Imperfection

A Reflection on the Second Reading for May 22, 2022:
Sixth Sunday of Easter

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Revelation
21.10-14, 22-23

In the spirit the Angel carried me away to a great, high mountain and showed me the holy city Jerusalem coming down out of heaven from God. It has the glory of God and a radiance like a very rare jewel, like jasper, clear as crystal.

It has a great, high wall with twelve gates, and at the gates twelve Angels, and on the gates are inscribed the names of the twelve tribes of the children of Israel; on the east there were three gates, on the north three gates, on the south three gates, and on the west three gates. And the wall of the city has twelve foundations, and on them are the twelve names of the twelve Apostles of the Lamb.

I saw no temple in the city, for its temple is the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb. And the city has no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God is its light, and its lamp is the Lamb.
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Plato, an Ancient Greek philosopher, taught that our world is full of mere imitations. Everything from physical objects like chairs and tables to intangible ideas like truth and beauty were simply error-filled copies. He believed there was a world of forms where the perfect originals of every object and idea resided. This was outside of space and time, and so those of us bound to live in this world could only imagine what the purest forms could be. This is where the modern word “platonic” comes from, because Plato believed that friendship was the purest love and the closest we could come to its true form. 

These ideas sound strange to modern ears, but they would have been common knowledge at the time Revelation was written. The author witnesses a platonic Jerusalem – a city of God, brilliantly beautiful, perfectly designed. It is lit by the glory of God, so there is no need for night and day. God’s home is perfect and unchanging, utterly complete in its final form. 

This is not yet our world. We still need light to brighten the darkness and shade to protect us on bright days. Our creations are always imperfect, falling short of what we imagine they could be. (I always read back my own reflections after they’re published and wince, spotting a poor word choice or accidental meaning I never caught during the editing phase!) We seem to instinctively know that this world is not the way it should be. Some turn to politics to affect change; some become doctors to save lives; some study architecture in the hopes of designing the perfect building. But our efforts will never result in perfection. 

Some have always accepted this. In the Middle Ages, Persian artists wove a deliberate error into every rug they made as an act of humility. They knew their work would be imperfect in some way, and if they didn’t make a mistake on purpose they might falsely believe their work to be perfect, when only God is perfect. 

I have powerful perfectionist tendencies and an inclination to hubris. I tend to divide my work into perfection or failure. When I think it’s perfect, I’m far too proud; when I can see its flaws, I consider it worthless. But Persian artists knew better – knew that their work would have a mistake, but that a flawed rug still brings beauty and warmth to a home. 

We cannot build the perfect City of God. Only God can do that. And yet He invites us to try, and to see the value of our flawed and holy contributions. The doctor who saves 9 lives out of 10 during her shift has done wonderful work; the politician whose new policy has unintended effects still helps many. When we try to build perfection, we will fail; yet when we see the good in our imperfect efforts, we draw closer to the only One who is perfect.




Jenna Young
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