Confessions of a Caffeinated Christian: Wide-Awake and Not Alone

to homosexuals…
I wonder: Am I just writing to say I am a little uncomfortable as an occasional observer within this community, or am I searching in my mind for answers to give these men? Answers work fine in classrooms, but they get more difficult in coffee shops. Are these people looking to me for the answers or do they even know they are sinners, as I am? What is my motive in wanting to offer answers? Is it to speed up their change so I don't have to be so freaked out around them or pull my child away when a gay individual approaches? Imagine how that person must feel. And I am a little uncomfortable?

One of the many things I have borrowed from American culture is the regrettable notion of the quick fix. A person doesn't write books and hit the circuit to tell folks they're in it for the long haul. As a Christian I want to hear that the guy in the coffee shop has come to Christ, accepts Him as his Lord and Savior, immediately stops finding same sex attractive, settles down, marries, and builds a house with a white picket fence.

It just doesn't happen that way.

to the homeless…
I am the father of a daughter, so to be near a homeless seventeen-year-old and not feel anything but uncomfortable reflected some kind of very serious disconnect on my part. Had I been able to find my heart in that moment, I would have hugged her to shield her from the cold, picked her up, and taken her home in my arms. None of those things even entered my mind. Instead I wanted to get away. It was no fault of hers. She gave me no reason to be inhibited. In fact, her sweetness defied an appearance that frightened me. She spoke freely to me, and was even kind to my four-year-old son. The two of them had a mutual exchange of ideas, but I could not find anywhere to connect. I had a hard time getting any words out.

I know now that it was shame that made me disconnect with Allie even for that brief encounter. I was ashamed for her predicament, and even though I did not actually contribute to it, I also didn't intend to do anything about it. Even though I knew that Allie might be headed for trouble, why couldn't I embrace her? I think I saw my daughter in Allie, and recognized the ways in which I have failed her as well. As I stood with Allie it was much easier to look away-to wait for this painful encounter to be over so I could move on to something else and forget about it.

to people outside of the Christian experience…
I am ready to conclude that here is no “them.” I know better now. I am made of the same stuff, banished from the same garden, groveling on the same earth, locked in the same struggles as anyone. We have more in common than not. We sin. We lose. We rationalize. We laugh. We judge. We condemn. We cry and blow bubbles. And yes, we might even like our coffee strong with a good deal of hot milk steamed into it and delivered in a paper cup with a cardboard sleeve and a hole in the top. Either way it's okay.

So, in the words of the dearly beloved Mister Rogers, “Won't you be my neighbor?” No time for fresh paint on any of our lives, just throw open the window to our heart and wipe our eyes clear. Come to the door of my heart and please come in. I welcome you. You'll have to step over my imperfect self, but let's walk before the Christ who loves us both unconditionally-just the way we are.

to the church…
Enter St.Arbucks, another kind of church. I actually have heard of a group of guys who treat their local Starbucks like a church, gathering there weekly to fellowship, study the Bible, and pray. That's how they came up with this new name: St. Arbucks. Sounds like a mainline church, doesn't it? Like one of those old stone structures with a steeple you'd expect to find on a downtown street corner.

Something about this seems right and perhaps more of what church needs to be. Having church over coffee will always be more interpersonally engaging than having church in a church. You can avoid everyone there, but you can't avoid someone across the table wanting to know how your day went.

to single moms…
Compliments aside, I found this conversation was suddenly making me uncomfortable. Did I want to be linked to a single mom? a waitress in a funky diner? And why did I want to keep her small and insignificant right now? Why was I surprised that a waitress at a two-bit coffee shop was so articulate and well-read? Suddenly I recalled the numerous times my wife had mentioned how men hold women as either above them (like their mother and in some cases their wife) or below them (like a mistress or imaginary lover). Had I made myself out to be morally better than Kate? Was she lucky that I was spending time with her, or was I the fortunate one? How difficult it was for me to accept her as she was accepting me now-as an equal.

to his kids…
I get it now. I get it so much more than I did twenty years ago with my first two children. I get the value of life. I get the importance of those moments spent with total concentration on the activity and thought processes of a child. I get it that a child returns to us the meaning of the moments in our life. A child only knows here and now. God watches each our life and personality unfold before Him with the same satisfaction that I get as I watch my son grow. Yes, there is much to bring God sorrow in the world, and yet there is much that brings him joy. I'm convinced of this, or else he would not have bothered with us in the first place. He wants us to have a heightened awareness of this human experience He created.

