"I find our brokenness binds us more than perfection"

A little more than two weeks ago, I was at home in Oakland, enjoying my vacation. Toward the end of my stay, as I was preparing for the long drive back to Los Angeles, my mom gives me the front page section of the Oakland Tribune. "Read it," she said, "it's about Father Rich."

Father Rich is the pastor at the basilica of my high school alma mater, St. Joseph Notre Dame. He also presided over my sister's wedding in October. He's not your run-of-the-mill priest. When most priests will give you all this abstract and philosophical spiel about how Jesus will save us, Father Rich will tell you how living out the Gospel is not so easy in the real world. He'll tell you stories about his own life, how his childhood was tough, how he made mistakes. He'll tell you how the people in the Gospels were also flawed, and how they struggled to carry out God's Word in a world of temptations. It was his style of speaking that always make me feel safe, included, loved.

So as I read the article, I was somewhat surprised, and yet, it didn't shock me in the least. Father Rich was gay.

After my anti-establishment, bleeding-heart liberal self got over the joy of knowing that my high school priest was giving the metaphorical finger to the spiritual leaders of the Catholic Church, I was left with a much more personal and profound truth. In the article, Father Rich also says how, in a homily at his old parish in San Dimas, he also admitted he was an alcoholic. His parishioners gave him a standing ovation. After the Mass, grown men with tears in their eyes embraced him; they were able to empathize and connect their own sins with the sins of the Father. It was in this spirit, in Father Rich's own words, where I found the title of this entry: "I find our brokenness binds us more than perfection."

From my earliest memories to my graduation at UCLA and beyond, I've been obsessed with perfection. I was always scared to do something or try something unless I could be perfect. And I didn't want to be caught with the embarrassments of human fallacy. It was like a constant dialogue was running through my head keeping me in check: "Don't say anything stupid. Stay focused. Be on time. Don't look weak. Be professional. etc." While the dialogue has served me well, it has it's price. Countless times has the running dialogue been quick to point out my own inadequacies, amplifying when I sinned, beating up myself longer than I probably deserved. But on another level, suppressing my own faults has kept me distant from even my closest friends. How can you expect someone to trust you with their problems when you can't even be honest with your own shortcomings?

Maybe it's not the pursuit of perfection that's the problem, but the interpretation of it. For every aspect I thought made you perfect (being punctual, always on task, logical, etc.), there is a consequence (being inflexible, narrow-minded, cold-hearted, etc.). And every aspect I thought was a flaw (being loud, lazy, obnoxious, etc.) has its moments to shine (can move the crowd, stays calm, can agitate). The Principle of Equivalent Trade at work? God's Design? Maybe perfection is not something you strive for; maybe it's something you see.

So I sit today, reading the article over and over again, rediscovering my gifts and my flaws, and re-learning to love it all. One of my flaws is I tend to forget things. So from now on, I should start writing notes to myself. I'll start with this one: "When I get back to the Bay Area, I should start going back to Mass."