Religious Burdens and Mental Health

New social science research from Jonathan Haidt has been shaking up the internet, and for good reason. Haidt and his team have been combing through a decade’s worth of sociology data to try and explain the disturbing rise of mental illness among teens and young adults. Spoiler alert: it’s probably smartphones and social networks and helicopter parenting. He’s publishing the results of his research publicly to solicit feedback from other academics, with the hope of publishing a book in the years ahead. It’s a brave move, throwing his data into the world and inviting criticism. Pro-tip: don’t go too deeply into the Twitter comments.

One uniquely troubling finding from Haidt’s research is that there are significantly higher cases of mental illness — both self-reported and measured by hospital intakes — among young women with progressive political beliefs. The interpretation of that data comes from Haidt’s colleague and writing partner Greg Lukianoff, who argues that some pillars of progressive political belief are in opposition to many of psychology’s best practices for mental health.

Explaining this framework, Haidt quotes from journalist Jill Filipovic, who pinpoints how a mix of catastrophic thinking and overidentifying as a victim have combined to instill an unconscious position of powerlessness in this demographic.

[Haidt, quoting Filipovic:] “Just about everything researchers understand about resilience and mental well-being suggests that people who feel like they are the chief architects of their own life — to mix metaphors, that they captain their own ship, not that they are simply being tossed around by an uncontrollable ocean — are vastly better off than people whose default position is victimization, hurt, and a sense that life simply happens to them and they have no control over their response.”

[Haidt himself] I have italicized Filipovic’s text about the benefits of feeling like you captain your own ship because it points to a psychological construct with a long history of research and measurement: Locus of control. As first laid out by Julian Rotter in the 1950s, this is a malleable personality trait referring to the fact that some people have an internal locus of control—they feel as if they have the power to choose a course of action and make it happen, while other people have an external locus of control — they have little sense of agency and they believe that strong forces or agents outside of themselves will determine what happens to them. Sixty years of research show that people with an internal locus of control are happier and achieve more. People with an external locus of control are more passive and more likely to become depressed.

The argument Haidt and others make is this: it is a sign of psychological health to have an internal locus of control. A person’s internalized despondency, when attributed to evil external systems of suffering (which, for progressives, can include the patriarchy, climate change, and systemic racism), can remove that internal locus of control, leading to a loss of mental health. Like Haidt, I welcome corrections if I have mischaracterized some progressive values, but you’ll have to take it up with Haidt if you want to disagree with his overall point.

Truth be told, my first inclination was not to dwell on the matter as it applied to young political progressives, or even more specifically, young progressive Christians. Our own Anthony Robinson already explored some of that in his reflections on Haidt’s research. Instead, I wanted to explore the implications of Haidt’s thesis for my own theologically conservative community.

What if there are ideas that the theological right teaches that are equally as effective in removing someone’s locus of control, or causing other cognitive distortions, as the political left? Are there theological presuppositions or practices that are just as damaging to the mental health of conservative Christians? I can think of two specific theological ideas, though there may be more, that fall into this category of shifting someone’s locus of control.

First, I imagine that there are many for whom an experience with semi-Pelagian theologies or Holiness Traditions have shifted their locus of control into mental unhealth.

Some background: Pelagius was the late 4th century monk who argued that Christians, once baptized and filled with the Holy Spirit, have been given everything they needed to live a perfect and holy life. With rigor and devotion, a life without sin was possible. “Why would God give us rules if he didn’t expect us to follow them?” is a classic Pelagian argument. These teachings were condemned as heretical by the church thanks top notch theological insights from intellectual heavyweight Augustine of Hippo.

A milder form of this theology argues that Christian salvation and growth in holiness is possible through a partnership of human effort and divine grace. God provides the proverbial car and the gas for spiritual growth, and we step on the gas pedal and steer. The theologians of the reformation dubbed this idea semi-Pelagian, a pejorative, though it remains the default theology of many churches today.

It seems counterintuitive to suggest that a theology focused on free-will and human effort would lead to the loss of an internal locus of control. And yet, that’s exactly what happens when the spiritual standard for the Christian life is placed on the shoulders of the believer. If the expectation is that the individual Christian must “do their part” to grow in holiness, and that Christian finds themselves unable to follow the demand of the spiritual expectations of this vision of holiness, the internal locus of control is lost and replaced with despair. The Christian looks at the metaphorical high-jump bar of commands like “be perfect as your heavenly father is perfect,” fails at repeated attempts to clear this high bar, deems the task impossible, and like the Rich Young Ruler, walks away sad.

