Hope for Perfectionists
I’m a perfectionist at heart. My desk is tidy, my house is orderly, I block out my schedule into neat hours and to-do lists, and I strive to hit every criteria for my assignments. My bookshelf is organized (by subject and alphabetically), and my pictures are all hanging straight on my walls. At times I’ve believed such perfectionism to be a virtue—and one that everyone should strive for.
Yet I know how this “virtue” can be a thorn in my side as well. The sleepless nights of tossing and turning, wondering if I really did do my best on that essay. The exhaustion from scrubbing my kitchen that will never become clean to me. The hours spent working on a project that I will only ever see the imperfections in. As a perfectionist, mistakes aren’t lessons to be learned but whips to lash myself with.
“As a perfectionist, mistakes aren’t lessons to be learned but whips to lash myself with.”
The thorns of perfectionism also curl into my faith. Grace is like a math problem I can’t solve—how do I add nothing to my faith yet gain eternal life? Every sin can be faith rattling. I stand outside the doors of Heaven not daring to come close to the throne fearing the disappointment and contempt my Father must have for me because of my failures.
Can you relate?
Perfectionism paints a pretty, promising picture for us: Our hearts will be at rest and our minds will be at peace; every loose end will be tied up and every wrinkle smoothed out—because we’ll work hard to make it so. But each day perfectionism brings us no closer to that promise and instead leaves us exhausted, frustrated, anxious, and hopeless.
You’ll never receive all that perfectionism flaunts in promises. But if you rest in Christ and his model for growth, you’ll find true rest and peace.
Rest in Christ’s Work
As perfectionists, our eyes target every flaw—in our work, our bodies, and our hearts. Yet, in all our nit-picking and error-assessing, we still don’t grasp the full extent of our sinfulness or its horrors until we hold ourselves against the law. As a reflection of God’s holiness, it demands no less than perfect, holy obedience without the slightest speck of evil (whether intentional or unintentional).
Jesus preached a sermon on this. Where the law says, “Do not murder,” he declared that hating someone is still worthy of God’s wrath (Matt. 5:21–26). Where the law says, “Do not commit adultery,” Jesus declared that even a private, lustful glance counts as filthy corruption (Matt. 5:27–30). We may hold ourselves to high standards, but the law calls us even higher. Only a truly perfect person could keep this law. And that’s what God required for eternal life.
But Jesus didn’t preach this sermon on the law to burden us. Before he began preaching the law, he proclaimed himself as the one who came to fulfill it. “Don’t think that I came to abolish the Law or the Prophets. I did not come to abolish but to fulfill. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not the smallest letter or one stroke of a letter will pass away from the law until all things are accomplished” (Matt. 5:17–18 CSB).
When God set the standards for eternal life, he knew our frame. He knew our inability even before the first sin in Eden. So in eternity past the Trinity covenanted together to send Christ (God incarnate) to fulfill this holy law. As Paul wrote,
So then, as through one trespass there is condemnation for everyone, so also through one righteous act there is justification leading to life for everyone. For just as through one man’s disobedience the many were made sinners, so also through the one man’s obedience the many will be made righteous. The law came along to multiply the trespass. But where sin multiplied, grace multiplied even more so that, just as sin reigned in death, so also grace will reign through righteousness, resulting in eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord. (Rom. 5:18–21 CSB)
But more than the perfect life was necessary. Blood had to be shed for our sins (Heb. 9:22). And not just any blood. Like the sacrificial lambs of the Old Testament that couldn’t have one speckle or defect, so the sacrifice to atone for our sins had to be even greater in perfection and holiness. So Christ—having already fulfilled the law—became sin for us and endured God’s wrath in our place on the cross. Christ endured God’s billowing wrath against each of our sins and the dark isolation from his presence so that we never would.
Brother or sister in Christ, take heart! Those sins you hate are washed away by Christ’s blood. Your confessions don’t require self-flagellation, because yours sins have already been atoned for. The law is fulfilled so you can obey from a place of rest and gratitude.
Peace with the Father
“With each sin we confess we likewise cower, imagining God scowling down at us. But that’s not how our Father sees us.”
