Some time ago I visited a web site for Mormon misfits (www.misfitmormon.com). As I read through the posts there, I wondered to myself, “What kind of eldritch creatures might these ‘Morms Out of the Norm’ be?”

It seems to me just being religious in an increasingly secular society is enough to make one a misfit American. Add to that the claim of belonging to the only true church and you become a misfit Christian – a misfit among misfits. Now try and attend a temple recommend interview wearing anything but the regulation uniform and you will find yourself a misfit among misfit misfits.

The situation reminds me of a pithy aphorism my father recited for me when at the age of eleven, I was feeling particularly betrayed by the universe over some now forgotten injustice: “I wept that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.” Rather than being of comfort, the notion horrified me.

“What about the guy who has no legs?” I pleaded. “There you go,” my sagacious father nodded.

A dreadful vision overtook me as I imagined long, degenerative line of increasingly sad characters disappearing over the horizon to that unimaginably tragic “last guy.” (I shudder even now to write of it.)

To be a misfit Mormon seems an eminently effective way of addressing the natural desire we all have of acquiring a unique sense of individuality, but is it always a matter of choice? To choose to be a misfit comes with its own set of concerns, wishes, perceptions and drives, but what if, like Jessica Rabbit, one is just drawn that way?

The web site is gone now. These “last guys” in the long line of relgious misfits have scattered to mill about and regroup once more in ever complicated, kaleidoscopic permutations. What sad and interesting creatures these Mormon misfits must be, I think. Crazy for living. Crazy for wanting to fit and not wanting it. Crazy for holding up their misfittedness as a badge of honor that masks their shyness, their sadness and their longing. Crazy mad for all of us.