When Alex and I were in Italy, one particular billboard overwhelmed the subway walls. The billboard advertised a gelato company called Grom, whose slogan was "Imperfetto ma vero". In English, this means, "Imperfect, but true." As I write this now, my mouth is watering for handmade gelato, a scoop of ice cream made by hand that might be extra chocolatey this time or extra creamy. Or maybe it has a few extra chocolate chips. Who wouldn't prefer hand made imperfection over sterile, manufactured monotony?
We both mentioned that a slogan like this, a slogan that brags of the imperfection of its product, would likely not fly in America. In the USA, we pride our products for being the best and for having consistent perfection in craftsmanship. When we go to restaurant or purchase a product, we expect flawless and immaculate products.
Just yesterday, I went to Panera where I ordered a bowl of soup and an apple. As the employee set down my plate, my apple rolled off onto the table. Not the ground, not the seat, just the table. The employee looked mortified and said, "I'm so sorry, let me get you a new apple." I looked at him incredulously. "No thanks," I said, "I'll just keep this apple." It surprised me that my apple touching the table, which appeared to have been wiped off and cleaned before I sat down, would warrant a new apple. It was likely I'd set it down on the table anyway, to have more room for my soup. In fact, my soup was so filling, I put my apple in my bag for later, and God only knows what kind of bacteria might be lurking in there.
Imperfect but true. No, this foreign saying is truly foreign to us.
Babbling, Bumbling Band of Baboons
In worship yesterday, I made the ultimate move of cockiness. I came to the Communion Table without the Words of Institution written anywhere. In the PCUSA, we tell the story of Jesus on the last night of his life by reciting words from 1 Corinthians 11. An ordained Teaching Elder (or Minister of Word and Sacrament) is charged to say these words each time we celebrate at the Table. It's a task I find deeply humbling and moving. Nearly two years ago, when I was ordained, I would recite the words in my car over and over as I drove from my house to the church and from the church to my house. Alex would find me mumbling them in the bathroom or whispering them before bed. I wanted them to be ingrained in me, to come from my mouth authentically, and of course, to be perfect. The task of being a pastor is humbling, and I am determined to live up to the call.
Two years in, my imperfections caught up with me. As I lifted the silver cup at the 8:45 service yesterday, I thought the words in my mind, but from my mouth came a ridiculous string of words that did not go together.
"Cup...blood...save...Jesus...the..."
I felt like Porky Pig stuttering over my words...
Or like comedian, Brian Regan, spouting out words in his comedy act...
I was utterly tongue tied. I began again, I executed well, and we moved on.
I know we all make mistakes. I know that perfection is unattainable. I know that many of my colleagues who read this will chuckle in memory of their own similar blunders. I know these things, but I still replay the moment over and over in my head with shame, embarrassment, and self-loathing. I still want to avoid mistakes, to be perfect.
After worship, a woman in our congregation came to me and said, "Lindsay, you always keep it real." I know she meant this with love; I know she meant it as a good thing, but at that moment I felt so deeply ashamed. I would like to go back in time and change it, or hide behind my big fluffy robe so that you cannot see the redness of my face or the tears in my eyes.
Imperfetto, ma vero
It was only in the afternoon, as I continued to reflect on this, that it occurred to me the joy in the woman's face as she told me that I "keep it real." It was a comfort for her to see the clergy not sparkling with perfection; it was a comfort for her to be in the same imperfect boat as me. And in truth, this has always been a part of my sense of call: that I'm an honest sinner, an imperfect saint, that I am a human with the same temptations, sins, and struggles as the next person. I do not have all the answers, but I'm praying for direction; I am just another disciple like anyone, and I hope that when we come together in worship, we are learning together about God's will.
But even with that in my mind, I remain uncomfortable with imperfection. Mistakes, or perceived mistakes, haunt me like irritating ghosts; they slowly pick and eat at me, until I'm debilitated by them.
So the idea that my blundering of the Words of Institution could bring comfort and even joy to someone is a baffling, shocking notion. Maybe the people of Unity need me to be imperfect, they need me to be human. Maybe the world needs me to be imperfect, but true, but real, but honest.
How would my life change if my goal was not to be perfect but to be true? What might I do differently if I was striving not to be immaculate but to be honest? What would be different if I aspired not to be infallible but to be real?
I know I'm not the only perfectionist around here, so I wonder if you sometimes feel this pressure.
Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.
2 Corinthians 12.8-10
What if all of us could lay down the idol of perfection, and pursued the realness, the truthiness, the honesty of God? What if we could relish or at least dwell in our weaknesses in order to rely on the power and strength of God?
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