So what happens on Monday of Holy Week? Jesus returns to the temple in Jerusalem where he heals and teaches, overturns the tables of the moneychangers, and spends the night with Lazarus.
When Jesus was twelve years old, his parents found him in the temple. Back then the he impressed the teachers of the law with his questions, knowledge and understanding. I wonder if any of those teachers were present that day when Jesus drove everyone out, including the animals.
I often hear people describe Jesus as being angry that day, even though anger is not mentioned in the bible. With a whip of cords in his hand, chasing man and beast out, he may have been angry. He certainly was passionate.
I think of this scene when I walk into church buildings. On the way to worship, I pass offering kiosks, donation boxes for mission offerings, and youth selling tickets to a fund-raising event. Not much has changed.
What do you think happened after Jesus left the temple that day? Everyone gathered up the money, set up the tables, rounded up all the animals, and got back to work. After all, it’s the week of Passover. The city is packed with people from all over Israel. It’s similar to race week or bike week in Daytona Beach. This is when businesses make most of their money for the year.
So what’s going on here? I don’t think the temple was restored to a house of prayer for all the nations. At least not until Pentecost. Jesus’s actions and stories provoke the religious leaders to get serious about getting rid of him. It’s like lighting the fuse on a stick of dynamite.
And that’s exactly what Jesus intends. He is not caught up in a chain of events over which he has no control. He’s written the script. He’s playing the lead. He’s poking the bear. And everything is going according to plan.
Imagine a visitor to your church deliberately bumping the snack table hard enough to scatter donuts and coffee cups everywhere on a Sunday morning. That would stir things up, wouldn’t it?
While walking the dogs the other day (we take them out about twice a day), my mind wandered to some of the meals I ate while visiting new members and homebound folks. Coffee and cookies were pretty common. Sometimes good. Sometimes not. Sometimes out of a package. Sometimes homemade.
And sometimes I got a meal. Kathy was one I visited many times, while she was taking care of her father at home and then later when she couldn’t get out and around. But she could cook.
On one occasion, I had a vicar (pastoral intern) in tow when we went to visit her at lunch time. She roasted two whole chickens for us. These were surrounded by mashed potatoes, green beans, salad, and rolls. All this was followed by a Klondike bar for dessert. She always had six or seven varieties of Kondike bars in her freezer. That’s why you couldn’t find many in the store. It was enough food for a dozen people.
Pastoral ministry tip: just take a little bit of everything. Pace yourself. When pressured to get seconds, take even smaller spoonfuls. And, of course, leave room for dessert.
The day would come when Kathy couldn’t prepare meals for me. So she would have me take her out for lunch. We hit Olive Garden, Red Lobster, Alfie’s (on the beach in Ormond Beach, FL), TGI Fridays. She always paid, even though she was living off an impossibly small monthly income. She never ate much, but took home leftovers for the rest of the week. She also took home all the packs of butter on the table to go with the rolls.
When Kathy couldn’t physically get in and out of my car, she would have me stop and bring lunch. Her favorite was Chinese take out. While I would get General Tso’s chicken and fried rice, she would always request a large container of egg drop soup. When I arrived, she would drop a whole stick of butter into the soup container, and stir it until it all melted. I know, I little rich for me, too.
She also got meals on wheels each week. I got to try one of those meals. The microwavable meal was some kind of meat (the label didn’t specify), green beans, mashed turnips, and a roll. As I ate the meal she graciously shared with me, I remembered that I had eaten goat in Haiti, and banana soup and ugali in Kenya. I’ll live.
When she could no longer cook, Kathy offered me a pork roast out of the bottom of her freezer, underneath all the Klondike bars. When I asked how long it had been in there, she said, “I think it’s from last year.” It was over a year old.
That I said, “No thank you.” I wasn’t sure I’d live through that. One needs both faith and wisdom to survive in this world.
