My First Pot of Coffee
Fr. Patrick Bush- May 9
- 19 min read
Introduction
There’s something sacred about the quiet of early morning, and a cup of coffee in hand. I enjoy this time with the hush before the world fully stirs. I sit in awe watching the sunlight spill over rooftops across the street. This is when I sit in prayer, with scripture and the writings of the saints spread open before me. The stillness of the morning invites reflection; the aroma of coffee brings a calmness to it. I take some time to enjoy my coffee and time with God.
But sometimes, as I read and pray, I wonder. What if I could sit down for coffee with the saints? Not just read their words, but invite them into real conversation; to listen to voices across the centuries speaking around one table. I often imagine what it would be like to watch them engage each other, not as iconic figures of the church, but as wise, warm companions whose lives are marked by similar struggles, grace, and a deep love for God.
This blog post is born from that holy curiosity. It’s an imaginative exercise, yes, but more than that; it’s spiritual companionship. I’ve written as though I were present in the room, listening in as these saints speak with one another. While some of the dialogue is my own creative rendering, I’ve done my best to honor the voice and character of each saint as I’ve come to know them through their writings. Where possible, I’ve included direct quotes or adapted reflections, with citations to the sources that inspired them.
So, pour yourself a cup of coffee and settle in. The table is set, coffee poured, and my guest have gathered. May their imagined voices bring light to your own faith journey, as they have to mine. Leave a comment and let me know how you enjoyed this imaginative exercise into Holy Coffee with the Saints.
My Guests
It’s begins like an ordinary morning at the rectory, Sun breaks over the roofs across the street filling the rectory with natural light. The chime goes off indicating a freshly brewed pot of coffee is ready. My puppy nestles in on the couch for his morning nap. But around my table, the ordinary gives way to the eternal. Here, gathered at the rectory are not just guests, but saints, admired companions from across centuries, continents, and callings, each drawn together in this imaginative and holy moment to share wisdom, stories, and a cup of rich coffee.
To my left sits Saint Macrina the Younger, her presence composed, and quietly radiant. Clothed in a simple earth-toned robe, her modest head covering frames a contemplative face. Though history often casts her in the shadow of her more famous brothers, Cappadocian fathers Basil the Great and Gregory of Nyssa, it’s clear that her deep spiritual insight helped shape their brilliance. She doesn’t speak often, but her eyes, calm and penetrating, reveal the beauty of silence steeped in prayer. When she does offer her thoughts, her words wash over you like water gently over stone, soft but able to reshape everything.
Beside her is Saint Moses the Black, whose presence is commanding yet peaceful. He once led a gang in 4th-century Egypt, feared for his strength and violent temper. Now, he wears the rough robe of a desert monk, and sits with a bowed frame with a face weathered by repentance and mercy. His thick beard veils a mouth that speaks little, but his eyes reveal a man who has wrestled with the worst in oneself to find peace. When Moses speaks, the room hushes because his words are steeped in the kind of wisdom that only comes from being utterly remade by mercy.
Across from me sits Julian of Norwich, serenity wrapped in wool. Her dark habit drapes softly around her as if she carries the solitude of her cell into this space. A white wimple circles her thoughtful face, her eyes filled with the quiet certainty of one who has seen through suffering and into love. Living through the Black Death and spiritual upheaval in 14th-century England, Julian’s visions remain, to this day, defiantly hopeful. Julian speaks softly, yet every word carries a bit of God’s overwhelming love in them. She doesn’t demand attention, but when she speaks, the room seems to stop, as if heaven leans in to listen.
To Julian’s left, with restless energy and weathered hands, sits the Apostle Peter. He smells faintly of the sea, and is dressed in the kind of tunic a Galilean fisherman might have worn. His face is sun-worn, his eyes both bold and searching. There’s an eagerness about him, a restlessness that makes the room feel more alive. He speaks with a kind of awkward honesty, sometimes stumbling over his own convictions, but always real and practical. In Peter, I see something of myself: the courage to leap and the fear that sometimes follows. Every time he speaks, you hear failure being lifted by grace.
