Here is a guy who thinks he will go to seminary and have a new career as a pastor who writes or a writer who pastors or a teacher who pastors and writes or something. Somewhere he's gotten it into his head that he wants to preach a sermon to the unsuspecting masses. It is a series of Tuesday evening services that has given him this opportunity. He was given a choice; he could "share his faith story" or he could deliver a sermon, and of course he chose the latter, because he's been wanting to try this for a while now.

So. He writes a sermon. He likes it. It is vetted by the senior pastor of the church, who responds with a crisp, "Good job. Look forward to hearing it on Tuesday."

Tuesday night steals upon us. His hope has been that he will be able to speak these lovely words he has written from memory, but there are more words than there is time in which to memorize them all. This is going to be what in high school drama class we called a "dramatic reading."

When it is his time to speak, he ascends the steps to the lectern. He's prepared a song, a solo rendition of the Beatles' "Blackbird," and is now wishing he had not. It now seems sheer vanity: look what I can do. But if he puts the guitar down and doesn't play, that will just seem bizarre. So he plays the song.

The guitar is miked, and so is his voice. These sounds are amplified, enhanced; he can hear his fingers slipping on the strings as he plays. There is nowhere to hide from this; no other, more competent musician to whom to defer. He has played this song a million times, but of course he's been on enough stages in his life to know that even the most familiar tune can become hazardous under such conditions. His fingers know the song well enough to at least keep to the proper frets, but the fingers of his right hand drop a few notes; he kludges a bit of the fingerpicking. He's not really bothered by this, though. His musical gifts are what they are; he's perfectly comfortable with them, and he knows enough to know that this, while far from note-perfect, is still well on the safe side of cringe-inducement. Another guitarist will notice the flubs, but no one else will, or care. This is a matter of experience, to know these things and to be comfortable with them.

Then he gets up to speak; he has his sermon printed out in big fouteen-point letters to aid in reading. The print still seems tiny. The awareness that he's never done this before is primary in his mind. The experience of giving a prepared lecture of any kind is new to him. Something akin to stage acting, but altogether different as well. Don't talk too fast. Don't mutter. Make eye contact. Feel the words. He repeats these little mantras to himself.

He starts talking. It is tempting to grip the sides of the lectern and stare, eyes riveted, at the words in front of him. Shit. If only he'd memorized the thing. That would be easier.

Find your place. Start talking. Be present in this. What comes next? Find your place. Keep talking. Let go of the goddamn lectern and use your hands. Don't look down. Look up.

The words come as naturally as he can manufacture them. As he speaks them aloud, he comes to a realization that has never occurred to him: I don't write the way I talk. Writing for the eye is one thing; writing for the ear is something else. The next time I do this, I need to keep in mind that I will be saying these words; they need to sound like me talking. Otherwise it's forced.

Shut up. Shut up. Find your place. Keep talking.

For the most part, the congregation laughs where they're supposed to laugh. This is a good sign. If they do not laugh, the psychological damage can be a deal-breaker. In other places, perhaps they don't realize that they're expected or allowed to laugh, or it just isn't funny. Go with the former; the latter cannot be a possibility while he's still up here.

Dammit, why am I such a fucking perfectionist? Just talk. Just be. No one expects you to be perfect but you. To all these people, this is just some guy who's not even a pastor giving a talk. They don't expect that much. Stop beating yourself up. But yes, I suppose you could at least try to be perfect, couldn't you? Isn't that the point of sanctification?

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Find your place. Keep talking.

"In the name of the father and of the son and of the Holy Spirit, we say 'Amen.'"

That's that. He sits down by his wife. Now the self-criticism can begin in earnest. The psychology of the perfectionist. He resists the urge to lean to her and say, "How bad was it? Honestly? I sucked, right?" Self-effacement, the ugly handmaiden of perfectionism.

"Wow, you did a great job," she whispers.

"You're biased," he says.

He stands in the lobby, greeting people as they come out. "Wonderful message," they say. "Nice," they say. "Thank you for sharing," they say (Oh, fuck!). He ticks them off in his head: just being nice, just being nice, just being nice, possibly senile, just being nice. He cannot, will not, absolutely utterly without fail must not accept a compliment at face value.

Then an angel appears. She is young, perhaps eighteen or nineteen. She introduces herself. She says, "I really appreciated what you said." She looks down. "I've been going through a hard time, and hearing you talk about your own difficulties really helped put things in perspective. So, thanks."

She could not have slain him more effectively if she had pierced his heart with a golden arrow. She will never know how much she has just given him. He wants to fall at her feet and offer a blessing, the perfectionist's blessing: thank you for pulling my hand out of the flames of my own ego. But such effusiveness would hardly be appropriate and would almost certainly spoil the moment. So he smiles, and takes her hand, and says only, "No, thank you."

Later, on the way home, he says this prayer: Lord God, lift me up and out of myself, out of the shark-infested waters of my self-opinion and into the greater ocean of Life. Let me stop trying to be perfect. Lift my thoughts from the closed loop of ME, from the painful awareness of my own shortcomings, from selfishness. Let me be a disciple of Christ, not of myself. Amen. Let it be so.

And then he allows himself this: he says to himself, You know what, kid? You done good. You done just fine. And for this moment, if for no other, he lets himself believe it.