The Tree of Life and the Great and Spacious Building:

A few years back in Sunday School, we were dissecting Lehi’s dream in 1 Nephi 8 when someone in the ward posed a question that landed like a small theological grenade. Lehi raves about the fruit—“desirable,” “sweet,” soul-filling. So she asked, If it’s that good, why isn’t everyone sprinting toward it? And why do the people who actually reach it still walk away?

Our reflex, of course, is to run back to the text for quick answers instead of letting the questions unsettle us. The vision itself offers convenient explanations—stony ground, a weak grip on the rod, the shaming voices from the great and spacious building, even the devil waiting in the wings. But those explanations tend to assign blame rather than invite curiosity. They push us to explore the horizontal width of the story, its surface-level moral geography, while quietly steering us away from the vertical depths where the real human questions live.

That question has refused to die. In fact, it’s forced me to rethink the whole vision. Maybe Lehi wasn’t sketching a cosmic obstacle course at all. Maybe the iron rod, the mist, the wandering crowds—none of it is about sorting the righteous from the wicked. Maybe it’s a portrait of the inner landscape we’re all navigating, a map of the self that’s far messier than any Sunday School chart will admit.

And if the tree is, as Alma later suggests, something planted inside us, then the shocking truth might be this: you can stand “at the tree” and still be starving, because nothing external can substitute for what hasn’t matured internally. The people who leave the tree aren’t rebels—they’re human. They’re us. The whole vision stops being a morality play and becomes an invitation to grow something real inside, something no institution can hand you and no checklist can guarantee.

Lehi’s vision of the Tree of Life is often read as a oversimplified prescription, complete with a point A to point Z list of things to do and others to avoid: the righteous go toward the Tree; the wicked enter the Great and Spacious Building. But beneath the surface of righteousness and wickedness lies a more universal human dynamic—one that every soul experiences regardless of belief or background. It is the struggle between competing desires.

On one side is the desire for connection, intimacy, and rest—the desire to stand at the Tree of Life, where God’s love flows without condition. On the other side is the desire for safety, self-protection, and control—the impulse that draws us to the Great and Spacious Building. These desires live within each of us, pulling us simultaneously toward exposure and concealment, toward vulnerability and image, toward the courage to be known and the comfort of remaining hidden.

The Tree of Life: The Desire to Be Fully Known and Fully Loved

The Tree of Life represents a place where love is not earned but freely given—a place of pure presence and belonging. It is no accident that the imagery surrounding the Tree echoes the Garden of Eden, where humanity was once naked and unashamed. To stand at the Tree is to return to that posture of openness before God and one another.

And yet this openness is precisely what makes the Tree so difficult to approach. The light that emanates from it is not merely bright; it is revealing. It shines through every layer we use to protect ourselves—our accomplishments, our curated identities, our emotional armor. Nothing can be hidden in that light. For those of us who have learned that transparency is dangerous, who have survived by concealing their wounds, this exposure feels unbearable.

But this same light also heals. In its radiance we find the deepest desire of the human heart: to be seen exactly as we are—afraid, imperfect, and unfinished—and still held with unwavering tenderness. To stand at the Tree is to experience the paradox of grace: that love grows strongest not where we are strong, but where we are vulnerable.

This desire, the desire for intimacy and acceptance, is ancient. It pulses beneath every longing for belonging, every search for meaning, every ache for connection. It draws us quietly toward God, even when we fear being seen.

The Great and Spacious Building: The Desire to Be Safe and in Control

Yet standing in direct competition with this desire for intimacy is another desire equally human and equally strong: the desire for safety.

The Great and Spacious Building offers precisely that. Elevated above the ground, it provides distance from vulnerability. Its walls shield us from exposure, and its crowded halls drown out the fear of being truly known. Here, identity can be managed. Here, we can clothe ourselves in achievement, reputation, and social belonging. Here, we can avoid the discomfort of being seen fully while still appearing to belong.

The building whispers that love and acceptance must be earned—that value is tied to performance, refinement, and presentation. It offers admiration instead of intimacy, applause instead of understanding. And for many of us, perhaps me most of all, that feels safer than the nakedness required at the Tree.

This desire for safety is not inherently wrong. It is a form of self-preservation learned from a world where vulnerability often leads to harm. We build walls not because we are weak, but because at some point we were wounded and learned that walls keep out pain.

Yet these walls that shield us also isolate us. They offer protection at the cost of connection. And so the building becomes both refuge and prison—promising belonging while keeping us far from the very love we long for.

The Magnificent Tension: Desire Competing With Desire

Lehi’s vision is not a simple story of good versus evil.
It is the story of the divided human self.

  • The heart longs for the Tree—longs to be known and loved.
  • The mind longs for the Building—longs to be safe and in control.

Every day we navigate this tension.

We want intimacy, but we fear exposure.
We want love, but we fear what it might reveal.
We want God’s presence, but we fear God’s light.

And so discipleship becomes less about choosing between righteousness and wickedness, and more about choosing which desire we feed: the desire for safety that keeps us hidden or the desire for love that draws us toward healing.

Bearing Glory: Choosing Vulnerability Over Pride

The essence of pride, in this context, is not arrogance. It is the belief that love is earned—conditional, fragile, and dependent on our performance. Pride convinces us that if we were truly seen, we would be rejected. It keeps us clothed, even in places designed for nakedness. It keeps us polishing the image in the building instead of walking toward the light by the Tree.

To “bear God’s glory” is to allow ourselves to be stripped of this pride. It is to step into a love we cannot control or earn. It is to let the light pierce through our defenses and discover that what is revealed is not condemned but cherished.

This is why the Tree is both beautiful and terrifying. It confronts our deepest fear: to be known.

And it satisfies our deepest desire: to be loved.

The Journey Between Two Worlds

Ultimately, Lehi’s vision invites us to recognize the internal landscape of our own souls.
Not to shame our fear of vulnerability, but to understand it.
Not to condemn our desire for safety, but to notice how it competes with our desire for love.

The journey to the Tree of Life is not a straight line. It is a gradual surrender of the walls we built to survive, a slow movement from hiding to openness, from fear to trust. It is the practice of believing that love precedes worthiness, that God does not turn from our nakedness but calls us gently out of hiding.

The Great and Spacious Building is loud, impressive, and compelling.


The Tree is quiet, humble, and deeply brave.
Both desires are real.
Both are human.

But only one leads to rest.

Discussion prompts

I’m going to leave this one open, go wherever it takes you.