Gethsemane in the Temple

Would I Shrink From My Bitter Cup?

Feb 28, 2024

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Scripture pages gently crinkle. A woman whispers indiscernibly behind me. Soft organ music warms the silence. Eyes scrunch into smiles as they lock with mine. A familiar depiction of Jesus watches from a frame. In case my eighteen-year-old baby face isn’t a dead giveaway, a slip of paper pinned to my shirt lets helpful workers know this is my first time in the temple. My mother's arm squeezes lightly around my shoulder. All in white, I am indistinguishable from everyone else. I am safe, secure, and gathered in, but my mind and body are not convinced.

The people around me look good in white, unified and pure. But my mind turns to the verse about whited sepulchers, then to wolves in sheep's clothing. I think of blood-spotted linen. I imagine muddy tracks on the plush carpet, ending at my feet. I nervously adjust my tie and pluck out a neck hair I must have missed with the razor. Then another. My mind plays a scene of myself abruptly standing and screaming profanity. My brow furrows and my body winces at the thought.

I think forward to the plane that will fly me to the mission field in eastern Ukraine in a few short months. It feels like I’m already strapped into my seat and picking up speed down the runway. This isn't how any of this is supposed to feel. A familiar constricting, hot pang flashes through my chest. Throughout my life I’ve labeled this sensation as a burning in the bosom—guidance from the Spirit, something I’m supposed to pay close attention to. My body is quickened; I can feel my heart beating. I shouldn't be here, but I shouldn't leave.

Like Nephi, I was born to goodly parents. They raised me in the way you’d expect sincere and kind but imperfect disciples of Christ to raise a child. I grew up in a quiet, safe neighborhood surrounded by alfalfa fields. My mom had four babies, and then she had me.

I was golden in my mother's eyes, and wise beyond my years. Never given a curfew, I had freedom to do whatever I wanted. Conveniently, what I wanted always seemed to neatly fit with the standards in For the Strength of Youth. I was the deacon's quorum president, then the teacher's quorum president, then the first counselor in the priest's quorum presidency. I showed up early every Sunday to serve the sacrament. As the son of a stake president, it seemed to be in my DNA. “You're gonna be a general authority one day” was a phrase I heard more than once.

But considering the blessed and happy state of the righteous, I had to conclude that no good person could feel the way I did. I spent my youth playing a game of emotional hide and seek with people who didn't know to look for me. I was anxious like cheese is moldy. I'd cut off any parts that appeared affected, but the invisible toxin remained. Feelings of forgiveness and worthiness I heard about in Primary dangled on a string, always in view but just out of reach.

In first grade, I worried myself sick for weeks over having accidentally cussed while speaking gibberish. At fourteen, I was convinced that God would afflict me with an STD as punishment for masturbation. In high school, a machine gave me two drinks for the price of one and I spent an entire class stressed about whether or not that was stealing. Later, for a period of a few months I avoided taking all my clothes off to shower because I was afraid that being in the nude would generate sexual feelings.

My checklist of rules grew with me, until it was long enough to wrap all around my spirit, a full-body cast. Reading and rereading, I checked myself against scripture, For the Strength of Youth, and general conference talks. Any feeling other than the song of redeeming love was the red flag I was looking for. The Spirit had then spoken; I hadn't measured up, and to procrastinate the day of my repentance was death. Scanning my past for evidence of wrongdoing, I'd always find it, even if I had to create new memories or alter old ones.

I softened my heart with a meat mallet. The Sunday School repentance steps became my factory line, and the rickety machinery often didn't work the way I thought it should. When I still didn't feel “right” after asking forgiveness, I was sure one of the necessary steps hadn't been addressed completely enough. Had I felt enough remorse? Maybe I hadn't remembered every occurrence of a sin such that I could apologize for it sufficiently? As I prepared for my mission I confessed anything I wasn't sure about, including a few things already confessed prior. The relief of confession was short-lived. “Was he sure that wasn't serious? Did I disclose enough detail?” My leaders were convinced I was a worthy elder, and I pretended to be convinced. Papers were signed.