So I take more time now being a father than I did twenty years ago. I notice more. I have much more patience. It's not that I have more time; it's that I have more reasons to make time. I endure my son's temper tantrums without taking it personally. I don't consider any time with him mundane or wasted. I know he's learning every minute. He doesn't miss a thing. I don't want to either.

to his wife…
Thus our life together is a push and tug-a quest for control. Where our strengths and weaknesses are so close, we have formed a protective shell against the weaker qualities. Hostilities often bubble up between us as we seek to get a reaction from each other's storminess. The question is, what kind of a reaction are we seeking?

At our best, we fulfill what is lacking in each other's personality and outlook; at our worst . . . well, think Peter O'Toole and Katherine Hepburn as Henry II and his estranged wife, Eleanor Aquitaine, in the classic film The Lion in Winter: “What shall we hang?” Eleanor asks as the stormy pair contemplate the coming Christmas. “The holly, or each other?”

to anyone…
So here I am, at peace with the inconvenience of drinking out of a small cup that has no handle, that gets too hot to hold, that I cannot set down without the danger of spilling the coffee, and that I have to balance gingerly with one hand while I manage a muffin with the other, meaning I have to set one of them down to turn over the newspaper page.

Who else would do this? Only someone as dysfunctional as I am, who has also come to appreciate the strangely beautiful things in life. Even things like me. I tip. I rock on my base. I fall over and spill out. I cannot be held for very long without burning someone. Nevertheless, I am seen as lovely and passionate by some, and good to drink from. I was made this way by the Creator who had an eye for those of us who tip over and do not function just to sit perfectly on a windowsill. He has found a way to use me regardless of my broken handles and uneven stance.

So I'm holding my coffee cup this morning in the palm of my hand. The cup is hot, almost to the point of burning, but I can handle it. The newspaper is telling me about a world that I am slowly waking to as the caffeine works its way into my brain. In the paper is a story about how experts have discovered that coffee, especially when consumed daily in large quantities, can be beneficial in preventing certain kinds of cancer and diabetes.

I knew that all along.

Q: Tell us about your love for coffee.

A: I've had a love affair with coffee ever since I had my first cup of Starbucks in Seattle in 1978 and discovered coffee can actually taste good. Now coffee and writing are inextricably tied together. I am an early riser. The first thing that happens is the coffee is made Even the aroma wakens my mind and gets me going. By mid-morning, I'm at my favorite coffee place that has free wireless and great lattes.

Q: How does the concept of being caffeinated tie in spiritually?

A: I am a Christian but I am human, too. I have my faith but I need my coffee as well to get through the day. The caffeinated Christian is a Christian who is slightly addicted, slightly dysfunctional, and not afraid to admit it. It's spirituality brought down to earth.

Q: How will this book minister to twentysomethings or young adult leaders?

A: I believe honesty connects with anyone but especially with the young. Young Christians are looking for realistic models of faith. They are beginning to reject the Christian subculture and the Christian political machine as being the true representation of Christ in the world. But what will they put in its place? I wrote this book to help in that process - of developing a new model for engaging culture with the relevancy of Christ's message. I also believe that the church is moving more and more out into the world and that church in the future could just as likely happen in Starbucks as in the building on the corner with the steeple.

Q: What do you feel is one of the most important elements of following Christ today?>

A: Being honest. Quick to admit my sin and grateful for my forgiveness. Witnessing should be like one beggar showing another beggar where the food is (or in this case. the coffee!).

Q: Who are you reading or listening to these days?

A: Frederick Buechner. C.S. Lewis. Rick Warren. Bono. Dolly Parton.

Chapter 1: Blowing Bubbles

Was it wrong for John’s mother to say to him, “God’s going to use you for something big”? Why or why not? How much of John’s behavior was influenced by the expectation that statement carries? Has anyone in your life said something similar to you? How did it make you feel? Proud? Worried? Motivated?

Like John, you are here today because God wanted you to live. What does that truth mean to you? Is there anyone you know who needs to hear those words?

Chapter 2: Baseball for One

Are you as particular about coffee as John is? Do you consider coffee-drinking simply a way to get a caffeine fix or do you consider it a multi-faceted experience? Is it something you enjoy doing alone or with other people?

Growing up, John says he was a nobody at school. But at church, he was a somebody. Have people treated you differently in different environments? What caused that reaction? Did you do anything to change their opinions?

Chapter 3: Room at the Klatch

Do you agree or disagree that human beings have two basic needs—a need to be known and a need to know? Please elaborate. Do either of these needs present a personal challenge to you? In what ways are you are trying to face the challenge?

Is there a group of people in the world who make you uncomfortable? What steps could you take to break down the barriers?

Is it easy to believe that God loves sinners? Why or why not?

Chapter 4: Frances in Paradise

Have you ever used a character flaw in your parents as an excuse for being the way you are? Explain how that thinking can both be a liability and an asset.

If one of your parents has died, do you think it’s crucial that the remaining parent remarry?

