I'm not the rebellious type, is the thing. I'm the caring responsible type, the goody-two-shoes overachiever, the killjoy stick-in-the-mud, the anxiety-prone rule-follower. If I could have, I would have gone to church every week and brought food for the funerals and sang in the choir. I would have volunteered to host bake sales and help serve meals to the homeless, even though I hate talking to people. I would have followed the rules. I would have introspected. I would have talked to God every day, like he was my best friend, and I would have forgiven him ten hundred times for falling short on me. I would have studied the Bible like it was one of my shows, learned everything I could about God, and committed it to the bottom of my heart. I would have loved my brother for all his flaws, and I would have dutifully taken care of my parents in their old age.
But I can't. I don't fit there, anymore. They don't want me. They don't treat me well. They don't hold up their end of the bargain, don't return service for service or love for love. I'm not welcome, because I cannot repress the thing that I am that they hate and fear, because I cannot be dishonest, cannot pretend to worship what I know is wrong. Because the falseness of their faith cannot stand up to my earnest devotion to it. Even approaching it with love, with compassion, with the humble desire to understand—it just doesn't hold together.