The Bar at the Edge of Belief

Where Mr. Rogers drinks chamomile, Gandalf debates ego, and the Magdalene bites back.

It begins, as these things do, in a bar that shouldn’t exist.
The kind of place that smells like incense and unresolved grief.
The sign outside flickers between:

The In-Between
and
The Last Word — depending on who’s asking.

The jukebox only plays hymns remixed by regret.
And the bartender? Possibly a minor prophet on probation.

One by one, they arrive.

Mr. Rogers enters first, sweatered like a sacrament, holding the door for the silence.
Gandalf follows, trailing pipe smoke and half-finished prophecies.
Richard Rohr spins a napkin into a spiral like it might explain both the Trinity and your last breakup.

They don’t order drinks.
They order metaphors.

Rohr sips Living Water with lime.
Gandalf requests ale with a whisper of apocalypse.
Fred stirs chamomile like it contains the cure for systemic despair.

Then the door creaks.

In walks Virgin Monk Boy.

Man bun. Beard. Eyes like he’s seen the Void and left a bad Yelp review.
Wearing a hoodie that says Celibacy Was a Mistake, and carrying a tote bag labeled:

“This Bag Contains My Disillusionment.”

He scans the room, nods to Gandalf, bows to Rohr, and fist-bumps Fred.

“Peace to the cardigan. Chaos to the colonizers,” he says, sliding onto a barstool like it owes him an apology.

The bartender sighs. “Another one of you.”

He doesn’t order. He just sits and speaks in riddles that sound like burned love letters to organized religion.

Then comes the shift in air.
Not a sound, but an edit in the atmosphere.

Heels click.

In walks Sister R.

Coat like midnight. Hair visible beneath the hood. No glasses—she sees through everything anyway.
One hand holds a half-eaten cannoli.
The other, a weather-worn copy of The Gospel of Mary filled with wrath and post-its.

She walks up to Virgin Monk Boy without asking permission.

“You’ve been reckless,” she says. “Quoting the Magdalene like she’s your side chick instead of your spiritual mother.”

He smiles like a saint who failed the vow of silence but kept the vow of satire.

“And you’ve been hoarding forbidden knowledge like it’s wine at a Baptist wedding.”

Gandalf grunts softly. Rohr grins into his spiral.
Mr. Rogers quietly blesses the fries.

“You think you’re awakening people,” Sister R continues,
“but half the time you’re just live-streaming your spiritual confusion with good lighting.”

“You’re still hiding behind footnotes and pretending it’s embodiment,” he replies.

The skeptical man in the corner—who’s been nursing his beer like it might explain original sin—finally asks:

“Who are you people?”

Rohr turns, eyes gleaming with something between mischief and mysticism.

“He’s the fall.
She’s the reckoning.
This is the new Eden.
And you, my friend… you’re about to eat the fruit.”

Sister R looks at him.

She breaks the cannoli in half.

“Then eat. Metanoia begins with crumbs.”

He takes it.

He breathes.

For the first time in decades, he breathes.

Virgin Monk Boy raises his glass of nothing.

“To dangerous women, reluctant saints,
and the blessed ache of becoming.”

Everyone—including the jukebox—whispers amen.

And outside, the moon rises like an ancient scroll unrolling.

---

If you ever find yourself at the edge of your beliefs—
weary from dogma, allergic to easy answers—
listen for laughter wrapped in lament.

You might just find The In-Between again.

And if you do?
Check the bathroom mirror.

Virgin Monk Boy’s graffiti will still be there:

You are the sacred interruption you’ve been waiting for.

---

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