Imperfection.

Last night Armando Galarraga, pitcher for the Detroit Tigers, was six outs away from a perfect game when ESPN started bonus coverage. (A “perfect game” happens when a pitcher gets an out for every batter that comes up. No hits, no walks, nothing but disappointed batter after disappointed batter.) It’s the top of the eighth. A groundout, a strikeout, another groundout. Top of the ninth. Fly ball. The right fielder seems to be running at supersonic speed. Superhuman catch—everyone’s in awe that he made it, thereby keeping the game “perfect” for another out. Next batter grounds out to the shortstop. Last out. Grounder. First baseman darts over to pick it up. Galarraga runs over to cover first base. The catch is made, runner gets to the base one and a half seconds later, knows that he’s out. Runner hangs his head in defeat. First baseman and Galarraga begin cheering: it’s a perfect game! Then, all of a sudden, it’s not. The umpire calls the runner safe. Safe. Galarraga gapes for a moment and then screws his face into an unbelieving smile. He quietly goes back to the mound, having lost the Detroit Tigers their first-ever perfect game. This would have also been the first time ever in MLB history to have three perfect games in one season. The last time there were even two in one season was 1888. In short, this is unheard of. Knowing all of this, the first baseman starts yelling at the ump. The Tigers’ manager comes out and yells at the ump. Fans boo. It’s all to no avail: the call stands. Galarraga gets the 28^th out. The game mercifully ends.

It’s no secret that humans are imperfect. I think that’s why everyone gets excited about perfect games: it’s so rare to find perfection in this world that we root for the team that’s able to create it for nine innings. And I do mean “team”—Galarraga might have been on the mound, but it takes hard working fielders to keep the perfection going. The perfect game belongs to all of them, not just Galarraga. Without that amazing catch by Austin Jackson, for example, the perfect game would’ve ended a lot sooner (and, it must be said, more fairly). Together, these men comprised the perfect team for one night, and baseball fans nationwide get excited about that.

There’s something in our nature that makes us crave perfection. I daresay it is Eden. Collectively, our souls remember a time when the world was perfect: no heartbreak, no sin, no anger, no bad calls. There was a time when gallivanting around unclothed and uninhibited was allowed. No one went hungry, no one died, no one became ill. It’s this memory buried in our unconscious—the Holy Spirit living in us—that causes us to say, “That’s not fair!” We remember what fair felt like. It’s this memory that causes us to seek out the elixirs of youth: Botox, plastic surgery, hair dyes, and serums. It drives us to say, “Oh, it’s perfect!” about gifts given to us, sunsets in front of us, or meals made for us. For a brief moment, we catch a whiff of perfection, and it thrills us.

But it my own life, this perfection has a darker side. I find myself often afraid to take a step in any direction because I’m afraid I won’t be perfect. Certain lesson plans that would’ve probably been excellent learning experiences for my students were thrown in the trash because I didn’t think I could execute them perfectly. I dropped a class in college when I wasn’t able to do with assignments with perfection. This fall I will be teaching elementary French at U.Va., and I am terrified that I will get in front of the group and embarrass myself because it won’t be perfect. Even in church, I sometimes look around and think, All these people probably have excellent devotional times every day, and I can never seem to keep a Bible-reading routine going. I do a lot of comparing myself to others, and I always come up short.

Yet the Bible tells me that despite my imperfection, Jesus loves me—so much so that He allowed Himself to be murdered so that He wouldn’t have to live in heaven without me. He exchanged His perfect life for my ugly one. He doesn’t care that I’m imperfect. How that works, I will never understand. After all, unhealthy, self-imposed requirements of perfection aside, I’m still a sinner. I still think and say and do terrible things. And yet, knowing all that, Jesus loves me. That, actually, is pretty perfect.