Perfection
by Amanda Bricker, MA
“That would be perfect!” How many times have I uttered this phrase? When I became an adult I realized the choices and decisions that came with adulthood were difficult, and wished that someone would step in and just tell me what to do. I started to long for perfection. Perfection in ministry: to serve in the right position that used my skills to their full potential, to see the fruit of plans well laid, and be recognized for all of my efforts. Perfection in relationships: to be the right person at the right time for all the people in my life with an unwavering sweet spirit, without a hint of conflict. Perfection in life: to avoid all criticism and to know that I have made the absolute best decision in any given context.
I began to believe that I longed for a life story that was linear, tidy, and perfect. It was at this same point that I also started to despair when I recognized that within the bounds of my influence, perfection did not exist. My despair wore many masks: anger, discouragement, procrastination, cynicism, numbness, and a bid for control.
And yet, perfection, without its flaws, rough edges or mended pieces, continued to tempt me. It was something I could wrap my arms around, contain and control. Perfection seemed beautiful: How could something without blemish by its very definition be anything less? Perfection seemed measurable – it was all or nothing. Something was perfect or it was not.
Perfection was particularly alluring in ministry. If I equated success with perfection, then at least I had a definable, albeit impossible, paradigm for success. Success became a well-articulated story of ministry life where pain, heartache, and disappointment were quickly explained away so that only a story of triumph was left. Success was measured by significant growth in numbers without any mention of wounded hearts and the unresolved stories of the very people the ministry was designed to serve. Success, under the paradigm of perfection, began to look like statistics rather than relationships, numbers rather than people, accomplishments rather than faithfulness.
I wondered if perfection would ever be possible. In addition to despair, I began to experience perfection’s antithesis – failure.
As I began to pay attention to the broken pieces of my and other people’s imperfect stories, God began whispering to me about my longing for perfection and the deeper longings that perfectionism inadvertently suffocates. The whisperings echoed words of mercy. Perhaps mercy could take the broken threads of imperfect stories and use them to create new stories. The whisperings echoed words of grace. Perhaps grace could enter into the story when least expected and completely undeserved. The whisperings echoed words of life. Perhaps our stories could breathe with life when we let go of our drive for control.
The whisperings seemed to say that my deepest longing was not for perfection but for redemption.
Redemption is a dynamic rescue mission. It is the promise that there is more to be written, the final word has not yet been spoken. Redemption contains the possibility of a dangerous, beautiful, and authentic life: Dangerous because it goes beyond the realm of my control and rarely follows my script; Beautiful because it reflects the heart of the Creator; Authentic because it is broken, imperfect, and unhidden. The lure of perfection stifled life. God's promise of redemption invited me to life. I began to breathe.
As I began to trust God to weave and integrate the broken threads of my story – ministry struggles, relational pain, poor choices – hope rose to the surface. I found the freedom to let go of my controlling drive for perfection and instead began to breathe in the dangerous beauty of authentic redemptive life. Success is redefined – once the paralyzing influence of perfection is removed. It becomes defined by faithfulness, and enabled by the very presence of the Redeemer.
I have decided to do a bit of editing in my life, beginning with the phrase “that would be perfect.” Whatever happens, it won't be perfect – and at my deepest core, I don't want it to be. I'm learning to see the fingerprints of my Redeemer – grace, mercy, and life. I am reminded that my story – and yours – is simply not over yet.