On August 23, 2021, Jeffrey R. Holland stood before Brigham Young University’s faculty, staff, and administrators at the school’s annual University Conference in Provo, Utah. Holland was not merely a visiting Church leader. He was a former president of BYU, a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, and, at the time, chairman of the executive committee of the university’s Board of Trustees. His address, titled “The Second Half of the Second Century of Brigham Young University,” was presented as a reflection on BYU’s future and the religious mission that, in his view, must continue to distinguish it from other universities.
The full speech was shared by @byuspheeches
The timing could hardly have been more charged. That same day, BYU president Kevin Worthen announced the creation of a new Office of Belonging, intended to coordinate the university’s efforts to address prejudice and help marginalized members of the campus community feel included.
Yet BYU was still dealing with deep mistrust among many of its LGBTQ students. In 2020, the university removed a section of its Honor Code that explicitly prohibited “homosexual behavior.” Some students initially understood the change to mean that same-sex dating and ordinary expressions of affection would no longer be punished. Weeks later, Church Educational System officials clarified that same-sex romantic behavior remained incompatible with the Honor Code. The reversal prompted protests and left some students saying they had been encouraged to come out under what proved to be a mistaken understanding of the new rules.
There was also the lingering controversy surrounding Matt Easton, a BYU political science valedictorian who had publicly come out during his approved 2019 convocation address. Standing before fellow graduates, Easton described himself as “a gay son of God,” turning a brief personal statement into a widely shared moment of LGBTQ visibility at one of the country’s most conservative religious universities.
The speech was shared by @matty_easton, on April 26, 2019
Holland referred unmistakably to Easton’s speech without naming him. He questioned why a graduation platform had been used to announce a student’s sexual orientation and complained that the moment had become a public symbol of what some people hoped BYU would become.
If a student commandeers a graduation podium intended to represent everyone getting diplomas that day in order to announce his personal sexual orientation, what might another speaker feel free to announce the next year, until eventually anything goes? What might commencement come to mean—or not mean—if we push individual license over institutional dignity for very long? Do we simply end up with more divisiveness in our culture than we already have? And we already have far too much everywhere.
From there, Holland broadened his criticism. He warned faculty against directing “friendly fire” toward the Church and repeated a metaphor calling for more “musket fire” from BYU in defense of the Church’s teachings on marriage and the family.
That language would dominate the public response, but the speech’s importance reaches beyond a single inflammatory metaphor. Holland was laying out a philosophy of institutional control. He praised scholarship, compassion, and academic accomplishment, but only within boundaries established by Church doctrine and ecclesiastical authority. His message was that BYU should not become more like other universities, especially when academic culture, faculty expression, or student visibility appeared to challenge the Church’s established teachings.
BYU Is a Church Institution First, a University Second
The central message of Holland's address becomes clear from the beginning. Although he praises BYU's academic achievements, rankings, and growing reputation, he insists that these accomplishments are secondary to the university's religious mission.
He reminds his audience that BYU exists as an extension of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He notes that the university is funded by faithful tithe payers, governed by a Board of Trustees composed primarily of Church leaders, and ultimately accountable to prophets and apostles rather than academic organizations or accreditation bodies.
...until “we all come [to] the unity of the faith, and . . . [have grown to] the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ,” our next best achievement will be to stay in harmony with the Lord’s anointed, those whom He has designated to declare Church doctrine and to guide Brigham Young University as its trustees.
That distinction is at the heart of the speech. Holland is not asking BYU to become the best university it can be in the traditional sense. He is asking it to become the best Church university it can be.
There is nothing inherently dishonest about that position. Private religious universities have every right to define their own missions. But Holland's vision raises an unavoidable question about the nature of higher education itself.
Academic Freedom Comes With an Invisible Boundary
One of the most striking aspects of Holland's address is that he never argues against academic freedom outright. In fact, he repeatedly praises intellectual rigor, excellent scholarship, and the work of BYU's faculty. He speaks warmly of professors who have earned national recognition, advanced their fields, and helped establish BYU's academic reputation. At first glance, his vision appears entirely compatible with the ideals of higher education.
