Let’s suppose that for just one day the Lord chose to make a documentary about you—“A Day in the Life of an Ordinary Christian.” For a single day your every move was recorded and your every word transcribed. For a single day even your thoughts were externalized and written down. A camera crew was beside your bed when you awoke, they sat with you at breakfast, and stayed at your side through your duties at work and at home. They held boom mics above your head as you led your family in devotions, trailed along behind when you went to your midweek service or small group, watched you sing your children to sleep, and bid farewell only when you had returned to bed, turned out the lights, and fallen into a deep slumber.

You would, of course, be on your best behavior and make it one of the best and godliest days you had ever lived. Even without fakery or hypocrisy, you would put your best foot forward and attempt to display your life at its purest. You would guard your thoughts and measure your words; you would take your duties seriously and do your utmost to display the heights of Christian character. You would be the best spouse you could be, the best parent you could be, the best friend and employee. You would attempt to model distinctly godly living.
And let’s suppose that somewhere in the distant reaches of time God chose to show you the results of that documentary. You had long since died and gone to heaven and begun to live in eternal bliss. And now God said, “Let’s show you that day in your life.” And so for hours you sat and watched yourself living life on this side of the grave. How would you feel about it? How would you evaluate the way you thought, the way you spoke, the way you lived?
You would, of course, understand that it was immeasurably far from perfect. You would see that despite your best efforts, your motives were still impure, your thoughts still imperfect, your actions still impacted by sin and still impaired by weakness. You would know you have already been forgiven for all the wrong you did and all the good you failed to do. So perhaps you would find yourself asking, “God, how could you have loved me when I was so sinful, when my best actions born from my best desires were still so poor?” What do you suppose the Lord would say?
I think the Lord might say something like this: “I have already forgiven you. And I know that you were living as well as you knew how to at that time. You were walking according to the light you had at that stage of your Christian life. You were making decisions on the basis of the knowledge you had gained so far and heeding your conscience as much as it had been informed to that point. Though you were still a sinner, though the old man was still active within, you were attempting to live well, attempting to live for the good of others and the glory of my name. So well done. I’m proud of you.”
The way you live today is, in all likelihood, better and purer than the way you lived ten years ago. The way you will live ten years from now is, in all likelihood, better and purer than the way you are living today. God’s work within us is progressive, not instant. Though we are never faultless when it comes to our sins, God may consider us blameless when we simply do not have the knowledge, do not have the maturity, do not have the sanctification that would allow us to live better and purer lives at that moment.
Of course, we must not content ourselves with immaturity or allow ourselves to dwell indefinitely in spiritual infancy. We must be committed to growth! Yet surely God does hold us equally responsible for unintentional ignorance as for knowledgeable defiance. Surely he is pleased with our best efforts, even when those efforts are so small and so weak. Surely he is proud of us when we live according to the light we have and serve with hearts of love, hearts of joy, hearts that long to magnify his name.

I have been building an ongoing relationship with a person who adheres to a very different religion than my own. He is as committed to his faith as I am to mine and is as eager to speak to me as I am to him. It makes for some engaging and enjoyable conversation. I recently asked him what hope he has beyond the grave, what certainty he can have about life after death. “As you venture off into what comes beyond what we see and know, what confidence do you have of a warm welcome?”

