The first thing I thought was, "Oh shit. There's about to be a fight."

Two big, bulky, tattooed guys were moving quickly toward each other in a dive bar. You don't need a seminary degree to recognize the possibilities.

I knew one of them, sort of. He was a regular. I'd seen the other guy around from time to time.

And now they were charging toward each other.

Then they threw their arms around each other.

Not one of those awkward guy hugs where you shake hands while bumping shoulders and give each other two firm pats on the back to reassure everyone within eyesight that you're still very manly. A bear hug. A full-on, damn-near-lift-each-other-off-the-floor bear hug.

"I LOVE YOU, MAN!” Loudly.

And I remember sitting there thinking:
“You wouldn't see that in most churches.”

Then, almost immediately:
“But you should.”

That moment has stuck with me for years. Because I've spent, let's just say, well over a decade hanging out in that dive bar. We'll leave it at that.

Long enough that I have my usual stool.

Long enough that if I'm not sitting on it when people expect me to be, there's a decent chance somebody will eventually text to make sure I'm okay.

Long enough that some of my closest friends are people I met there.

Hell, I met my wife there.

And long enough to realize that this beat-up little dive bar understands some things about community that churches spend an awful lot of time holding workshops about.

It's not a big place.

There's old wood everywhere and plaster walls that have given up trying to hide the brick underneath. The front room is dominated by an old copper-topped bar that's been there long enough to have earned its dents and discoloration. There are maybe a dozen stools and a handful of tight wooden booths covered with the names of people who sat in them years before some of the current regulars ever walked through the door.

The walls are covered with stuff.

Not “decor." Stuff.

Signs. Pictures. Oddities. Things collected over the years. Things somebody probably treasured once and, for reasons nobody remembers anymore, ended up hanging on the wall of a dive bar.

There's a back room with a short pool table under one of those classic stained-glass pool-table lights. A few games. A foosball table. There's a men's room that, if you know what's good for you, you try to visit during the earlier hours of operation. And, I’m told the women's room cannot be made warm in the winter. Apparently this is one of the mysteries of the universe we simply have to accept.

Out back there's a fenced-in porch with tables and chairs. That's where a good bit of the livelier conversation happens.

It is not fancy.

Nobody is going to describe the place as "curated."

And I love it.

Not everybody. Not anymore.

But especially when I was newer, some folks called me "Pastor Mark.” I can't remember who started it. I think it was equal parts recognition and giving me shit. Because, yes, I'm a minister. And, yes, I was sitting at the bar drinking right along with everybody else.

The joke was basically: Look! We have a pastor!

Over the years, though, something interesting happened. People started talking to me. Really talking. I've had conversations with people about marriages falling apart, grief, guilt, God, sex, addiction, family, fear, death, and just about everything else human beings eventually have to deal with.

I've talked with regulars.
I've talked with drug dealers.
I've talked with sex workers.
I've talked with people who hadn't been inside a church in years and people who had absolutely no intention of changing that.

A few have told me they were glad I was there because there was stuff they needed to talk about, but there was no way in hell they would've walked into a church and asked to speak with a minister.

That'll preach.

But here's the thing. I'm not the only one doing the pastoring. Not even close.

I've watched bartenders do it.
I've watched regulars do it.
I've watched somebody realize that the person sitting beside them was having a terrible night and simply stay there and listen.

No pastoral-care training.
No appointment.
No office.
Nobody saying, "Tell me more about how that makes you feel."

Just one human being paying attention to another human being.

Funny how often that's enough.

Churches talk a lot about pastoral care. We should.

But there's a version of it that happens naturally at the bar. Someone hasn't been around lately. 
"Anybody seen so-and-so?"
"No. Actually, I haven't."
"Somebody ought to check on him."
And somebody does.

Not because they're on the Care Committee. Because they're worried about their friend.

A few years ago, word got around that one of the guys was drinking heavily and talking like he might hurt himself. So I went looking for him. I tracked him down in town, found him, and we talked.

That's the whole story I'm going to tell because the rest belongs to him. But I saw him just last month. Still here.

We've lost others. Too many. Some to fentanyl and other drugs. Some to illness. Some to other things life does to human beings.

And when somebody dies, people grieve.

Together.

They tell stories. They check on each other. They offer comfort. They remember the ridiculous things the person did. They remember the good things.

Nobody has to organize a grief ministry. They're grieving because somebody they loved isn't sitting where they used to sit.

That's community.

Here's another thing churches might want to pay attention to. Nobody has ever asked me to sign a statement of faith before ordering a drink.