But those endorsements come with an unmistakable qualification.
Throughout the speech, Holland reminds faculty that scholarship at BYU is not an end in itself. It exists to support the university's religious mission. Professors are encouraged to educate, research, and publish, but they are also expected to strengthen faith, defend revealed doctrine, and avoid undermining the Church or its leaders. Academic freedom is celebrated only insofar as it remains consistent with those expectations.
At a university there will always be healthy debate regarding a whole syllabus full of issues. But until “we all come [to] the unity of the faith, and . . . [have grown to] the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ,” our next best achievement will be to stay in harmony with the Lord’s anointed, those whom He has designated to declare Church doctrine and to guide Brigham Young University as its trustees.
At most research universities, academic freedom means that evidence is allowed to challenge existing assumptions, even when the conclusions prove unpopular or inconvenient. A professor who discovers evidence that overturns a long-held theory is generally expected to publish those findings, wherever they may lead.
Holland's framework is different. At BYU, the institution begins with the assumption that the restored gospel is true and that prophetic teachings are authoritative. Scholarship is welcomed, but it is expected to operate within that framework rather than question it.
The practical implications are difficult to ignore. Suppose a historian uncovers evidence that challenges a traditional Church narrative. Suppose a biologist reaches conclusions that conflict with official doctrinal positions. Suppose a sociologist finds that certain Church policies produce measurable harm for particular groups of members. What happens then?
Does the evidence invite the institution to reconsider its position?
Or is the researcher expected to reinterpret, soften, or simply avoid conclusions that conflict with prophetic teaching?
Holland does not explicitly answer those questions, but his speech strongly suggests where the line is drawn. He repeatedly emphasizes that BYU faculty are expected to defend the Church rather than merely study it. Their work should strengthen the institution's mission, not cast doubt upon it.
My beloved brothers and sisters, “a house . . . divided against itself . . . cannot stand,” and I will go to my grave pleading that this institution not only stands but stands unquestionably committed to its unique academic mission and to the Church that sponsors it.
That expectation creates what might be described as an invisible boundary. Faculty are free to pursue difficult questions until those questions begin to challenge settled doctrine. Beyond that point, the university's commitment to revelation takes precedence over its commitment to legitimate inquiry.
"Musket Fire"
No phrase from Holland's address has received more attention than his call for more "musket fire." Within hours of the speech, the metaphor became the focus of headlines, social media debates, and public criticism. For many observers, it came to define the entire address.
To this, Elder Oaks then challengingly responded, “I would like to hear a little more musket fire from this temple of learning.” He said this in a way that could have applied to a host of topics in various departments, but the one he specifically mentioned was the doctrine of the family and defending marriage as the union of a man and a woman.
Taken in context, however, Holland was not issuing a literal call to violence. He was repeating language previously used by Dallin H. Oaks, who had himself quoted Elder Neal A. Maxwell in describing the defense of the Church's doctrine. Holland's point was that BYU faculty should be more willing to defend the Church's teachings against criticism, particularly on issues of marriage, family, and sexuality. The metaphor was rhetorical, not physical.
That context matters. Criticizing the speech does not require pretending Holland was encouraging acts of violence. There is no evidence that he intended his audience to interpret the phrase literally.
Yet the criticism does not disappear simply because the metaphor was figurative.
Language shapes culture, and military metaphors inevitably frame disagreements in military terms. When professors are urged to provide "musket fire," doctrinal disagreement begins to resemble a battlefield rather than an academic discussion. Ideas are no longer simply debated. They are defended, attacked, fortified, and repelled.
That framing becomes especially significant because of the subject Holland was addressing. Much of the speech concerns LGBTQ students, faculty, and public expressions of support for same-sex relationships. By invoking martial imagery in that context, the conversation shifts away from understanding the experiences of those students and toward protecting the institution from perceived threats to its doctrine.
