As [Jesus] walked along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Jesus answered, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.” (John 9:1-3)
Can our best selves spring from our most broken parts?
In some ways, my entire adult life has been a quest for the approval of others. It can be a painful and crippling affliction. It has led me, in many instances, to make nice and keep my mouth shut, even when speaking up would have been more appropriate. I have worked for years on the causes of this, and I am making progress in overcoming it.
Along the way, however, my obsession with approval made something else happen. In trying to make nice, I learned to seek common ground. In keeping my mouth shut, I learned to listen. I learned enough to begin writing a book about the essential elements of authentic dialogue—an important topic in a world that is starved for it.
So my own pathology might someday, God and publishers willing, help others heal.
How often is that true? I have read of a man who rarely spoke because he was ashamed to show his bad teeth; as a result, he became an outstanding listener. God tells
This attitude toward brokenness isn’t intuitive. We try to overcome our weaknesses, heal from our infirmities, triumph over our besetting sins. And all these efforts are good and necessary. Who could deny the value of health and spiritual progress?
And yet, in the quest for wellness, it’s easy to miss the fruit that the brokenness bears. If we turn our attention to that brokenness, we might be amazed to see the God hidden within it—and the wondrous works that God is doing there.
Then, perhaps, we can say with St. Paul, “Therefore I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities for the sake of Christ; for whenever I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Corinthians 12:10).
1 comment:
I can affirm that.
But I see it not as a question of "is imperfect better?" "Imperfect" is all we have to offer.
What we have to offer is built from the interaction of our weaknesses and our strengths, our abundant failures and our occasional successes.
One of my favorite movies is "Little Big Man". (You can google it or better yet, for anyone else who's reading this, "Goodsearch" it and have at least a penny donated to a charity of your choice -- I choose Episcopal Relief and Development.)
At the end of the film, the Cheyenne grandfather of the adopted white hero prepares himself for a wished for, magically induced death. His final prayer is "I thank you for making me a human being, Grandfather. I thank you for my victories. And I thank you for my defeats…. I thank you for my sight. And I thank you for my blindness – which has helped me to see even farther."
I think that prayer meshes well with your thoughts.
After that prayer, the old Cheyenne, Old Lodge Skins, lies down to die. After a while it starts to rain on him and he opens his eyes and asks his 'grandson', Little Big Man, if he's still alive. When informed that he is, he groans a Cheyenne "oy" and "I was afraid of that". Then he says "Sometime the magic works, and sometimes it doesn't".
I think that applies to our imperfections, too, and our attempts to transmute them into something better. You have to laugh, even if a bit ruefully.
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