Starbucks, Homelessness and the Holy Spirit

I walked into Starbucks in hopes of nothing but a quiet evening. I got more than I bargained for. The decision would cost me: seventy dollars to be exact.

Settling into a plush leather chair, I took a sip of warm, dark coffee. Breathing in deeply, the aromas of freshly ground arabica beans hit my nostrils. I was glad to be inside on such a cold and rainy night. All around me the sights and sounds of a quiet evening with no agenda began to set in. An older gentleman sat reading in the corner. A couple of teenagers awkwardly stood in line, pointing at the price board, likely waiting to begin a first date. Jazz music danced in the background, interrupted only by the occasional buzz of a coffee grinder. I reclined, ready to relax.

Then Dave walked in. I didn't really notice him at first. Many customers move in and out of Starbucks on any given evening. Why should this guy be any different? Somehow—on a deeper, intuitive level—I knew he was. He sat down at a table next to me. Had I not glanced up I probably would not have noticed him staring at me. I wondered why.

Then it hit me. He looked hungry. Dave was homeless.

How did I know? It was fairly obvious. He bore the telltale marks of real poverty: holey jeans, beat-up shoes, a dirty jacket and greasy hair slicked to the side. More than this, he was soaked to the bone. And he was looking right at me.

“Cold evening out there, sir,” I ventured to communicate, “Would you like something warm to drink?” He hesitated. “I’ll buy.”

He smiled, then replied. “Sounds good to me.”

We walked to up to the front and turned to face the cashier. I gestured up toward the menu, “Have anything you like. It’s on me.”

Dave contented himself with a small cup of plain, black coffee. Of all the items on the menu, this was all he ordered. I was surprised. Was that all he really wanted?

"Would you like something to eat?” I asked.

He shrugged, “Not me, but my fiancé is starving. Mind if I introduce you?”

After purchasing his coffee, we walked back towards the exit. He led me outside and around the corner of the building. It was still pouring outside. My breath hung in the air, puffs of frozen moisture.

Dave pointed at a woman huddled up against the wall under narrow awning, trying to stay dry. “Meet Jeanie.” I extended my hand to introduce myself and was met with a suspicious glare, shot back in my direction. The woman did not seem amused.

“What does he want?” she lashed out at Dave.

“My new friend wants to buy you dinner.” Dave replied. Jeanie warmed a bit.

“Well in that case, let’s go inside!”

We all sat down together about ten minutes later at a small table in the corner of the coffee shop. Dave and I talked while Jeanie devoured a large shrimp salad with her fingers, licking the bowl as she finished. He began to tell me his story.


Orphaned at an early age, Dave spent has spent his life floating between different jobs and relationships. Currently he works for a temp agency that provides roughly thirty hours of work per week. Unfortunately, the current federal minimum wage isn't enough to cover rent—especially not in Washington, DC.

What’s more, he lacks the resources to access proper healthcare. A free clinic down the road provides pills to treat his stomach ulcer, a small intestinal sore that represents the least of his worries. He has no home. He has no permanent job. And Dave is dying of liver failure.

But behind his leathery brown, deeply wrinkled and tired skin, blue eyes sparkle. He knows something I do not. A hand with dirt caked under an overgrown fingernail points to a passage in the Bible I have opened on the table. The book is Job. Dave turns to me and smiles knowingly. He understands suffering. In this, he experiences the faith in ways I can only hope to someday internalize.

What would it be like to wake up every morning, one day in a homeless shelter, another, under a park bench, and face the fact that life is not looking up? To make matters worse, Dave’s girlfriend suffers from a mental illness, and whispers to herself, as if she were discussing plans with secret companions. When her schizophrenic spell is broken, she lashes out at him for being an alcoholic homeless bum.

“Get a job!” she mocks. And then, as an aside, “He hasn’t held a permanent job in years. He’s an alcoholic, you know.”

Toward the end of our conversation it began to dawn on me. It was getting late; I needed to be on my way. But what of Dave and Jeanie? Outside the rain still beat hard on the pavement. The temperature dropped as the hours wore on. What an awful night to be without shelter.

“Where are you staying tonight?” I regretted asking almost immediately. How horribly insensitive on my part. Where was my mind, that I allowed myself to pose such a question to a homeless man? Even worse, I knew I had somehow committed myself.


“Not too sure,” Dave replied, “A pastor promised to meet us here tonight to give us some money for a room next door.” He pointed out the window to a seedy looking motel across the parking lot. “Apparently he dropped the ball.”

Just a quick swipe of my credit card could meet their needs for the evening. I possessed the resources. A simple act of reluctant generosity would keep them out of the cold and rain, if only for the night. And yet, I resisted.

I felt my selfishneess—yes—but also powerlessness. Even if I gave them this gift, even if I shared a few dollars not even wholly mine, where would they sleep tomorrow, and the next night?

Then something clicked inside of me. Two thoughts crystallized. “To whom much is given, much is required.” whispered an inaudibly small voice, and then “give to the one who asks of you.”

“Can I get you and your fiancé a room?” Dave nodded. And that was that.

We Americans are completely attached to our possessions. For me to help Dave that night, to listen to the call of Jesus to look out for the most vulnerable members in society, is really to help myself. I need healing from my greed. The only way this can truly happen: to be broken by the poverty in this world, to embrace a brother who is poor.

It frustrates me to wrestle with my response to this situation. There I was (sitting at Starbucks for Christ's sake!), enjoying a cup of coffee I didn't even have to work for.

Questions raced through my mind. Why so much pain, suffering and injustice in the world? Why so little I can do to help? Why the barriers of personal selfishness when called to accomplish what little I can? Why the feelings of self-righteousness when I finally swipe the card?

And what of my clash of values? I wrestle with the thought that many of my Christian friends would be more offended that I provided a hotel room for an unmarried couple than with the fact that we live in a society that would allow them to sleep on the street, cold and soaked to the bone.

I don't tell this story because I want to come across as looking good on some level, to set some sort of example. Quite the opposite. I hesitate even to tell it. In some ways, it robs the moment of its authenticity. The only redeeming factor is in being able to also reveal how bankrupt some of my attitudes and motives were in this small act of charity.

I must admit that I do not really understand the Holy Spirit. The ways in which God moves in this world—to the extent God moves at all—is a profound mystery to me. The thought that Jesus of Nazareth is living, acting and breathing into even the smallest decisions we make is as confusing as it is encouraging.

Paradoxically, it's this still-small-voice that sheds the clearest light on the most befuddling complexities in my life. In many ways, it’s my only hope. Jesus promised that, after his time, the Spirit would come to teach all things and remind his followers of everything he said and taught.

That night at Starbucks I believe I heard this voice. It certainly wasn't my first instinct to help Dave and his fiancé get a room. I would have just as soon kept the seventy bucks it cost to put them up in that gross motel, moldy carpet and all.

But I would have missed something in the process. In the end, I would have lost out.

More than this, I am beginning to believe that when I listen to this voice and act on it in love, my heart will begin to be transformed. And in ways more tangible than any of us often realize, this thought—of somehow listening to that which lies far within—may hold the key to transforming the world.