(or, How Grace Keeps Messing Up My Plans)
Friends, I have a confession to make.
I am a recovering perfectionist clergyman. That’s right — my natural habitat is a tidy liturgical schedule, a polished sermon manuscript (preferably footnoted), and a parish hall where the coffee urn is never empty and the custard squares are perfectly aligned in their tray, like well-trained sacristans.
I love a good plan. A clean order of service. A calendar colour-coded within an inch of its life. And yet, God — in divine mischief — has never once shown the slightest interest in cooperating with my schemes.
Take, for example, the time I tried to lead Morning Prayer precisely as printed. The congregation, of course, had other ideas. One began the Gloria two lines early, another found herself in the Nicene Creed from some Sunday long past, and the organist heroically tried to accompany what could only be described as a theological jazz fusion. Meanwhile, I smiled serenely and prayed that no one noticed the twitch developing in my left eye.
You see, I used to think that holiness was synonymous with perfection — if only I could get everything right, God might finally nod approvingly, like a choirmaster with an obedient tenor section. But it turns out, grace doesn’t operate by Robert’s Rules of Order. Grace bursts in like a toddler at Evensong — off-key, sticky-fingered, and impossible to ignore.
Perfectionism whispers, “You’d better not mess this up.”
Grace counters, “You already did — and I love you anyway.”
And that changes everything.
Because somewhere between the spilled coffee, the misprinted hymn numbers, and the sermons that sounded so much better in my head, I’ve discovered that the kingdom of God doesn’t require flawless execution. It requires faithful participation.
The truth is, God seems remarkably unconcerned with my neatness. God’s holiness has a habit of spilling over the edges, like too much water in the baptismal font or too many people at the communion rail. Grace is gloriously inefficient. It refuses to stay inside the lines.
These days, I’m learning to relax — to see divine fingerprints in the smudges and holy laughter in the moments I once called mistakes. The Gospel, after all, is not the story of our getting it right — it’s the story of God making it right, despite us.
So, I’m letting go (well, trying to). If the bulletin is misnumbered, the sermon wanders slightly off-piste, or the children’s choir launches into an unscheduled encore of “Jesus Loves Me” — I’m learning to call it what it is: grace in motion.
And truth be told, it’s beautiful.
Because when I finally stop trying to impress God, I start to notice that God has been delighting in me all along. Not because I’m perfect — but because I’m loved.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go fix the typo on next Sunday’s sermon. Grace may be sufficient — but even grace deserves correct spelling
A Prayer for Recovering Perfectionists
Gracious and patient God, You who created galaxies that spin slightly off-centre and clergy who do the same —teach us to rest in the beautiful mess of your mercy.
When we try too hard to earn what you give freely, slow us down with laughter and grace.
When our plans fall apart, remind us that your Spirit does some of its best work through the cracks. Grant us the courage to make mistakes in your service, to sing the wrong verse with conviction, to spill the coffee of community without fear of your disapproval.
Help us to remember that holiness is not found in perfect order, but in honest love. That you delight not in polished performance, but in hearts that dare to trust your unpolished people.
So when the bulletins misprint, the sermons ramble, and our best-laid plans wobble like the parish folding table — meet us there, O Lord, with the quiet smile of One who knew all along that grace would get the last word.
Amen.