All through my school years, I was the oddball when it came to religion. Except for my sister, I was the only student in any of my schools who attended the Church of Christ. In fact, of all my friends, I was the only one who went to church every Sunday. Most of them were Roman Catholic or Lutheran and would attend a few times a year, but none went every week, not to mention going three times per week.
I was the strange kid who didn’t swear. I remember being awkwardly surprised the first time a friend of mine cursed in front of me and then apologized.
I was the peculiar child who invited my friends to VBS and summer camp. I always had that mixed feeling of anticipation because I wanted my friends with me and dread because I was afraid they would think I was weird.
Nobody in my circle had any experience with the churches of Christ or had any idea what a nondenominational church was. My best friend’s dad knew that my dad was a minister, but his Catholic background didn’t prepare him for a “priest” with children. I remember the day when he asked me, “What are you?” An awkward question that deserved a better answer than I had at the time.
What am I? I am a Christian. I am in the world but not of the world. If that makes me seem weird, then so be it. I am a Christian.