Coffee, Cults & Comedy

A Deconstruction Tale, Powered by Caffeine and Irreverence

“Deconstruction” is hot, y’all.

There’s seemingly a global (bowel?) movement of shedding labels and redefining what it means to be a religious or spiritual person. We can partly thank American politics and white evangelicalism for making the term “Christian” so problematic it could conceivably be considered the other “C-word”, but truthfully, it goes much deeper than that.

For me, at least.

Because somehow, someway, at one point in my life, you could find me loudly singing “There’s Not a Friend Like the Lowly Jesus” to angry rush-hour passengers on a packed NYC subway car, a strained smile on my face and a wild look in my eyes that said, “Um, lowly Jesus? I would very much appreciate if you could be my friend right now and tell me what the hell I’m doing here.”

And so, I welcome you, dear readers, to an attempt to suss out what was on my mind for the 32 years I spent in Christianity, specifically an organization called the International Churches of Christ, or “ICOC” to the cool kids.

32 (*gets woozy typing this number, slaps own face) years…

Kick your shoes off and enjoy!

Refreshments will be served!

I hope you like Savory Satire Bites, Mental Illness-Stuffed Mushrooms, and Bacon-Wrapped Revelations with a side of no BS!

To begin… let’s address the title of this continuing series, “Coffee, Cults, and Comedy”.

There is a method to my madness, or shall we say, an answer for my alliteration.

When considering how to talk about my religious saga, I knew that it was a classic “Let me explain-- no, there is too much-- let me sum up” situation, so I chose a framework, a scaffolding, if you will, that seemed to best sum up my journey:

1. COFFEE

Ahhhh, coffee. My best friend and constant companion since I gulped five cups in a row at IHOP’s ‘All You Can Eat Flapjacks and Joe Night’ in 1981.

Yes, it was a bold choice for a caffeine virgin and like any loss of virginity, came with both erotic thrills and real-life regrets.

For one glorious hour, I chattered manically about world domination through my art, followed by two hours of anxiously asking other pancake patrons what a heart attack might feel like, and ended with four hours of sobbing and staring at the ceiling, certain I would never sleep again.

The truth is, I spent many, many years self-medicating my severe depression and profound ADHD with caffeine, as the more common ‘suffering artist’ choice of alcohol or drugs thankfully scared the shite out of me. Many of my life decisions were made under the influence of neurodiversity and general nuttiness, so this will be a recurring theme.

Ultimately, doctors gave me some happy pills that they thought might work a bit better than mainlining jitter juice. Oh, if only they had written those prescriptions before I joined the:

2. CULT

Or was it a “high-control church”? Or a “movement of God”? Or “the place where one could hide while trying to figure out why life felt so utterly impossible to navigate and at least here there was certainty, even if it came with a bipolar God, some jacked-up, self-proclaimed prophets, and an ecclesiastical structure that felt a lot like Amway?”?

This is the mystery we will solve through this series, so buckle up, peanut-butter-cups.

There will be snippets of great love and beauty, profound interactions with some incredibly wonderful humans, and a bunch of stories that are so insanely cult-y they make Scientology look like your elderly uncle’s Saturday afternoon Pickleball club.

All of which leads us to my true best friend and constant companion through the 32 (*has mild panic attack, tells self “deep breaths, babe”) years I spent trying to figure out God, life, and why reading the Bible makes some people more loving and turns others into narcissistic, racist, homophobic psychopaths:

3. COMEDY

I inherited a number of things from my deceased father, but the only ones that really matter are my lousy Irish teeth (with the ensuing dental bills), the life-sized cardboard figure of Lynda Carter as Wonder Woman that graced his divorced-dad condo, and a sense of humor.

His midnight-dark, dry-as-dust, absurdity-appreciating sense of humor.

Without it, I would no longer be amongst the living, of that I am certain.

And how sad would that be, reader, to be deprived of drinking coffee and laughing with me as I tell my hair-raising tales? Oh, so sad. Maybe not sobbing and staring at the ceiling for four hours sad, but close.

I really, thoroughly, profoundly hope this series will entertain and educate you, and maybe make you feel a little less alone if you’ve made some dubious life decisions of your own, whether temporary or consuming 32 (*Faints. Drools. Revives. Types.) years of your life.

And to sweeten the pot, I will share some of my resources/research topics: titles and quotes from the approximately five thousand books/articles I’ve read on Biblical history and interpretation, neurotheology, mind control, deconstruction, reconstruction, and all that super fun, not at all nerdy stuff.

There might even be a recipe or two in there. Or a picture of my pugs. Or a picture of my pugs eating one or two of my recipes.

I’m glad you’re here. I love this for you.

And me. XO

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