WLSU: The Meal is I Love You

One of the most amazing things about food is how consistently it is used as a way of saying “I love you.” Sure, there are the obvious examples like the Valentine's Day chocolates in the heart-shaped box, or the anniversary dinner at the swanky place for which it took you three months to get reservations. But there are the less romantic examples that show up in our everyday lives. When my father-in-law comes back from the convenience store and brings me a fountain Diet Coke with the little pebble ice: What else is that but love? When my mother – who does not enjoy gift giving – would bake each of her adult sons our own batch of her perfect chocolate chip cookies for Christmas instead of checking off a box on our Amazon Wishlists. Then we’d gather around her kitchen table for the one dish she liked to make – lasagna. That was her I love you and we all knew it.

If you had asked me growing up if meals were a big deal in my house, I would have shrugged my shoulders. My parents didn’t look me in the eye and say, “This matters!” And I ate in front of the TV as often as they would let me. But looking back, I see it differently. My father loved to cook. And for the first 13 years of my life, when my parents were still together and especially before my older brothers moved out, Dad would try to get us around the table when he was home. Throughout much of the 80’s he was away on business, sometimes half of each month. But when he was home, he would cook as often as possible, and we would all sit together around the kitchen table and eat. He would insist I take my hat off, no matter what kind of rat’s nest was hiding underneath.

I always thought he was doing that just for himself, that he loved to cook. And he did. But I’m Dad now, and I have a demanding job too. And now I know that part of loving to cook is the fact that I am feeding people I love, that I am potentially making something they will actually enjoy, and that I am nourishing them and caring for them in a real and practical way. I don’t always feel it in the moment, and I don’t say it every time. And my kids would love to eat in front of the TV as often as possible. But when I have the energy, I gather them around the table, and hats come off, and we hold hands, and someone prays. And sometimes they like it and sometimes they don’t. But it’s always I love you. I see that now.

I lived with my dad later in his life, when he was single and I was in high school, and during the summers and holidays in college. His table was the gathering spot for every kind of person. And he treated them all like family. Which means he made them take their hats off at the table, and told them they could get their own drinks and serve themselves and even help with the dishes. And they would all talk and laugh and eat and argue. And everyone stayed for dessert. Again, I didn’t think of it as I love you. I thought of it simply as this guy who liked having people over.

After he died and his friends would share their memories of him – the ones that made them look off into the distance a little and get wet eyes and smile – those stories were in his kitchen, or at his table. They remembered the wine or cocktails that were served, and how big (and how rare) the steak was, and how buttery those mashed potatoes were. They were talking about love.

Our church gathers together around food every single week. We call it Eucharist, or Communion. The ex-Protestants sometimes call it the Last Supper, and the recovering Catholics call it Mass. But we’re all talking about the same thing: That shared meal that stands as the climax of our time together. The big I love you. That’s what it is.

On the night before he died for us, our Lord Jesus Christ gathered his closest friends around a table, took the bread, blessed and broke it, and then gave it to them and told them, “This is my body which is given for you.” Then he took the cup of wine, blessed it, and gave it to them saying, “This is my blood, poured out for you.” It was during this meal that Jesus devoted time to the disciples’ deepest concerns about his impending departure – letting them know that he would always be with them, that the work he was doing was for them, that they would never be far from him, even when they could not see him. It was during this same meal that he washed all their feet. Even Judas’.

That meal was I love you. What else could it possibly be?

So of course we copy that meal: Because God is Love, and the whole purpose of Church is to reflect, embody, enact, amplify that divine Love as much as possible.

It is no accident that food is nourishment and food is love. Love is what nourishes us. Love is the thing for which we were made.

On the evening of the day this blog is coming out, our church is gathering for a meal to say goodbye to my family and me before I embark on my sabbatical. The day I get back from my sabbatical, we are all gathering together for a big picnic celebration. And while I’m away, several meals are being planned that will be connected to various places I will be visiting. I get it now. It’s this community saying I love you and I have to tell you, it is incredibly nourishing.

I will be stepping away from this work for just under four months. I will be stepping away from this community for just under four months. I guess I just want you to know that I will miss you terribly. It’ll be good for us to miss each other, I think. But I will miss you. And all the meals we will have together, and all the meals we will have apart, all of them are I love you. Which means all of them can be holy. In their own way, all of them can be communion.