And finally, to my right, completing the table with a contemplative calm, sits Howard Thurman. Dressed in a crisp, understated suit, his tall frame exudes stillness. Born in 1899, and raised in the crucible of racial injustice in America, Thurman’s voice carries the resonance of a spiritual guide who refused to let hatred write the last word. He always listens before he speaks. But when he does, it’s with a depth of wisdom that tugs at one’s soul. His reflections on nonviolence, inner freedom, and the presence of God in the human soul feel like cool and healing water drawn from deep wells.
These are the voices gathered around my table, companions from across centuries, continents, and callings. I imagine the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee becomes a kind of sacrament, a shared ritual across time. What draws me to this imagined morning is not just the coffee, but the conversation. A conversation I’m sure will stir the soul, challenge the mind, and soften the heart. Each guest brings a story that reframes my own, a witness that quietly encourages me: keep walking, even when the path is hidden.
Together we sit, saints and seeker, gathered in the sacred space of conversation. The coffee steams between us like an incense offering to God. What draws me to this imagined table isn’t the grandeur of their titles, but the honesty of their lives, the way they each point to grace in their own way. And, as the conversation unfolds I’m thankful not for the answers offered, but for the company.
The Conversation
The conversation begins with a touch of hesitation, as each guest takes time to get to know the others. They quickly settle in, relaxing into the ease of kindred company. Their talk turns to the often-misunderstood landscape of doubt and belief. One by one, the saints don’t offer answers, but stories—woven with conviction and thoughtful wisdom. Together, they agree: doubt is not the enemy of faith, but often its companion. It becomes the refining fire where belief is tested and deepened, the place where grace so often finds us by surprise.
On Doubt and Fear
Julian of Norwich is the first to speak, what will become a reoccurring pattern throughout the morning. Her voice like quiet music. She doesn’t rush. Her words hold the steady confidence of someone who has wrestled in silence and come to rest in divine love. “For we are so preciously loved by God,” she says, “that we cannot even comprehend it. No created being can ever know how much, and how sweetly and tenderly God loves them.”1️⃣ She leans back slightly from the table, indicating that she is done speaking. Her eyes reflecting a gentle kindness inviting others to speak. Her vision of God is not the stern judge many of us fear, but a love that does not change even when we do; a refuge for the heart worn thin by fear, grief or doubt.
Peter nods actively listening to Julian. His face betrays his memories thinking perhaps of the night he sank beneath the waves or the fire-lit courtyard where he denied Jesus three times. “I doubted too,” he says quietly, “and He still called me to follow.” Peter’s faith isn’t polished; it’s not wrapped in easy certainty. It’s lived, worn, steteched, broken, but stronger for it. Peter’s belief has been tested by failure and held together by mercy.
“I doubted too,”
he says quietly,
“and He still called
me to follow.”
Saint Moses, who’s been quiet until now, finally lifts his voice, deep and raw. “Doubts will come,” he says plainly. “But sit in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything.”2️⃣ The words, from his own monastic wisdom, carry the weight of a man who once lived by violence but came to know God through solitude. His “cell” was not a prison, but a place where he wrestled long with his own inner chaos and came out the other side shaped by peace. “Yes,” Julian nods in agreement, “The cell teaches all things—but not by silence alone. It is in stillness that we come to know that love was our beginning and shall be our end.”3️⃣ Her life of solitude wasn’t full of silence but with visions of God’s deep love for creation.
“Love was our
beginning and
shall be our end.”
Macrina listens with an intensity that reveals a deep contemplative mind. She doesn’t fear doubt, but neither does she sentimentalize it. “Doubt,” she says with clarity, “need not be feared. It is often the refining fire through which faith becomes mature. doubt has a way of binding us to what is decaying. But, belief, truth, goodness draw us to the eternal which anchors our soul.”4️⃣ She speaks as a theologian. “Even the most faithful minds,” she reflects, “must learn to rest in the mystery of what they do not yet see or understand.” Her gaze turns toward Peter, gently teasing his impulsiveness, suggesting that not all doubt is meant to be solved in a moment. For Macrina, belief is disciplined, shaped by prayer, and matured over time.
