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Glasgow, Scotland
Words are formed by experiences, and words inform our experiences. Words also transform life and the world. I am a writer and Presbyterian minister who grew up in the 1960's in the segregated South of the United States. I've lived in Alaska, the Washington, DC area, and Minnesota. Since 2004 I've lived in Glasgow, Scotland, where I enjoy working on my second novel and serving churches that are between one thing and another. I advocate for the full inclusion of all people in the church and in society, whatever our genders or sexual orientations. Every body matters.

Friday, June 8, 2012

Let Me In



Let Me In

A member of my congregation in Glasgow was going on a trip recently and, on the way to her flight, popped into a little store to pick up a few souvenirs to take to her hosts. She spotted the flag of Scotland—a white X on a field of blue—decorating a fridge magnet which had inscribed on it: Let Me In—Size Doesn’t Matter. She went to take several only to realize they weren’t fridge magnets but packages of condoms. (She chose boxes of fudge instead.)

“Let me in—Size doesn’t matter” screams to be on a church sign. Rather than the generic “Visitors Welcome” or the often untruthful “All are welcome.” A church near us erected a board on two stilts to display an exhaustive list of events for each day of the week; it’s also an exhausting list as Saturday is the only day of rest for this congregation. Across the top of the board, in large letters, it purports, “ALL WELCOME.” So far I’ve resisted the temptation to spray-paint what I know to be the actual practice of that church’s minister: “as long as you are a baptized Christian, heterosexual, not cohabiting, not divorced, and with no children born out of wedlock.” Perhaps they could add a weekly class for “Born Again Virgins.”

I grew up in the land of church signs. One that pricked my teenage feminist consciousness said, “There’s never been a perfect woman and there’s only been one perfect man.” If that sign hadn’t been so high up on the side of the building, it might have gotten lit one night by a training bra in flames.

One church sign, here in Glasgow, stays with me—not the sign as printed but the graffiti scrawled over it: Where the hell is God? Every time I pass by it I feel hopeful knowing the psalmist is alive and well and doing her job, crying out with honesty and directness. Who knows, she could be a baptized Christian who went to that minister seeking to have her newborn child baptized only to be told no because she wasn’t married. She might have bought the can of spray paint from someone who lives with his partner. Maybe the divorced city employee assigned to clean off that graffiti resonates with the sentiment and thus allows it to remain. I wonder does the church get the message?

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