Dunkin' Cups in Empire

A kingdom parable

On Sunday mornings, I’m one of the last people to arrive for Holy Alliance. This is nothing new; surprising to absolutely no one. Across the 600+ Sundays we arrived for services at our former church, the creaky (and beloved) congregation was usually well into the second verse of the first hymn when the Martins slid into our pew, disheveled and barely hanging on. Happy to be there. Holy Alliance starts a full two hours earlier and we were not made for this.

Back in the day, we’d say a quick hello to two of the “smokers” outside pulling one last drag before heading into the sanctuary. They were long-time pillars of the church, active in leadership for decades. Their parking lot presence did good work in my heart, re-forming something in me that was built broken - ideas that being a Christian looked a certain way and serving God was marked by certain habits (and the lack of others.) They split my heart open to the brutal reality that I had missed something meaningful along the way. Gate-keeping, performative Christianity had clouded my vision from the naked truth that God belongs to everyone, and everyone to God.

It was inside the building that broke me where I learned God’s presence is most clearly on display among those Christians quietly (or otherwise) shame and condemn. As with every terrible, glimmering facet of this one life I’ve been granted, I am working to hold onto the good even as I discard the trash.

These days, at roughly 8:28 a.m., I weave my way through a cloud of smoke seeded by dozens of men and women enjoying a different sort of Christian “followship.” They smile and say sleepy morning hellos before tossing their cigarette butts into the two strategically placed paper Dunkin’ cups.

Church is in session. I take a seat among the rows of chairs, packed between my siblings in the faith wearing electronic monitoring ankle devices. Like in most church services, folks chit-chat in those final moments before we begin. We don’t call it “passing the peace,” but it’s a solace, anyway.

“God is good!” says the guy two seats to my right, craning his neck to the row behind us.

“Hell, yeah!” his friend replies.

We always reserve time for gathering prayer requests, holding fast to the mystery of shared burdens, collectively lifting them to the One who holds us, confusing and hazy as it may feel.

“Can we pray for the people taking care of our kids while we’re in here?” Her voice wobbles, against a murmur of agreement. It’s the first time I’ve heard this specific request, but I know it will not be the last. Our first pray-er speaks up from the back of the room, tacking a postscript onto his designated request, “And keep us all from screwing up, cause God knows we all do it. And that’s all I’ve got to say.”

The best “amen” I’ve ever known.

A different guy raises his hand. “Can I say something?” He makes his way to the front, wearing a torn-up sweatshirt and steel-toed boots. He wonders why we don’t collect money. He wishes we would. “They do that at other churches, and I go to one after this. But this is my church. These doughnuts cost money. This building, too. I make decent money and I would like to take some of the expense off of pastor Cory.”¹

We talk about it. Some of the people in the room know about “tithing.” A few can rattle off the facts and that ubiquitous figure - 10%. Cory reassures them that their money is not needed for the space, or the doughnuts. But we learned long ago that almost everyone wants to be generous. So we decide, together, to support a particular group in our community. There’s broad agreement. Mass appeal.

“From now on, I’m going to leave this empty Dunkin’ cup up front. If you want to put some cash into it, feel free. But there’s no pressure,” Cory says.

Some have. Many do not.

At the end of our single, slim hour together, after helping pass out 80 signed verification forms, I find the cup sitting unattended, stuffed with bills, the bottom rattling with pocket change.

That was three weeks ago, and it continues to be filled each week.

It will change the lives of some of our neighbors. But mostly, it will change us.

“Do we re-create patterns of domination in our leadership, where decisions are top-down rather than collaborative? Do we unintentionally center the voices of those already privileged? Do we treat resources - money, time, attention - as something to guard, hoard, or compete over rather than share generously? Do we re-create patterns of burnout, perfectionism, and overwork in our institutions or even in our family culture? Do we police belonging, perpetuating dualism and an us-versus-them mentality?” - Liturgies for Resisting Empire by Kat Armas

I have to wonder, what if Christians started asking better questions about money? What if we stopped gate-keeping? What would happen if church people stopped detracting spiritual points for every tattoo, curse word, and lit cigarette?

What if we got serious enough about Jesus to point our feet toward the margins and start walking - not as missionaries, but as impoverished beggars, desperate for the truth Empire and opulence obscures?

What if we went searching for a literal plume of smoke, recognizing it as a source of Godly wisdom?

“True wisdom cannot flourish in a system that values mastery over mutuality, control over connection, or power over the kind of understanding that is born from lived experience.” - Liturgies for Resisting Empire by Kat Armas

My prayer is that we would strip the masks, shred the pedigrees, and take an axe to the gates. May we be blessed with a heightened suspicion of power. May we flow in the favor of unpopularity. May our greatest spiritual gift be the sort of honesty that brings about our casting out. Then there, in what we were told was the dessert, may we finally, know what it means to bloom.

And that’s all I’ve got to say.

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I’m only on chapter 4 of Liturgies for Resisting Empire by Kat Armas, and it is among the most important theological resources for this disastrous day (what a week!) and all of them to come.

I am begging you to buy a copy, along with a full pack of highlighters, and camp out. Give it to your pastors and your dads. (What they do with it is not your concern.) Let it change you.

“It is at the margins, where the center cannot reach, that divine wisdom breathes most freely, transcending words and logic.”

Liturgies for Resisting Empire by Kat Armas

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1. Cory is a chaplain, but lots of them call him “pastor.” He’s learning to struggle through the tension.