I've never felt comfortable with the scrubbed-for-Sunday crowd. There's something about them that makes me fidgit. You know who I'm talking about - the Christians that are so sugary sweet that you feel like you're getting cavities just standing next to them. They wear a facade, like their faith is the glaze on a day-old donut that obscures the truth of the staleness underneath.
I tried to fit in. Oh, how I tried. I'd put on my shirt and tie, my suit jacket, and my freshly shaved mug. (Jehovah's Witnesses do not approve of beards on their men. They see it as a symbol of the counter-culture. They won't criticize you to your face but you will be denied higher privileges in the religion because you are viewed as "spiritually immature" and ... ooo, even worse ... possibly rebellious.) The harder I tried to fit in, the more I realized I was totally alien and didn't belong there.
Spirituality is not a one-size-fits-all proposition. I was wrong to expect that other people would squeeze into such a tight space.
I was learning that I couldn't fit myself into that prison, either. I've concluded that it's unreasonable to think that God would feel that way about his own precious creation that was MADE to be different from one another.
There's something about the broken ones, the rougher-tougher crowd, and the not-quite-right that draws my everlasting affection. I feel more at home with them than with anyone else. The ironic thing about this situation is that while I'm not conservative enough for the traditional Christians, I'm not freaky enough for the alternative crowd. Somehow, I always find myself in the middle.
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