The Monotony of Perfection Part 1

Steven Millhauser’s phrase, “the monotony of perfection,” has a lot to do with why heaven scares me. I’m referring to that local most coveted by the Judaeo-Christian community. You’ve seen some of the paintings, I’m sure. Plump figures frolicking about the clouds in cherubic abandon. Maybe an avuncular figure, seated on a throne, and looking an awful lot like Father Christmas. Sometimes it’s just the understated elegance of a lion and a lamb sharing a bite of grass together in a verdant pasture. These pictures of “heaven” are usually hanging behind the counter of your local Christian bookstore. But for me, it’s not the paintings; perfection’s the problem.

My main list of grievances against perfection:

1. It’s boring: I worry that heaven, as many have represented it to me, albeit with the best of intentions, is nothing more than a massive, and suffocating group-hug, a monolithic wall of good will and peace on earth. No deviations, no cracks, no frills, no dissonance. Just blissful perfection as untainted as the color white. No one says anything destructive, or hurtful, but no one says anything unusual either. In fact, we all sing, and speak in unison, with one voice, one will. No hearty conversations, or heated debates. Just a sea of heads nodding in agreement. Does this sound appealing? Haven’t we seen this kind of behavior in our history books? Maybe this is why Milton’s Satan is largely revered as a hero in most Universities.

2. It’s inescapable: This follows logically from my thoughts above, doesn’t it? Heaven, ensconced in perfection’s tyrannical envelope, is like a perfect circle. A closed system: nothing gets in, nothing gets out. No rugged charms, or five o’clock shadows here. No Byronic heroes. And once you’re in, you’re never getting out. It’s a prison where everyone gets along.

3. It’s exclusive: This should be obvious by now. Think of all the things you love that won’t make it through perfection’s gates… Only those who profess the same values as the masses convened within perfection’s perfect circle belong here. By the way, I hope you don’t like Family Guy. They’ll collect your leather jacket at the gate, if you don’t mind.
I could go on.

I confess, I’ve made a cult of imperfection because it’s the only way I’ve learned to better myself. My scars act as maps to places I couldn’t have escaped without the benefit of hurt. Another way of putting it would be, I just don’t get perfection because I’ve never known it in an experiential sense. I’ve never felt a pure motive or intention. I’ve never performed a completely selfless act. There’s always been that crack, that fissure, that assures me I’m still bound to this madly wheeling sphere we call earth. There’s always that thought, that fugitive curse, that convinces me I’ve hammered the nails into Christ just as much as anyone else.

In next week’s blog, I’ll tell you why I’m completely wrong about perfection, but you’ve got to admit that some of this has at least crossed your mind before.