Scenes from my Monday
I hate walking through Monument Square on Mondays. Monument Square sits right in front of my work. There's a giant statue — a monument, if you will — to Maine's Civil War soldiers and our beautiful city library across the street.
Monument Square sits directly between my workplace and Kamasouptra, the site of the best damn soup in Maine. And every Monday, there is a street preacher standing there holding a sign. Street yeller might be a better term. He's a skinny guy, around 50 years old with dark hair and at least a couple of days of stubble. Not shabby enough to be homeless but not clean-cut enough to not make you wonder. "Repent unto Him, for you are all sinners and must be saved," he yells, some days, at nobody in particular.
Some days, I would like to go up to him. I imagine the conversation in my mind. "You're making us Christians look bad, you know," I'd tell him. Sometimes, I imagine he'd just start yelling at me. Sometimes, I get to keep talking. "Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson, Ted Haggard," I continue. "Enough already. I don't like telling people I'm born-again or a Christian because of stuff like this. We look really, really weird already. This isn't helping."
Occasionally, he gets heckled by the kids standing out in front of the library or headed to the bus station around the corner. I want to yell back at them, "It's not like he's wrong." I say nothing and go get my soup.
One thing about living in Utah — right, wrong or otherwise — was the subject of faith was never strictly taboo. It was OK to talk about it. It was unavoidable, really. The Mormon Temple sits right in the middle of downtown. I used to run through the meticulous grounds, in my running shorts and shirt, as people were getting married. On a Tuesday. At 11 a.m. There were no street yellers, except during Conference (let's not even start describing that), when they came to town especially to tell Mormons they were going to hell.
There has to be a middle ground. Because all this yelling isn't helpful.
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| That's the square, behind the lighthouse. |
Some days, I would like to go up to him. I imagine the conversation in my mind. "You're making us Christians look bad, you know," I'd tell him. Sometimes, I imagine he'd just start yelling at me. Sometimes, I get to keep talking. "Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson, Ted Haggard," I continue. "Enough already. I don't like telling people I'm born-again or a Christian because of stuff like this. We look really, really weird already. This isn't helping."
Occasionally, he gets heckled by the kids standing out in front of the library or headed to the bus station around the corner. I want to yell back at them, "It's not like he's wrong." I say nothing and go get my soup.
One thing about living in Utah — right, wrong or otherwise — was the subject of faith was never strictly taboo. It was OK to talk about it. It was unavoidable, really. The Mormon Temple sits right in the middle of downtown. I used to run through the meticulous grounds, in my running shorts and shirt, as people were getting married. On a Tuesday. At 11 a.m. There were no street yellers, except during Conference (let's not even start describing that), when they came to town especially to tell Mormons they were going to hell.
There has to be a middle ground. Because all this yelling isn't helpful.
I have no use for most people that yell. Except at football games. But even then, please don't say stupid things. 28-4-3.
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