Because of this, I’ve gotten a lot of feedback. Thank you all for the suggestions. They’ve been duly noted.

People are all about talk in our generation…especially in our American evangelical setting. There’s bible studies every day of the week, conferences, lectures, books…you want to hear someone talk about God or if you want to read about God, Western civilization’s got something for you.

I don’t think God gives two shits about our talking any longer.

I see couples who are friends of mine who say they grow closer to one another through things like daily bible studies and devotions together, but when it’s time to get up early in the morning and paint a house or build a wheelchair ramp or plant a garden or do some service, they’re too tired from talking until four in the morning the night before with “the one God has set aside for them.”

I call bullshit.

How about basing your faith in action? How about founding your relationship on something like going every day for an hour of tutoring at a local elementary school? Not to say seeking Truth (with a capital T, but we’ll get into that later) through studying/discussing/struggling with/debating the Word is a bad thing…but when it’s the only thing you do, what kind of fruit are you bearing?

We’re a generation that does a lot of talking and if we followed it up with just as much action, we’d be doing so much more to build up the communities around us.

And as cheesy and “Christian” as it sounds, the kingdom is advancing, and we need to be a part of that advancement. People need Jesus, but they need a roof too. People need to read the Gospels, but they need food. People need to obey the laws of Moses but they need a hug and a bike and a dollar.

Our generation needs to get it out of their fucking head that simply accepting Jesus into their life is the last step. That He’s going to make everything all flowers and dewdrops. Jesus is going to make things hard. Really hard. Really frickin’ hard. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard the same line peddled to me: “I’ve never been happier than when I was a Christian.” Then you’re not a fucking Christian. You’re not sacrificing yourself to the fullest to love those around you.

There’s women in my life I could lust after. My finances are going to the shitter and stealing some food would make things a hell of a lot easier. I could probably get away with it too. I could probably cheat on my girlfriend too and boy would that night be awesome. Before Jesus, I could have done all of these things and it would have made me feel oh-so-much happier.

Not anymore. He’s going to put stuff in front of us that make us weep and wail but He’s going to give us ample opportunity to grow as a result of the perseverance that comes from accomplishing it. And He’s going to give us a never-ending fountain of strength and energy and encouragement to draw from to walk down those paths.

He’s going to be a lamp unto our feet, He’s not going to be a moving sidewalk and do all the work for us.

Sadly, it’s the people farthest removed from the Church who are showing some of the best examples of Love (again, capital L). And if Christ is Love, then what does that say about us as Christians? It says we’re looking in the wrong direction.

We can learn a lot if we just get over this fear of being “tainted” by the secular community. Frankly, I want to get tainted. I think our American evangelical, Michael W. Smith-loving, fake-smiling, stab-you-in-the-back generation could stand to get a little tainted.

When you’re tainted you start yourself on a pathway of realization. You start to understand. You not only see what people are dealing with, you live through it.

I’m a man of action. Want to read a book. Read the epistle of James. Read about how James states over and over and motherfucking over how we’re supposed to be putting our fucking faith to the test through action. Love, love, love, rinse, repeat. It’s that simple, people.

And it doesn’t have to be service on Saturday morning. There’s a friend of mine who hates waking up early. He likes poker. He’s an excellent gambler and cards are his forte. He goes to the poker room every week, plays for a few hours, makes a few hundred dollars profit and donates it all to a shelter in Texas for women who are victims of domestic abuse.

Does he call himself a Christian? No. But he’s advancing the kingdom of God better than any of my friends who do identify themselves as one.

Love,
Ryan

Customer service in America is nearly impossible.

In America, there is a sense of entitlement that is unmatched by any other country in the world. Americans believe that America is the greatest country in the world, so naturally Americans believe they are the greatest PEOPLE in the world and deserve the greatest SERVICE in the world.

And it’s not just adults, although middle-aged Americans can be some of the most self-centered people in the world. No, this sense of entitlement is being passed down to younger generations every day by mothers and fathers who feel that just because they have a little money to wave around, they deserve to be treated as though they were divinely-appointed kings and queens.

For example, a seven-year-old boy was drinking some pineapple juice the other day. We were out of the larger glasses (as this restaurant does quite frequently, we’re terribly-stocked) and so I brought the child his juice in a 16oz. glass instead of an (adult-size, mind you) 24oz. glass.

Sounds harmless, right? Not to this seven-year-old.

The kid: “Ummm…sir…why am I receiving a smaller glass than that of my parents?”
Me: (Shocked at his grammar and diction) “Oh, all the larger glasses are dirty. I’m sure that by your next refill the adult glasses will be…”
The kid: “That is unacceptable.”
Me: “That’s what?”
The kid: “That is unacceptable.”
Me: “Okay, well, what I can do is…”
The kid: “Take this glass (he hands me a cup from an adjacent table) and clean it. It’s not that hard.”

Are you kidding me? I wanted to scream at this little boy. I wanted to tell him that he didn’t deserve to be treated like a prince. I wanted to yell at him about how Santa wasn’t real and how the Easter Bunny would stab him in his sleep if he had the chance and how the Tooth Fairy was really a mass murderer, but I didn’t. I took the moral high road.

Against a seven-year-old. I shouldn’t have to be making the decision to take the moral high road when dealing with a seven-year-old.

Instead, I just put on my fake-happy grin, looked at the parents for some support and received none. Absolutely none. These parents just had some sort of satisfying grin like their little Johnny had done exactly as he’d been taught by his two sorry excuses for parents.

There you have it. Here sitting next to little Johnny were two parents who had instilled in this seven-year-old a sense of entitlement so deep and so ingrained that he will always be treating people as though they are beneath him. It is the parents’ faults. It has to be.

