When I finally got here to the life-changing realization that I used to be a perfectionist, I told an in depth friend. She laughed. It was already obvious to her then, and in hindsight, it’s obvious to me now. Still, by the point I recognized it, perfectionism had already marked my walk with God for a long time.
Psychologists who study perfectionism define it as a personality disposition characterised by extremely high standards and overly critical self-evaluations. These two characteristics are referred to as “perfectionistic strivings” and “perfectionistic concerns.” Most perfectionists don’t experience perfectionistic strivings and concerns in all areas of life. Rather, their perfectionism is targeted on select domains similar to sports, work, academics, relationships, physical appearance, or—as is my case, and that of many Christians— spirituality.
I’m a Christian perfectionist. My perfectionism is an anti-Midas, turning moments dark on the slightest touch. It twists my view of the past. While I realize it’s not fair to expect, say, 19-year-old me to have acted as I’d now, once I look back, my predominant feeling is commonly regret. I must have cared more, known higher, been different.
Perfectionism keeps me second-guessing my selections too. It brushes against the desires I even have to do good, and what was once a joyful, exciting opportunity to like others becomes beset with self-doubt and questioning. Am I doing this for the best reasons? Is this really God’s will? What if I do more harm than good?
In the past, once I suffered larger failures and committed larger sins, I often plunged into despair. You won’t ever be ok. You’re fake. Are you sureyou’re a Christian? You are so self-centered, even now in your supposed repentance. Nowadays, my perfectionism tends to be subtler: a low-level guilt or anxiety lurking in my gut once I’m attempting to rest; the sensation at the tip of the day that I didn’t do all I must have, even once I’m unsure what I neglected.
Fear of failure, rumination about past mistakes, decision paralysis—given how distressing perfectionistic concerns are, it might feel natural to conclude that our perfectionistic strivings are themselves the issue. That is, the issue with perfectionists is that we want to be perfect.
This is the idea behind advice commonly given to Christian perfectionists: Focus on loving others as an alternative. Believe the gospel more. Be humbler. Repent of your perfectionism. Just stop trying so hard. Not only do these proposed solutions often effectively add to our running lists of things we want to vary about ourselves—to truly be perfect, we want to stop being perfectionists—they imply that our problem is a misguided, possibly sinful, desire for perfection.
But is that basically it? Are we improper to wish to be perfect? Is the pursuit of perfection a idiot’s errand—or, even worse, a symptom of people-pleasing, pride, or gospel-less religion, as some might suggest? Or could it’s that something more is occurring?
Years ago, I stumbled upon an editorial by theologian D. A. Carson that shed much-needed light on the guts of my very own perfectionism. In “Perfectionisms,” published in Themelios, Carson describes real, Christ-centered believers who understand and love the gospel yet still struggle with despair over their sin. Up until then, I’d largely heard Christians address perfectionism by way of pride or unbelief within the gospel. But Carson writes of a “species” of perfectionism that isn’t a matter of ego or doctrine. Rather, those that struggle with this kind of perfectionism are “so uncomfortable with their wrestlings [over sin] because they know they ought to be higher.”
This is the crux of the Christian perfectionist’s struggle: We must be higher, and we realize it. At the guts of it, we aren’t legalistically attempting to earn our salvation or seek people’s praise. Rather, aiming to run hard after God, we feel every day the load of our failures to like him and neighbor as we must always. Most Christian perfectionists, buckling under the load of a tortured conscience, sorrowful over even the smallest of sins, and desperately wanting to do right by God, are eager for a perfection commanded by God himself (Matt. 5:48).
So, the query stays: If the answer isn’t to stop striving for perfection, what can we do about our “perfectionistic concerns”? How can we pursue holiness without constant self-doubt after we know we’re going to sin again? How can we seek to obey God without being paralyzed by fear of stumbling? How can we now have peace and joy in relationship with God after we keep failing him?
In other words, how can a Christian perfectionist find rest?
Jesus once spoke to those exhausted of their pursuit of God. “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I provides you with rest,” he said. “Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I’m gentle and lowly in heart, and you can find rest on your souls. For my yoke is simple and my burden is light” (Matt. 11:28–30).
Although this passage is commonly used to encourage those that are drained in a general sense, Jesus was addressing something more specific and of particular help to the Christian perfectionist. In The Coming of the Kingdom, theologian Herman Ridderbos explains that the language of “yoke” was utilized in the Jewish tradition to consult with a confession of monotheism and a commitment of obedience to God’s law. This yoke was “taken up” when an individual became Jewish and each time they obeyed the law.
Laboring under the cruel standards imposed by the Jewish religious leaders, though, Jesus’ listeners had grown weary under what they thought were God’s demands. The religious teachers of the day had tied up heavy burdens and laid them on their followers without lifting a finger to assist (Matt. 23:4). Knowing this, Jesus says, Take up my commandments, my yoke and my burden; learn from me as an alternative.
Twice on this short passage Jesus guarantees rest, hearkening back to God’s words through the prophet Jeremiah: “Stand on the crossroads and look; ask for the traditional paths, ask where the great way is, and walk in it, and you can find rest on your souls” (6:16, emphasis mine). Where is that this ancient path? This great way we are able to walk in without weariness? It is with me, says Jesus. The rest Jesus guarantees we’ll find is the remainder he gives, and we receive it in relationship with him.
Perfectionism is complicated. Its causes are varied and there is no such thing as a quick fix to the anxiety, guilt, and scrupulosity that plague us. Thankfully, Jesus knows this, so his word to the weary is just not simply do that or imagine this more. It is relational. Come to me. Learn from me. As Christian perfectionists come to know God as he truly is, we are going to find that he’s much more gracious, patient, gentle, righteous, and merciful than we can have dared to imagine. And as we experience the way in which he deals bountifully with in-process people like us, our souls will begin to search out the remainder we desperately need (Ps. 116:7).
Our Savior doesn’t berate us for being weary or shame us for our guilt. He sees us as we—failing him and eaten up inside due to it—do our greatest to follow him. Thus, with compassion, his invitation goes out: Christian perfectionist, come. Find rest on your soul.
Faith Chang is the creator of Peace over Perfection. She serves at Grace Christian Church of Staten Island and on the editorial board of SOLA Network.
This article has been adapted from Peace over Perfection by Faith Chang. Published by The Good Book Company 2024 and utilized by permission.
