Recent Sermon

Title

The Art Of Imperfection

by Rev. Ken Langer

First Church of Barre, Universalist

Date

Sunday, March 22, 2026

Sermon

Alexander Fleming was a total slob. He was a Scottish scientist working in London, and his lab was filthy. One September in 1928, he decided to take a vacation, and, as usual, no cleaning was done in his lab before he left. When he got back, there was dust, mold, and bacteria everywhere. Petri dishes had been left out, and strange growths had taken up residence within them. There was also mold in those same dishes, except where some of the new bacteria had grown. Fleming noticed that the mold had killed the bacteria around it. He discovered that the mold was producing an antibiotic that he later named penicillin. He made an important discovery in the midst of chaos in a lab that was less than perfect.

The problem with Fleming’s discovery, however, was that he could not produce enough penicillin from the samples he had. He did, however, publish a paper that led others to begin the hunt for a mold that would produce a greater yield. It took another scientist, Mary Hunt from Peoria, Illinois, to find the right strain. She had an eye for tiny organisms and found a rotting cantaloupe at a local market. She discovered a strain of mold on it that could produce large amounts of penicillin, and she helped save thousands of lives just as World War II was underway because she looked for rotting fruit. Coincidentally, Alexander Fleming went on to be awarded a Nobel Prize while Mary Hunt was forgotten.

When I was in high school, I played the trumpet in the school band. I thought I was pretty good. I sat in the first chair of the trumpet section and was assigned to play many of the solos in our concerts. I had taken numerous lessons and practiced regularly at home (much to the chagrin of my parents). My illusion of perfection was shattered when I auditioned for the college music program I wanted to attend and was told they would not accept me. It turned out that there were a significant number of senior high school trumpet players who were much better than I was. They told me to pick another career path. My parents advised me to choose another major—preferably one that would actually make money. My guidance counselor also suggested I pick another major—preferably one that was more practical. I didn’t listen to any of them. Instead, I went to that college and practiced more than I ever had in my life so that I could re-audition the next year and gain acceptance into the music program—which I did. My failure forced me to become even more than I thought I could have been before. I call this an exquisite imperfection.

The universe is full of exquisite imperfections. When people visit Italy, many include a visit to the Leaning Tower of Pisa on their bucket list—a structure of no real importance except that it stands at an angle rather than being perfectly symmetrical. When compact discs (CDs) first came out, they were hailed as a great achievement for recorded music, but some grew intolerant of the perfectly clean audio sound and returned to the imperfections of scratches and glitches found in music albums. They described the recordings as more “warm.” When I take my daughter to buy clothes, she invariably chooses the pair that is intentionally worn down and full of rips and holes.

Nature itself is full of exquisite imperfections. The lotus flower pushes through thick mud and clouded waters to sit proudly on the surface of a pond. Forests, fields of wildflowers, puffy floating clouds, and lofty mountain ranges are all combinations of imperfectly developed parts that come together to create forms of strength and beauty. Life itself is packed with necessary imperfections. The very amino acids that are the building blocks of all living forms are said to be asymmetric. This same asymmetry applies to the entire universe and everything we know and beyond. Everything in the cosmos is unbalanced, and it is for this very reason that galactic formation and the process of evolution behind all life are possible. Everything is growing in exquisite imperfection.

Perhaps the best examples of exquisite imperfection are displayed through the arts. I have conducted several different kinds of musical ensembles, but my favorite by far is the choral ensemble. A good choir, orchestra, or music group can create the most beautiful sounds. Vocal choirs hidden in the recesses of ancient cathedrals make it sound as if their parishioners are surrounded by the music of angels. All these musical groups create beautiful sounds because they heighten human imperfection. In most choral music, the scores typically feature only four lines, yet there are often many more than four people singing. The beauty of the music comes from having several people sing the same line, but because they are imperfect humans, no one sings it exactly alike. If done well, these slight imperfections meld together into a delightfully harmonious sound. The same is true for the string section of the orchestra or for any of the multiple instruments in a band. Dancing has a similar effect. We marvel at the wonder of a kickline or the coordinated dancing in a show tune not because everyone looks the same or does everything exactly the same way, but because they do everything almost the same.

In visual art, the standard of quality was once determined by how realistically a painter could create a scene or image, but that changed with the invention of the camera. Art was no longer needed to capture portraits of royalty or frame scenes from nature. Art became more abstract and less concerned with perfection than with expression. Poets work long and hard to find the perfect words, but they never quite succeed. If they did, there would no longer be any need for anyone to write poetry. In some forms of craft, there is a conscious effort to include a minor flaw in every work to remind people that perfection is not possible. Navajo rug artists are known for this practice. By doing this, they make the imperfect a necessary part of the beautiful.

Perhaps the most glorious example of raising imperfection to its own level of aesthetics is found in the Japanese art of Kintsugi. Kintsugi is the practice of fixing broken pottery using a special tree sap mixed with shiny metals such as silver or gold. The point of the art is not to hide the cracks but to highlight them. The repair work becomes an integral part of the artwork of the restored ceramics. In effect, the brokenness is the art. The repair is not hidden but is highlighted and integrated into the whole work. The flaws are displayed with pride and complete the artistic statement. It says, “I was once cracked and broken, but now I am whole. I am strong. I am more beautiful than before.”

The art of Kintsugi is based on the Zen Buddhist concept of wabi-sabi. The principle of wabi-sabi is to find beauty in imperfection, impermanence, and incompleteness. In other words, it asks us to give up the idea of seeking perfection in all we do because perfection is unattainable. Instead, we should see the inherent beauty in the flawed, the broken, the damaged, and the blemished. It encourages us to embrace the faults and the cracks, to slow down and observe things as they really are, and to focus on the process rather than the product.

The simple truth is that there is no perfection in anything. To be purely perfect means to be uniform, unattainable, and unalterable. Perfection knows no growth, no adaptation, and no renewal. All things everywhere are in a process of growth, change, and revitalization and, by definition, can never be perfect on their own.

I am reminded of this fact in the writing of my sermons. No matter how much I write, no matter how many times I offer these words to others, and no matter how many times I pour out my heart in these sentences, I never seem to say exactly what I want to say. I never quite express what I think needs to be conveyed. So, I keep writing and speaking, but it’s never complete. There’s always more to say. There’s always a better way to say it. There’s always something else that needs to be explored. There’s always another angle from which to view the same thing. I have given up trying to be perfect, but I continue to be hopelessly yet exquisitely imperfect.

We are all broken. We all have fault lines, cracks, and even missing pieces. We all experience pain, soreness, and aching. We all have holes, gaps, and fissures. We are all beautifully flawed. Instead of trying to hide these things away, let your broken pieces come forth. Display them in bright colors and precious metals. Embrace your uniquely exquisite imperfections.

Notes

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