His answer was that he has very little confidence. He is doing his best to live by the tenets of his faith, to be a good and moral and upright person. He worships when he is meant to worship, prays when he is meant to pray, and gives when he is meant to give. He is aware that he sometimes falls short, but responds to his transgressions and shortcomings by redoubling his efforts. He is all-in and doing all he can. But while he seems to be doing everything right, he still has no confidence when it comes to whatever happens after death. Why?
The answer does not lie in his own efforts or in the clarity of the instructions given in his scriptures. Rather, the answer lies in the character of the god he worships. His god, though said to be very powerful, is not known to be patient or kind. Though said to demand the highest of moral standards, he is not known to be completely consistent in his judgments. He can be harsh, he can be arbitrary, he can vary his standards. Though he is the being who created humanity, he does not reveal himself as compassionate toward them. And for those reasons his followers live their lives relating to a god who shows little love, little tenderness, little compassion. They are always uncertain about his posture toward them, always guessing at the nature of his relationship toward them. And them, at the end, they head toward death uncertain about whether they will go to eternal life or eternal death, to glory or judgment. 
As I walked away from our most recent conversation, I found myself reflecting on the sheer wonder of compassion. Aren’t you thankful that our God is compassionate toward us? Aren’t you thankful that God promises he is close to the brokenhearted and that he saves those who are crushed in spirit? Aren’t you thankful that he promises he will not break a bruised reed and that he will not snuff out a smoldering wick? Aren’t you thankful that just as a father shows compassion to his children, so the LORD shows compassion to those who fear him? It is this fatherly heart of God that is especially relatable and therefore especially precious.
When Abby went off to college I wanted to assure her that I would continue to care about her and care for her. I told her what I will also tell her sister when she heads off this fall: “You only ever need to say ‘Daddy, I need you,’ and I will be on my way. By the time you finish your sentence you’ll hear the front door slam and the car engine start and the tires screech. I’ll be on my way to you.” Because that’s what it is to be a father—to respond to our children when they cry out for us. Surely no good father would hear his daughter cry out in hunger and give her a rock or hear his son cry out in anguish and hand him a snake. Surely no concerned father would hear his child cry for help and turn his back. And the best of human fathers, of course, is but the palest imitation of our heavenly Father. 
Our God draws very close to us in our sorrows—the sorrow of pain, the sorrow of loss, the sorrow of betrayal, the sorrow of loneliness, the sorrow of facing our own sinfulness and fallibility. And, of course, the sorrow of facing our own mortality. Our God is most present just when he is most needed—ever ready and ever eager to offer his sweet comfort. His compassion—his wondrous fatherly compassion—draws him near to us when we so desperately need his help.

Charles Spurgeon said it. Billy Graham said it. And even though it’s not really all that funny anymore, most of us have probably said it as well. It goes something like this: “Don’t bother looking for the perfect church since, the moment you join it, it won’t be perfect anymore.” Zing!

There’s truth behind the quote, of course. It would be impractical and, frankly, ridiculous to expect that a bunch of sinful people could join together to create a sinless community—to imagine that perfection could arise from the confluence of a hundred lives as imperfect as yours and mine. Yet, though we know perfection is impossible, don’t we all sometimes still grow frustrated at the sheer messiness of Christian individuals and Christian churches? Don’t we all sometimes face the temptation to pack up and move on when our fellow believers act like the sinners they are?
A little while ago I was speaking to a young man who is a fan of computer-based Role Playing Games. He explained that what draws him to these games is the ability to custom-craft a character, then to discover how that unique character interacts within the world of the game. When he creates a new character, he is given a finite number of points that he can allocate in a nearly infinite number of ways—some to strength, some to intelligence, some to charisma, some to agility, and so on. In the end he has always created a character that has both strengths and weaknesses, all depending upon the way he has allocated the points. What he can never do is create a character that is only strong and not the least bit weak.
Though the comparison between a church and game may threaten to be trite, I have actually found it helpful and, frankly, encouraging. There seems to be a law in this broken world that every strength is tempered with some kind of a weakness, almost as if there is a finite number of “points” that can be allocated to any individual or any church. A pastor who is an especially powerful preacher may be an especially weak counselor; elders who are skilled and vociferous in defending the truth may fall short in grace and love; a church that takes worship services seriously may be lax when it comes to evangelism. None of these weaknesses is defensible and none of them is okay. Yet some kind of imperfection is always inevitable on this side of glory.
What’s true in churches is true in families. A husband may be extremely diligent in leading and providing, but lax in his spiritual disciplines. A wife may have penetrating insights into the Word, but be uncommitted to extending hospitality. Kids may be obedient but lazy, or hard-working but mouthy. We ourselves have to admit that for all our virtues, they continue to be tempered by a host of vices.
This being the case, it is irrational to expect that any one church, any one pastor, any one husband or wife, friend or child, can excel in every way. And this faces us with a challenge: Can we learn to tolerate their shortcomings? Can we learn to live with the way their “points” have been allocated? While we certainly don’t need to embrace sin or apathetically accept ungodliness, we do need to accept the inevitability of some faults, some defects, some areas that will always remain a sore disappointment. And, realistically, we have to know that even if there was strength in one area we lament, it would probably mean there would be weakness in one area we admire. No individual and no community of individuals can be the complete package. It just doesn’t work that way.
Hence, the path to joy in church, marriage, and life is to accept that there will always be imperfections, to accept that there will always be areas of disappointment—but to be willing to celebrate the strengths while tolerating the weaknesses. Just as it is the glory of a man to overlook an offense, it is the glory of a Christian to overlook a weakness—to find greater joy in what encourages than in what disappoints.