Another member I went to visit, S., had grown up in Cambodia. She escaped in the 1980’s, found refuge through a church in Michigan, and there met her husband. For my visit, she prepared enough food for twenty people. She deep fried two-dozen homemade spring rolls over a small backyard burner. To this she added multiple vegetable, noodle, and sesame seed side dishes. All for me. She didn’t even eat. She just watched me. I brought home a nice container of leftovers from her house.
And then there are many visits to ninety-eight year old B., who lived with her daughter, B2. Before Covid, B. would be awake most of the night and sleep late into the day, so she didn’t make church very often. It was a three-hour event when I came to visit. B2 always prepared a wonderful meal. I had chicken parmesan, tilapia, short ribs, meat loaf, pork loin chops. The sides were all kinds of vegetables, potatoes, rice, and bread. And of course, a dessert, most often some kind of cake or pie, with a scoop of ice cream. B. and B2. had lived in Bolivia back in the seventies, and had an arsenal of South American cuisine to draw from. Yes, it was always delicious. But it was also enough food for eight to ten people. I never had to worry about supper on the days I went to visit this family.
Every once in a great while, I would visit a family who offered me a beer. One such family thought I was German, so I had a choice of six imports that day. I only had one, since I still had to work that day and I also had to drive home.
P. who was a non-drinker, had the most extensive selection of beer and liquor in town. Whenever I visited him after his wife died, he always offered me a “bump and boost.” I think he meant a shot and a beer.
For me, the coffee (strong and black, please) was the best part. Caffeine is an essential part of an afternoon visit, if you catch my drift.
If I think of more snack and meal reviews from my time in ministry, I’ll be back to write a sequel.
Sometimes a shot of espresso is the perfect medicine for a nagging headache. After all, over the counter migraine remedies contain acetaminophen, aspirin, and caffeine. Let’s cut to the chase and dig out the espresso maker.
A few years ago I bought a small kitchen counter deLonghi espresso maker. It works well, but I had been decaffeinating, so it’s been unused on a shelf for a while. The last time I put on my barista hat, I learned that some pretty nasty stuff comes out of an espresso maker fresh out of hibernation. So I ran vinegar and then water through until it came out smelling like… nothing.
I found a can of Cafe Bustelo on the shelf, my measurer/tamper, and a couple of espresso cups in the kitchen cabinet. I switched on the machine, the green light came on after about ninety seconds and the machine began pressing hot water through the scoop of ground coffee. A dark brown dribble began filling the cups with a nice creme rising to the surface. It smelled and tasted wonderful. And, along with a little Tylenol sent the migraine packing. Mission accomplished.
Once it’s out on the counter, the machine calls out, “Use me!” So I’ve been making espresso to accompany dessert and pump up my morning cup of coffee. It has an arm with which I could steam milk, but I haven’t tried that yet. But I should. A latte must be a cure for something.
There’s a sentence you don’t want to hear at a coffee shop.
After a cool day trips with a granddaughter, we stopped at Rosalind’s in downtown Garland, TX for an afternoon snack. The girls wanted hot chocolate. I chose a double shot of espresso.
The place was crowded. The shop has recently been remodeled and expanded. Most of the tables were filled with people on laptop computers. The open table we found was right in the middle of it all.
My granddaughter picked out a chocolate chip cookie, and went sat down to wait for our drinks.
The wait was longer than I expected, but finally a barista called my name. As I walked away with two cups, I heard my name again. When I returned to the pick-up counter, the barista whispered, “I’m sorry, but the espresso machine is having problems today.” Uh-oh. No ones to hear that at a coffee shop. I said, “That’s OK, I’ll just have a small coffee.
The hot chocolate was better than expected, too. Topped with frothed milk, it left a great mustache on the drinker’s top lip. My coffee was delicious. I should have asked where they get their beans.
The chocolate chip cookie disappeared in record time, we enjoyed our drinks, and played a table top hook-the-ring game.
