the metaphysics of Waffle House

an afterlife in the after hours

Heaven is always open— 24/7, 365 days a year. Its relief may only be intimated in glimpses here on Earth, but you nevertheless anticipate it exists at a constant somewhere else in the distance. A place outside of time waiting for you in eternity. That is the promise of Christianity. And that is the promise of the American Waffle House.

Every day dies unto night. The light of human consciousness has not yet evolved to persist past a 24 hour cycle where it must recede into the darkness of unconscious sleep every evening. But just because you become unaware of the goings on of the night, does not mean the world stops going.

No, you know— even if only in assumption— that there are things happening out there while you drift into the comfort of slumber’s reveries.

Some are drunkenly capping off a night of fun with friends. Others are fighting the ghosts of sleep— insomniacs pushed into an unceasing existence, be it from grief, obsession, or mania. Of course, too, are the weary travelers who roam uprooted, detached form the earth, in need of refuge. And still, there are those whose business for staying up into the AM is shady, and involve things that would be scrutinized in the light.

Herein comprises the kind of people who, in each, have the will to extend beyond their natural circadian rhythms— who prevail against the little death we succumb to daily when we sleep. They are those who, knowingly or not, embody the Christian tenacity for an afterlife in the after hours. They are the same who occupy the Waffle House every night.

There are occasions in your life where you were reminded that this distant world exists. Not just as a place, but more definitively as a firsthand experience. At times, you were the traveler, the insomniac, or maybe even the sinner, popping into the popular waffle franchise because nowhere else was open.

If there was a way to fathom the notion of universal love, it is in the omniscience of seeing through each of these people’s eyes, because you once were them at different points in your life.

Of these, though, you were most likely the drunk, and as many drunkards before you— after participating in age old rituals of intoxication and festivity— you were famished, seeking to nourish your supplicating soul against the many spirits taking hold of you. The golden hash browns smothered and chunked in onions and ham sit perfectly in the pit of your stomach as an anchor, grounding you from the dizzying world around you.

In this way, Waffle House is revealed to be a kind of Church. In this way, you are connected to humanity across both time and space— united in your momentary relief from common suffering.

Much is said about the term “liminal space,” but what we experience at the restaurant in these hours is not only a transitional place between places, but more so a door to another. The retro, checkered tiles are reminiscent of an otherworldly, Lynchian Black Lodge. The decision in the 1950’s for Waffle House to remain a dine-in chain rather than a drive-thru heightens its position as a place one is transported to rather than merely passed through.

It is here, one can intimate the feeling of a return to a lost Paradise. Perhaps, in the nostalgia of a utopic post-war America. But also in the Christian memory of Eden.

The Waffle House represents the miracle of a forever-abundant Garden. Your cup of coffee runneth over— like magic it becomes filled before you can even finish it. A buzzy, Southern waitress takes your personally customized order and in minutes it is prepared and served for you. Her regional hospitality makes you and everyone feel welcomed and attended to. The fantasy of both equality and individuality is achieved in a Heavenly balance, fulfilling the American dream “every man a king.”

The waffles that comprise the franchise’s namesake are light, yet filling. The sweet syrup pools in the crevices of the warm, fluffy dough. The realization that this is a dessert served as a breakfast food makes it feel like the paradox of “having your cake and eating it, too” is wholly possible. And in this country, it is.

America may appear banal on its surface, but if you explore a bit, you can see its true, supernatural character exude from its shadowy depths. It’s not by accident that, though you’ve the option to attend the Waffle House during the day, its spirit is imbued most animately after hours— a quality paramount to the blessed prosperity of its business model but also its metaphysical significance.

Night looks identical, whether at 9 PM or 4 AM. And like night, while every duplication of the waffle franchise feels the same, each is still marked by a certain unfamiliarity and novelty. The cyclical mundaneness of routine, serving the same unchanged menu for decades, becomes enhanced by its juxtaposition to the nocturnal mystery of darkness. There is always a feeling of something more going on than meets the eye— something intimate.

