The Glory of an Imperfect Effort . . .

JOHN RUSKIN AND THE DOCTRINE OF IMPERFECTION
by Thomas Langford

In the second volume of John Ruskin’s Stones of Venice, published in 1853, there is a chapter entitled “On The Nature of Gothic” which contains one of the most interesting studies of art and human nature to come out of the 19th century. Because its truths are so important, and because Ruskin reinforces so well from a secular viewpoint what the apostle Paul wrote about the spiritual architecture of the church, we need to review the essay.

Ruskin made a distinction between Greek, Assyrian and Egyptian art on the one hand, and Christian art on the other. In the non-Christian cultures there was a concern for the craftsmanship of ordinary workmen in the ornamentation of public building. The Greek artist could not tolerate imperfection in any form so he gave to the workmen only that part of the architectural production which they could execute by following mere geometricai forms. The Assyrian and Egyptian, not so concerned for perfection of form, simply lowered the standard to a level which every workman could reach. In Ruskin’s words,

The Greek gave to the lower workman no subject which he could not perfectly execute. The Assyrian gave him subjects which he could only execute imperfectly, but fixed a legal standard for his imperfection. The workman was, in both systems, a slave.

Ruskin then turns to Christian art (of the Middle Ages) and demonstrates the vast difference of approach, an approach which not only tolerated imperfection, but saw in it something entirely worthwhile.

Christianity recognized, in small things as well as great, the individual value of the human soul. But it not only recognizes its value, it confesses its imperfection . . . That admission of lost power and fallen nature, which the Greek or Ninevite felt to be intensely painful, and, so far as might be, altogether refused, the Christian makes daily and hourly, contemplating the fact of it without fear, as tending, in the end, to God’s greater glory. Therefore, to every spirit which Christianity summons to her service, her exhortation is: Do what you can and confess frankly what you are unable to do; neither let your effort be shortened for fear of failu re, nor your confession silenced for fear of shame.

Ruskin has captured here in terms of art what the sacred scripture has taught us about the church. The apostle Peter writes that the saints are “like living stones … built into a spiritual house” (1 Peter 2:5). And Paul writes of “the household of God, which is the church of the living God, the pillar and bulwark of the truth” (1 Tim. 2:1 5). Further, he says that we are to grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ, from whom the whole body, joined and knit together by every joint with which it is supplied, when each part is working properly, makes bodily growth and upbuilds itself in love” (Eph. 4:15-16). The task of all parts of the church is to contribute regularly and systematically to the edification, the building up, of the spiritual temple. Sometimes the scripture uses the figure of the body, sometimes the temple, sometimes the family, but always the emphasis is on the contribution which each individual, however imperfect, should make to the overall and all pervading purpose of spiritual construction.

Our age, like the Greeks and Ninevites, has become enslaved to the desire for perfection (or what passes for it). Consequently, we continually sacrifice the constructive contributions of God’s ordained individual workmen for the superficial gloss and perfection of professionals. Instead of the active, interested involvement of all Christians in mutual edification of the church, we seem to wish only the polished, the smooth and soothing work of one who was especially trained as a professional teacher. Our preachers must make the good impression, not speak too long or ever use less than the best of grammar. Whether they actually edify doesn’t seem to matter so much as that their statements acceptable to received opinion. The common farmer, or carpenter, or student may never be encouraged to contribute to the edification of the saints. Such persons are always needed, as an audience for the professional, and as financial contributors to sustain the hired “feeder” of the flock, but their own talents and insights must be held to themselves because the pulpit is already occupied.

Of course this is not the picture we get from First Corinthians 12 or Ephesians 4, where Paul insists that every member has his part to play in building up of the body. He teaches that we may not despise the member who seems rough and unpolished if he has a message to share.

On the contrary, the parts of the body’ which seem to be weaker are indispensable, and those parts of the body which we think less honorable we invest with the greater honor, and our unpresentable parts are treated with greater modesty, which our more presentable parts do not require. But God has so composed the body, giving the greater honor to the inferior part, that there may be no discord in the body, but that the members may have the same care for one another. If one member suffers, all suffer together; if one member is honored, all rejoice together. Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it. (1 Cor. 12:22-27)

The point is to seek the perfection of the whole body through the working of every part. And roughness, awkwardness, imperfections, are not to be avoided like the plague, but accepted and recognized as a natural result of our fallen state, even when we appropriately strive for the perfection of our calling. Let no man give less than his best, but let no one be despised when his best is imperfect.