When we returned the next day with another granddaughter, we were glad to learn that the espresso machine was up and running,
Garland’s little downtown area looks better every time we come. Businesses have remodeled and reopened shops and street parking is usually full. It’s a cool place to hang out. The population here is diverse. Not many cowboys, but lots of Americans from India, Asia, and Mexico.
After I dropped off my dog at the groomer, I drove by my favorite Starbucks to see if they had re-opened. The store had been closed for remodeling, and the half-full parking lot was a welcome sight. With journal and pen in hand, I looked forward to an hour of coffee, eavesdropping, observation, thinking up story ideas, and doodling.
I actually had two journals with me. The one was just about full with just two blank pages left. The other was freshly unwrapped without a single mark on the pages. I love new journal day! I remember my mom telling me how much she loved cracking open a new notebook, feeling the smooth pages, and anticipating the words and images that would soon fill them. I know exactly how she felt.
Anyway, when I stepped into the redone coffee shop, I noticed a lack of seats. Half of the store was set aside for the baristas. The mobile order pickup area was expansive. One long table with chairs on each side filled the coffee-drinkers’ side. At each end was a table surrounded by a few chairs. A few scattered customers essentially filled the room. There was no place to sit, unless I was comfortable sitting side-by-side with purple-haired macchiato-drinking woman chatting on her phone.
I found a spot to sit outside at one of the ten patio tables. While there, I wondered, “Why did they get rid of so much indoor seating?” I put on my franchise-owner’s hat and came up with a few ideas.
Since it was right off the interstate, a lot of this location’s business was drive-thru and mobile orders. More room for more baristas will keep up with demand.
Every time I’ve been there, homeless were camped out, nursing a tall coffee for hours. Students occupied tables with laptops and textbooks for hours. Interviewers met with job applicant after job applicant. Fewer seats moves more customers through the store.
It was a corporate decision. This is what we want our stores to look like. We’ve never been to your store, but the data says this is the way to go. Live with it.
We want people to moan and groan about the change. There is no bad publicity, right? Let’s give the bloggers something to rant about. You have a problem with this? Let’s talk about it over coffee.
By the time I left, the parking lot was full, the mobile order counter was full, and the drive thru line was out to the street. Someone knows what they are doing.
Since my appointment was at four in the afternoon, I didn’t expect to find any drinkable coffee in the waiting area at the dealer where I waited for an oil change and tire rotation. By that time, whatever was in the big pump carafe would be a lukewarm eight-hour old pot of weak brown liquid undeserving of the name “coffee.”
Boy, was I wrong. And I was pleasantly surprised to see a brand new commercial grade Keurig brewer on the counter next to paper cups, creamer, sugar, and a carousel of regular and decaf K-cups. Impressive. It was plumbed so you never had to fill the reservoir with water. A really cool color touch screen let you pick the size and strength of your coffee. I looked around to check and make sure I was in the right place. Yep. Same old uncomfortable chairs. Some of the same magazines and books. Same toys in the corner for kids.
I know I shouldn’t choose my auto mechanic based on the coffee provided in the waiting room. In the same light, you shouldn’t pick a church, a doctor, a hotel, or an airline for the coffee they serve. But when the coffee is good, it makes a difference when you’ll be waiting for a while.
My first sip of morning coffee was disappointing. The brew was weak with a strange taste, not at all what I was expecting. But it was early, my taste buds probably weren’t fully awake yet, and at least it was hot.
Half a cup later, I decided, “I shouldn’t have to put up with this. I’m going to make another cup.” Maybe a rogue coffee pod had found its way into the box of organic dark roast from Sam’s Club, which typically makes a good cup. I dumped the water and filled the reservoir with it with fresh. I washed out my favorite coffee mug, something I admit I don’t do often enough. I made sure I pushed the “strong” button on the coffee maker before the cup size.
