I got verbally assaulted by a preacher man with the police standing by. Welcome to America!

Letters to America #1: This is not one of my uplifting stories but nonetheless one which seeks hope in a contemptuous world.

Dear friend of Cloister notes, a letter for dancing monks and weary pilgrims. This is my inaugural piece for a new column, “Letters to America,” which might come out monthly-ish, whenever I have something to say. This one took some time, simply because it is a very personal one. Thank you for reading and sharing with any one you think would benefit from reading it. If reading up about verbal abusive preacher men would make you too upset just skip today’s letter. You can also manage your subscription here…

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It was a lovely Saturday morning in early June. People were flocking to the park down the street and I took our young daughter to see what was going on. We had just gotten back from Germany, our annual overseas visit with my German family and aging parents. With my soul still in transition, wandering and wondering between continents and conflicting feelings of homecoming I walked hand in hand with my 5-year-old down the quaint streets of our picturesque midwest college town toward the park.

Music and dance and voices of playing children welcomed us, as did colored flags, smiling people and a festival atmosphere among the numerous make-shift booths.

At the corner entrance to the park, I also noticed the “screamers” as we have come to call them after we saw them the first time at the town market square: A gaggle of middle aged men with posters and bibles, screaming about how much Jesus despises us all.

I don’t like proud people either. Especially those who scream obscenities at me.

I have been taken aback before by their unforgiving theology and hate-filled attitudes, their screaming at passersby (who occasionally screamed back in turn) while police stood at some remove observing the spectacle. What a crash course in American culture (wars) and freedom of speech that was.

This time I walked by quickly. Little did I know that only an hour later I would be deeply entangled in their story and bearing the brunt of a full blown verbal assault in a way I never thought possible.

But let me start from the beginning.

As we were walking among the colorful booths, my daughter was pulling at my hand, excited about all the freebies, spinning wheels, cotton candy and free popcorn among the booths of local associations, vendors and church groups.

“Welcome to America,” I giggled to my jet-lagged self, slightly stunned by this caricature of a Saturday market in small-town America.

Thus it took me a while to realize that we just entered the annual pride fest and all of a sudden everything made sense. The colors, the happy booths and happy treats, the family atmosphere, and also the screamers at the entrance with police standing by.

Whom are they protecting, really?, I wondered, before my daughter pulled me further. We passed booths of our local churches offering competing but welcoming theologies on small pamphlets as well as colorful bracelets for my daughter.

My philosopher self was intrigued. How interesting. All those different philosophies mashed up at one place.

To be honest, I am not a fan of pride fests, really, and I have seen events where good intentions fell off the other side from the horse. Simplistic messaging often hides the underlying complexities of difficult issues and risks to leave some behind.