At the time, I didn't know this was all symptomatic of a treatable condition: Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. My OCD remained undetected, feeding itself on manuals, the words of prophets, scripture, and young men's lessons. It seized my faith for its own ends and spurred me to feverishly create God in its own image. Well-meaning onlookers within the church, not knowing exactly what they were watching, praised my dedication and the craftsmanship of my twisted idol.

On Ukrainian soil, my body walked the streets and rang doorbells in the dark concrete stairwells, but my mind was often elsewhere. I would often find myself replaying speculative mental images of getting interrogated in the mission president’s office, or dealing with the judgment and gossip that seemed part and parcel of coming home from a mission early. Throughout my two years, I often feared that God would tip my mission president off to my unworthiness. I knew He was watching, so I worked. Since I couldn’t know for certain whether I was worthy, I supposed that hard work would be the way to compensate for any divine displeasure. I made sure nobody had reason to think I was a bad missionary.

Christ found me struggling in this state, attempting to draw living water from a stagnant and festering well. From time to time, He interrupted my compulsive efforts and communed with me one-on-one in ways I hadn’t experienced before. He freely poured what felt like pure intelligence into my mind and heart and when He did, I filled pages with musings that blessed my life and fed my spirit. Curiously, I began to notice that I would rarely receive this pure inspiration in response to doing more or trying harder. Rather, it would happen when I was calm, grounded, and open. It wouldn’t happen when I was looking up verses to assuage my creeping sense of unworthiness or repeating prayers. Instead it would happen when I’d study something I found interesting, curiously following the connections and parallels between narratives and principles. It wouldn’t happen when I was lost in my head about what might happen in the future, but when I managed to break away and enjoy my associations in the present. I found my greatest sense of purpose in ministering to the other missionaries with whom I served. Our mission was a difficult one in many ways and I enjoyed sharing whatever light I could with them. Connection with Christ and his peace was given through grace, regardless of anything I could do. Through this connection with Him, I would sometimes feel, for a moment, my nagging feelings of unworthiness dissolving into peace. Like Martha, I was being gently taught that I was “careful and troubled about many things,” but that “one thing [was] needful . . . that good part.” I was a slow learner, but I left Ukraine having experienced the mentorship of the Master I professed to serve.

Three years after I had come home, sitting in my basement bedroom near my university’s campus, obsession gripped me as it often did. The demand I sensed was clear and cold: “prove to me, undeniably and permanently, that you are worthy.” Despite years of effort, I had not achieved this and feared I never would. My mind was bursting with familiar circular thoughts, some playing the role of accusers, others defendants. There was no order in the court. I knelt at my bedside in a familiar ritual, urgently praying for the clarity and confirmation I needed. “What do I need to do? Will I ever feel like I have done enough? Is this how I will feel forever? Why are you not helping me?”

The Spirit spoke, not audibly but as a feeling I couldn't ignore. It offered no reassurance or promises, only one simple word: “STOP.” I stopped, and again it pressed. “Stop praying. Lay down. Feel.” Confused but desperate, I got off my knees and lay on my bed.

As I lay there in the dark, the demons behind years of pain swirled around me. For the first time, I made no attempt to deflect. I felt the crushing weight of unworthiness in my bowels. I felt the searing sting of guilt in my chest. Wild pulsing in my veins told me to run, hide, pray. I stayed put. I felt the fear of death, Hell, judgment and eternal condemnation, pains as though I was a damned soul.

After a few minutes, my body calmed and the room felt as quiet and calm as it actually was. In that moment of stillness a full, rich, nourishing, golden warmth came over me that I had never experienced before. As my body felt aglow, a few principles came into focus in my mind, separately at first then woven together beautifully: “You can't keep running from this. It's not good for you. Your Savior didn't run. This is the cup he drank. When you allow it, you are spending time with him.”

