Henry Ford would definitely be LDS

Henry Ford and the LDS church (most churches for that matter), at first glance, seem worlds apart—one a titan of industry, the other a beacon of faith. Yet both have mastered the art of the assembly line, transforming individuals into task-doers rather than visionaries. In Ford’s factories, the moving assembly line revolutionized production, churning out Model Ts with unmatched efficiency. Each worker, stationed along the belt, focused on a single, repetitive task—tightening a bolt, attaching a wheel—blind to the car’s final form or likely, at their current wage, when automobiles were still considered a luxury, unable to posses or purchase one. The genius of Ford’s system lay in its simplicity and scale, but it reduced workers to cogs, their hands busy but their minds seldom free to imagine beyond the part before them. Churches, too, often streamline devotion into an assembly line of the soul. Adherents move through prescribed rituals—sing this hymn, recite that prayer, serve in this role—each act a brick in a spiritual structure they rarely see in its entirety. The rhythm of routine offers comfort and order, but stifles the spark of personal revelation.

This mechanization breeds efficiency but dims creativity. Ford’s workers, tethered to their stations, were not encouraged to innovate; their role was to execute, not to dream. Similarly, churchgoers, bound by tradition or expectation, may fulfill their duties—attending services, volunteering, giving alms—without wrestling with the deeper mysteries of faith. Both systems prioritize compliance over curiosity, producing reliable outputs—cars or congregants—but rarely pioneers. A factory worker might climb to foreman, mastering one task only to oversee others, still bound to the line’s logic. A devoted churchgoer might rise to bishop or stake president, yet remain anchored to a script, not a living, breathing calling. When the ability to follow the spirit—whether of innovation or divine inspiration—fades, one becomes like a bird that no longer flies. Grounded, they peck at the task at hand, unable to soar and survey the vast acres of possibility below, where new paths or truths might be found.

Consider Thomas Edison, a man who defied the assembly-line mindset. He didn’t follow a manual; he chased the unknown, tinkering through thousands of failures to invent the lightbulb, illuminating the world in ways no one could have predicted. Edison’s restless curiosity stands in stark contrast to the factory worker or churchgoer confined to their station, their potential clipped by routine. Ford’s system needed workers to keep the line moving, just as churches need faithful adherents to sustain their communities. But without space to question, to experiment, to take flight into the uncharted, neither will produce an Edison nor a soul that truly grapples with the divine. The assembly line, whether in a factory, a chapel or a temple, can ground even the most vibrant spirit, turning eagles into creatures that merely peck at the ground, never seeing the horizon where innovation or God might be found.

Good Luck Thomas

Signed

John The-Not-So-Beloved