Howard Thurman, who has been silently taking it all in, finally speaks. His voice is soft, yet firm, able to draw the room to attention. “Belief must move beyond intellect and beyond emotion,” he says, “into a heart that acts.”5️⃣ He looks from one saint to another. “Doubt, when it leads to spiritual awakening, is not a weakness. It’s an invitation.” His voice deepens with conviction. “But belief without justice? That’s incomplete. What we believe must shape how we live—and how we love.”
“Belief must move
beyond intellect
and beyond emotion,”
he says, “into a
heart that acts.”
The conversation settles into a long, reverent pause adding meaning to what was just spoken. Thurman lifts his coffee mug, takes a slow and deliberate gulp, then clears his throat as if to make space for something deeper to emerge. Nothing does. I mirror the motion, raising my own mug, though I don’t drink. I allow the warmth of the ceramic to press against my lips. In that still moment, a quiet truth rises within my thoughts: doubt is not a flaw to fix, but a path to walk. It stretches out before us like a winding trail, one step at a time, drawing us into deeper spiritual maturity. Doubt has a way of changing faith from and idea to a lived reality over time. My own conversion comes to mind. It wasn’t doctrine that led me to believe, rather it was action. Living into faith before I fully understood it.
The conversation fades into thoughtful silence. Julian of Norwich lifts her cup, takes a measured sip, and lets a quiet smile curl across her lips. She warms up, it seems, to this strange new brew, perhaps wondering how such a comfort had eluded her for so long. Sitting next to her, Peter eyes his own mug with suspicion. He lifts it, sniffs, then sets it back down on the table with the air of a man who still trusts a strong, straightforward cup of tea. Somehow, even in the way each saint engages their coffee, there’s a parable unfolding, one about doubt and belief and how we each come to faith in our own strange and telling way.
Key Theological Insight: Doubt, when approached with humility and reflection, does not destroy faith but purifies and personalizes it, making belief not merely doctrinal but lived.
Leadership
It isn’t long before the conversation stirs again. Steam continues to curl up from our mugs like incense, rising in quiet tribute to the sacredness of the moment. Saint Macrina leans forward, her gaze steady but gentle, and breaks the silence with a shift in tone. “There is a kind of leadership,” she begins, “that flourishes in hiddenness. It does not hunger for the crowd’s applause. So, let us not seek glory among men, but rather let the soul shine with the light of virtue, even if no one sees it but God alone.” She speaks not as one who commands, but one who invites anyone to share with her. Her monastic community, I imagine, did not follow her out of duty, but because her life mirrored integrity.
“Let the soul shine
with the light of virtue,
even if no one sees it
but God alone.”
Before Macrina’s words could fade away, Moses the Black speaks. His deep voice captures us. “Yes, sister,” he adds, nodding. “But hiddenness alone is not enough. Pride must be burned away, because pride attracts us to worldly praise. Leadership is forged from the position of repentance.” He pauses and looks at the floor, as if remembering the rough earth beneath his knees. “The humbleness of the heart,” he says slowly, “comes ahead of all virtues.”1️⃣
Julian of Norwich smiles softly, the way one does when truth lands gently on the soul. Cradling her coffee in both hands, she adds, “Leadership begins in the soul’s union with God. Not in might, but in trust. When we rest in divine love, there’s no need to grasp for control.” She glances at Peter with affection, knowing a bit of his story found in scripture. The apostle Peter chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “I learned that the hard way.” His voice edged with self-deprecating warmth. “The night I stepped out on the water, I thought faith meant boldness. But I become distracted by the waves, and I lost sight of Him. In a way I separated myself from him for a moment.” Julian responds, “Only by preception. For our soul is so preciously knitted into God that we are ever tied to Him. It is in this oneness that our soul is endlessly holy, even in our mistakes, allowing us to lead.”2️⃣ Peter grows serious, quoting scripture not with force but as one who’s been shaped by its weight, “Clothe yourselves, all of you, with humility toward one another, for ‘God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.’”3️⃣
“When we rest
in divine love,
there’s no need
to grasp for control.”
