I remember us sending them off… the weird ones, the misfits. Plane ticket in hand they stepped onto the platform and into the spotlights. Each one cringed at the lights, squinting to find reality again. Each uncomfort worn on their sleeves revealed potential loosing streaks in poker. They were raw and unfancied. They were dismissed and forgotten. Every once in a while their names would appear in the bulletin, a constant reminder daily forgotten. And then some came back, fire blazing in their eyes. And others didn’t return, they had found a new home. Those who came back tried to re-live here. They tried to find a peace amongst war. Oh but they just stuck out like a sore thumb, an ostrich among pigeons. Some of them left again, they couldn’t take the tension of living in a fake reality of self-indulgence and greed. They pleaded for the hungry, the sick, the lost. And we entertained their pictures and some of their shorter stories. And then we moved on… afterall they were the weird ones, the misfits. They needed to go back to the mission field. It’s the right place for people like them.

Have you ever felt isolated because you saw a Truth no one else seemed to see?
This world is not our home, Christians. We can’t stay here.
We can’t get comfortable here with our matching furniture and 12 pairs of shoes.
The world is not ours.
Where’d the harvesters go? Where’d the obedience go?
Or did we just trade it for radical for the sake of radical?

-a self-reminder-