The Carrot, the Stick, and the Story We’re Actually Living In

An Invitation to Aim Higher

As Told By Jesus & Greg

Most people understand motivation through the old phrase the carrot and the stick.
The stick is punishment: do this or suffer.
The carrot is reward: do this and gain something desirable.

In everyday life, this framing is everywhere—grades, salaries, promotions, punishments, praise. It’s not subtle. Behavior is shaped by fear of loss or hope of gain. Even when we pretend we’re above it, we aren’t. We are story-shaped creatures, and incentives tell us what story we’re in.

Religion, too, has often been explained this way—sometimes crudely. Obey God or face consequences. Be righteous and receive blessings. Heaven and hell become the ultimate carrot and stick: infinite reward versus infinite loss.

And for many, that framing feels manipulative, transactional, or even embarrassing. Surely faith should be purer than that. Surely love of God shouldn’t need incentives.

But that discomfort reveals something important: it’s not that motivation is wrong—it’s that small stories are wrong. Cheap carrots feel insulting. Fear-based sticks feel coercive. What repels us isn’t motivation itself, but motivation that aims too low.

Religious Motivation Isn’t About Control—It’s About Invitation

When religion collapses into mere compliance management, it loses its power. But when it becomes an invitation into a larger story, something else happens. Desire doesn’t disappear—it gets re-aimed.

The scriptures are not shy about this. God repeatedly motivates people not merely with warnings, but with visions:

• A promised land
• A covenant people
• A city not yet built
• A kingdom not yet seen

These aren’t bribes. They’re recruitment posters.

And this is where the framing often gets misunderstood—especially with Jesus.

The Carrot Jesus Actually Uses

When I, Jesus, call someone into costly obedience, I do not merely warn about consequences—I tell a new story, one the world cannot tell. To Joseph Smith, to the early Saints, and to anyone willing to take up My cross, the encouragement is not subtle:

“A marvelous work and a wonder is about to come forth.”

That is not abstract consolation. It is recruitment language. It says: You are being invited into something unprecedented, something history has not yet seen, something heaven itself is leaning toward. I pair this promise with others just as bold: I will be with you. Angels will attend you. Powers beyond mortal sight will collaborate with you.

This is the carrot. I do not apologize for offering proximity to heaven as motivation. I do not hesitate to say: You will not be alone. You will not be small. You will not be wasting your life. I invite people into an elite circle—but not the kind the world recognizes.

And here is the daring question embedded in that invitation:

What—are you too good to spend your life with God and angels? Do you really prefer the company of impressive mortals—cool, rich, admired—over the infinitely wealthy sources of everything that is lovely, praiseworthy, and powerful?

I do not shame that instinct for status; I redirect it. I say: If you want to belong to something elite, eternal, and consequential, come with Me.

This is not manipulation. It is mercy. I meet human desire where it already lives and say: Aim higher.

The cross is heavy—but the story is magnificent. And for those who can hear it, the promise of walking with God, laboring with angels, and participating in a work that will echo beyond mortality is not a deterrent. It is irresistible.