Even if unintentionally, the metaphor changes the roles each side occupies. Faculty who affirm traditional Church teachings become defenders. Those who question those teachings, or even publicly identify as LGBTQ, can appear as the opposing force against which those defenses must be organized.
The timing also amplified the reaction. By 2021, the United States had experienced years of highly publicized mass shootings, including attacks on schools and universities. In that environment, references to muskets, friendly fire, and defending institutional boundaries carried a different emotional weight than they might have decades earlier. While Holland almost certainly intended historical military imagery rather than modern gun violence, many listeners understandably heard something more immediate.
Ultimately, the controversy surrounding the phrase was never about whether Holland literally encouraged violence. It was about the kind of culture his language reinforced. Universities are often at their best when they encourage disagreement through evidence, dialogue, and critical examination. Military metaphors suggest a different model, one in which disagreement becomes conflict, opponents become enemies, and defending established positions takes precedence over understanding those who challenge them.
Love Without Affirmation
Throughout the address, Holland returns to a theme that has become common in modern Church discussions about LGBTQ members: love must never be confused with approval. He insists that every person deserves kindness, compassion, and respect while also maintaining that the Church cannot alter what it teaches about marriage, sexuality, and eternal families. In Holland's view, these are not competing values. Christians are called to love everyone while remaining faithful to God's commandments.
For many Latter-day Saints, that distinction is both sincere and meaningful. It reflects a genuine desire to avoid hatred or mistreatment while remaining loyal to religious conviction. Many may recognize that the principle is rooted in a familiar New Testament idea. Jesus associated with tax collectors, prostitutes, and other social outcasts, yet He also called them to "go, and sin no more." Holland applies that same framework to contemporary issues. He argues that Christlike love requires welcoming individuals without changing the moral standards the Church believes God has established.
However, for many LGBTQ members and former members, the distinction feels far less workable. If a student is told they are loved exactly as they are, but the person they hope to marry can never be recognized, affirmed, or celebrated by their university, what message do they ultimately receive? If a same-sex relationship is always described as incompatible with God's plan, can repeated assurances of love overcome the practical reality that one of the most important parts of a person's life will never be accepted?
These questions become even more difficult within the context of BYU. The university regulates not only classroom conduct but many aspects of student life through its Honor Code. LGBTQ students are not simply hearing a theological opinion in Sunday worship. They are living under institutional policies shaped by that theology. Their ability to date openly, express affection, marry, or envision a future within the faith is directly affected by those beliefs.
Holland repeatedly assures his audience that everyone is welcome at BYU. At the same time, he makes equally clear that the university will not reconsider its teachings on same-sex relationships, regardless of changing cultural attitudes or the experiences of LGBTQ students.
“Friendly Fire”
One of the most revealing parts of Holland’s speech received far less attention than the “musket fire” metaphor. Before calling on BYU faculty to defend Church teachings, Holland warned that some of the damage facing the institution was coming from within. He described criticism from faculty and employees as “friendly fire,” suggesting that people who were supposed to be strengthening BYU had instead turned their intellectual influence against the Church.
Musket fire? Yes, we will always need defenders of the faith, but “friendly fire” is a tragedy—and from time to time the Church, its leaders, and some of our colleagues within the university community have taken such fire on this campus. And sometimes it isn’t friendly, wounding students and the parents of students—so many who are confused about what so much recent flag-waving and parade-holding on this issue means.
The phrase does more than criticize a few careless remarks. It establishes a clear expectation for how faculty members should relate to the institution that employs them. Professors may study difficult subjects, engage controversial questions, and offer thoughtful analysis, but they are not supposed to publicly undermine the Church’s teachings or weaken confidence in its leaders.
At a university there will always be healthy debate regarding a whole syllabus full of issues. But until “we all come [to] the unity of the faith, and . . . [have grown to] the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ,” our next best achievement will be to stay in harmony with the Lord’s anointed, those whom He has designated to declare Church doctrine and to guide Brigham Young University as its trustees.
