Honky tonk communion

My favorite uncle - who died a few years ago - used to frequent Honky Tonks - little gritty country bars nestled in the foothills and strip malls of central California.

One time, he took me with him. I wasn’t old enough to drink yet, so I merely observed. And I was totally out of my element. Here I was, a scrawny, mild-mannered, preppy, acne-laden teen walking into this alternate universe behind my uncle, a bar-brawling force of nature. I was terrified. You couldn’t see through the windows covered with layers of nicotine and neon lights.

We went in and sat down. The owner, Mike, a hearty bearded and beflanneled man, walked over and hugged my uncle before sitting down, shaking my hand, and greeting me warmly. He poured himself and my uncle a beer and me a coke, and I awkwardly sat as they chatted. Another guy came over with a crock pot full of chili, and the burly men must’ve chatted for an hour about his recipe. After a few more libations (I was SO messed up on Coca-Cola and Maraschino cherries by then), one guy opened up about his divorce. I observed grown beer-buzzed men minister to him - Mike serving as pastor - over the communion supper of beer and chili. And I drove my uncle home and crashed on his couch at 3AM.

I’ve grown to be more of a coffee shop guy than a bar guy (for various reasons). I’m not cut out for Honky Tonk life. And I’m not encouraging anyone to pick up the lifestyle. But compared to what I beheld that night in the summer of ’96 (and a few other times), coffee shops are lonely places. Most of us come in, order, sit down, and plug in our headphones nestling into the silos of our own little worlds.

Our livers and lungs may be healthier, but our hearts and souls long for confession, communion, and being ministered to. If we can’t find it in the church, we tend to bring church wherever we go, even in the most peculiar places. I saw it in the Honky Tonk, and I’ll just say… Amen to that.