Mr. Thurman, who has listened carefully, now speaks. His words are as smooth and slow as the swirling steam from his cup. “But humility is not silence,” he says, looking directly at Peter, then at Macrina. “It doesn’t retreat in the face of injustice. It listens, but it also speaks when the time comes.” He lets the thought settle before offering a challenge. “The movement of the Spirit of God in the hearts of men and women often calls them to act against the spirit of their times, or to anticipate a spirit yet in the making. In a moment of dedication they are given wisdom and courage to dare a deed that challenges and to kindle a hope that inspires.”4️⃣ His voice lingers like a prophetic echo, calling us into a form of leadership that is beyond comfort.
I sit quietly, coffee warming my hands, heart warmed by the depth of wisdom around the table. Their lives, which are marked by prayer, failure, courage, and truth paint a vision of leadership that humbles me. Macrina shows that leadership does what it needs to without applause. Moses reminds us that repentance is power. Julian sees leadership as a quiet trust in God. For Peter, failure can give way to lasting faith. And Thurman insists that to lead means to resist and strive to change the world around us.
Key Theological Insight: True Christian leadership arises not from strength but from surrender—formed in repentance, sustained by communion with God, and oriented toward justice and love.
Suffering and Joy
Saint Moses gently nudges his mug across the table toward me. It’s chipped at the rim but well-loved. The mug, in a way, is a subtle reflection of its owner, a history that has left scars. I reach for the coffee pot and begin to pour Moses another cup. He doesn’t speak right away, just watches the steam rise before glancing around the circle. Then, with his deep voice, he asks, “What is your understanding of suffering and joy?” The question doesn’t come as an academic challenge, but as a invitation to something sacred. These are not people who theorize, they are ones who have bled, wept, been undone, and still found God near them.
Again, Julian of Norwich is the first to respond. Her hands are folded gently on her lap now, her eyes bright but tender, as if always seeing something more than what’s visible. “Joy,” she begins softly, “is not found in avoiding suffering, but in being met by God within it. Light is more colorful and beautiful after being broken into its parts passing through stained glass.” Her gaze turns toward Saint Moses, as if responding to something unspoken in him. “Our Lord did not say, ‘You shall not be tempted nor tested nor afflicted,’ but only, ‘You shall not be overcome.’1️⃣ That is the root of our hope. That whatever may come, we are held.”
Moses nods slowly, his eyes fixed on the table. “Yes,” he sighs deeply, “but sometimes the pain is not just what happens to us, it’s what we’ve caused.” There is a deep hush in his voice, a raw edge that only grace could sand smooth. “I know what it means to bear the memory of harm done, and to walk the long road back through repentance. Joy, for me, is not freedom from sorrow, but what God can bring out of even the ashes.”
“Joy, for me, is not
freedom from sorrow,
but what God can bring
out of even the ashes.”
Before the moment can settle too deeply into silence, Saint Macrina speaks. She sits tall, composed, yet her words come with gentle power. “Both of you are right,” she says, “but I wonder if we miss something when we think of suffering only as a trial. There is also a mystery within suffering that brings transformation. Pain opens us, yes, but resurrection restores us.” She pauses, then adds, “It is not the absence of pain that brings peace, but the presence of God within the soul. Death, too, is not the end, but the soul’s return home.”2️⃣
Peter leans forward, pushing his mug further away from him. “Oh, Macrina,” he says, a half-smile touching his lips, “you always reach for heaven first. But don’t forget we live here. We follow Jesus on this rocky, ordinary path.” His tone grows quiet. “Joy is the fire Christ built for me after I denied Him. It’s not abstract. It’s His eyes meeting mine on that shoreline. That’s what healed me.”
