Imperfecting

Every work day, I leave my apartment around 6:45am, and try to shoot through downtown Chicago and past the Circle Interchange before the rush hour traffic fully kicks in. Almost every day, I make it through downtown pretty cleanly en route to the school where I work in Hammond, Indiana, a few miles over the Illinois state line. The Chicago Skyway is more direct and cuts through the campus, but I take the Bishop Ford/I-94 to avoid a $4 toll each way.

Google Maps says it should take me 43 minutes, and I’m usually to work in a cool 40. Going home can be a different story, ranging from 45 to 90 minutes depending on the day, the weather, and the fickle (in)competence of my commuting brethren. The frustrating thing for me is not the 25-mile drive, the occasional traffic jam, or the construction-induced lane closings. What gets me is the little stuff.

I could make great time from school to 94, from 94 to the Circle, get through downtown cleanly, and be on track for a record time. Then, I’ll get to the off-ramp at North Ave., and it’ll be so backed up that it takes five cycles of the traffic light to turn onto the street. Or I’ll turn off the ramp in a timely fashion, then run into a monster line to turn left onto Sheffield. Or I’ll make it through to my front door in a career-best speed, and then there will be no parking spots within a block, leading to a 10-minute quest for the Holy Grail.

No matter what I do, what mindset I have, what “shortcuts” I think I’ve found, I cannot guarantee the perfect, record-breaking commute. If it’s not construction, it’ll be a traffic jam. If it’s not the parking spots, it’ll be a crash. If it’s not the commute, it’s something holding me up from leaving work. There’s simply no way to perfect the transaction. I can do due diligence in leaving early enough or taking the fastest route, but I cannot control everything. I have to accept that, many times, my commute will be far from perfect.

The same reality rears its head in ministry. Last year, as the liturgy coordinator and sacristan at a Catholic high school, I was partially responsible for completing the episcopal liturgy plan to submit to our diocesan office ahead of the bishops’ visits for Masses. There was obvious pressure to assemble everything competently and lay out a smooth Mass for the bishop to swoop in and celebrate.

Prepare as we tried, neither the form nor the Mass ever was perfect. One of my favorite moments came in completing the All Saints Day Mass form. Seeking to help our underresourced choir and choir director, I suggested the common psalms for Ordinary Time as options for the sung psalm at the Mass. She chose one, and we filed the form. Stupid me – All Saints Day is a solemnity, so no messing with the lectionary, which the bishop’s liturgist pointed out and corrected us (me) on.

When the bishops and their handlers did arrive for Mass, they were always happy to be there, gregarious, faithful. Yet eggshells remained as we undertook the liturgy. The first time bishop came, I was on edge and grimaced at each mistake and misstep.

After Mass ended and I had finished consorting with the episcopal handlers, I decided I’d certainly continue to put in a good effort in all the planning and coordination, but when Mass arrived and began, it was just time for Mass – no more tenuousness or nervousness. The Gathering Song marked the end of that stuff and the beginning of a celebration of Eucharist. Mass was worth more than any points we could score with the bishops’ office. My priority ought to be and became celebrating Mass, imperfect as any “work of the people” will be. Intentionally planned and orchestrated but humbly celebrated by flawed, imperfect humans, seeking to offer praise and worship to God.

Now, as a full-time campus minister, I have the ability to put fuller due diligence into the things I plan and lead, which only strengthens temptation. I might think that the attention to detail, the fastidious organization, and the quality time put into something will streamline it beyond doubt. However, reality never quite unfolds like that. Any retreat director can tell you how fast a retreat gets off schedule and the great elation that hits when one gets ahead.

The beauty comes in that first mistake – when you forgot to dictate a rule in the opening remarks, when you recognize a typo in the leaders’ manuals, when you say the wrong time for something to start or end. Once the perfection pursuit has ended, reality can be embraced. The retreat or Mass or activity can be what it should be, what God calls it to be instead of solely what I envision it to be.

On Kairos this week, it came when my chaplain realized he forgot his alb at school, and when we were a couple journal notebooks short. The moment was early and released us from any delusions of perfection and into a more realistic yet earnest and dedicated optimism.

God doesn’t call us to be successful; He calls us to be faithful. We shouldn’t glorify our mistakes, but rather than become frantic and panicked, we must learn from them and move on, doing better the next time. We must embrace mistakes as an opportunity for humility, a re-grounding in our romantic, human pursuit of seemingly unattainable ideals.

God loves us despite or even because of our imperfections, as long as we are working to grow in relationship to ourselves, others, and Him. May our ministries commit ever more to diligent intentionality and prayerful, reflective attention, as we confront, embrace, and grow from imperfections.