“Will that be French-press or drip?” the son of god asked. I almost forgot my order. Not because I was standing in front of the second coming of the messiah. But because I could see crumbs in his beard. He was eating a scone as my wife and I walked in the cafe.
“Uh, drip,” I answer. “And I need a cappuccino as well.” My wife was sitting at the table. It was hard to find a seat at this cafe. Not because Jesus himself was making the coffee. But because it was in a trendy part of town, the only cafe that served fair-trade coffee, and offered almond milk as a cream substitute.
“You got it,” he smiled, punching in my order. As he told me my total, I noticed the praying hands tattoo on the side of his neck. Most of his tattoos were bad, but I thought that one was too ironically self-referential.
The image of Christ from church growing up popped into my head as I carried the coffees to the table. Every painting and dramatic re-enactment always had a pasty-white, blue-eyed, and sometimes blonde guy. But as I looked back to the man who just made my coffee, I realized how wrong those images were.
His long black hair was pulled back into a greasy ponytail, his deep brown eyes were barely hidden by his thick round rimmed glasses, and the black outlines of all of his tattoos still showed despite his natural dark complexion. The sleeves to his flannel were rolled up, showing off the prison-drawings of crosses, wings, halos, and sheep on his arms.
“Oh, how funny,” my wife chuckled as I handed her the cappuccino. I looked into her cup and saw our holy barista drew an Our Lady of Guadalupe in the foam. I was always impressed when the other baristas drew flowers in the foam. There was even one who could draw a sailboat. I had seen images of the virgin Mary in cups of coffee on click-bait articles my evangelical aunt shared on Facebook. This was the first time I had seen an intentional virgin Mary in a cup of coffee.
“Kind of, I don’t know, cheeky, don’t you think?” I asked my wife.
“Cheeky?” she looked up at me and laughed. “Are you an old British man now?”
“You know what I mean,” I blushed a little. “Like, he thinks he’s so cool and wants everyone to pay attention to him. But he works in a coffee shop. If he’s so great, why isn’t he off saving the world?”
“Last time he tried that, they nailed him to a fucking tree,” my wife sipped her cappuccino. “Probably has some residual resentment from that.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I said, staring back at the son of god as he took another bite of his scone. “Or maybe he was a little overhyped and all the miracles he performed were just like, you know, drawing shit in the foam.”
My wife took a long sip of her cappuccino. “Yeah, but his coffee is nothing short of divine. The baristas here are good. But no one makes a cup of coffee like Jesus does.”