Popination Transubstantiation
a series of unhinged personal essays disguised as pub reviews. Today: Irish Rover.
But also St, John’s Cathedral. No, really.
If you were to ask me what the last expected thing would be that I’d start doing during the pandemic, I would never in a thousand years guess that I’d start going to church. Let alone officially become a confirmed and dedicated member of the church.
Before you start worrying: it’s not sexually violent and predatory catholicism, though it’s known as ‘Catholic Lite.’ Nor is it misogynist, racist, and homophobic Pentecostal style: My favorite priest at my church is a gay Black man, our bishop is a Black woman, and this church’s LGBTQ group is called The Beloved. Because we are all beloved children of God. Nope, the church I go to is Episcopalian, which basically means that these lovely mild mannered woodland creatures treat the Bible the way nerdy literature professors treat old books. So of course I’m fully on board.
“What did you do during the pandemic?” “I found Jesus!”
Ugghh that sounds awful, but the reality is, if you read any of my published poetry throughout the years, it’s all got gnarly bloody catholicish themes, so my recent confirmation actually shouldn’t be as surprising as all that. Plus, it’s in my family: my Mom went to catholic school (as did my Dad for his early years) and they did take us to church once or twice a year, growing up, for all their hippiedom.
My love of Old Story is directly connected to my churchly devotion, as much as I would never have thought so as a teen and young adult. But it’s connected—my love of fairy tales, of old-legacy martial arts and my love of old practices of ancient rites are rooted in the same place. Plus I like all the trappings of ritual: I like vestments and sacred objects, I like old language and polyphonic choir music, I love the rite of the Eucharist. I like all the unison chantings and the incense and the weird silver cover of the book of gospel readings, and since my church is a cathedral, we’ve got the full on stained glass, old school brass fixtures, and real pipe organs.
During the shutdown part of the plague was when I began to get deeply engaged in church, way before I ever attended. This engagement consisted of two holy things:
Livestreamed church at St John’s cathedral
Both of these things were online for the first time because of the lockdown. The Reverend sang his dirty gospel and banged on his often broken house piano out of his tiny Brooklyn living room, and it helped the healing process of the trapped lockdown days remarkably. My partner had been a churchgoer to St. John’s for years before, and he began following the services they started online when everything was shut down. I felt drawn to it, and started watching the services with him. Is that what they mean when they say one feels ‘called’?
After the plague, when we started going back to church in person, I became a regular lector. It was the way I felt I was best suited to serve—my partner joined the streaming crew and I volunteered to read. I like doing it, for the same reasons I love doing Shakespeare, which makes sense in that the text in English is pretty much from the same era. But my mastery of language like this, as inexperienced as I am with the Bible as a text, does tend to shake things up at St. John’s, in a good way. The mostly elderly congregation always comes up to me after services and expresses joyful awe at how well I read these passages. I have to admit, I love the praise. Is that the sin of pride? Maybe. I mean, I am an actor, after all—hearing praise for my ability in that area is always welcome, and I don’t think it’s really all that bad to enjoy it. Here, listen to this: this is yesterday’s service, the 10:30am one. My reading is at around 28:27. What do you think?
The first time I went to church in person, after it opened up again, spoke aloud and heard the prayers and chants along with a group of other people (not just whispering with my partner)—it made me choke up a little. Suddenly it felt more like the sacred ritual it was. Talk about the Holy Spirit: feeling the ‘inspiration’ of breath in unison with a bunch of other people.
I kept going to church regularly, and often watched the live streaming when I wasn’t there in person. I even ended up attending catechumenate and then getting confirmed during the darkness of Easter vigil. There was a moment on that night when I suddenly felt a strong impulse to not go through with it. I’m not sure why, to this day, but as I continue to process it, it strikes me as a sort of crisis of identity: Once I get confirmed, it’s not just a matter of going to church sometimes, or wearing a lovely silver crucifix I bought for myself (hey, that could just be Goth), Christianity becomes something I am, not just something I do.
Ahem. What about the popination?
The cathedral isn’t the pub. And I’m not counting sacrament wine as a tipple. So. What’s the pub of today?
THE IRISH ROVER, of course!
The Irish Rover is the real deal. Unlike Slattery’s, it’s authentically Irish (though I haven’t yet met an Irish bartender there). They know how to pour a proper pint of Guinness, and their food is so good. Real corned beef, an Irish breakfast complete with blood sausage, a delectable shepherd’s pie…just. Excellent everything.
Partner and I used to pop over to the Irish Rover pretty frequently after St. John’s 10:30am service, and so that’s why I decided to popinate over here today (Sunday), after church, on my own. It’s not too far, and it’s a very comfy place to hang out for a while. Today, there’s a bunch of football on the TVs, and once, when an adorable row of young women with Irish accents showed up to my end of the bar, they put on rugby for them.
The pub is very proper pubby: worn out wood bar, rooftop and back yard beer garden style patios, plenty of taps, dim light, and a mysterious back room called The Limerick Room, that you can rent out for private events, that I’ve never actually seen but is apparently pretty nice.
O, here’s an Irish Rover non-sequitur, kinda: I sang ‘Wild Rover’ as Feste last year for one of the audience/other characters participation drink song in 12th Night. That’s a song that’s so easy to get a group of people to sing along with. Like a prayer? Hm. What’s the parallel between singing a hymn together and a drinking song together? Is it the communal joy? The breathing together? Could be.
Conclusion
Um… what is my conclusion? Hashtag Not All Christians? Hm. Not sure. I mean, I can go over the lessons of actual Jesus (as far as anyone knows), which basically boils down to: Love Everyone. No, seriously. Love them. Help them. Forgive them. (Also don’t take any shit, but seriously: Love. Them.)
Maybe my conclusion really is that Guinness and group singing is good for you? Let’s go with that.
So I hope you’re glad we didn’t raise youse two as Catholic since we didn’t like their posture on many things coupled with their random and arcane rules. Maybe that’s the reason for our hippiedom (spelling?).
But as you say, it’s supposed to be about Jesus! Pope Francis is making very slow inroads, but I can wait, haven’t got the time.