Chapter 5: Starbucks and Jesus

When it comes to personal loyalties, what five people, places, or things top your list? What do you think John means when he says, “I believe that there is religion and then there is Jesus.” Do you agree? How would you explain the difference to someone?

Does the coffee and faith metaphor make sense to you? Do you consider your faith to be caffeinated or decaffeinated?

Chapter 6: Professional Christian

Have you ever met a “professional Christian”? What made you think of them in that way?

What did Marti do as soon as she believed in God? How was she able to engage people in conversations about God? Is it easy or difficult for you to talk to others about God?

Do you agree with the statement that “being good is the least important thing about being a Christian”? Why or why not?

Chapter 7: Involuntary Detox

Have you ever judged someone unfairly? Or has someone judged you unfairly? What do you think makes people judge others? How can this attitude be changed?

Chapter 8: Trouble with Regular

Would you rather be a “normal” person or a celebrity? What are the advantages of both?

Are you frustrated or relieved that people don’t know who you are?

God knows you better than anyone else in the world. How does that make you feel?

Chapter 9: The End of Witnessing

Do you understand the difference between the great commission and the great commandment described on pages 77-78? Which of the two do you think is the most important to carry out? What did John mean when he said “I’ve decided I’m not going to witness to people any more.” Is that something you need to do too?

Chapter 10: Me and the Ax MurdererHas a person whom you believed had no interest in spiritual things surprised you with their deep insights and questions? What precipitated the conversation? What did you learn about yourself in the process?

Chapter 11: Just the Security Guy

Are you more excited when a high profile personality becomes a Christian than when your next door neighbor does? Do you find yourself making distinctions about people?

Chapter 12: Don’t Dream It’s Over

As John struggles with prejudicial thoughts, he eventually concludes that “Differences threaten. But differences also sharpen beliefs and cut out what is unnecessary. And differences always lead to something in common.” Do you agree or disagree? Where do the differences come from? What are the things that make us more alike than different?

Chapter 13: Silent Screams

Do you have a secret you would like to get out in the open but are afraid to reveal? What would help you overcome that fear?

Chapter 14: From Steeples to St. Arbucks

Compare your experience at church with your experience at a coffee shop. Is there any difference? Why or why not? What could be done to change things?

Chapter 15: Message in a Bottle

Have you ever received an unexpected “message” that clearly was intended just for you? What did you think? Did it help you in some way?

Chapter 16: Roses on Wednesday

Is there something special that you do on a regular basis for someone you love? If not, can you think of a small gesture that would make their day? Are you the recipient of such attention?

Chapter 17: Love Is a Rose

Do you know a single mom? Do you try to avoid her or find ways to spend time with her?

If you are a single mom and could ask for anything in the world, what would it be?

Chapter 18: Michael Douglas and Me

Have you ever considered that “a child returns to us the meaning of the moments in our life.” How has that been true for you?

Chapter 19: Form Follows (Dys)Function

You are one of a kind, a unique person created by God. Knowing that, what’s the first thing you’d like to do?

Chapter One

I was born dead. This may not entirely account for my subsequent passion for coffee, but it may have something to do with it. I was the last of three children-a kind of afterthought-and I was prayed over to get here, or at least that's how my mother used to tell the story. I'm sure she embellished it quite a bit over the course of the thousands of times it was told, making me a sort of legend in my own mind. The story never got beyond the walls of my house-it wasn't that big of a story-but it's certain that if you ever visited my home when I was growing up, you would have heard about it within fifteen minutes of walking in the door.

It's the story of how I was born. I, of course, don't remember anything firsthand, but the legend goes that when I was delivered I wasn't breathing. That part was actually anticipated due to complications in my mother's pregnancy. In fact, the doctor had presumed one of us would not make it through the birthing experience. Since my mother was breathing fine at the moment of my birth, that wasn't good news for me. Believing I didn't have much of a chance, they put me aside and tended to my mother. That was when the doctor's wife started praying. (The doctor and his wife and my parents were best friends. They used to sing gospel songs in the kitchen while they did the dishes together. I often fell asleep listening to those songs.)

Sometime during her prayer I started blowing bubbles. It was a miracle, and I was considered the miracle baby. I'm still breathing today; my mother is not, but that doesn't have anything to do with my being born. I know that because she went on breathing for fifty years after that. My mother was a very dynamic lady, although she was a little taken with my birth story. She kept telling it because it was her story, and she was so happy that God had answered prayer. After hearing the story over and over, however, I began to think I was special, which meant that more was going to be expected of me someday. "God's going to use you for something big," my mother used to tell me.

I wish she hadn't told me that. I wish my mother had made me face the fact that I wasn't more special than anyone else. "Special" would have been fine as long as it was just something in the family-special to her and my dad, the people everyone should be special to-not a kind of "special" that made me think I was set apart from the rest of the pack.