And then I thought, “Did I put a new coffee pod in the first time?” Of course I did. I always do. Yet in the early morning darkness with the day’s plans on my mind, was it possible? I looked in the trash can. I didn’t see a used pod in there. You’ve got to be kidding. No wonder it tasted bad. These weren’t designed to be used more than once. I had run water through a day-old used pod. The second cup tasted much better, confirming my theory.
I’ve never done this before. I’m a morning person. I don’t stumble through the dawn into my day. I hit the ground running. But this was our first day back home after a week of travel. I had to brew pots of drip coffee at the Airbnb. The hotels brewed fresh coffee for me in the lobby. I was out of sync.
I know. Boring. But I like coffee. I like it a lot and I like it straight up. Okay, once in a while I’ll get a latte, but always with an extra shot to up the coffee concentration.
“Here you go, a small coffee.” I made a face when I took my first sip. It tasted good, but it tasted sweet. Well, some coffees have a little sweetness, so I gave it another try.
I said to my wife, “Taste this. Does this taste sweet to you?”
She took one sip and said, “Oh, yes.” She made a face. “Artificial sweetener.”
I hardly ever take anything back at a restaurant or coffee shop. But this day I did. “I think there’s sweetener in this. I just wanted black.” It was no problem. They made me a new cup. Much better.
My wife ordered a latte made with almond milk with just one pump of vanilla. Her typical order, nothing complicated.
After a few sips she lifted the lid and said, “There’s not much milk in here.”
I tried it and said, “That’s not a latte. That’s just coffee with milk in it. A latte is mostly steamed milk.”
She didn’t take her cup back. The poor guy who took our order was either inexperienced or having an off morning. He wasn’t a barista, just a young man working behind the counter. And the pastries were really, really good.
This coffee shop opened up in a rundown area of town in an effort to revitalize the neighborhood. Sponsored by a church, it subsidized many children’s programs, employed people just getting into the work force, and made important faith connections. They started in a bus, traveling from place to place. This permanent location had only been open for a few months. You can check them out here.
Trying out coffee shops has become a new hobby. They are tucked away in strip malls, industrial parks, and the corners of larger stores. With our coffee radar switched on, we’ve discovered many cool places.
One of the baristas suddenly walked over to the mobile order pickup spot, looked at the stickers on some hot and cold drinks, dumped them out, and threw out two or three food bags. I sat and wondered, “How often does that happen? How many people order online and never pick up? And why would anyone do that?”
Since this Starbucks is just off the interstate, many of their customers are traveling north or south on I-95 through northeast Florida. The food sign a mile or so before the exit might prompt travelers to open the app to place their order for a quick pick up. But then the driver gets distracted by a big truck on his tail or is yelling at children in the back seat or is fiddling with the radio and misses the exit. “What are you doing? I already ordered the coffee! Oh, never mind.”
Or, having ordered through the app, the interstate traffic suddenly comes to a stop. An accident has shut down all the lanes and no one is going anywhere for a while. An hour later, the hot drinks are cool and the cold drinks are room temperature. Down the drain they go.
Perhaps a child has borrowed mom’s phone to play a game or watch a video and happens upon the app. “I wonder what this does? Ooh, that looks good!” Before you know it, an order is on its way. Later in the day, a puzzled parent asks, “Were you on the app?” The wise and clever child replies, “I don’t know.”
It could be a prank by “friends” who notice your phone is unlocked. You know, the same friends who change the language on your phone. Or had those pizzas delivered to your house.
There are thousands of Starbucks in the US. Maybe you placed the order at the wrong store. And you were pretty aggravated when your order wasn’t waiting for you at the wrong store.
How long does an order sit there before being poured out? Let’s say it’s an hour. I could wander over at about 59 minutes to see what’s available for “pickup.” Yeah, my conscience probably wouldn’t let me get away with that. I wonder how many online orders are picked up by someone else? What would happen when the customer shows up at the one hour and five minute mark looking for their order?
