Br. Andrew-Thomas

And now I’ve been given Andrew — the first-called, the quiet companion, and the male counterpart to Margaret, who still lives on in the spirit of faithfulness and grace within me.

This name feels like home. Deo gratias.

My Religious Name has evolved. Fr. Abbot has called me Br. Andrew-Thomas.

I’m keeping Thomas — the name that holds my questions, my faith, and my formation.

I’d appreciate your prayers, friends.

I’ve got a big interview tomorrow with Inclusion Scotland. It’s everything I’ve been hoping for — a role that speaks to my heart, my hopes, and the kind of change I want to be part of.

On the plus side, my habit dried in under forty five minutes. Even our Holy Father St. Benedict would’ve called that excessive efficiency.

32 degrees in London today. As a Scot, I consider this both a health hazard and a moral failing. Back home we call this ‘judgment day.’

24-hour travel day fast approaching. Three airports. No Kindle. This is how the early martyrs must have felt.

I got my Kindle in junior school. It’s been through childhood grief, teen drama, undergrad heartbreak, postgrad exhaustion, and a tour of most major denominations.

It saw me grow up, fall apart, write essays at 02:00. Today it died. Into your hands, O Lord, I commend its spirit.

Thank you, friend.

Thank you❤️

Three job shortlists, further interviews on the way. Packing up my life in Teddington with a heart full of endings and beginnings. Preparing for solo long-haul travel, then a house move. If you pray, I’d be grateful.

He built a church out of contradiction: warrior and monk, exile and saint. Holiness is rarely tidy.

The Holy Spirit blows wild on the western wind. Columba didn’t tame it — he let it carry him to the edge of the world. Today, we don’t just remember a founder. We remember a fire.

On this feast of St Columba, apostle of the Gaels, let’s remember: he crossed the sea not to escape, but to begin again. The waves didn’t wash away his past — they baptised it. He turned a mistake into mission.

My final service will be immediately followed by long-haul solo travel — because nothing says gentle transition like navigating three airports alone with a bag full of books and too many emotions.

Who’s buzzing? Me! Flights to Puerto Rico are booked — just over four weeks till I finish as a pastoral assistant and head straight to the abbey.

Thankfully, the promise of sunshine, psalms, and suspiciously loud geckos is softening the blow of leaving the parish.

I write theology that’s slow, sacramental, and shaped by silence — from an autistic, queer, monastic lens. It’s not loud, but it’s honest.

If you’ve ever felt like there wasn’t space for you at the altar, my Substack is written with you in mind.

Sanctum Scotia | Sr. Margaret-Thomas | Substack Liturgical and sacramental theologian writing on autism, liberation and the Church. Side publication on religious trauma. Click to read Sanctum Scotia, by Sr. Margaret-Thomas, a Substack publication.

My Substack is where I write the kind of theology that doesn’t have a pulpit. To keep it up, I hope return to the Abbey in Puerto Rico this summer.

Just ten more annual subscribers will get me there. If you believe in this slow, holy work, please share: open.substack.com/pub/sromgosb

You don’t have to worship where you’re not wanted. Happy Pride! 🙏🏼❤️🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

We Who Were Never Meant to Fit Pride Month

For the queer and called, for those who stay at the table even when the Church doesn’t know what to do with us.

We are not a problem.
We are a blessing.

Read here: open.substack.com/pub/sromgosb...

A reminder: all of us are made in the image of God — even us queer peeps, no matter what we’ve been told.

We can bring our whole selves to the table — and Christ meets us there, every time.

Happy Pride, beloveds.

👏🏼

Today is the feast of St. Dymphna, patron of mental health and neurodivergent minds.

She stands with those the world misunderstands: the anxious, the grieving, the autistic, the overwhelmed.

St. Dymphna, pray for all who live at the edges of calm. We are seen. We are beloved.

Team, let’s keep in mind that the Gospel didn’t spread because it was palatable. It spread because it was magnetic—disarming power, unsettling norms, and making space at tables no one else would set.

Caledonian Sleeper northbound: 10/10. Falling asleep in London, waking up in the Highlands—there’s nothing holier than that.

Please say a prayer for my Granny Ross who died this morning.

Scrolling Perth rental listings is my new therapy. Whole houses with gardens for a third of what I pay for one room in London really takes the edge off the fruitless job hunt.

You don’t have to worship where you’re not wanted.

This just in from the job market: Theology BA, MA, PhD-in-progress only qualifies me to shout into the void—with citations.

Apparently being a monastic makes me instantly unemployable in marketing. I do have viable skills. I do not spend my life preaching at people. I promise.

I’d be grateful for your prayers, friends. After sending out 50+ applications with no outcome, I sat down to it again today—applying for work in Inverness and Perth that could support me alongside ministry. Holding it all in trust, and hoping for what’s needed to unfold.

Too excited for words.