Here’s an example taken from the often-damaging theological demands of purity culture. A Christian despairs because his or her church continues to tell them to stop viewing pornography, and they find themselves unable to kick the habit on their own strength. Certainly one cannot ask his church for help: revealing this would jeopardize their status and membership in the body. Despite regular prayers, willpower isn’t enough. This individual discovers they have no control, they are no longer the captain of their own ship. Practically speaking, the locus of control has shifted: the habit and addiction of pornography now have control in this person’s life.

In such a situation, it might be appropriate for the church to recommend counseling, provide helpful informational resources, or find a mentor who becomes an advocate for behavior change. A more gracious attitude might have opened up an opportunity for this person to step forward, confess their secret, and ask for help! Sadly, in many semi-pelagian churches, this person’s struggle would be understood as a failure of faith, a sign that the sinner is disingenuous and dangerous. The sinner’s need for help is ignored and rejected, leaving them stuck with an external locus of control.

Along the same lines, we could say the same thing for a whole host of expected virtues and behaviors. Keeping regular quiet times, journaling, weekly date nights with the spouse, sticking to a Bible reading plan, evangelism quotas — all of these fine and good habits. Sadly, in a semi-Pelagian framework, they become tripwires that otherwise cause happy and sane Christians to question their relationship with God and their ability to control the world around them. When a person fails to attain a goal rooted in divinely sanctioned behavior, doesn’t it make sense that the result could be depression or anxiety?

If the free will/holiness/Pelagian tradition is one avenue for this loss of internal control, the pendulum will swing in the opposite direction for our second avenue. It’s not only the moralist camp that can destabilize our mental health and serenity: a similar danger can appear with doctrines of divine election.

Predestination, a most controversial theology, is the belief that a sovereign God has already chosen who among his created people to save, thereby removing human agency from the salvation equation altogether. This initial theory is tough enough, but it can go further. In a theological teaching called “double predestination,” this same sovereign God not only saves who he wills from among his creation, but actively condemns the rest, who were ultimately created for destruction. It is the ultimate in theological determinism. As long as God is in control of everything, do humans really have a locus of control at all?

This doctrine of predestination was a catalyst for a season of madness for the great poet and hymn writer William Cowper (whose last name is pronounced “Cooper”). In his young adult years, the poet was committed to an asylum. Anxiety over a professional examination had led him to three suicide attempts. Upon being released, Cowper had a personal evangelical revival thanks to his friendship with John Newton, the former-slave-trader-turned-clergyman famous for penning the verses to Amazing Grace. For years, Cowper retained his sanity, taking comfort and serenity from Evangelicalism. In his early 40’s, however, he relapsed. Letters from that time indicate that he became convinced that he was among those God had created to condemn to hell. In fits of suicidal mania, he believed that only way to save his soul was to offer himself to God as a sacrifice by ending his own life.

On the subject of predestination, the Anglican 39 Articles of Religion say the doctrine is “full of sweet, pleasant, and unspeakable comfort” and yet they go on to say that the same the doctrine can lead to “desperation” and “wretchlessness,” Elizabethan English for anxiety and self-destruction. While I believe predestination to be true, I also think the 16th century reformer Martin Luther — no stranger to his own mental health issues — had it right. Because however true it might be, Luther considered the mechanics of predestination to be known to God alone and otherwise none of our business.

Both the holiness tradition and this Reformed tradition can shift the locus of control in a person to the external. The former has no answer for Christians who find that willpower alone isn’t enough to defeat their own bad habits and addictions. The latter leads the anxious Christian deeper into existential dread. Given how both of these traditions can push the locus of control away from the believer, it’s no wonder that depression and anxiety are the results for many.

This is a theory of course — we’ll have to ask Jonathan Haidt to test for religious observance in future studies to see if the data backs up this theory. Some may even object that Haidt’s data opposes this theory, showing that those with conservative political leanings tend to develop significantly fewer cases of mental illness than their progressive counterparts. If conservative political views are linked with conservative theological views (which is often, but not always, the case), then is this problem truly widespread enough to merit our attention?

I would argue yes, for one key reason: the people who are crushed under the weight of irresponsible theological conservatism leave it behind. They don’t show up in the conservative side of the data because they join progressive churches and progressive politics, or they stop attending church altogether. The growing absence of young people in pews, the conversations surrounding theological deconstruction, “exvangelicals,” public accusations of abusive behavior by leaders — this is the data that calls for our fullest attention, and so exploring the psychological ill-will some theologies can cause is worth our time.

