Liturgy at the Cafe

How glad I am to share a Sunday communion with a latte and a dog in his winter coat.

His soft brown fur and puppy dog eyes look up at me with a sweetness only dogs can muster. I politely introduce myself, compliment his good looks, and then say hello to his owner. That’s how etiquette works around here. Dogs come first; all the neighbours know it. 

And here, at the local coffee shop, I reacquaint myself with the public. My winter hibernation a tempting whisper in my ear, a sort of droning white noise. But I know I need to be around people. To work up the energy so that my spring and summer excursions beyond my apartment door do not socially exhaust me into a spiral of inaction.

I resent my need to be reminded of people. That need for reassurance, to know that I am not alone in existence, and to feel something greater than myself. That empty sensation of isolation, a carryover from my rural roots. 

That’s where the local cafe comes into play. 

Here, between these wooden seats, across from the counters and baristas working away, pumping beans and steam. I balance a spoon in my hand, taste the bitterness of conversion, and know that I have been saved, at least for another week, another Sunday.

I know that I exist beyond my own imaginings. That I have a body that has needs, I’m still learning to decipher. I know the mundane can be the sublime in the same way it can be horrifying, sometimes even at the same time.

The human experience, am I right?

But back to the local cafe.

Winter in this coffee shop forces us strangers to lean closer to one another. We bump our knees under tables, make formal introductions to dogs, and apologize for staying until closing. The staff too kind to interrupt our conversations. 

The liturgy here is one of anarchy—there’s no man at the pulpit telling us how to think or feel. Instead, there’s an ocean of conversation happening all at once. Friends and neighbours bunched around tight tables. Telling short stories of our lives. Giving nicknames to the unknown faces across the room. Writing a few catchy phrases as the sounds crest and fall. 

My church has no bells, but I’d bet it has better espresso.