This experience with Christ in the Garden didn't fix my OCD, but it gave foundational meaning to my pain. I would have many opportunities to spend time with the suffering Christ in the coming years.

Throughout my dating days, I began to suspect that I was dealing with OCD. As my wife and I transitioned into married life, and then into parenthood, more of its effects came into focus. The nagging voice in my head and my concept of God were still intertwined, but the connection between them was beginning to fray and unravel. After COVID lockdown kept me still and looking at my own foundation long enough to see how serious the cracks still were, I sought diagnosis and treatment. Twenty-seven years of deep spiritual struggle were officially summed up with a three-letter acronym. The therapist who diagnosed me guided me through the process of ERP, or Exposure and Response Prevention. In ERP, my therapist encouraged me to step toward anxiety rather than away from it. Together, we triggered it willfully, with purpose. We treated discomfort as an inevitable part of life rather than a problem to be solved or a foe to be vanquished. We avoided seeking reassurance when the spirit of fear demanded it.

I was surprised by the testimony I already had of the harrowing internal work my therapist was asking me to do—God had introduced me to the basics that difficult night a decade prior. I now regard ERP as one of my most readily available ways to spend time with Christ in the Garden and draw near to Him. He atoned for the world and yet, when I willingly enter that space I find it’s always one-on-one. The bitter cup he chose not to shrink away from is the totality of all the suffering experienced by humankind. I have found meaning and connection with Christ by visualizing how my current individual experience fits within that eternal totality. He is beside me to experience my moment of suffering with me. There, Jesus shows me how to pass through my mortal experience with dignity and grace, and not shrink from it. I imagine He and I softly clanking our bitter cups together before we take the first sorrowful sip.

I think back to the many times I've felt abandoned by God because clear guidance and feelings of comfort were not forthcoming. I don't have solid answers to most of my questions, but I finally have a deeply personal answer to one of the important ones: “Why are you withholding your loving approbation?” My Father in Heaven does love me—in his loving wisdom He has always known what my OCD brain needs, and it is never constant, on-demand reassurance.

Scripture pages gently crinkle. A woman whispers indiscernibly behind me. Soft organ music warms the silence. Eyes scrunch into smiles as they lock with mine. A familiar depiction of Jesus watches from a frame. As a thirty-four-year-old husband and dad in the thick of raising young kids and working to provide for them, this is where I’ve chosen to be on a rare and well-deserved solo night off. Despite coming alone, I'm still among family, brothers and sisters in Christ. All in white, I am indistinguishable from everyone else. I am safe, secure, and gathered in. My slightly quickened heartbeat reminds me that I’m still not fully convinced, but that's alright. I know I’ll find meaning and connection with God as a result of coming here—I always do. Christ is present both in the palpable golden embrace of the Comforter and in the emotional heaviness of the olive press. I regularly experience both while I’m here.

The people around me look good in white. I consider the value in trying on unity, sanctification and wholeness that hasn't been achieved yet—getting a small taste, cultivating desire for it. I picture normal people coming to lay down crushing burdens if only for an hour or two, and wonder what those burdens are. Which of these couples have what feel like irreconcilable differences between them? Which of these sisters feels her testimony hanging by a thread? Which of these brothers has condemned himself harshly for pornography use for decades? Who here is struggling to make sense of their sexual orientation or aspects of their identity, not sure how they can ever reconcile a contradiction that feels as though it may pull their very heart asunder? Considering all this, I am sure I am not the first who has passed an hour with Christ in Gethsemane while worshiping in the temple, and I’m sure I won’t be the last.

My eyes are wet now. I am happy to be in this chapel with beautiful people like me, publicans and sinners all, at the foot of The Master.

Chey Rasmussen is a creative, husband, dad, and follower of Christ. He shares his experiences with OCD and talks about Latter-Day Saint theology on TikTok @scrupuloussaint.

Art by Esther Hi’ilani Candari.