I believe the Sabbath should taste different than other days. My senses need to know that this day is special. The answer: beer.
As someone who didn’t drink until the age of 30, I missed the entire party scene of my youth. You may think beer = college Greek party. I think beer = Sunday afternoon with my parents, grilling outdoors, and enjoying a Fat Tire.
I now live in a town with strong German roots, where the standard age of beer-drinking starts (with parental permission, I might add), around 12. It’s the kind of place where a Lutheran pastor said from the pulpit that there’s nothing wrong with having a “beer or two” on a Sunday afternoon. I wonder if he was saving a Heineken for after the service.
So, when my Sabbath comes, I like to take some time to crack open my Bible and my Book of Common Prayer along with a Negra Modelo or a St. Arnold. It’s the only time I enjoy beer, unless I’m with my parents.
I was with my them this past Sunday. As always, their fridge had plenty of Fat Tire. It’s the only alcoholic drink my mother can tolerate with the mouth sores from her many, many chemos. Before we went out to brunch and drank iced tea (since there are still laws in Texas, I stole a Fat Tire for later. When I got home, I pulled out my Bible, popped off bottle cap, and toasted the Sabbath.
