I'm a perfectionist. When I was in high school, I often spent 30 minutes just on my hair! I think I was the paleontological ancestor of the metro-sexual. Ha! (I'm sure I would hate that kid today if he were still around!)
I think my perfectionism hurt me in my early ministry days. No. Actually I know it did. I didn't call it "perfectionism." I called it "excellence" because that made it God-honoring and sounded professional, but it was still perfectionism - something that masks the fear of not being accepted by others. Doing things “polished and shiny” was my goal. Then I had an epiphany in a really strange location.
It was a restaurant called "Meers" outside of Lawton, OK. It’s a dirty, out-of-the-way, greasy, dilapidated building (last time I was there it was insulated by being wrapping in plastic - the WHOLE building). I went there twice with a friend. The first time, the waitress addressed him by his first name. The second time, she addressed me by mine. It was a strangely welcoming event. I felt as if I were with friends.
I barely remembered her, but she taught me a lesson: People skipped Red Lobster and the Beefeater with their servers in starched and pressed uniforms and drove 25 miles into nowhere to eat in a plastic lined shack because the server knew their name. Their decision was made by personality preference - over quality, by choosing welcomed over catered to. They were choosing where they were comfortable over what made a better social impression. They simply wanted to like where they were.
In reality, the food was just "okay" at Meers, but it was the atmosphere of friendship and the preference people had for that atmosphere that caused the half-hour drive and the sale. Whoa.
Too many of us want the church experience to be perfect rather than comfortable. You can’t have both.
So I've worked hard to put my perfectionism to rest and instead worked to create a place that people would choose to enjoy. Things are still done well - competently, but I'm not so anal about perfection. And guests are greeted on their first visit with the words, “Welcome home.” Some smile. Some cry. Some don’t get it until later. But it works.
