I, Weirdo

(Sigh.) Here I go again, sighing and pontificating on my dichotomies.

I feel like an extra weirdo now because I've voted Democratically for as long as I've had the right to vote, and now that the Democratic party amended the phrase "God-given" and "Jerusalem" as the recognized capital of Israel out of their official party platform, I cringe at the onslaught bound to issue forth from my fellow Bible toters.  Guess I'll have to hide a few more overzealous posters from my FB newsfeed so that I don't start hating the world.

With my modestly-skirted bottom in a chair pulled up to a cubicle, I try to concentrate on typing this and not worry about the two lesbians horsing around in the cubicle next to me.  Over here, I read Spanish detective novels and letters written by conquistadors, switch languages a few times a day, and adore a professor who, when she was pregnant, told curious strangers who asked whether she wanted to have a girl or a boy that she wanted to have a gay boy so that she could have the best of both.

On weekday mornings I (try to) read the Bible in the NLT on my Kindle.  I skipped over the Song of Solomon because it's a little explicit and I want to keep my mind pure and I skipped over Revelation because apocalyptic prognostications depress me.  I just skipped over them for now.  I'll get to them when I finish everything else.

On Sunday morning I'm still the new girl in the choir.  I'm exuberant. I worship.  I love Jesus, and when gratefulness washes over me because of His love and mercy, I have no other option.  "I sure enjoy seeing you worship up there in the choir."  Well, I'm glad, but I wasn't paying attention to you at all.

What do people of African descent in Latin America have to do with choir mics?  What does a professorial proponent of the rights of undocumented immigrants and the LGBT community have to do with a red-haired man who respects the Word of God and preaches from his heart?  What does a pan-Hispanic, gringo, and a smattering of afro group of aspiring academicians have to do with down-home heart blessings and soothing prayer hands on my back during altar call?  Why does glossolalia rarely sound like French?

These are questions I do not have the answer to.  But here are a few things I do know:

My president is not my pastor, and my pastor is not my God.  My professors are not my parents, and my parents are my oldest teachers.  My friends are my family, and the children of God include more than my brothers and sisters in the Lord.

And by the time I finished writing this, the Democratic party put the God and Jerusalem reference back in the party platform.  Maybe I won't start hating the world after all.