Schizophrenic Coffee Junkie
As a child, I had a schizophrenic concept of what is Christian. Exclusively educated in a school called Holy Family Academy, I was spoon-fed with Catholic ideals from the moment I persevered to jot down “Dennis Jerome P. Aquino” perfectly on brown writing pad with my ever-reliable Mongols, and up until I was a rebellious teener who abhorred Citizen’s Army Training but was passionate about campus journalism.
A typical day in school would not be complete without reciting a zillion prayers. Like robots, we would recite these prayers before and after each class, before and after meals/break time, and whenever the nuns and our teachers felt like asking for more guidance and blessings from the deities. No prayer could be complete without the ‘sign of the cross’ before and after the actual prayer. This involves touching your forehead (“In the name of the Father…”), diaphragm area (“…and of the Son…”), right shoulder (“and of the Holy Spirit…”), and the left shoulder (“…Amen.”) with your right hand. And of course, no prayer will ever be complete without the usual venerations for Mama Mary.
The moment I get home, however, it’s a totally different ball game. Growing up in a Mormon household, we were told to fold our arms, bow our heads, and close our eyes during prayer. As opposed to the Holy Trinity or “egg model” of the Catholics, we were also taught that God the Father, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit are three different entities. And no, Mama Mary is not entitled to any of our prayers. Such subtle differences are sure to cause some sort of anxiety even to adults. So imagine how a lone Mormon kid in a classroom full of Catholics could cope up with all of this. Yes, it’s very frustrating, indeed.
Apart from prayer confusions, I soon learned that unlike Catholics, Mormons are not allowed to decorate their churches and homes with crucifixes and statues of saints. Mormons are also supposed to be presentable whenever they attend Sunday service. Levi’s denims and mini skirts? No, toss them in the bin because the Mormon leaders would only prescribe buttoned shirts and slacks for men and the flowery straight dresses for the ladies. Speaking of church leadership, Mormon men can become priests by the time they’re sixteen. They’re also required to serve a mission for two years by the time they reach nineteen. And every member of the church has to get married and have babies. Bypass any of these requirements and jeopardize your chances for attaining eternal life.
The most interesting aspect of Mormonism, for me, is its hate affair with caffeine. Along with tobacco and alcoholic beverages, Mormons are supposed to avoid Coke and other sodas, tea, and most especially, coffee. I never fully understood why we were denied to savor the bitter brew that is coffee. “It’s for health purposes,” the church leaders would preach, and even back then, I was wondering why the rest of the Earth’s populace would desecrate their temples with vile substances like Nescafe and Blend 45. 
I treated coffee like an illegal drug up until the finals week of my second semester as a college freshman. Back then, my usual bedtime was not later than ten in the evening, and with a big Chemistry finals coming up, I knew I had to study doubly hard since I churned out mediocre marks the whole semester. My cousin suggested that I gulp down a cup of coffee to keep me awake for a couple of hours more. I did as instructed, and as expected, was able to keep my eyes open until the wee hours. I tossed and turned on bed soon after with caffeine, the alien chemical, wrecking havoc on my brain’s blood vessels.
I was a virtual zombie when I took the Chemistry final exam that morning. My head felt like flotsam from lack of sleep, and my heart retaliated from the caffeine surge with murderous palpitations. I managed to pass the exam, of course, and vowed to never drink another cup of coffee. But then again, promises, like they all say, are meant to be broken. Before I knew it, I was a regular coffee and tea drinker myself. Soon after, I also quit attending Sunday service.
Nowadays, I’m one of those coffee-holics who won’t function properly without a cup of hot brew every morning. I call it my “muddy gasoline (with creamer and sugar) to start off my lazy butt engine.” It’s a good thing that brewed coffee in the office is free. Otherwise, I would have spent an insane amount of money in Starbucks, Seattle’s Best, Coffee Bean, and the like. A cup of basic brew in these establishments costs around 50-100+ pesos. Fancier concoctions like mochaccinos and lattes could be as expensive as 100-200+ bucks. Imagine that! And those baristas, with their plastered smiles and fake American accents, would even have the gall ask if you would like an expensive pastry to go with your coffee selection!
I’m starting to think that the Mormons make sense. Maybe, just maybe, coffee is in fact a sin. Well, in that case, I still believe that each of us is entitled to one little sin. Some go for a bottle of beer and some would opt their luck in lotto, poker and the slot machine. In my case, I’m sticking by with coffee, my bitter sweet muddy gasoline.