So my fellow theological conservatives and I should not view Haidt’s data as an occasion for a victory lap. None of the illustrations I have shared in this essay are made up. Although names and circumstances have been adjusted to preserve anonymity, they are connected to people I know and deeply care about who have left the faith behind. It’s not rocket science to see how their experiences in toxic conservative churches left them mentally ill well into their 30’s and 40’s. They are atheists, alcoholics, agnostics, angry, and anxious. I love them dearly, and my only hope is that they still believe God loves them deeply, despite the church’s severe and heartbreaking failings.

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Putting my own theological cards on the table for a dose of self-criticism, I’m left wondering whether salvation by faith and not by works, a moral transformation that is given and not a high jump, can lead to the same problems Haidt identifies. Are we giving up our internal locus of control, therefore jeopardizing our own serenity? Even if we’re giving it up to God himself? Is the concept of grace ultimately a gateway for anxiety and depression?

My understanding and experience is this: even though it is correct that a theology of grace posits its locus of control on the external, the theology doesn’t necessarily catalyze mental illness because the locus of control belongs to a uniquely merciful and gracious God. If God is truly merciful, loving, kind, and true to his word, then the old adage “let go and let God” is not quite the threat to mental health that it appears to be. If God is a demanding taskmaster, a neutral judge, or an angry father, then it is absolutely a danger to entrust our locus of control to the divine. But if the Easter story is true, that Jesus would die and rise again to forgive sins and reconcile the world to God, then it may actually be good news that this God has our locus of control.

The best earthly example of how to hold together an internal locus of control with the sovereign and loving grace of God would be the great harbinger of serenity, the Twelve Steps. Few can argue with the results of the program — millions have recovered from addictions and related mental illnesses by working the steps. On the one hand, the Twelve Steps begin with ceding control of one’s life to a merciful and gracious higher power — the first three steps offer the “faith” required to attain healing and serenity. The next nine steps outline practices that someone in recovery can actually do: make a list of resentments, pray through them, offer amends, reach out to others, attend meetings, give service … the recovering addict retains their locus of control. They are working their steps, they have agency, they are doing something that will concretely lead to their sobriety.

Still, during the meetings, the old timers in recovery with decades of sobriety will enlighten newcomers with a well-known secret. Working the steps is good and necessary, but the real magic is this: working the steps keeps you busy and distracted so God can work on healing you without you getting in his way. Working the steps with agency while simultaneously ceding the director’s chair of life to God, the locus of control is preserved alongside the providential, gracious work of God. The mystery of agency isn’t fully solved, but because the result of this arrangement is healing and serenity, the mystery becomes much easier to live with.

I am less concerned, then, that a theology of grace will remove one’s locus of control and increase the risk of mental illness. The greater risk rests in theologies of works or determinism, but not the historic gospel itself. This isn’t to say that such belief is an inoculation against mental illness, but rather, it is generally not experienced as a catalyst for mental illness.

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Perhaps the best word to summarize this whole discussion is this: hope. I’m no psychologist, but I am familiar enough with Charles Snyder’s contribution to the field of Positive Psychology, called Hope Theory. Snyder articulated that the many psychological benefits of hope are made available to a person when they have the will to achieve a certain goal (willpower) and the ability to map out numerous paths to achieve that goal (waypower). When those two things are both present in a person, they catalyze motivation and action so that goals are achieved. Lives are changed and people flourish. A lack of hope, however, signifies the opposite: goals become too disappointing or overwhelming to set, lives remain unchanged, motivation evaporates, and people languish.

Using Snyder’s framework, it’s not hard to see how the young people profiled by Haidt and the crushed Christians I know are suffocating in mental unwellness. They lack hope. Specifically, they lack waypower. They are resigned to the idea that there is no way their goals can be achieved, and doom is certain. While the conclusion of the story has yet to be written, there is no expectation for a happy ending regarding the deepest hurts, hang-ups, and dangers of life. If we believed that, I’m sure we’d have mental illnesses, too.

The ultimate Christian hope, then, is not rooted in our own self-sacrifice or activism, nor is it rooted in our own holiness or moral fortitude. The ultimate Christian hope is rooted in someone else’s self-sacrifice, activism, holiness, and moral fortitude. It’s rooted in a historic objective moment — we did just celebrate Easter Sunday, after all. If Jesus rose from the dead, then sexism or patriarchy or racism won’t have the last word, and dignity and life will come in God’s timing. If Jesus rose from the dead, then the recovering addicts, forlorn activists, and failed saints will all clink glasses together at the marriage feast of the Lamb. It’s why Paul can tell the church in Rome that Christian hope “won’t put us to shame.” It may be the only sure and certain thing there is.

Beware, then, the ideologies that steal your hope, left or right. If the research is true, your mental health, and your soul, depend on it.