“It is not the absence
of pain that brings
peace, but the
presence of God
within the soul.”
Then, with the calm weight of someone who has watched generations rise and fall, Thurman taps his mug a few times. A subtle call for attention, and then speaks. “There’s truth in all your words,” he begins, “but if we turn suffering into poetry too quickly, we risk blinding ourselves to the systems that cause it.” His eyes sweep the room, kind but clear. “Joy is not only something we find in pain—it is something we choose, even in resistance. It is the Spirit’s quiet insistence that we are not conquered. That no injustice, no sorrow, no exile from belonging, can cancel the soul’s worth. Joy is in the capacity to love while hating systems that enslave.”3️⃣
The room is quiet again, not from discomfort, but from reverence. Each voice has added to the weight of the conversation, and each of them is treasuring the wisdom of the others. I am too. Saint Moses lifts his mug, now full of coffee again, and says with conviction, “Then let it be all of it. The sorrow, the joy, the fire, the homecoming, the resistance. Let them each teach us how to live.”
Key Theological Insight: Joy is not an escape from suffering, but a grace discovered within it—grounded in God’s presence, matured through transformation, and expressed in resistance to injustice.
The Church of Today
Sensing a pause in the conversation, I gather the courage to finally speak. “Well, what do you think the Church needs most today?” I ask, my voice a little quieter than I expected.
They don’t respond right away. No one rushes to speak or fill the silence with clever answers. Instead, they pause. Each one leaning back slightly, their expressions thoughtful. I can tell they are not interested in offering quick fixes or simple suggestions. They don’t want their wisdom to be reduced to slogans.
Julian of Norwich leans forward, her eyes bright with conviction even as her voice remains gentle. “The Church,” she says, “must recover its confidence in God’s love. Not in wrath. Not in fear. For the center of all things is mercy.” She pauses, letting the weight of her words settle before continuing. “For the property of God is to always do mercy.”1️⃣
Saint Moses the Black nods deeply. His voice carries the gravity of experience. “Yes, mercy,” he agrees, “but not as a comfortable word embroidered on church banners. The Church needs mercy that confronts, mercy that welcomes. It must be a place of radical transformation and forgiveness, a refuge for sinners to come and be changed.” He meets each of our eyes and adds fiercely, “The Church must lead not with judgment of our neighbor, but with grace that costs the Church everything.”
“The Church needs
mercy that confronts,
mercy that welcomes.”
Saint Macrina sits upright, her hands folded on the table, serene but strong. I’m not sure she has taken one sip of her coffee this whole time. “And yet,” she says softly, “we must also tend the soul of the Church. Not just its open doors, but its inward posture.” She speaks of the need for spiritual depth, communities shaped by shared prayer and contemplation. “The Church shouldn’t look for seats of popularity or power,” she adds. “It should walk with people in holiness and wisdom, teaching that silence before God can speak a volume of words.”
The Apostle Peter, ever passionate, leans forward, his hands animated. “And still we must be bold. We need to proclaim Christ not as an idea, but as a living hope.” His voice thickens with memory. “I know what it is to fail. I denied Him. But I also know what it is to be restored.” He turns to me, his gaze full of grace. “Failure is not the end. Restoration is real. That’s what the Church must embody.”
“We need to proclaim
Christ not as an idea,
but as a living hope.”
At last, Howard Thurman gives the final thought, always the last to share. I can’t determine if he is being considerate or wanting the last word. No matter, his words arrive like a calm wind, measured and full of power. “The Church must become what Christ intended it to be. A voice for the voiceless, a force for justice, and a people whose inner life is strong enough to withstand the outer storms.” His voice drops to a whisper, yet feels thunderous in its clarity. “Without inward authenticity, outward witness becomes hollow.”
The room finally falls silent, not out of awkwardness, but reverence for each other. Each voice has built upon the other, not in debate but in harmony, revealing a tapestry of what the Church could be. Together, these saints would agree that the Church does not need more relevance, influence, or programs; it needs rootedness in Christ.
