You may have found it difficult yesterday (and perhaps even this morning!) to evade discussion about Wednesday night’s baseball game—you know, the one where the pitcher, Armando Galarraga of the Detroit Tigers, was one out away from a perfect game.

He didn’t pitch that perfect game—a game in which there are 27 at-bats, followed by 27 times when players head back to the dugout, having failed to reach base—at least, not technically. One out from history—there have only been a handful of perfect games ever—first base umpire Jim Joyce missed a fairly close call. A runner at first should have been out; instead, Joyce called him safe.

Several decades ago this may have been simply a disputed call, but two nights ago instant replay instantly made everyone aware: the umpire missed the call.

And he admitted it. In fact, he felt terrible. “This isn’t a call,” Joyce said after the game. “This isn’t—this is a history call. . . . And there’s nobody who feels worse than I do.” (You can listen to the umpire’s comments here. Please be warned, however: Joyce does employ some slightly salty language.)

What if the umpire hadn’t made the incorrect call? Galarraga would’ve pitched that perfect game. Joyce likely wouldn’t be a household name, as perhaps he is today. Instead of endlessly debating the need for instant replay, the baseball pundits might be pontificating on why baseball has seen three perfect games in about a month (An early season fluke? A trend toward a pitcher-dominant league? A byproduct of the post-steroid era?).

But we also never would have heard Joyce so clearly, so refreshingly, admit his error. We never would have witnessed yesterday’s home plate reconciliation (of sorts) between Galarraga and the umpire who cost him his perfect game. And we certainly wouldn’t be reading blog posts like this one (HT: Steve Weaver) in which the writer movingly tells of Galarraga’s response to Joyce’s missed call: a smile.

Joyce noticed the pitcher’s response, as well. After the runner was called safe, Galarraga’s manager immediately made his way to the umpire to express his displeasure with the call, but Galarraga? He said nothing. “If I woulda been Galarraga I woulda been the first one standin’ there,” Joyce said, after the game. “I woulda said something immediately. He didn’t say a word—not a word.”

Instead, a smile.

And yet, we still sense that something’s not right here. The umpire should have made, correctly, that call. Galarraga should have gone down in history as one of a few ever to throw a perfect game. It’s a reminder that something’s awry in the world, even the world of baseball.

All of us, created in the image of God, crave a just judgment—and it will be given (Matt 25). All of us, fallen though we are, are made to praise what’s perfect—though none of us is (Rom 3:23).

Forever on this side of Eden, though someday to see the New Jerusalem, we need a sure guide, a lamp to our feet. Otherwise, we’re left groping along in the darkness, left to ourselves in a world of broken oil wells and sneaky politicians and threats of “all out war” and sin and death.

And, on occasion, only near-perfect games.

A smile, in the end, doesn’t make things right. It can’t make it right. God can make it right—and he has, in the dying and raising of Jesus Christ. Trust in him, the Bible says, and you will be forgiven. Believe on him, the Scripture teaches, and you will be set free.

There were glimpses of grace in that smile, in an umpire’s confession of being wrong, in that interaction at home plate. But they only provide a glimpse—perhaps imperfect pointers to the One who is perfect. Will we notice them?