I grew up very staunchly within the Latter-day Saint faith tradition. In terms of heritage, I am as Mormon as they come: my ancestors included a bodyguard to Joseph Smith, pioneers fleeing persecution, and polygynous colonizers. I am a product of prominent Mormon lines like Romneys and Crocketts, my great-grandfather was president of Brigham Young University, and I was a preacher’s kid. I declared in early adolescence that I was committed to becoming the Mormon equivalent of a nun, I later anxiously petitioned the church to allow me to serve a proselytizing mission at an earlier age than policy permitted, and I eventually taught LDS “Seminary” while also engaging in apologetics.

Throughout my history as a Mormon, I also grappled with scrupulosity-flavored OCD, maladaptive perfectionism, and existential depression.

One LDS dogma is the idea that humankind holds the potential to become “as God now is."¹ While this tenet has not been authoritatively explicated and has been described by a recent church president as deeper than present revelation allows to be understood,² the common doctrinal understanding within broader church membership is not merely one of a participatory divinization of human hypostasis but of an ontologically indistinct, cosmologically dispensational polytheism within the context of perpetual creatio ex materia.

The hope for radical deification offers an existentially-robust purpose for engagement in spiritual disciplines (in which Mormons as a whole tend to do rather well); the sense of an eternal-duration call to divinity naturally ties with soteriology and thus provides ballast and gravitas to what can feel like futile behavioral effort. This connection between theosis and the practice of Christ-like living is of course not unique to Mormon sects; the Eastern Orthodox tradition, for which soteriology too hinges in part on “works,” emphasizes that deification begins in mortality. While the conceptualized end result of divinized essence versus energy differs between churches, the praxis is largely the same.

My interdenominational studies within the context of LDS apologetics (which studies were in retrospect also an expression of subconscious seeking) exposed me to the writings of John Calvin. The concept of total depravity intrigued me, even if it involved an understanding of agency wholly opposed to the theology I subscribed to. What could be the point of mortal existence if access to free will was not universal? How could believers’ self-determined will not in reality be coerced if that will is only accessible through a liberation that is reflective of a predestined entrance into a saving relationship with a sovereign God, which salvation then inherently imbues perseverance? Moreover, how could anyone who believes that sinfulness affects every facet of their being experience any semblance of confidence and self-assurance? Clearly, I was missing the point.

As a Mormon, I worked very hard to qualify myself for what I call ‘salvation-by-grace-through-faith-by-works.’ I devoted strenuous effort to spiritual disciplines. I gave generously to those in need and took up the case of the stranger. I offered a tithe of my time through dedicated proselytizing efforts, and that evangelism was fruitful. I thought it was all in the aim of bringing glory to the god that I knew, but in reality it was a scramble born primarily of desperation for salvation.

By grace alone in the form of a chronically traumatic life and consequent rock-bottom devastation, I eventually came to understand the more biblically-sound perspective of my total reliance on God’s goodness, and I abandoned my extreme zeal for the traditions of my Mormon fathers in exchange for the more humble beliefs shared by my earlier, Puritan progenitors. In that transition, my ontological view of self was deeply abased, and I came to understand my true place in relation to the Creator and that I would never in essence be like Him. While I am not unaware that various doctrines of theosis exist within Western Christianity (including in Calvin’s theology), it’s clear to me that they emphasize humanity’s eternal subordination to the Triune God.

It may be surprising to learn that in yielding my ego from a hyper-Arminian LDS perspective that espoused humankind’s inherent goodness and “future God”-status to a Reformed view on humanity’s radical corruption, my plaguing sense of moral shame that manifested in mental illness has dissipated.

The god I had previously worshipped was somewhat of a spiritual psychologist. I went to him seeking wisdom, placation of my insecurities, and a cognitive-behavioral filling of my gaps. I wanted a god who saw my zeal and my obedience and counted it unto me for righteousness. And so the only true God became a stumbling-block as opposed to the chief cornerstone of a sure foundation. Because grace was defined as divine aid in becoming Godly by “trying to change ourselves through repentance and righteousness,"³ I didn’t desire a true savior. I didn’t seek radical transformation from beyond myself; I simply wanted help managing my sin.

