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.

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.’

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.

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.

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.

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.

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! 🙏🏼❤️🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

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.

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.

Finishing a hectic work week with good news—Substack say I’ve made my first $1000. I’m so grateful to everyone who reads and supports me. I hope that one day my writing makes enough for me to live on, so I can give myself fully to ministry that doesn’t pay but matters so much.

BREAKING: I’ve found a shop in London that sells Teddy Grahams. Planning a full-scale pilgrimage tomorrow evening. Might even take holy water and a rucksack.

Team, let’s remember: the Church doesn’t exist to preserve power or respectability—she exists to break bread with the outcast, to speak truth in love, and to form us in the risky business of resurrection living. We’re not building an institution; we’re becoming a body.

Friends, I’d appreciate your prayers. I’m having my first Crohn’s flare-up of the year. It’s horribly uncomfortable—but at the same time, I’m so very grateful for modern medicine that keeps it at bay and has kept me flare free since late December.

Today I posted my 100th Substack. When I started, I just wanted to share what was on my heart — reflections, prayers, questions. I never imagined anyone would really read it, let alone that it would grow into a community.

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

A year ago today, I stood in the aisle of the church that nurtured me and then hurt me, holding my dissertation—Between Tradition and Progress—a project that cost me more than I knew I had to give. I wrote it with shaking hands and a heart full of questions.

Day off Waterstones finds.

Well, tomorrow is my day off. Planning to spend it decompressing—and spiritually realigning—after an unexpected field trip back into my Roman Catholic headspace. No guilt, or Latin flashbacks allowed.

A man of Religious vows steps into Peter’s shoes. Not just ordained, but formed in community, poverty, and prayer. A different kind of leadership for a weary world. Praying for the Holy Father, Pope Leo XIV.

White smoke! And just like that, the world’s shortest job search is over.

Me: I’ve moved on. Also me: lights a candle and prays for a Benedict XVI 2.0 with better pastoral care

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

Sometimes I hear him loudest in the book that smells like someone I lost. Or in the space between unread emails. God shows up in the margin, in the detour, in the slow undoing of everything you thought made you worthy. More: open.substack.com/pub/sromgosb...

Going Jellycat hunting today. I’ve had my eye on a particular one for over a year. And after this week’s FA decision, I suddenly feel very emotionally available for this particular impulsive purchase.

Team, let’s keep in mind that Church is not a museum of saints or a hospital for sinners—she is a school for lovers learning how to remember the truth of who they are, even when the world forgets.

See, I have engraved you on my hand. The walls you are rebuilding are never out of my sight. Isaiah 49:16

There’s a particular grief in watching a country you love forget who it is. Scotland, the home of proud LGBTQ+ strides, now among the first to turn its back. Today, England followed. The world is getting smaller for trans people.

Just had my eyes tested and picked out sunglasses for going to Puerto Rico for the summer. The optician showed me the price and I had to ask if that included the round plane fare.

Sunny day off sponsored by a fresh trim and a side of bigotry yelled at me in the street✂️

Holy Saturday: the day God was silent, but not absent. To my trans and non-binary siblings protesting today—I can't be there, but I am with you in the waiting, in the rage, in the hope. Even now, the stone is being rolled away. 🏳️‍⚧️✊🏽

This ruling breaks my heart. To define womanhood solely by biological sex is to turn away from the sacred truth that we are more than bodies — we are beloved, complex, and holy. It is a decision that wounds, excludes, and denies the dignity of so many.

The donkeys in London are funny looking.

And so Holy Week begins.

Last Palm Sunday I was in a hospital bed with measles and meningitis. No palms, no procession. I missed Lent and Holy Week entirely. I got out on Easter Sunday, but I was a shell — disoriented, in pain, scared out of my mind. I barely knew who I was, let alone what day it was.

A fun morning making palm leaf crosses ahead of tomorrow.

I’m very pleased to share that I’ll be spending the rest of the year serving as a Pastoral Assistant in St. Mary with St. Alban, Teddington. I’ve stepped away from the Diocese of London’s MES, and I’m grateful to be able to stay in the parish community where I’ve been serving.

Today, something shifts. The crosses are veiled. The images are hidden. The beauty we cling to is covered—not to obscure it forever, but to sharpen our desire. The Church begins to whisper: look deeper.

Passion Sunday highlight: my long awaited tiny toast with cheese and jam.

Does anyone have any recommendations for a good Holy Week prayer book or companion? I’ll be so busy in parish and want something to keep on me—especially for Good Friday—to help me pray in the quieter moments.

Brb, leaving everything behind to become a full-time cinnamon swirl artisan. This is my soft launch.

After months of eating purely to survive, tonight I craved food. Cheese and jam on toast, specifically. (Yes, Bluey eats it. Yes, it’s elite.) Tragically, I have no cheese. No jam. No bread. The spirit is willing, but the fridge is empty.