TLDR: An Irish kid, a retired Lutheran pastor, and an impostor enter a bar. Read below to see what happens next. Don’t miss the invitation at the end of the story.
I walk into a pub to get a beer while waiting for a friend from church. I am running very early, but I am bored at home. My wife has been in New York City for about four days and is not due to return for four more, and I just want a bit of distraction before my meeting. To my left there is an older man in his seventies also having a beer by himself, but whereas I am distracted by my phone, he seems to be staring into the distance. His gaze is fixed someplace else, perhaps in a place very far away from Spring, Texas. A young and handsome bartender, with beautifully drawn tattoos all over his arms, approaches the old man and simply tells him, “Tell me a story.” I continue to play with my phone, but wait expectantly to see what the older man will do. The man smiles, looks at the bartender, and asks for clarification, “Any story?” The bartender smiles back and says, “Any story.”
The older man thinks for a second and then says, “Today would have been my boy’s fortieth birthday. He died in Iraq in 2005. There is not a day I don’t miss him.” He stops to take another sip of his beer. I am enthralled by the interaction, especially when the young bartender doesn’t fill the silence with chatter and doesn’t interrupt the older man in any way. He simply leans in a bit closer and waits. I look at him and smile, pretending to play my Candy Crush game. The man continues, “He was my only child. My wife had two when I met her, and they treat me as if I was their real dad, but it’s not the same. I don’t even think they remember today would have been my Johnny’s birthday.” Another sip of the beer, more empathic silence from the bartender, a slow tear falling down the man’s cheek, and I, sitting on my stool, deeply moved by the interaction, but trying hard not to intrude.
“There! That’s my story. How about another one?” says the old man. The bartender smiles and says, “You left a few details out, but I forgive you because this is the first time I pick on you.” He serves the man another beer and says, “This on is on the house. Happy heavenly birthday to Johnny!” The old man smiles a sad smile and the bartender moves on to me. Before he arrives, I ask him, “Hey, bartender, tell me a story.” He smiles and says quickly, “I am the bartender here, mister. I ask all the questions. But since you asked, here is a good one. A Catholic priest walks into a bar in January of the year 2000. He is wearing civilian clothes and the young bartender doesn’t know he is a man of God. She flirts with him and he flirts back. He is a bit older than her but she likes older men and she loves his red hair and Irish accent. They talk and laugh until after midnight and the man becomes a regular at this Bedford bar, that is in Boston, by the way. A year goes by and the priest is no longer a priest, the bartender is pregnant, and they are living in a small apartment in Bedford. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
Looking at his red hair and easy demeanor I know he just told me how his parents met. I ask, “And what brought you to Texas?” He smiles and says, “College and a girl!” Then he asks if I want another beer and I say, “I’ll wait until my friend gets here.” Seeing that I mean to stay a while, he says, “Now, you tell me a story and I want you to include where your accent comes from in the story.” This is a clever way of asking where I am from and I appreciate his tact. I say, “I am from Colombia, I am 56 years old, and I have never lived in any place for more than eleven years. In fact, I just moved here from Louisiana where I lived those eleven years. Before then, the longest I lived anywhere was seven or eight years. Sometimes I feel like a man without a home, but most of the time I feel like a man with many homes. In fact, I believe home is wherever my wife and I happen to be for more than a few days. For now, it is Spring, the future will tell me where home is later. That is my story.” He scratches his chin pensively, then he says, “It’s a slow night and your friend is not here yet. Tell me more: Wife, children, job … stuff.”
Now the roles have been reversed and the older man is looking at us smiling. I am enjoying the game and decide to play along a bit more. “One wife of 30 years, four grown children, the youngest just left for college in Atlanta, I came to town following my wife after she started a job here in January of 2020, right before the pandemic. We bough a house here in Spring.”
At this point I realize I don’t want to tell the young man what I do for a living. Not because I am embarrassed in anyway, but because people’s attitudes change when they hear you are a clergy person. I am having a good time with two people I have never met and I don’t want to be peppered with questions about Church matters. So, I tell a white lie, which is only partly a white lie, “I am a religion professor.” Hearing this, the older man jumps in, “Where do you teach?” I realize that my white lie just became pregnant and is about to give birth to a bunch of smaller lies. But I am too deep into the game to quit now. I use a truth that stopped being a truth in late 2019. “Mostly online for a seminary in Pittsburgh. I also teach at the local Episcopal Church.”
The old man is fully into the conversation now, “That is so interesting, I retired from ministry a few years back. I was a Lutheran Pastor.” I lean in and introduce myself, shaking hands with the man, as the bartender says, “Hold it there for a sec. I will be right back.” He leaves to take a few orders from people who just arrived at the bar and the older man and I continue to talk mostly shop-talk. I confess I am the local Episcopal priest in this part of town and he smiles, “I guessed as much. When I was a minister I always introduced myself as ‘In the helping professions.’ People get weird around pastors.” We talk about life and family for about ten minutes until my friend from church arrives. We exchange numbers and promise to stay in touch. I left a message once, but never got a response. I never saw the old man again, but I still see the bartender every once in a while. The bar belongs to the girlfriend’s father and he is thinking about marriage.
Story is fundamental to culture and life. In fact, we are a Church founded on a narrative, and we call our Messiah, “The Word,” which means that Christ is the very stuff narratives are made off. We call God’s plan for humanity, “Salvation History.” It is a narrative that has unfolded from the beginning of time and will not end until the end of days. For millennia, our ancestors sat around fireplaces telling each other stories about themselves, their ancestors, their community history, and the events that molded their lives and the lives of their families. Moses requires the people to tell each other the nation’s story when they bring the first fruits of their harvests to the Temple, “A wandering Aramean was my ancestor; he went down into Egypt and lived there as an alien, few in number, and there he became a great nation, mighty and populous. When the Egyptians treated us harshly and afflicted us, by imposing hard labor on us, we cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors; the Lord heard our voice and saw our affliction…” (Deuteronomy 26:1-11).
Story reminds us of our identity and of the many ways God has been faithful in our lives. This is the premise behind my PODCASTS. I have recorded three, 22 to 27 minute, episodes in which I tell stories of my life. Each story takes an intimate look at an actual event and seeks to interpret it through the lens of my faith in Jesus Christ. My fervent desire is that you will find points of contact between my stories and your own story. I also hope I can inspire some of you to begin to record your own stories, as Deacon Portia Sweet has done in her Fabolous Podcasts, “I’m old, now what?” Please give our podcasts a listen and spread the word. I pray the new year will bring you all the health and love you desire.
Happy New Year,
Fr. Roman+