And when that sin is viewed as a matter of debt modification, it keeps one’s focus on arm-of-flesh willpower and fosters obsession around the inevitable reality of not being good enough.

“Good enough,” I’ve learned, strives to meet a basic emotional need of every human: that of being loved. The quality of my outward performance had long been tied to the amount of warmth and fondness I was offered. This was not only my theological perception with regards to qualifying for grace; it was also unfortunately the message I received on a more palpable level from those who surrounded me growing up. Measuring up required constant yet unsustainable hustle, and each instance of even subjective improvement raised the bar for what was expected. The religious culture applied the concept of backsliding on a seemingly minute-to-minute level such that any sin felt like it carried the weight of broad apostasy. Obsessive-compulsive repentance was an understandable (and not uncommon) response to this hyper-conditional security; when one is taught that they are inherently good yet the grace of a highly legalistic god is viewed through somewhat of a karmic lens, the reality of inevitably coming up short creates the perception of gravely unmet spiritual potential, which naturally fosters self-loathing and existential despair. Expressed love was wholly qualified, which wielded attachment injury on both spiritual and interpersonal levels.

But coming to eventually believe that I was unfathomably and inseparably loved by God even while under the wholly-damning power of sin? It has been like filling my lungs with His life-giving ruach for the first time after nearly three decades of anxiously holding my breath. Being incapable of either qualifying or disqualifying myself from the Lord’s love and saving grace means that my deep longing and need for relationship will never not be met. And in the context of this intimacy, I cannot cast away my confidence.

Witnessing God’s work of sanctification in me has been astounding, especially given the short span of time since I came to faith. I truly can feel myself being built into a spiritual house, a new creation imputed with righteousness. Through no goodness of my own, my subjective capacity to love those who think or behave differently than me is beyond anything I’ve previously experienced. I’ve made acquaintance with forbearance and perseverance. Non-religious friends who first met me in my post-Mormon, willfully agnostic pantheist stage tell me that the believer they see now seems more like “Jennifer” than the person they knew and loved before. But beyond that, understanding my true status in relation to God has opened the door to that mysterious liberation of the will as manifested through a Willardian apprenticeship to Christ; for the first time, engagement in spiritual disciplines acts as a receptacle for grace and an inwardly transforming ability to live well. Reciprocal agapē is a much more effective motivator than fear could ever be.

Additionally, widening the understood divide between my nature and that of uncreated deity has made salvation and transformation all the more strikingly beautiful. There is powerful truth in the words usually attributed to Leonard Ravenhill that “Jesus didn’t come to make bad people good, but to make dead people alive.” Understanding the radical nature of my spiritual deadness has opened my eyes to the reality that the dead don’t gain much of anything with mere forgiveness. The dead need a miracle, a supernatural intervention that they could neither cause nor earn. Hallelujah that this intervention of spiritual resurrection has been made in the first fruits of them that slept!

Where is my psychological health now? In truth, it’s not great. The tragic life that drove me like a nail into the sure place that is Jesus of Nazareth also left me with deep and pervasive symptoms of trauma that will likely require a lifetime to work through. Still, I would make that trade-off over and over again.

But my existential anxiety and depression? That has all been very much removed. For the first time in my life, my perfectionism now manifests as adaptive high standards without the self-shame of discrepancy. A deep sense of gratitude for the gift of grace invigorates me in my daily labor and in the desire to know Christ and make Him known.

Truly, a position of greater humility in recognizing my very limiting finitude has fostered a greater sense of inner dignity as I’ve come to understand the magnitude of what God has given me, believe that I am His beloved, and recognize His image imprinted in me more and more. Indeed, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me; ‘twas grace that taught my heart to fear and grace my fears relieved.

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