Moroni's Grace
Drawing Near to God through Weakness
“You have a very weird brain” is not what you want to hear from your neurologist at age twenty-four. Despite his rather poor bedside manner, the test results were definitive: my various learning disabilities and poorly developed social skills could be explained by unusual and inefficient brainwave patterns and I was on the dreaded autism spectrum. Since my adolescence, I had struggled to process and express emotions necessary to form relationships as well as focus in school and express my thoughts in writing. My diagnosis had obvious scholastic and professional consequences but there were also spiritual implications. I was concerned with how I might thrive within the social reality of the modern church, especially the reality of a Young Single Adult ward. And my swirling thoughts about dating and marriage probably deserve a separate article.
As I contemplated how my problems were not just in my head but of my head, I felt despair. For I was broken, I was destined to flounder through life, and I could never be normal. How could God let this happen? Hadn’t I earned a better destiny?
In the months following my diagnosis I found myself reading Moroni’s abridgment in the Book of Ether in the Book of Mormon. I’ve always liked reading Moroni. He is not as polished as his father but his style always feels more personal to me. Perhaps the irony of abridging the history of the destruction of the Jaredites and a lone prophet watching it all fall to pieces hit him a little close to home. I also sense a rich inner voice, perhaps honed out of necessity after long years of solitude.
In my new neurodivergent reality, I noticed that Moroni and I shared an insecurity over our writing. This surprised me especially since I had grown to enjoy Moroni’s style.
And thou hast made us that we could write but little, because of the awkwardness of our hands . . . when we write we behold our weakness, and stumble because of the placing of our words; and I fear lest the Gentiles shall mock at our words (Ether 12:24–25).
Moroni feared that the God-given skills of the authors of the Book of Mormon were ill-suited for the task—namely, that they were great speakers but poor writers. “For Lord thou hast made us mighty in word by faith, but thou hast not made us mighty in writing” (Ether 12:23). And Moroni is guilty of that most human of human moral vices—comparison. “Behold, thou hast not made us mighty in writing like unto the brother of Jared, for thou madest him that the things which he wrote were mighty” (Ether 12:24). As the abridger of the Brother of Jared’s writing, Moroni is concerned that the record he and his father prepared is not good enough.
Thankfully, I was not asked to abridge an ancient record, but my unusual brain drew a parallel from my life to Moroni’s weakness. Moroni confessed “it is by faith that my fathers have obtained the promise” (Ether 12:22) that the Book of Mormon would one day gather scattered Israel. But to Moroni, these promises seemed unfulfillable given his weaknesses in writing.
I too began to question if I had been given the ability to succeed in the covenant path. Could my misfiring brain prevent me from feeling the Holy Ghost properly? Would my social anxiety keep me from making appropriate eye contact before the throne of God on judgment day when I can barely hold eye contact with anybody? Could I even love God and my neighbor when I don’t experience love the same way? Given these concerns, I could not help but question the benevolence of the God who had stacked the cards against me. This is why my diagnosis hurt so much: Had I been sent to Earth carrying the burden of inescapable spiritual disabilities?
In the sequence of verses that have become iconic, the Lord diverts the focus of this conversation away from Moroni’s handwriting problem to the bigger questions. The Lord first admits, although indirectly, that Moroni is indeed weak when it comes to writing ability, but promises that the gentiles will fail to notice: “[T]hey shall take no advantage of your weakness” (Ether 12:26).
Then the Lord reveals an unsettling truth: as part of converting and drawing near to Him, we will be confronted with our weaknesses for the express purpose of creating a humbling experience. “And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble” (Ether 12:27). Importantly, tied to this potentially startling personal revelation is the realization of an uncomfortable truth about God: He is willing to hinder us in the activities he has given to us as he invites us to trust him. In what I would categorize as a huge understatement, Neal A. Maxwell described this phenomenon as, “disturbing incongruity,” for “we forget that, by their very nature, tests are unfair.”
I had naively hoped that all this religious stuff was supposed to make me feel better about myself, and maybe even find a deep relational connection that I so desperately craved. But I can attest that Joseph Smith’s warning that “God will wrench your very heartstrings” does not feel like a loving attempt to “take hold” of us—rather the opposite. Jim Faulconer summarized:
The scriptures seem to assume that at some point everyone will discover that he or she is inadequate. I think they tell us that at some point everyone will lose confidence. At that point, the choices are despair and faith.