Ruskin clearly recognized our human shortsightedness in mistaking superficial flawlessness for the more difficult perfection of God’s standard.

The modern English mind has this much in common with that of the Greek, that it intensely desires, in all things, the utmost completion or perfection compatible with their nature. This is a noble character in the abstract, but becomes ignoble when it causes us to forget the relative dignities of that nature itself, and to prefer the perfectness of the lower nature to the imperfection of the higher.

Such an idea paradoxically advocates the acceptance of imperfection while holding the goal of perfection. But isn’t this clearly the nature of the Christian’s way — to be always seeking perfection but recognizing that whereever one’s best still results in imperfection, the very failure to reach the perfect goal “tends, in the end, to God’s greater glory?” As another Victorian put it, “A man’s reach should exceed his grasp/Or what’s a heaven for?” (Browning, Andrea del Sarto). God knew full well our fallen state, “tempered the body together” because of it, and expected that we make the most of imperfection, even while seeking the perfect.

The doctrine of imperfection does not encourage failure, but a recognition that effort in noble purpose is better than doing nothing for fear of error. The imperfection which merely reflects the finitude of man may also reflect the illimitable nature of God, if that imperfection falls on the way to a heavenly goal. Who mocks the child when his drawing fails to mirror the flower in all its complex beauty? That he wanted to reflect that beauty, that he attempted so noble a goal, is worthy of praise. That the drawing is imperfect tells us something of the perfection of the flower, as well as of the limitations of the artist.

To banish imperfection is to destroy expression, to check exertion, to paralyze vitality. All things are literally better, lovelier, and more beloved for the imperfections which have been divinely appointed, that the law of human life may be Effort and the law of human judgment, Mercy.

Ruskin’s doctrine of imperfection (he never called it that) became a major force in Victorian thought, contributing to a greater appreciation for democracy, for the common man, and for the achievement of the individual. The poet Browning was perhaps the most eloquent spokesman for the theory after Ruskin. His poetry continually exalts the individual who seeks to be everything for which God created him, to “strive and thrive,” nothing daunted that his achievement is imperfect or even inferior to that of others. In “Christmas Day,” a long poem often neglected by modern readers, Browning (or at least the persona of the poem) is carried away in spirit to observe the reception of the nativity story in three settings: a dissenting English chapel, St. Peter’s in Rome, and a skeptic’s lecture hall in Germany. After duly considering the three viewpoints, the speaker declares his choice to be the rather grubby, unattractive chapel and its communicants, as best representative of the individual’s search after God. It was not that he liked the rather dogmatic preacher of the chapel, or its ignorant and uncultured people; but the enthusiasm of the worshippers and the directness and simplicity of their worship appealed to him more than the symbolic pomp and splendor of Rome or the dry flamelessness of the rationalist of Germany. Rome seemed to represent the perfection of outward forms, Goettingen the perfection of the intellect and philosophy. But the chapel represented the people, the saints of God, seeking after God with themselves, imperfections and all.

All of this has something to say to us today. In our attempts to build the City of God on earth, we may tend to forget that God’s temple is people, that God’s clergy is the people, the people of God seeking after him with all that they are and hope to be. As Peter wrote, You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, that you may declared the wonderful deeds of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light” (1 Pet. 2:9).

This idea reaches out into all areas of the church’s life — to its physical buildings, to its corporate praise services, to its teaching, to its evange’Iism, and, most importantly of all, to the daily lives of its individuals. The concept of the universal priesthood of all Christians, the recognition that all the saints should be “ministers,” the understanding that no part of one’s own ministry can be fulfilled by another — these are Biblical truths which are reflected in the “doctrine of imperfection.” And this is not, of course, to put down the eloquent and forceful preacher or teacher. How we all can thrill to the gifts of some men in this direction’ Let us not despise, however, him who comes to us with a vital message, however lacking in polish or eloquence. We all enjoy the beauty of the gifted musician, but how many Christians have been driven to neglect the glory of singing the praise of God because of our emphasis on “perfection,” not seeing that their own praise, offered under greater outward limitations, may after all be the best music.

Heaven help us to learn just enough of the “doctrine of imperfection” to see that it is with imperfect efforts that we serve God, or not at all. And that if our imperfections come when we’ve done our best, they “tend to the greater glory of God.” It is true that Jesus said in the Sermon on the Mount, “You must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect,” and this must be every Christian’s perpetual standard. But when the imperfections are there, as they always will be, let us see that they point to the perfect Father, while the contrast keeps us humble and ever moving upward, towards perfection. —Texas Tech U., Lubbock, Tx.