Perfectly Weak
“In Love’s service only the wounded soldiers can serve.”
The darkest demons we carry are those we befriend at an early age. In a seemingly harmless way, they become intertwined into the fabric of our being. Like kudzu scaling an oak tree, they eventually swallow our identity until our true selves become hidden.
Perfectionism is a Pharisaical (and undoubtedly American) concept stemming from the fundamental belief that “I am what I do.” Lathered in pride, perfectionism is a self-destructive state of mind that leads to callous introspection and intoxicating self-infatuation. Perfectionists believe that to be worthy of love, they must deserve it—they take no handouts, have no time for empathy, and show little mercy. Perfectionists live for themselves, and their main desire is for others to see them desirably.
Growing up, I was the kid who did everything right. For four straight years, I was given a Mr. Goodbar when our elementary school teachers gave end-of-the-year candy awards. I made A’s in classes and 100’s on tests. Parents and teachers complimented my manners and politeness. Over time, these compliments and honors became my identity. I lived to please other people, switching between masks, putting on the one I thought the person I was with would most enjoy. Thoughts of not being liked plagued me. I yearned for people to speak of me favorably, and I was hell-bent on making sure they did.
War on my perfectionism was declared the day I started following Jesus. He delivered the killing blow 2000 years ago on the cross, but my battle had just begun. A sin struggle as deeply rooted as perfectionism does not disappear in a day. But God did not want to wait for Heaven to free me of the shackles of performance. Unbeknownst to me, He had a plan to bring me to a place where all I could plead was “Mercy.”
The first immediate blow to my desire for perfectionism happened on the football field: during a routine drill, I took a hard hit and felt my ACL rip. I hadn’t realized it yet, but over years of excelling athletically, I had grown to associate my worth with success on the field. My recovery from surgery was long and lonely. The loss of football left a hole in my identity and my purpose. Laying in my bed for weeks in isolation, questions that I had long suppressed began to fill that space: Does Jesus still love me? Is my performance as a Christian “good enough” to make God happy? Day after day, the voices in my head chipped away my confidence and peace. My inner dialogue made me want to vomit. I went to bed every night fighting to believe that God still loved me.
In the middle of my struggle, a mentor referred me to author Brennan Manning. A laicized Franciscan priest, Manning struggled with alcoholism and perfectionism his whole life. He spent nearly all his days fighting to believe that Jesus loved him without reservations. In his book Abba’s Child, I ran across a quote that now gives me hope. Quoting a Thornton Wilder play, Manning concluded: “In Love’s service only the wounded soldiers can serve.”
I used to think my performance qualified me to serve God’s cause of Love. Now I realize it is my weakness that qualifies me. The world is not full of perfect people; it is full of broken people. My weakness is what connects me to others. It is the one thing I know that I have in common with the people I am called to love.
No one is perfect. I am slowly learning that my performance is not what qualifies me to be loved by God. His love is given freely. There is nothing I can offer God that would make Him love me more and nothing I can do to make Him love me less. The thorn in my side may cause me pain, but it gives me common ground with my neighbor, who also walks with a limp. Because of my failures, I have seen that He is enough. And in my weakness, I have found that the deepest love doesn’t come from within, but from above, and that in Love’s service only the wounded soldiers can serve.
