Pastor Johnson’s dark eyes narrowed to a squint. His face glowed beet-red as he stabbed the air at me with his forefinger, refuting my arguments point by point. Drops of sweat tickled my sides as they ran down my ribs. I had not expected this, at all…
Pastor Johnson did not appreciate my questions. I had challenged him, I had questioned his authority and he did not like it. Especially from a kid. Especially from me.
I was 18 and knew everything. (You know what I’m talking about, right?) I had asked to speak with him in his private office.
In public, he taught about love. In private, he was a prick. I’d seen it for myself. So I called him out. And… Well, he was not pleased.
Can’t really blame him. I was a snot-nosed, arrogant kid who knew nothing worth knowing. And he was a Big-Cheese Religious Professional.
And he was also a prick.
. . .
All my life, I’ve been like the anti-Dale Carnegie: I know how to win enemies and irritate people.
I don’t mean to do it. It just seems to happen. All I do is ask questions.
Why do we do it that way?
Who are they anyway?
I believe too little and doubt too much. Laugh at the wrong times and the wrong people. Other people don’t even notice stuff that drives me crazy. (The national anthem at every freaking sporting event?!?! Gaarrrrggghhhh!!!)
And – most notably – I question authority. Every kind of authority in every field of human knowledge.
. . .
Such is the life of a misfit.
We question everything. We cut across the grain, go against the crowd and take the road less traveled. In short, we are ourselves and no one else.
If you are a misfit, or you know one, I invite you to hang out here with me. Together, we’ll ask questions, make observations, dig under the covers and do our best to see the world as it is, rather than as we wish it would be.
Because that’s how we are, dude. That’s how we are.
. . .
Mostly, we’ll enjoy being ourselves, no matter how misfit we are.
As that famous misfit Oscar Wilde recommended:
Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken.