Popination Salvation
a series of unhinged personal essays disguised as pub reviews. Today: Pub on Penn.
…and also church again, sort of.
I don’t go to church as much anymore as I did even just last year. If I were to explore why, I’d say it has something to do with the intensive process leading up to confirmation, which was consummated last Easter vigil. I even had a brief moment of self doubt, or maybe it was just plain doubt, but I did almost pull out and not go through with it. Again, not sure I can articulate why, but if pressed, I’d aver it has something to do with what some Christians are like these days. They oppress and abuse and they’re against everything I am and those I love are and do. But the thing is, that’s just one small loud obnoxious segment of it, which really if you look at what some sects do in contrast to others, you might think they’re actually different religions. Which they pretty much are. But it struck me, that dark Vigil night, that if I went through with this ritual, I can’t shrug Christianity off anymore—confirmation means not just that I go to church sometimes or even frequently, but that I AM a Christian now. It’s what I AM, not just a thing I do. I ended up bucking up, got my balls, and did it.
For more unhinged Musings about all this, and a picture of me getting hands laid on, check this post out about my journey into churchy things, from the first time I consciously Popinated after church: a nearby pub called The Irish Rover. We call ourselves Episcopunks now. Why? Because it’s punk to be a good Christian these days. Like, someone who actually follows Christ’s actual teachings. And, hey, the Eucharist is pretty fucking metal, innit.
I hardly go to church-church anymore, but I am doing God’s work elsewhere. Like, in the field. For real. Think about it: bars and burlesque and teaching? Where else would Jesus go if he came back today? Exactly: he’d be sitting next to me at the magical ‘kindness vortex’* of the bar at IC, where all the broken men come to heal. What happens here is indeed whatever anyone would call ‘God’s work,’ for sure. DOn’t believe me? Come on down—I’ll buy you a beer.
*This was coined by my partner just yesterday as I drafted this essay—as we watched another wounded man get taken into the IC Brewhouse bar fold, and begin to heal. It’s truly remarkable how this bar ends up being a row of men in the process of healing, together. The holiest of 3rd Places.
So. To sum up. Last Easter I got confirmed, and this Easter was one of the (now rare) times I went to go be a lector again. I read the Prayers of the People. I say, ‘God of our salvation,’ you say, ‘Hear our prayer.’
Take a moment right now and think of those you love that are in trouble, or who have died. You can speak their names aloud—we often do, during this time, in the cathedral.
But church isn’t a pub! Though, the two practices are anciently combined (churching and pubbing), as my Dad remarked when I met up with him a day or so later. It’s a practice with a long tradition. And so, allow me to regale you with tales about the new (to me) dive bar I discovered and visited after Easter services. It’s called:
Pub on Penn
Another crunchy place within walking distance of the cathedral (the cathedral itself lives in a very crunchy area of Denver after all), Pub on Penn is called so because it’s perched on the corner of Pennsylvania Ave and… um. I forget what other street. 14th, maybe? Anyway:
So I feel like Pub on Penn lines up nicely with the Dive Bar Dick’s criteria of what makes a dive bar. It checks every box except the cheap prices. For more details on dive bar criteria (and yet more tales about yet another pub that’s close to church): my piece on Nob Hill Inn. But. Like I was saying—it aligns with everything except the cheap bit: beers are $7.50. Which isn’t really THAT expensive, comparatively to other breweries and such, but. They ain’t dive prices. But all the interior, and the exterior and neighborhood, is all dive in spades. Old worn wood bar, old wall decor including neon beer signs, cracked fake leather (or I guess vinyl) seats, a worn and old vibe in general. It’s lovely. I enjoyed my short stay there very much, and might go back next time (probably in the next blue moon) that I’m at church.
There’s something comforting about a rough watering hole after a long morning at church. Like I said before, there’s a long and storied history of the pairing of drinking and church, even in the Bible itself! No really:
I’ve got two favorite examples, though there are more: 1) There’s one story about the Holy Spirit that I adore—the amazing Reverend Vince often sings a spiritual about it, which is my favorite way to hear the story. Basically, the apostles wander in and the people are laughing at them, amazed at how they’re acting—They’re drunk! the people say. Then it was Peter, I think? who says No we’re not drunk, it’s only 9 o’clock. We’re high off the Holy Spirit, man. Which is kind of glorious, as this statement fully owns the fact that if it were later in the day, they absolutely would be drunk. So I like to think that they were having the ancient world’s version of mimosas. And the Holy Spirit, too, sure.
Plus, Jesus was a party boy, bringing his posse and also the best wine, wherever he was needed. There’s one particularly famous story about how he basically crashed a wedding and was like, how come the wine’s gone? and made better wine appear. If you think this is the only story about that sort of thing, it’s not. And everybody’s heard about the whole water-to-wine thing too. Of course, actual drunkenness is a sin, and hoo boy do the false prophets love to falsely equate the two things: fun and relaxed camaraderie and oh my goodness maybe even flirting?!, with SIN.
My brothers in Christ, drunkenness and drinking are very different things.
Having said that, yes of course I do heartily understand that this is not actually true for everyone; some do need to partake very rarely or even abstain, for health reasons of all kinds. I’m not saying that—I’m pushing back on the equation of drinking with a morality called sin. This is a slippery slope into all kinds of purity culture nonsense which can easily become tyranny. It is sort of a running joke that much of the following of Christ is tied up in guilt and shame: original sin, and all that. I don’t think that aspect is nearly as helpful for living a good (or even godly) life as gratitude. Think about the difference: I can hate myself for being a sinner and wallow in shame, or I can thank Christ for redeeming me in his death and resurrection. One way (to me) is stagnation, death in life. The other is renewal, celebration, improving one’s lot with gratitude.
But then I’m no theologian.
There was no sign of Easter at Pub on Penn, except the bartender who sported a pair of white bunny ears as she served. Which, hey. That’s exactly right, as far as I’m concerned. I did find myself Musing on renewal, rebirth and what that has to do with me now, and what the Christian versions of that means as compared to other newer and also more ancient concepts of it. (Like, He Is Risen and then the Spring equinox and buds popping out of branches and animals having babies and.)
And what’s a renewal in my world? Well,
Popinations are a huge thread in my attempt to kickstart my artistic career to a wider audience these days. Along with my performing arts, which continue to grow at that word of mouth type pace. And I mean, come on—I’m not the only drinking writer and not even the only Christian drinking writer (are all of our classics written by these? At least in the West?). There’s got to be a readership for a Book of Popinations. Am I right?
My partner remembered Pub on Penn, after I described where it was and showed him pictures, as a New Orleans Goth club, way back in the day when he was a denizen of this area. Which is cool too. It happens. Sometimes when we’re resurrected, we are changed, and maybe into an unrecognizable form.
Sometimes we have to remind those we love who we are, by calling *their* name, not ours, to verify we’re not the gardener: ”Mary.”
We’ve had a few momentous death and rebirth events all in a row recently, haven’t we: equinox and then Easter and then the eclipse. The Three Es. There’s been many chances for a second coming, in this repetitive wave-crashing of darkness and renewal. Which makes sense—and hey, just because we have logical/scientific/historical explanations for things doesn’t mean they’re not magic. Right? I’m reminded of, since I’ve got Tolkien’s works on the brain because of the readalongs I’m engaged in, that part from The Hobbit at the very end, where Gandalf admonishes Bilbo:
Surely you don’t disbelieve the prophecies, because you had a hand in bringing them about yourself? You don’t really suppose, do you, that all your adventures and escapes were managed by mere luck, just for your sole benefit?
Of course, if memory serves me right, they’re both relaxing and smoking during this dialogue, too, right? Talking at the bar…