I didn’t know I was a misfit until I was about five years-old.  I was at the school with my then best friend Phillip Long, and some big kid bullies approached us.  Although it was over 45 years ago, I can still see it clear as day.  If we went to the school, I could show you where we were standing.  In my mind’s eye, I see the image first-person, and from at least two other camera angles. Besides just being troublesome, the boys started asking questions that I don’t ever remember anyone asking me before:

• “What happened to your nose?”
• “What’s wrong with your lip?”
• “Why do you look so funny?“

I was shocked by the questions.  I didn’t know anything was wrong with me.

“What do you mean?” I thought. I recoiled in fear and confusion.  Recoiled might be too strong of word; but I was stunned.  I didn’t know how to react, or what to say.  Which means I played right into their hands.

“What do you mean?” I thought.

Bullies always try to knock you off balance, and then look for the vulnerable targets. Phillip must have been caught off-guard too.  Most five year-olds don’t really notice physical flaws in others.  Most five year-olds are quite accepting and, um, child-like.  They just innocently accept people for who they are.  As my Darling Daughter approaches her fifth birthday, I’m very aware that she is burning images, events, and other memories into her sponge-like brain.

Remembering that first encounter with the bullies, makes me painfully cognizant of her social fragility. When we didn’t respond to their questions, they began to pepper me with insults:

• “Fat-lip!”
• “Flat-nose!”
• you name it, I’ve been called it.

As the saying goes, “Kids can be so cruel.” The significance of this landmark afternoon didn’t really sink in until years later.  I was five, for crying out loud – I moved on.

But this wasn’t the last time I was bullied and called names, and it certainly wasn’t the most significant. It was just the first I remember.  The lie that those kids imprinted in me continues to have breath.  In the back of my mind, I will never forget that I’m a misfit.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Fast-forward to 1981: My then wife and I had been out to dinner, gone to a movie, and were now settling down for the night.  But something was wrong.  She’d been extremely quiet all day.

I pressed, “What’s wrong?“ But she dismissed my question.  So, I asked again…and again.

Finally, the reply.  Out of the blue:

I didn’t see it coming: “I don’t love you anymore.“

“Oh. That.” I thought. Seriously, we men can be so clueless.  She may have been trying to get our attention for months, years – but when the message finally hits home, we are surprised.  We were (are?) clueless.

This had been a rocky marriage even before it started.  We were too young, we were too immature, and we were too unprepared for the responsibilities of marriage.  As I lay there that night, trying to absorb the bomb she just dropped, I flashed on the past three years.  The insecurities, the baggage, the suicide attempts, the night on the streets, the pain.

Right there, right then, I made a decision.  I was done too.  I slept on the couch that night, lived out of my pickup for the next month or two, and moved on. The next year and a half was Hell.  Once again, the rejection – the message haunting me: Misfit!

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

During that time, I was in the middle of my firefighter and my paramedic training.  Two intense programs, simultaneously.  It was pretty insane.

When I completed my probationary year with Washington County Fire District #1, I was transfered from the Engine Company in Somerset/Rock Creek, to the Rescue in West Slope.  I was young, cocky, and ready to save the world!  Although I was merely a lowly EMT, I was ready to tell my paramedic partner how to do his job.  Not just because I’m so brilliant (blink, blink), but also, um, well, I guess because I thought I was so brilliant. (cough, cough) [I'm sorry Steve, wherever you are today!]

When I first arrived at the West Slope Station, we had a Truck Company (which was soon closed), Engine Company, and a Rescue.  I still remember our crew with great affection: Jack (who lives near me in Columbia County), Ron, Terry, Al, Steve, and me.  We also had a paramedic student rider, Debbie – who was part mascot, part friend, and a definite part of the crew (The last I heard, Debbie is now a Sergeant with the Portland Police Bureau).

These guys became my family. They were all I had during these tough years.  But like all families, we had some rough times.

Al and I became really good friends – hanging out more off-duty than on. Often Debbie and her friends would hang out with us too.  I always kind of looked up to Ron.  He was a decade (or so?) older than me, and was quite the man about town.  From watching him, I learned how to be cool!  Jack was a great guy – and one of the most fun captains I’ve ever worked with.  Steve was a kind of a loner, and before my two-year stint with this crew was over, Steve was going through his own divorce and living in Debbie’s basement.

But something happened between Terry and I, that I never quite understood – until this week. After writing my last post on Misfits, a couple of days ago, I was contemplating some of the implications of that post and I had an epiphany.