Moroni needed to “behold [his] weakness . . . that [he] may be humble” and be given the opportunity to choose faith in the Lord at a deeper level. The phrasing also subtly reveals that true humility before God requires this painful revelation about our inadequacies. With his new humility, Moroni could develop faith based not on his own efforts, but on the Lord turning his mortal failings into success through His grace. “[F]or if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them” (Ether 12:27).
The choice of faith for Moroni and for me is not hoping the Lord will fix our weaknesses but in believing that the Lord is mighty enough to fulfill His promises despite our weakness. “We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us,” C.S. Lewis warned, “we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.” A God capable of such integrity while channeling His will through broken and imperfect covenantal partners is much more powerful than one who simply fixes His tools. For Moroni and myself, our pain, our humiliation, came from realizing that our faith was insufficient to trust a God who was more powerful than we imagined. Our faith was being tried.
As I pondered Moroni’s experience, I could not help but consider what my life would be with this greater faith in a more powerful God and how it might be the key to finding my place in God’s plans. As my horizon shifted, I realized that I needed to repent for my lack of faith, a petulant attitude, and an unwillingness to trust. Trust that had been strained by the unfairness of my situation, but I found a God simultaneously more available and more powerful than I imagined. I began to hope for a miracle, not that I could be fixed, but that I could connect with a God who was more benevolent than I imagined.
I was initially caught off guard as a new perspective shifted my spiritual disabilities into superpowers. My unending need for routine in my schedule made regular temple attendance instinctual. My compulsion to find and remember patterns in the world around me found a rich harvest when turned loose on the scriptures. My hardwiring for dependability and reliability made the blessings of priesthood duty and other callings readily available. I developed a keen radar for those who felt lonely or outcast. I started to, “hope for a better world, yea, even a place at the right hand of God” (Ether 12:4).
I assumed that what kept me from connecting with God’s presence was my own flaws. Yet that belief passed judgment on God’s charity—that He was in fact not loving enough to love me unconditionally. I was actually projecting my insecurities on the divine, making an authentic relationship impossible.
On deeper reflection I think my spiritual journey was quite normal. After all, the dyslexic are asked to “feast upon the words of Christ” (2 Ne. 32:3), the anxious to minister, and the tone-deaf to lead music. More universally, the Lord asks the selfish to sacrifice, the arrogant to follow, and the lost to find. In these ironies of discipleship we all encounter a daunting trial of our faith as we confront our deepest fears and inadequacies and hope Christ will take us in. As the Psalmist implored, “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise” (Ps. 51:17). When I recognized how flawed I was, and then still felt Christ’s grace, I started to experience Christ’s charity as a constant in my life because I understood how magnanimous and willing that charity really was.
Where once I despaired about my social life and professional prospects, hope started to rise. I started to get nudges about finding effective professional help. I encountered books that helped me better navigate the minefield of human sociality. I found friends that took my distasteful quirks as interesting eccentricities and gave me invaluable feedback on my social skills. I felt the Holy Ghost guide me as I shot the breeze at parties and made clever jokes on first dates. My prayers changed, and I learned desperately needed communication and listening skills by talking with God.
Even as we diligently seek Christlike attributes and eschew their inverses, we must remember that such strength is grace granted to those who are humble before God. “Because thou hast seen thy weakness thou shalt be made strong” (Ether 12:37). Our weaknesses must be revealed for this strengthening process to start. Perhaps Kierkegaard said it best: “To need God is Man’s highest perfection.”
I echo Moroni’s acceptance that I cannot say all that I want to say because “of my weakness in writing” (Ether 12:40). But I do “commend you to seek this Jesus” (Ether 12:41), even if doing so means we find hard and painful truths about ourselves. If we come to recognize that we're not good enough, we also need to realize that isn't the point. Weakness is no mere negative. It is the generous gift that makes us who we are—and transforms obstacle in grace. “Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me” (2 Cor. 12:9).
Spencer Holte is interested in technology, education, and scripture and has studied at Brigham Young University, among other universities.
Art by David Habben from his series, These Prayers We Offer, created for a solo exhibition at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. View the full series HERE.
These works are part of the Alice Merrill Horne Art Collection.
Find more of David’s work on his website https://habbenink.com/ or on Instagram @habbenink.
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These are beautiful introspective insights. Thank you