Holland frames this expectation partly in terms of responsibility to students and their families. Parents send their children to BYU believing that the university will strengthen their faith rather than challenge it. Many of those families also contribute tithing funds that help subsidize the university. From Holland’s perspective, faculty members who use their positions to question Church doctrine violate that trust. Their criticism does not remain inside a classroom or academic journal. It can unsettle students, alarm parents, and damage the religious mission BYU was created to serve.
That concern is understandable within a Church-run institution. Faculty members accept employment at a university with an openly religious mission, and students often choose BYU precisely because they expect an education shaped by Latter-day Saint belief.
Still, the language of “friendly fire” exposes the limits of acceptable disagreement.
At most universities, faculty members are expected to examine the institution itself as critically as they examine any other subject. Professors can challenge university policies, criticize administrators, dispute prevailing assumptions, and publicly argue that the institution is wrong. That freedom is not viewed as betrayal. It is often treated as part of the university’s intellectual health.
Holland presents internal criticism differently. Once disagreement is described as gunfire coming from one’s own side, the professor is no longer simply a scholar raising concerns. The professor becomes a disloyal participant in a larger conflict.
That framing can create pressure even when no formal censorship occurs. Faculty members do not need to be explicitly told which conclusions are forbidden if they understand that certain conclusions may be viewed as attacks on the Church. The boundary becomes self-enforcing. A professor may soften criticism, avoid particular subjects, or remain silent rather than risk being seen as someone firing on their own institution.
This is especially troubling when the disputed issue concerns the institution’s treatment of vulnerable students. A faculty member who believes a policy is harmful may feel a professional or moral responsibility to say so. But under Holland’s framework, public criticism can itself be portrayed as another source of harm, one that wounds believing students, disappoints parents, and weakens the university’s mission.
The difficult question is whether institutional loyalty should outweigh that responsibility.
Should a professor publicly challenge a university policy they believe is unjust? At most universities, the answer would be yes, provided the criticism is honest and professionally grounded. Holland’s answer appears more conditional. Faculty may disagree, but only within boundaries that do not threaten confidence in the Church, its doctrine, or its appointed leaders.
My beloved brothers and sisters, “a house . . . divided against itself . . . cannot stand,” and I will go to my grave pleading that this institution not only stands but stands unquestionably committed to its unique academic mission and to the Church that sponsors it.
The “friendly fire” passage makes the hierarchy clear. Faculty members are not merely employees of a university or independent scholars within an academic community. They are participants in a religious project, and their freedom to criticize is measured against their duty to protect it.
The Larger Question
Years after it was delivered, Jeffrey R. Holland's address continues to be remembered for a single phrase: "musket fire." That metaphor sparked headlines, social media debates, faculty responses, and public criticism. But focusing too narrowly on those words risks overlooking what the speech was actually trying to accomplish.
Traditionally, higher education is built on the assumption that no conclusion is beyond examination. Every theory, historical interpretation, philosophical claim, and scientific hypothesis remains open to revision if new evidence warrants it. Universities are expected to follow evidence wherever it leads, even when the results challenge long-standing assumptions or institutional interests.
A secular research university has every right to prioritize unrestricted inquiry. A private religious university has every right to define its educational mission around shared theological commitments. The tension arises when an institution seeks recognition as both a world-class research university and a place where some of the most consequential questions have already been answered before the research begins.
That tension runs through every major theme of Holland's address. It explains his concern about faculty criticism, his emphasis on defending doctrine, his warnings about "friendly fire," and his insistence that BYU remain distinct from its secular peers. None of those ideas exist in isolation. They all flow from the same conviction that a university's highest responsibility is not to discover religious truth but to preserve what has already been decided. which begs the question, Can an institution truly be a first-rate university if some of its most important conclusions are settled before the investigation begins?
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