You see,  I wasn’t a very good team player back then – in the day – and to many, I’m still not.  I’ve never been good at politics, never been good at fitting in, and because I wasn’t used to being included, I wasn’t used to playing the silly reindeer games that others played.  However, I was a hard worker and I did my job well – but I don’t always meet other people’s expectations of what it means to do one’s job well.

For the most part, chores are completed in the mornings at every fire station I’ve ever worked at. But I, not being a morning person, and going through personal hell, tended to do a bare minimum in the mornings – and then in the afternoon, when the rest of the crew was watching TV, or napping, or reading, or whatever, that’s when I would take care of the more in-depth part of my chores.

I didn’t understand why then, but Terry began to ride me. He criticized my work, my words, and my worth.  He criticized me to my face, behind my back, and to my captain.  In many ways, he was just a sophisticated, passive-aggressive bully. One day, Captain Jack, Terry, and I sat down to try and work through this.  Terry’s chief complaint was that I was lazy and didn’t do my job.  I pointed out that on the rescue we were running twice as many calls as the engine, I was going to school full-time, and that I did a lot of extra projects when no one was looking – and I listed them.  Both Terry and Jack were surprised to hear all I was involved in – but surprisingly, the personal attacks didn’t stop.

I was very confused by this. I got along well with everyone else on the shift, was rebuilding my social life through my divorce, and had never really had this kind of conflict before.  But it was getting worse and worse.  I was very frustrated and grew increasingly angry.  Terry became the target of all my stress.  Paramedic school, divorce, homelessness, loneliness, etc – it was, as I’ve mentioned, Hell.  I was ready to sacrifice my job for the sake of one KO punch.  I was ready to blow – and then I was transfered.

I’d all but forgotten this rough time with Terry, until I this week. But still I was left with the impression that I was a misfit.  That’s the message Terry was trying to send – and I received it loud and clear.

The problem wasn’t that I wasn’t doing my job, the problem was that I wasn’t doing it the way Terry, the senior firefighter, thought I should do it.  Some people do things right, and others do the right thing.  If I had done no more than I was supposed to – which would be the bare minimum – but done it the way everyone else did it, Terry most likely would have been happy.  But, instead, for some quirk of my nature and nurture, I did things my way – and I did above and beyond what I was supposed to.  I was a misfit.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

I’m still a misfit. I believe this is why I terminated from my pastoral job.  As I’ve tried to make sense of the past couple of years, I realize that stability, “normalcy,” and maintenance of the status quo are important qualities for organizational pastors.  But I am an aesthetic, a creative, and an innovator.  I love to take things apart to see how they work.  By deconstructing systems, I am often able to rebuild them into better, cleaner, and more efficient systems.  I investigate, deconstruct, then chart a course forward, into the future.

Well guess what?  Some people don’t want to move into the future.

If I had done the bare minimum, but done it to other people’s standards and timelines, probably no one would have noticed, or said, a thing. But because I tend to poke, prod, and deconstruct – I draw attention to the fact that I’m not like everyone else.  It also gives reason for people to find, and flaunt, my flaws.

Is this a good thing? I don’t know.  I’ve actually always thought I was providing a valuable service to society.

When I left my challenging and rewarding emergency services career in August of 1995, Doug, one of my former paramedic partners said something to me.  It has stuck with me:

“I always thought you were too much of a free spirit to be happy here.”

I think it applies to my work in the church too.  Is that a good thing?  I don’t know.

I suppose the people of the church have a right to decide who and what they want to be.  And if I don’t fit their model, of who and what they want for a pastor, well – that’s their choice.  I mean, it is their organization, right?  I happen to think I bring a fresh perspective to many of the challenges and problems in the church – and like my experience at the West Slope fire station, I don’t believe I am technically wrong.  I made plenty of mistakes in both situations, but I didn’t deserve the treatment I received.  But socio-politically, I am way off-base, and quite the misfit.

Many would choose fitting in and avoidance of conflict over revolution.  Like Jesus, I choose revolution.

I don’t believe the Church handled my situation in alignment with their written, spoken, or unspoken values.  That hurt – but like the bullies I encountered 46 years ago, I will forgive them and I will move on and I will survive.  It’s just taking me a bit longer than I expected to pull myself up off the ground.  At least they didn’t stone me, flog me, or hang me on a cross – right?

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