She hates that she is a woman
The putrefying weakness perceived in the curves of her body
The naivete shown in her blues
With the unintentional flutter of butterfly lashes
That refuse to meet the glances of those that pass by
The fear-- Of what?
That stereotypes are true?
She doesn't even know
And it sickens her.

She sickens herself.

She hates that she is white
The blandest vanilla
The marble statue
Somehow revered
Worshiped
Privileged
But simultaneously overlooked
Boring
Unimportant
The Caucasian mongrel
In light of the fact that her People
Have no proud history
Which she can name herself heir to

She hates that she is middle class
Not poor enough to struggle
Not rich enough to be free
Just situated dully in the middle
A footnote in the statistic
That they tell her she must use
To identify herself

She hates that her belief system
Has to be called by a name
That she has to choose
To be a part of a group
As part of her "identity"
And she is not allowed
To stand by her own integrity

She hates that she is American
The pudgy, loud-mouthed, laterally-speaking nation
The brashly jumps into conflict
Guns blazing
As its political system decays
In the stench of its overwhelming debt and corruption

But in truth
She hates
That they force her
To whittle her essence down
Into Gender, Race, Class, Religion, and Nationality
A *****-inducing statistic

As if there was nothing more to her
Than the facts surrounding her existence

The probability of me being improbable is highly definite.
The statistical occurrence of randomness
Is proportional to the flow of consciousness.

I drove 150 miles round trip
To hear a friend preach
And see him baptize an infant
This morning.

My friend preached on the Father's love
For the prodigal son...
Said, "The father loves those outside the fold
Every bit as much as those inside the fold!"
Made me remember that the Good Shepherd
Hunted far and near to bring the one lost sheep
Back to the other ninety-nine.

I thought, statistically speaking,
The Good Shepherd leaves no sheep behind,
(A hundred percent salvific rate
I'd call it... Pretty good odds for even
A dumb sheep like me...).

After the ceremony,
Lunching at the family's house,
The older brother of the baptized boy
Looked up at me,
Cake in his mouth,
And asked,"Are you Jesus?"

Took me quite by surprise,
But smiling,
I said, "No, I'm not Jesus!"
He asked, "Where is Jesus?"
His grandfather said,
"He's here!"
Pointing to the little guy's chest.

A little while later,
When his mom sat next to him,
He pointed to his chest,
"Jesus lives in here!"

Sunday sermons...
One in a church,
One in a garage...
I heard two today.
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Matthew 19:14 Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these."

Like this if you see it.