PLYMOUTH BLOG

The church has taken centuries to understand that in a world that is asleep, coffee is no doze.  Opening the church to coffee drinkers has been a long, difficult struggle.  Coffee dates back to the fifteenth century and the Sufi monasteries of Yemen.  The legend is that the mystic Ghothul Akbar Nooruddin Abu al-Hasan al-Shadhili was traveling in Ethiopia.  He saw birds acting unusually lively, and upon trying the berries that the birds had been eating, experienced the same vitality.  Coffee was soon part of religious practice in the Islamic world.  The Sufis used the beverage to keep themselves alert during nighttime devotions and as a kind of spiritual intoxication when they chanted the name of God.

Because Muslims loved coffee, several Christian groups, including The Ethiopian Orthodox Church, made a big brouhaha and banned coffee.  Mormons still avoid this potion made with magic beans.

Churches need to wake up and smell the coffee.  When we ask Siri to “find coffee” she lists four places within 800 feet of Plymouth.  Our neighborhood has more coffee shops than churches.

Coffee is the most important meal of the day for many.  In the midst of the daily grind, coffee is invigorating.  A yawn is a silent scream for coffee.  Sleep is a symptom of caffeine deprivation.  Coffee smells like freshly ground heaven and tastes like hopes and dreams.

When we are holding a cup of coffee, the warmth radiates through our hands.  The smell drifts through the air.  The cream goes into black coffee and magically changes it into good to the last drop caramel. This sensual experience helps our sleepy selves greet the day with gratitude.  We reflect on what we are worried about and what we now have the energy to achieve.

Worship would be less lively without a cup of joy.  We can tell a lot about a church from how they caffeinate worshippers.  My parents’ Baptist church is Folgers.  Unitarians drink fair trade coffee.  Mennonites have Kuerig committees that wash and recycle those little cups.  Presbyterians have long filled their fellowship halls for the sacrament of coffee hour.  Catholics serve decaf at midnight mass.  Sharing coffee is a way of saying, “We love you a latte.”

The church house at Plymouth was built with coffee money.  In the early 1900s, the Arbuckle Brothers’ coffee factory in Brooklyn roasted more coffee than any other building in the world.  John Arbuckle, “the Coffee King,” changed how coffee was made.  He roasted and ground coffee beans onsite and packaged the coffee in one-pound bags.  Coffee money paid for the Plymouth Institute.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” is an offer of friendship.  Coffee turns a counseling session into a conversation between friends.  Saying “Yes” to coffee at the end of a meal is a promise to hang around.

Here is a question that will begin to percolate one day.  Would coffee be a better symbol for communion?  Grape juice is dull.  Wine puts you to sleep.  Coffee refreshes, revives, and stimulates.  The Lord’s Table could be a coffee table.  If we drank coffee at communion, we could get rid of the tiny shot glasses.  Picture those little communion cup holders on the backs of pews becoming real cup holders.  Coffee would be a fine symbol for the enlivening of the Spirit that happens at the table.

When we celebrate communion it will be with wine and grape juice, but there will be coffee in Hillis so we can fill the church with sweetness and light.

I have a tiny photograph in my desk drawer.  She is leaning on the fender of a 1930s Plymouth coupe—the kind Warren Beatty drove in Bonnie and Clyde.  My grandmother is wearing a white dress and high heel pumps.  Her hair looks like it is bobby pinned.  She is an attractive woman in her twenties trying unsuccessfully to smile.  Maybe she is looking into the sun or perhaps she cannot quite figure out how to smile.  My grandmother suffered from depression at a time when mental illness was less understood and medication was woefully inadequate.

She has been my favorite grandmother since I learned that she wrote a novel.  Most of my ancestors, including the Methodist preacher, the horse thief, and the railroad boss who “was never convicted of murdering anyone,” were not big on books.  I find it hard to imagine my relatives reading books much less writing them.  When my family members went fishing or hunting and I wanted to stay home and read I thought:  “Grandmother Ruth would understand.”

I have thought about what I would say to this wounded woman whose genes I carry if I could go back in time: “You have a grandson on the way who wants to meet you and talk about books and writing.  You can’t imagine the people who will need you some day.”

When my parents asked what I wanted for Christmas one year, I requested a copy of my grandmother’s novel.  You do not have to read far to understand why it was never published.  The story is painfully autobiographical.  She describes in dark detail the deaths of two of her children.

In one of many anguished passages she blames herself as well as God.  She believes that her baby died because she “clung to the doubt that was forever in the back of my mind.”

As the death of a second child approaches, her mother, the daughter of a Baptist preacher, says, “I can only hope and pray and be ready to reconcile myself to whatever is God’s will.”

My grandmother responds, “If the baby dies, do you think that God will be treating me right?”

“God treats everyone right, you know that.”

God must cringe when a well-meaning person speaks such blasphemy.  No one in the novel ever suggests that God weeps for every grieving parent or that it is not God’s will for children to die.  I do not know all of the reasons my grandmother took her life, but bad theology contributed to her death.

I have been thinking about my grandmother since the suicides of Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade.  Their tragic deaths have brought much-needed attention to the growing epidemic of suicides.  Some of the fatalities were victims of bad theology.  Some never heard a helpful word from the church.

Mental illness is complicated and the church does not have all of the answers, but at the very least the church has to speak loudly and clearly of God’s love, mercy, and liberation.

I wish someone had said this to my grandmother before she died far too soon: “We can’t imagine the pain you feel, but God can.  God grieves with us.  You can hold on, because God is holding on to you.”

A word of hope might have changed the outcome.

It is a hard time to be a church.  Goodness is losing on so many fronts.  Our country is flirting with wars and the potential deaths of innocent people are not the biggest story.  Much of our attention is given to sex scandals.  Most of the time it is about men treating women terribly.  Our sexism has made us less aware of growing racism.  The gap between the rich and poor is getting wider.  U.S. students now rank near the middle of the pack.  The trends are heading the wrong directions—toward more division, more self-centeredness, and more despair.  It is a hard time to be a church, but that is when we most need the church.

When the culture says we are becoming more isolated we need a family.  Almost everyone at Plymouth attends coffee hour—which is not the case in most churches.  We “Meet, Greet and Eat.”  We go to the theater together.  We tell the story of Plymouth’s amazing history.  We share the life of the church with our youth.  We have young adult groups, parenting groups, Bible studies, and book studies.  At the heart of these activities is the hope that we will overcome divisions and be family for one another.

When the culture says we are becoming more self-centered, we need to worship God.  Many of us are learning to give ourselves in worship.  We sing.  We pray.  We confess. We listen.  We give.  We engage.  We pass the peace exuberantly.  We celebrate the many children in our congregation.  We baptize.  We observe communion.  We welcome new members.  During Lent, five members inspired us by honestly sharing why they find it hard to be a Christian.  We are growing as worshippers as we move from worship as a spectator event to worship as a shared experience of God’s love.

When the culture says we are less caring, we need the church to help us serve.  We build houses with Habitat for Humanity.  We host conferences on anti-trafficking.  We help parents talk to their children about racism.  We work with the Hope Project, preparing people for job interviews.  We push for bail reform.  We provide shelter for the homeless.  We support the Mission School of Hope in Cameroon.  We share ministry with Plymouth Church School.  We pack groceries for Brooklyn Delivers.  We raise money for hurting women through the Thrift Store.  We need the church, because people are hurting and we need to help.

This is a good time in the life of Plymouth.  We are taking care of old things and trying new things.  God is helping us love one another, worship honestly, and care for the needy.