My friends there range from atheists to somewhat traditional Christians and plenty of things in between. 

Religion comes up. Trust me, after people have been sitting around a bar long enough, damn near everything comes up.  And people talk about it.

You can say what you think. You can disagree. You can ask questions. You can think the whole God thing is ridiculous. You can believe in Jesus. You can be somewhere in between.

Mostly, nobody cares.

There does seem to be a line, though. Your beliefs don't get to be an excuse for treating somebody else like shit. You don't get to use what you believe to explain why somebody else shouldn't belong.

Which, now that I think about it, isn't a terrible statement of faith.

The place is diverse, particularly for a dive bar. Different classes. Different levels of education. Different races, though not as much as some places. Different sexualities. Different kinds of work. Different histories.

Politically, admittedly, the diversity doesn't stretch particularly far toward the conservative end. But nobody hands you a questionnaire at the door. You become part of the place mostly by showing up. Then showing up again. 

Eventually, people know your name.
Then your story.
Then your usual drink. (The bartenders are amazing at doing that early on!)
Then enough of your business that you occasionally wonder why the hell you told them all that.

Community takes time.

Who knew?

Every winter there are warm-coat collections. When somebody is in a bad situation, people raise money. If somebody has had too much, other people watch out for them. There have been enough car accidents right outside the bar that people have gotten distressingly good at running outside to help. People loan each other things. Give each other rides. Help when they can.

Not because everybody there is especially virtuous.

They're not. Neither am I. Nobody gets bonus sainthood points for drinking cheap beer under a stained-glass pool-table light.

They help because somebody needs help and they can do something.

That's it.

I sometimes wonder how much better Christianity would be if we stopped making that more complicated.

Now, before anybody starts thinking I've discovered the Kingdom of God between the copper bar and the foosball table, let's be clear.

It's a dive bar.

People get too drunk.
Fights happen.
Sometimes real ones.
People say horrible things to each other.
Cliques form.
People blow up at each other over stupid shit.
Somebody occasionally behaves badly enough that they're told they aren't welcome back.

There are people who need to drink less.
There are people who probably shouldn't drink at all.
There are relationships that would be healthier if they didn't happen there.

This isn't some alcohol-soaked utopia where everybody holds hands and sings "Kumbaya" between shots.

And that's actually part of why I think the comparison matters.

Churches aren't utopias either.

People fight there too.
People form cliques.
People hurt each other.
People get angry over stupid shit.
People say things they regret.
Sometimes people leave.
Sometimes people probably should leave.

The difference isn't that one place is full of broken people and the other isn’t. They're both full of us.

The question is what we do with each other once we're there.

I think this may be the thing I've learned most from all those years on that barstool:
At the bar, you don't have to become something before you belong.

You don't have to believe the right thing.
You don't have to clean yourself up.
You don't have to know when to stand or sit.
You don't have to know the songs.
Nobody needs you to pretend your marriage is fine.
Nobody expects you to hide the fact that you're angry with God.
Hell, nobody particularly cares whether you believe in God.

You walk in.
You sit down.
And there's room for you.

Becoming a regular takes longer.
That's different.

Being welcomed and being known aren't the same thing. Being known takes time.

You show up.
You talk.
More importantly, eventually you listen.
People learn your story.
You learn theirs.

Somewhere along the way, the people who were just sitting at the bar when you walked in become people you expect to see.

Then people you want to see.
Then people you miss when they're gone.

And eventually, if you're lucky, some of them become people you love.

No membership class required.

I almost wrote a book about all this once. About what churches could learn from dive bars.

I never did.

But the idea never really left me. Because I've now spent, again, well over a decade watching this happen. Let's continue not to do the math.

I have my stool.
Some of my closest friends are people I met there.
I met my wife there.
If I don't show up when somebody expects me, eventually my phone may buzz.
"Where the hell are you?"

Pastoral care.

Nobody there would mistake the place for a church. Neither would I.

But every now and then I'll watch somebody notice that another person hasn't been around lately.

I'll watch people take up money for somebody who's struggling.
I'll watch somebody put an arm around a friend who's grieving.
I'll watch a bartender listen to a story they've probably heard six times before because apparently the person needs to tell it a seventh.
I'll watch people forgive each other.

Not always.

But more often than you might expect.

And every now and then I'll remember those two big, tattooed guys charging toward each other. For one brief moment, I thought I was about to see a fight. Instead, I watched two grown men throw their arms around each other and loudly announce to the entire bar:

"I LOVE YOU, MAN!"

And I still think what I thought then.

You wouldn't see that in a lot of churches.

But you should.