I have sinned against the Lord.” Nathan replies, “The Lord also has put away your sin; you shall not die.” This exchange is brief, unadorned, and profoundly theological. There is no temple ritual, no priestly mediation, no sacramental framework. The forgiveness is complete and occurs in an instant. The gravity of David’s sin is not at all minimized, but the mechanism of restoration is radically personal.

        Psalm 51, traditionally attributed to David in the aftermath of this confrontation, deepens the theological implications. It is not a liturgical formula or a priestly rite. It is a raw, unfiltered cry for mercy. David pleads directly with God: “Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love.” He does not appeal to a priest, nor does he offer a sacrifice. In fact, he explicitly rejects sacrificial mediation: “You will not delight in sacrifice, or I would give it.” Instead, he declares that the true offering is “a broken and contrite heart.”

        This passage is deeply problematic for Roman Catholic theology. According to the Catechism of the Catholic Church, mortal sin requires sacramental confession to a priest, followed by absolution and often penance. Yet David’s restoration bypasses all of this. His forgiveness is not delayed, conditional, or institutionally managed. It is fully done at a moment's notice, without intermediaries. God responds directly to the contrite heart, without temple, priest, or ritual.

        Roman Catholic apologists often respond by noting that David lived under the Old Covenant, before the institution of the sacrament of reconciliation. But this response overlooks the continuity of God’s character across covenants. If divine mercy is truly unchanging, then the mechanism of forgiveness should reflect that constancy. The New Covenant, heralded as a fulfillment, ought to preserve the immediacy of God’s grace, not complicate it with ecclesiastical procedures. King David’s heartfelt repentance and God’s direct pardon suggest that contrition, not clerical mediation, is the true catalyst for divine forgiveness.

        Another Catholic response is the appeal to “perfect contrition,” which allows for forgiveness outside of confession if the sorrow is motivated by love of God above all else and includes the intent to confess sacramentally. But Psalm 51 undermines this claim. David’s repentance is driven by guilt, shame, and the weight of his sin, not by pure love of God. Moreover, there is no indication that David intends to seek priestly mediation. His appeal is entirely personal and vertical, not institutional or ecclesial.

        Some may argue that David’s restoration is exceptional, a unique moment in salvation history. But the text itself refutes this. Psalm 51 is canonized as a model of repentance. It is recited in liturgies, memorized in devotionals, and quoted in sermons across traditions. Its message is clear: the broken and contrite heart is the true sacrifice God desires. This is not a footnote. It is a theological foundation.

        David’s story collapses the Catholic taxonomy of sin. His offenses are grave, deliberate, and destructive, yet his forgiveness is immediate and unmediated. If such sins can be forgiven without priestly absolution, then the sacramental system built on distinguishing mortal from venial sin is rendered theologically superfluous. Divine mercy is not distributed according to human classifications, but according to the sincerity of repentance. The broken and contrite heart is the true altar of grace.

        In this light, 2 Samuel 12 and Psalm 51 stand as a case study in grace unmediated. They affirm that God’s mercy is not channeled through the church, but the prerogative of God alone. They reveal that forgiveness is not institutionally managed, but divinely initiated. And they challenge the Catholic model of sin, confession, and absolution, not with polemic, but with Scripture.

        Rome’s liturgical embrace of Psalm 51 exposes a theological contradiction at the heart of its sacramental system. The Catholic Church elevates this psalm as a quintessential expression of repentance, reciting it in the Liturgy of the Hours and during penitential seasons like Lent. Yet the very content of the psalm subverts the sacramental framework it is meant to support. David explicitly rejects sacrificial offerings, declaring that God desires “a broken and contrite heart” rather than ritual mediation. By canonizing a text that celebrates direct, unmediated forgiveness, the Catholic liturgy affirms a theology of grace that bypasses the priesthood, confession, and penance. This tension reveals a liturgical inconsistency: Rome proclaims the sufficiency of contrition while maintaining a doctrinal insistence on sacramental absolution.