But my mother kept the story going as a continual reminder: I was alive because God had big plans for me. Unfortunately, I took this the wrong way and became obnoxious, arrogant, and overbearing (my childhood friends told me this later in life). Things were never my fault. I was never wrong. I had answers for everything. And if others had a problem with me, it was only because they hadn't grasped how special I was yet.

* * *

The doctor and his wife were named Hugh and Frances. Frances was a demure, petite woman who somehow managed to birth five boys, all breathing. Our families were very close; we did everything together until I was about eight or nine and they moved away.

In addition to their home in San Marino, California, Frances and Hugh had a cabin in the mountains and acreage on ranch land somewhere near Lake Elsinore, where one summer we all put up a World War II Quonset hut (an odd metal building with a semicylindrical corrugated tin roof that was left over from the war). So it was trips to Lake Arrowhead for skiing in the winter and Lake Elsinore for hiking and murdering birds in the summer.

At least that's what I remember most about the ranch. That was where I shot my first bird with a BB gun-a little orange wren I winged while out "hunting" with Danny, my best friend among the brothers, and Hubert, the next oldest. When the bird fell, Hubert picked up the struggling creature and choked it to death with his fingers, despite my protests. I had to watch while the bird's eyes twitched and a drop of blood fell from its beak. Aiming at it, hitting it with a BB, and watching it flop out of a tree were fun. Watching it being choked to death was not fun at all. I brought the dead bird home that night in an empty milk carton and tried to get it to breathe. I even prayed over it like Frances had done over me, but I didn't get the same result. I had blown bubbles; the wren blew blood.

I always thought Hubert was a bully. He was older than Danny and me, and I never liked it when he hung out with us. Danny was older than me, too, but only by five months. He was small and slight like his mother, and he always used to say, "You may be bigger than me, John, but you'll never, ever be older than me." Over time, he has proven to be right about that.

I think Hubert got his bullying nature from his dad, who had a rough exterior. He rarely smiled, even when he was happy. Once five of us kids were jammed into the backseat of Hugh's Cadillac coming down the mountains when he got really mad at us for making too much noise. He turned around and yelled at us to shut up or he would pull over and leave us all on the side of the road. The ensuing shock silenced all of us in the backseat until he cleared his throat and spit out the window. If Hugh was trying to impress us with his tough-guy persona, it would have helped if the window had been rolled down. Five kids immediately froze in the backseat. For an instant the universe stopped as the green, stringy blob slowly oozed down the window. It was useless. The dam inevitably broke, sending us howling with laughter. We laughed until the car shook. It was one time I actually remember Hugh allowing a little smile to creep across his face.

I think I could have used a little more exposure to Hugh. I don't think he ever bought my birth story as being very different from any other birth. There's a way of looking at births that makes them all miracles, and he'd certainly seen a lot of them. To him, I wasn't that special-just another kid he had helped bring into the world.

* * *

I have always had a thing for Saturday Night Live's Church Lady. Not that I liked her or anything, just that I fully understood her. Especially her use of the wordspecial. It was cathartic for me to watch someone on national TV make a big deal of being special-even when portrayed as a mockery of fundamentalism. I must not be the only one with this problem, I would tell myself. Why would Dana Carvey have picked this one thing to mock about conservative Christians if it wasn't something obvious to him and to his audience? "Well, isn't that special?" was the Church Lady's favorite phrase. Apparently Christians have made a lot of people feel what I made my friends feel when I was growing up-that I was too good for them.

Years later as a husband and father, I was getting counsel from a psychologist when we delved into this whole idea of being special. I told him my mother's birth story-somewhat surprised that he hadn't heard it before, since he went to the same church my parents attended. When I got to the part about Frances praying and my bubble-blowing, he moved up to the edge of his chair, his face animated.

"John, do you know what that means?" he asked, full of anticipation. I didn't respond only because I knew what was coming next. He was going to say it meant I was special and God was expecting big things from me. So I stared at him, waiting for the obvious and wondering what he could possibly be so excited about.

"That means God wanted you to live!"

I sat there in stunned silence.

"That's it?" I finally said. "That's all?"

"Well, that's a pretty big deal," he said. So that was it all along. God wanted me alive and breathing. He wanted me. I am alive, not because of what I did, or was going to do, or how I got here. I am alive, period, and suddenly that alone became a pretty big deal.

I could have kissed the psychologist. As it was, I rushed out of that session and called my wife. I couldn't even wait to get home to tell her.

"Guess what? God wants me to live! Isn't that great?" In my imagination I embraced every person I passed in the hallway and on the way to my car. I suddenly felt connected with everyone I saw. They must be pretty special. God wanted them to live too.

(Continues.)