Knowing how insidious our sins are and what was required for them, we often balk in God’s presence. With each sin we confess we likewise cower, imagining God scowling down at us. But that’s not how our Father sees us at all. “When we feel as if our thoughts, words, and deeds are diminishing God’s grace towards us,” Dane Ortland writes, “those sins and failures are in fact causing it to surge forward all the more” (Gentle and Lowly, 68). Our heavenly Father draws near to us in our sin. He sees our grief over our sins and draws us to himself to be healed. As Thomas Goodwin further explained,
The greater the misery is, the more is the pity when the party is beloved. Now of all miseries, sin is the greatest; and while you look at it as such, Christ will look upon it as such also. And he, loving your persons, and hating only the sin, his hatred shall all fall, and that only upon the sin, to free you of it by its ruin and destruction, but his affections shall be the more drawn out to you; and this is as much when you lie under sin as under any other affliction. (Thomas Goodwin, The Heart of Christ, 155–156)
We have peace with the Father. He doesn’t look at us with disdain. He doesn’t shake his finger and scold. Instead, he embraces us and leads us to wholeness.
Trust in Jesus’s Model for Growth
Just as he doesn’t growl at us like a displeased parent, he also doesn’t become impatient with us in our slow growth. Rather, that’s the exact pace he intended for it.
We like to think of our sanctification as a hundred-meter dash; it’s not easy, but if we just stick our necks forward, push through the pain, and grit our teeth a little, it will be over before we know it. But our sanctification is more like a week-long backpacking trip—the terrain is rugged, we lose momentum at times, we frequently stop for rest and nourishment, and there are multiple storms to trudge through. Chad Bird describes it this way:
It happens slowly and without pageantry. It happens when we stop insisting that the Spirit hurry up and do something that’ll leave us perched on the edge of our seats. It happens when we sober up from our addiction to immediacy. “Hurry up!” is not in our Lord’s vocabulary. He’s not out to stimulate us with titillating episodes of divine entertainment. In little ways, over long periods of time, with the patience of eternity, he’s re-creating us by his Word, in his church, to walk out the doors of the sanctuary, bearing on our lips the language of light to speak into a world choking in darkness. (Chad Bird, Your God Is Too Glorious, 130–131)
This truth is a balm to our perfectionist hearts. We aren’t going to be perfect on this earth. And that’s no surprise to anyone, especially not God. He’s okay with our slowness. When my three-year-old takes his time toddling down the walking paths, I clench my jaw and prod him to move quicker. But God isn’t like us. Rather, he takes our hand (and at times scoops us up when our feet become too sore) and comes alongside us in each step towards eternity (Phil. 1:6).
Growing in the Gospel, Not Better and Better
As perfectionists, we take pride in our ability to be the best—to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps into perfection. Yet the gospel calls us to something different. It says we’re weak. It’s says we’re sinful. It says to look out from yourself and up to Christ. As Michael Horton wrote, “Sanctification is not treated in Scripture mainly as a matter of getting better and better (a more individualistic approach centered on the self), but as a life of looking up to Christ and out to our neighbors in love and service,” (Pilgrim Theology, 318).
When I’m fretting and flitting around chaotically trying to maintain the perfect home, perfect articles, perfect meals, perfect children, perfect habits, and overall a perfect faith, I’m no longer serving God or my neighbor. It may seem like I’m trying to love those around me by providing perfection, but instead I only care about making myself better and creating a better world around me for my own peace of mind.
Yet Christ calls me to a different work ethic. He desires for us to cease striving to be perfect to impress God and others. You’ll never find peace, rest, or salvation there. Rest in his perfect work of redemption, and let your work be done with gratitude and joy, despite its imperfections. You have nothing to earn, because everything pertaining to life, godliness, and salvation have already been given to you. Look up to Christ, and love your neighbor as one who has been saved by grace.
Rest in Christ’s work, friend. Perfectionism offers a skewed glimpse of hope and rest in our own perfection. Yet each day we fall short, leaving us restless and anxious instead. God offers tangible, attainable hope in the very real Christ. The Father, knowing our weak frame, offers us rest in his Son. Believe in God’s grace for your slowness. Lean on Christ and not your own striving.
Lara d’Entremont is a wife, mother, writer, and biblical counselor. She desires to stir women to love God with their minds and hearts by equipping them with practical theology. You can find more of her writing at laradentremont.com.