Breakfast Eschatology

I no longer want to resolve my eschatological crisis.

I don’t want to determine the nature of substitutionary atonement, theodicy, and eternity. I don’t want to debate whether hell is eternal, corrective, metaphorical, mistranslated, or the unfortunate product of several centuries of theologians getting overexcited. I’m tired of sifting through my epistemic crisis as though somewhere beneath a pile of Greek nouns I will finally uncover the laminated instruction sheet for the universe.

I’ve also given up on perfection, physical, spiritual, and otherwise.

What I really want is a good breakfast.

Not breakfast at home. Home breakfast has its virtues, but it is essentially maintenance. Oatmeal. Yogurt. Berries. Protein. The nutritional equivalent of changing the oil.

I want to go to a café.

A good one.

I want banana-nut French toast, buttermilk pancakes, poblano eggs Benedict, crisp potatoes, and a waitress approaching with a coffee pot before I’ve even noticed that my cup is half empty.

More importantly, I want people. Lots of them.

A true breakfast is communal. Certain movies become better when watched in a packed theater, where laughter moves through the audience like electricity. Breakfast works the same way.

The lonely café is hell on earth.

Three customers scattered across twenty empty tables. Fluorescent lights humming overhead. A laminated menu curling at the corners. Somewhere in the kitchen, a microwave beeps with the melancholy finality of a hospital monitor.

Technically, breakfast is being served.

Spiritually, the place is already closed.

The packed café is another universe.

You open the door and hear the glorious racket of human appetite. Forks strike plates. Coffee cups land on saucers. Children negotiate syrup distribution. Servers weave between tables carrying platters of eggs and potatoes. The room smells of coffee, butter, toasted bread, maple syrup, and potatoes surrendering magnificently to the griddle.

Every table is occupied.

A line waits outside.

This is not merely a restaurant.

This is evidence.

I call it Breakfast Eschatology: the abandonment of speculation about ultimate salvation in favor of recognizing modest intimations of heaven in the communal celebration of a magnificent breakfast.

For years, I have worried about the Last Things.

What happens after death?

What is the nature of original sin?

What are the rigors of postmortem salvation? 

What did the Greek word aiōnios mean before two thousand years of theology climbed onto its back?

At some point, the soul develops theological indigestion.

Enough.

Bring me the poblano eggs Benedict.