I sit quietly, humbled and inspired. As the aroma of coffee drifts between us, I get a sense that our time together was coming to an end. As I look at each one, I realize they only differ in emphasis: Julian on divine love, Thurman on justice, Macrina on spiritual depth, Peter on bold proclamation, and Moses on radical inclusion. However, Christ is their reason and inspiration for everything. I’m grateful that they taught me that the Church is not merely an institution, but a living, breathing body of grace in the world.
My Reflection
Sitting with these saints, even in the imaginative space of reflection, revealed to me more about my own soul than I expected. Their voices, each distinct, offered wisdom and encouragement. What surprised me most was how their wisdom didn’t remove my questions, but honored them. They didn’t solve my doubts, they respected them.
From Julian of Norwich, I learned the power of gentleness. Her vision of divine love, both tender and motherly, continues to soften the rigid corners of my theology. I often attempt to rationalize faith over living into the mystery of it. But Julian reminds me that love is the true language of God, and it doesn’t need to be comprehended more than it needs to be trusted.
Peter taught me to see the beauty in my own failures. His faith is not pristine but resilient. I see myself in him; in the one who tries, stumbles, comes back, and is still called “beloved.” I often think leadership requires confidence, and unwavering certainty, but Peter reminds me that it’s actually forged in moments of brokenness when mercy holds us up.
Through Moses the Black, I confront my own inner chaos. His image of the “cell” as a place not of punishment but transformation helps me rethink solitude and silence. I resist stillness, feeling uncomfortable in silence. But Moses makes me see that silence can be a way God works truth into our bones. His humility, shaped by repentance, shows me that strength is not in hiding the past but letting grace rewrite it.
Macrina grounds me in the language for discipline and wholeness. Her theological mind, rooted in contemplation, reminds me that belief is not merely emotional, it must also be shaped by thoughtful prayer and practice. She helps me see that doubt can be a tool to refine my faith, bring about greater spiritual maturity. Her witness teaches me to believe in the divinness of things and moments, and the mysterious harmony our soul has with the Creator.
From Howard Thurman, I learned that theology without justice is incomplete. He challenges me to move faith from theory into tangible action. He didn’t speak to merely reassure me, but to call me. For him, faith must be lived out loud, in courage, in resistance, in sacrificial love. His words will always urge me to think: Does my faith challenge the systems that cause suffering, or only comfort me within them?
And in the end, I learned something else, something deep and quiet, about myself. I’ve grown up believing that doubt is failure rather than formational. But in the warmth of that sacred, imagined coffee conversation, I came to realize that my questions are not obstacles to faith but entry points into deeper faith. If I choose, doubt can lead me from doctrine into relationship, from certainty into trust, from observation into participation.
And maybe, most beautifully, I learned that theology isn’t just something to study, it’s something to live.
References
Doubt and Belief
1️⃣ Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love, Chapter 8.
2️⃣ Moses, The Sayings of the Desert Fathers: The Alphabetical Collection, Statement 6 (p.138)
3️⃣ Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love, Chapter 86. adapted.
4️⃣ St. Gregory of Nyssa, The Life of Macrina, Chapter 27. adapted.
5️⃣ Thurman, Howard. Jesus and the Disinherited. Boston: Beacon Press, 1976. Chapter 5 (p.98). adapted.
Leadership
1️⃣ Moses the Black, Saying of Early Church Fathers on Humility. Patmos Monastery USA.
2️⃣ Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love, Chapter 53. adapted.
3️⃣ 1 Peter 5:5
4️⃣ Thurman, Howard. Footprints of a Dream: The Story of the Church for the Fellowship of All Peoples, (1959), p.7
Suffering and Joy
1️⃣ Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love, Chapter 68. adapted.
2️⃣ St Gregory of Nyssa, On the Soul and the Resurrection, Chapter 8. adapted.
3️⃣ Thurman, Howard. Jesus and the Disinherited. Boston: Beacon Press, 1996 (p. 88). adapted.
The Church of Today
1️⃣ Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love, Chapter 48.
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