The glow of its sign is a symbol of salvation, a yellow ember of life amidst the sun-less dark, erect like a crucifix along the American highway. The energy at the restaurant at this time teems like crickets on a Southern summer night. You are reminded just how alive things are out there during the stillness of when you are typically asleep. A rebel yell so many have learned to tune out.

What makes an experience transcendent is from its ability to extend beyond the limits of Nature— in what we understand as miracle. What a godsend it is that we can indulge in the unfathomable abundance this country is blessed with, being able to eat and drink for so cheap, at any time and anywhere, until even our poorest are fat and rosy. How revelatory is it that we are granted such plenty by direct route of our insatiable hunger for more. In America, we have transcended need and become exalted by our desires.

Our national politeness, our “pleases” and “thank-yous” to and from the waitress are a direct communication to God of our gratitude. And every order at the Waffle House is like a prayer to Him that gets answered. We caffeinate ourselves with bottomless cups of coffee in order to foolhardily extend beyond our exhaustion, to refuel ourselves like holy vehicles in order to continue our divine work.

“33. The 24 hour American diner is a metaphysical triumph of Christian universalism over pagan perennialism— linear time over cyclical. A light that stays on, refusing to die every night. A place of relief and refuge that mirrors Heaven in its eternality and accessibility.” — from 50 truths on the hidden metaphysics of America

Even still, these moments of replenishment feel like bliss. Our most sacrificial nights become remembered as our best, and feel like a waking dream the next day. Out of grasp now, but once known so intimately.

Possessed by memories of Heaven, we knock on God’s door. And as rumor says, at the 24 hour Waffle House, the doors have no locks.

zantae 🌲 @EdenicJesus

the best nights feel like a distant dream the day after— with a lingering doubt as to if they even really happened

Perhaps there is an instinct in you to chide and say “it’s just a Waffle House.” But in doing so, you deprive yourself of exactly what is needed to experience the mysticism so miraculously accessible to the laity— that of ignorance.

One can easily overanalyze and think oneself into the nefariousness of American corporatism or the hollowness of fast food. The maple-flavored syrup is artificial and made from corn. Everything that touches the griddle tastes buttery but is really lathered in a hydrogenated soybean oil concoction that inflames the body as much as the customers who so notoriously and randomly break into fights at the food establishment. A noticeable, dark, and chthonic force always threatens to, at any moment, bubble up from the surface and destabilize the brief glimpses of Paradise we have come to associate with the Waffle House.

Yet what is important to realize is that the Bible Belt the franchise is home to is not only a region of fervent belief, but also one of suspended disbelief. Only in a willing naivety to the arbitrary, or even deceitful, status of the world is one able to experience the Edenic magic of this dining experience— and maybe even life itself in the South. Hyper-awareness does not position you above others and their tastes, it actually renders you toward a more Fallen state.

The overwhelming, sentimental connection that the many have for the restaurant is a superpower that heightens every sense and perception. The waffles taste sweeter, the breakfasts become more savory. The atmosphere is thick and saturated with meaning. Everything feels realer than real and healthy for the spirit.

Even the stakes feel greater. The apocalyptic instinct in America is quelled by the persistent reliability of Waffle House to remain open no matter what, especially when catastrophe strikes. The famous Waffle House Index serves as an anticipation of the End Times— protocols that include stocking reserves and using back-up generators to stay running during times of disaster, mirroring Doomsday prepping in their fatalism. So much so, that the federal government looks to the restaurant’s status as an indicator to determine the severity of an emergency and the response required.

The Natural way of things is entropy and decay. All things get worse without sacrificial maintenance. Thus, what Waffle House has been uniquely able to do in their rituals of upkeep and proactivity can only be understood as supernatural. The seriousness by which their employees take their seemingly menial jobs reveals themselves to be like guardian angels in their animated willingness to keep such a good thing going forever— the cost of fulfilling the promise of Heaven, even for a moment.

At a time of impending collapse, empty promises, and general distrust, few institutions are more assured in their purpose. For decades, they’ve provided exactly what they’ve advertised and more. The Waffle House may be the most sincere place on Earth.

It is nothing short of a blessing to know such a hallowed realm awaits in the distance, at all times— beyond the very end.