An article for the Cathedral Times
by Dan Murphy, Director of Communications
My wife and I painted our house this weekend. Well, we started painting our house. Well, really we started a while ago. Let me explain.
Early last fall, we decided the house needed to get spruced up. It’s a 1950s ranch, nothing overly complex or that would take too many ladders. We bought our supplies and started on the soffit, waiting for another time to finish the bulk of the job.
And wait, we did.
We waited for the weather to get cooler, and then we waited for the weather to get warmer. We waited for our schedules to clear for a few days. But mostly, we waited until we thought we could get it perfect. We didn’t want to give it just half our effort, or get halfway around the back and decide to stop. We wanted to make sure it turned out just right, and we weren’t going to budge until one night last week she said:
“Let’s just start. We can’t let perfection get in the way of progress.”
And so, on Sunday we set about painting. We scrubbed and trimmed, edged and rolled, giving the walls a beautiful white coat that really pops. We painted until the heat became unbearable, and we had to clean our brushes. Sure, there’s more to do, but we got out there and did the work we could.
It’s not uncommon for me to avoid something because I don’t think I can do it perfectly. For years my woodworking equipment has done little more than collect dust, lest I try to make a frame and the joints not line up. Worried that my next idea might be rejected by the group, I keep it to myself. Or afraid that I might say the wrong thing to a hurting friend, I won’t say anything at all. The expectation of perfection is pervasive, in me and in many of us.
Our Cathedral staff book group is reading Pádraig Ó Tuama’s book In the Shelter this summer. Ó Tuama — the Cathedral’s spirituality conference speaker this fall — writes about showing up for one another, among much else in this beautiful little book. But I especially love the way Krista Tippett, in the book’s foreword, describes how Ó Tuama navigates the world: “It may be more important to get the right people into the room … than to get the right words into the room.”
But what if we’re afraid to cross the threshold into that room?
My family traveled last summer to a beautiful natural spring at the top of a mountain with steep cliffs. The pools overlooked a lush green valley, with views for miles. At the edge, though, there was no fence. All that kept visitors from careening over the cliff was a wooden sign with a simple warning: “Do not approach the abyss.”
A stout enough warning, no doubt, but it got me thinking about that curious phrase: approaching the abyss. Stepping into the unknown, being bold with faith. Concerning myself more with progress than with perfection. How would that look in my relationship with God? With my family? With my friends and colleagues? What would it look like to approach the abyss of humility? Of service? Of love? How can I better show up in the room with neighbors — in town and around the globe — not worrying if I’m showing up perfectly, but rather with showing up authentically?
I’m still working on that, but I know this weekend we’ll be putting on a second coat of paint.