Brand Loyalty

Even the most causal reader of this blog would not have missed that I have a certain preference for Starbucks brand coffee and the establishments from which they purvey their particularly piquant version of America’s favorite hot beverage. Nothing against Pete’s, or the Coffee Bean, or Seattle’s Best, or all the little boutique purveyors of the oily brew, but Starbucks is my considered choice. This preference of mine has given me pause to ponder about why anyone develops brand loyalty. One would think that these loyalties are naturally developed on the basis of the quality of the product offered, or the fine level of service. But I think more often than not, those obvious criteria are not what drives a man to stake a claim of loyalty toward this particular coffee or that particular nerve tonic.

A particular man may in fact have a marked preference for Plumptree’s Vitiminized Nerve Tonic. Now don’t get me wrong, Plumptree’s may be a fine product, but the man’s loyalty is more likely engrained in habit “They sell it at the health-food store right next to my favorite liquor store” or in tradition “My mother always had a supply of Plumptree’s on hand” or aesthetics “The packaging looks calm and reassuring” (a good thing for a product such as Nerve Tonic) rather than an attribute of the product itself.

The product may in fact be a putrid gelatinous mass from which no sane person would willingly inhale fumes, much less ingest when mixed with prune juice as seems to be the preference of some. But the power of habit, tradition and aesthetics can drive our man to do many things that seem on the surface crazy. By the way, he may well have a stock of Plumptree’s, he probably declaims its many qualities when the subject of Nerve Tonic comes up among his friends, but I’m betting he’s not actually consumed any of the stuff in years. He’d be smarter than that.

He may find out later that his Mother always had a supply of Plumptree’s because she never used it either, and so it sat prominently in her cupboard, right next to Aunt Tilly’s fruitcake which was sent Christmas of ’67 along with a re-used Christmas Card (still taped to the fruity brick) with cardinals and holly covered in glitter.

In my case, I started going to Starbucks because every location had a T-Mobile Hot Spot, a wireless internet connection. I have an account and during gaps between meetings, I can easily hookup and check my email. But I felt weird walking into the joint spreading out over a table and chair with self and stuff and not purchasing anything, so I designed to assuage my guilt in purchasing their cheapest product (admittedly “cheap” here is a relative term) a black coffee. Their black coffee is a pretty stringent affair, and only the stout-of-heart take it on without some form of warm-up calisthenics.

You see, Starbucks coffee beans are roasted so dark, that in the coffee business, their nickname is “Charbucks.” It is occasionally difficult when drinking their coffee black to discriminate between a cup of their coffee and a warmed up cup of the black drippings off my charcoal burning barbeque which collect in the grease trap after it rains. Over time I’ve learned to love that acidic concoction (the coffee, not the barbeque flotsam). And now, the habit is engrained, and I find myself calmer when I’m on the road and I know where the nearest Starbucks is located.

Funny thing, since those early heady days, I’ve armed myself with a blackberry, so my need for email updates aren’t so pressing. I can see it all pour in over my phone. I don’t have to hook-up with the internet to know which client is frustrated and angry. But I still go to Starbucks.

Some people pickup religions in the same way. They go because of habit, tradition or aesthetics. They don’t actually consume the product, but they like the comfort they get from that form of repetition. Other people come to get a connection, with a romantic interest, or because they were in crisis, or because their close friend was there. Along the way, while connecting, they’ve picked up the habit, they’ve learned to drink the strong brew, and now wouldn’t quit for anything.

In Christianity, it seems like Jesus wasn’t interested in our comfort. The faith in many ways is offensive to those not a part of it even though in the west we’ve done a lot to make it palatable and comfortable. We’ve forgotten that Jesus called us to serve. We ought remember who we are, and that we are loved anyway. Confident in that knowledge, we can know who others are and love them anyway. Jesus didn’t ask us to be a chaise lounge, a place where people can recline and take in the Son. No, He said we were his body. An organism, living an vibrant, ready to move, to reach out, to touch, to caress, to love.

Now if you are looking for comfort, if you are looking for scope for your aesthetic need for ritual or beauty and if in that search you bump into the body of Christ, you will probably be put off a bit. You might be looking for the foamy comfort of a latte, and find instead, strong and black, the crippled body of Jesus, doing what it can to engage the world around it.

Of course, if you are someplace comfortable, if you love your particular brand, you have to ask yourself “is this the coffee I should be drinking?” Or maybe more importantly “what draws me here, what is at the root of my brand loyalty, and should I be here at all? What do they serve here? Do they serve here?” And while you ponder that, may I suggest that you slurp on a Starbucks?