An Imperfect World
Easter Vigil Mass in New York City. The spirits are high and anticipation is palpable. The men wear suits, the ladies wear dresses. But in the crowd, some are only in t-shirts and shorts. A man in three-piece suit approaches the lectern to give one of the many readings on this sacred night, and he stutters through the verses. Another comes behind him, dressed as well, and with stunning diction does he read a verse from the Old Testament. But as he speaks, the noise of the street and of the cars rushing by is too much and diverts attention away from his words. Music blaring from a car revving it’s engine on the avenue sucks the air from the room with every flare of the accelerator. It seems that the verse is still stunning to a man. A man rejoices in resurrection and fellowship, but he can’t stop thinking about the spot he spilled onto his shirt and how ridiculous he must look. He’s pulled from the celebration of life into his own mind of darkness. He hates to party and stay out late, but he does so to celebrate the holiday with people who he calls friends. He timidly accepts an invitation to have fun and does let loose. He is smiling and happy. His mind reminds him every so often that this is fleeting. He yearns for peace.
A man lies in the street and he cries. Bitter tears and snot across his face with no mother to wipe them away. He is well into his 50s and his age is worn well across his face. He is not long for this world. It is Easter and people still pass him. He is disgusted by them, but more so by himself. Someone buys him food and he is happy. The man from the Vigil brings him something cold to drink. The man in the street cries to him. He says life is unfair, he hates to beg, he hates his filth, he hates how pitiful he is. This man speak for 20 minutes simply because there is someone to hear him talk. The man in the street says his name is John. The other man is moved by John’s words but refuses him money to kill himself. He buys John some clothes and considers his good deed done for the day.
The man can’t stop thinking about John. About how he can’t help John. He can buy John a meal, shoes, socks, or any item. But he cannot save him. John will be back in the same situation by daybreak tomorrow. The man can try – and he does. The bitter pang that John has for his life is the same one that man feels. Everything in this life feels like a band-aid to a severe hemorrhage. We are not made for this world and the things we cling to here will not be there for us in the next world. An Easter Mass looks perfect with everyone dressed so nice, until the reader fumbles his words and you remember things aren’t perfect. He thinks that a party is fun, until he becomes self-conscious and realizes that the fun won’t last and a hangover is coming. He can give a pitiable man a crust of bread, but it won’t change his lot in life one bit. But for all this, he does not despair. The fault lines in this life aren’t the undoing of the perfection we should have, but rather the boundaries to our ability that bleed directly into the frontier of deeper grace.
This life is like looking into a still pool of water. Look into it and see yourself in the blue-black reflection. When the light hits the water in the right way, you aren’t looking at yourself. You see beneath the surface of the water. And deep, deep below there is something there beyond the abyss. You can see the world beyond your own reflection and the truth of what underlies the pains of this world. It is an imperfect world before we pass through the waters and go into the depths below.
The realization of that imperfection makes man yearn for the next – but also to live now, in his current kingdom. The man stumbling at his reading is not a fool, the self-conscious tendency at a party doesn’t make him a worthless loser, and buying a meal for a pitiable man is not an empty gesture. This is because we are the shade, and we are the reflection in the water. We aren’t looking down into a deep abyss, but we are looking up into a clear sky. This imperfect world will always be imperfect, and the man can smile because of his smallness and faults. He can even smile in the faults and idiosyncrasies of others, and of this whole world. There is much more to come, and the actions we take produce ripples on the face of that reflection in the water.
The mass was beautiful. The party was great. There is hope even for the homeless man, and it’s worth it to help even if you can’t fix everything. The crushing weight of this existence isn’t meant for this man’s shoulders. The man smiles in an imperfect world.