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03 November 2013

Perfection

Flying through the Longbeach Mall, little ones moving this way and that at my heals...and far beyond; Sadie wriggles on my hip, eager to join her brother and sister.  Prescription in one hand,I make my way to the grocery store to pick up a few bits I am missing in my fridge before I make my exit.  There is a momentum, moving us forward, moving us out.  As I try to make my escape my eye catches him.  It is a moment but there is so much time to assess, to judge.

He is middle-aged, a short man, hunched over his phone, speedily writing his SMS.  What is left of his hair is gelled, making it look significantly less than what he has.  His coffee colored skin is potched and weathered, making him look more aged than he aught.  He must be around my age.  He is well groomed but, despite his best efforts, seems to be left wonting.  Normally I would not even notice a man like this, would not have taken note of his lack-luster features or general unattractiveness.  But it is his shirt that has gotten my attention, that has invited my scrutinizing valuation:

"This Is What PERFECTION Looks Like"

In my millisecond assessment, I scoff.

Really?  I muse, mockingly.

And as I rush past this man, this epitome of perfection, with my drive-by critique I am immediately struct by Holy Spirit conviction:

If he were Jesus, would you think the same?

I place my 14 month old in the front of the shopping trolly, hoping she will stay seated as she proceeds to stand and attempts to scale down the cart.  My other barefoot children are running up and down isles asking for drinks and ice cream and yogurt and cupcakes and sushi.  I hold the baby, standing, with one hand and push the cart as I pick up a juice with another.  But I feel the weight of the question.

If he were Jesus... Jesus, this man I profess to love and follow and obey.  This God man I would go to the ends of the earth with and for... he was NOT beautiful by the standards of men.  Outwardly he was nothing to look at.  And the message he professed was one that offended and repulsed many: this is what perfection looks like.

I try to imagine Jesus today, wearing the teeshirt.  He is the only one worthy of making such a claim.  I try to think if my reaction would have been different, if I would have known Him for who He was.  If a momentary glance at His general appearance would have stirred me to salvation.  But I am embarrassed by the truth that is surfacing from within.

I would have passed Him by, this man with His outrageous claims.  I would have laughed, I would have mocked.  I would have called for Him to be crucified, to make good His claim that He was what He said He was.  And my aching, judging heart would have missed the whole point.  That my uncontainable God would do an unlikely thing, become flesh, Immanuel, "God with Us," and suffer insults from undeserving children like me so that He could offer an unthinkable gift of grace and demonstrate and unyielding, abounding love.  Yes, He is THAT good.

And here I am today, a modern day Pharisee caught off guard with the incredulous claim of perfection in my midst, and I judge and reject.  I feel ashamed as I wheel my circus and my juice and my eggs up to the till to check out.  I should know better, think better.  Look at me, I am a mess.    But Holy Spirit, in His kindness, does not leave me in my guilt.  I am washed over in love and His undeserved grace, rebuked gently, and reminded.  This man, Mr. Perfect, is made in the image of God Almighty.  He bears the reflection, the very image, of the Creator of All Things, the Ruler of All Things.  And while I do not know the dreams and struggles and secrets and desires of this man's heart I know that he is made in the image of his Father, my Father, who IS perfect, who IS perfection, and I think, "Yes, this is what perfection looks like."  A glimpse of perfection.

Because in every one of us, we bear His image.  We reflect a piece of His nature, His character.  Each one of us, glimpses of His perfection.  Masterpieces.  His workmanship, crafted by the beauty of His heart.   Fearfully and wonderfully made.  Even sideline SMS T-shirt man.  Even a ginger-haired mommy whose heart is more in need of a makeover than he is.

As I leave the grocer and make my way to the car, I look for him, my T-shirt prophet.  I want to see him again, so I can look on him with eyes afresh.  He is gone, but the lesson is not.  It burns within me as I pass unsuspecting customers and silently acknowledge them as I pass them, "This is what perfection looks like; THIS is what perfection looks like!"

Oh my God, teach me to look on people as you do, not outwardly in appearance but at the heart.  Spirit, thank You for Your gentle correction.  Lead me past the superficial and the physical, this place that is but a shadow, into the deep and meaningful hidden world of Your Kingdom that is real and true and lasting immemorial.   Let me not forget that we are Your very good creation, Your Image Bearers.  Thank you, Jesus, for your immeasurable, sacrificial grace that extends to the depths of my heart.  Continually lead me to the place where I am transformed by Your love, made anew.  Lead me into the ways of Your perfect love.

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