So I go and get the seven-year-old a new glass. I personally wash a larger glass, go to the restaurant’s bar, take out some juice and fill it up for the kid. As I’m walking back to the table all I can think is that the glass is far too large for a child as young as seven. It’s almost too large for me and I’m 22.

I drop off the glass and before I can get my pad out to take their order, the child interjects a little more entitlement into the situation:

Him: “Was that so hard?”
Me: “Excuse me? Listen, if I can just say something here…”
The kid’s father: “I think you’ve said enough.”

I am stunned. I am boiling hot mad and there’s not a thing I can do about it. I can’t get mad or I run the risk of being fired. And I can’t let it go because, well, I’m far too prideful a person.

Me: “Sir, can I just take you all’s orders?”
The kid’s mother: “We should have stayed in New York. This trip to Florida is just daunting.”
The kid’s father: “You’re probably right.”
Me: “You guys look like you all need some more time. Let me give you all just one more minute or two.”

So I give them two minutes. I use the time to go to the bathroom, splash some cold water on my face and regain my composure. It’s going to take every bit of strength I have to look as though I’m even remotely enjoying serving these people.

I walk back up to the table. With eyes rolled, they give me their orders and then proceed to complain that their sushi is too dry and that their filet mignon is too wet. (Who ever heard of a “wet” steak? In all my years as a waiter, I have NEVER heard of a “wet” steak.)

As they pay their check and exit the restaurant, I can’t help but think that these parents are really doing their child a disservice. They’re teaching him that it’s okay to be rude. You’re the customer, you have the money, you can complain to management if you want. You hold all the cards. You hold this waiter’s job and livelihood in your hand.

Those parents are telling their child that you can come into a restaurant and think you are entitled to treat a server like garbage because THEY’RE the service. YOU’RE the ones with the money and you can dangle it in front of them for the duration of your time in the restaurant. You should think you’re doing lucky them a favor by being the ones they service.

Unlucky for them, I had already made about a hundred bucks on the night and didn’t need their “favor”.

Suffice to say, that kid was thirsty as hell when he left our restaurant.

Last night at work, there was this little douchebag kid who looked like he’d been home schooled by an equally douche-y mom. (Not to say home schooled kids are bad as I have really good friends who were home schooled from kindergarten to 5th or 6th grade and they’re cool as hell…they’re all just much paler than the rest of my friends).

Anyway, this kid had little to no social skills and went absolutely crazy when he downed his first soda. Does anyone remember in “The Simpsons” when Bart gives Flanders’ kids some pixie sticks and they taste sugar for the first time? That’s what this kid was like. Except it wasn’t a cartoon and I couldn’t punch this kid in the face like Homer does to Flanders. Frickin’ cartoons.

A little background before I go on: At our restaurant, the chefs come out to the tables and grill right in front of you. We only had two chefs last night to cook for the tables and there were three servers, each with one table. You do the frickin’ math.

And guess who was odd man out? Yea. Me.

So they’re waiting, and I’m apologizing to everyone at the table about the wait and explaining the situation when this kid, out of nowhere, looks me square in the eye and asks:

Him: “Yes. Waiter. When exactly will our chef be coming out?”
Me: “Oh, well…I’m sorry, but like I said…there’s only two chefs and as you can see, there’s three…”
Him: “I didn’t ask for excuses.”
Me: “Excuse me?”
Him: “Are we going to have to cook this meal ourselves?”

I look at the mom, but she has a look on her face like she agrees with this little punk. Well screw her too. This kid couldn’t have been older than eight years old. I’m not gonna take crap from someone a decade and a half younger than me.

Me: “Ma’am…”
Her: “When is our chef coming out?”
Me: “Goodbye.”

Life Lesson #1: Talking back is a frickin’ learned behavior. And it seems this kid his had fill of homework from his overly-snarky mother.

After the chef came out and the kid had eaten his fill, he asked for another soda. The mom didn’t want him having sugar or caffeine, so she asked he have a Diet Coke. After emptying about six packets of sugar into that kid’s cup, I gladly obliged.

Thanks goes out to James VanMeter from Ohio for sending the following story.

I have been in the service industry from the age of 15, starting out hosting and then bussing and so on. Now, 11 years into the industry, I’m 26 and a bartender at the hottest bar in Ohio.

It’s a humungous club that frequents at least a 1,000 patrons on a slow weekend. Our club sits right on the boundaries of campus. Thus, everyone with a really good fake, or just barely over the age of 21, crawls into our bar to let loose.

It often gets out of control as we have this insane happy hour that involves dollar wells and dollar drafts. These idiots have the audacity to ask dumbass questions like “What’s a well?” or “What’s in a rum and coke?” My personal favorite is always “Can I get a double for a dollar?”

…idiots…pure idiots…

Anyway, on a dumbass night (Thursdays) this guy comes up like he knew what he was talking about and orders two vodka cranberries and two raspberry vodkas…

Yes, a raspberry vodka.

Me: “What?”
Him: “You know…two raspberry vodkas…”
Me: (As I bite my tongue) “First of all, I assume you want it for a dollar right?”
Him: “Yeah.”
Me: “Second, there is no raspberry-flavored vodka in our well selection.”
Him: “No, I don’t want raspberry-flavored vodka.”

(Here’s where it gets great)

Him: “I want vodka and….raspberry juice.”
Me: “Let me ask you something: In your whole entire life…and I mean whole life…have you ever had raspberry juice?”

(Wait for it)

Him: “No. I guess I haven’t.”
Me: “Then what fucking makes you think I got it here?”

He got short-poured four vodka cranberries.