Eating as a Spiritual Discipline

It started with the farmers market, where I grew addicted to the beauty of the summer rainbow of vegetables and fruits available here in Michigan. My friends and I started walking there together weekly. When my husband and I bought our first house, I decided to try my hand at gardening, enchanted by the idea that I might actually be able to grow some of those colorful vegetables myself! I started with two tomato plants, then my neighbor gave me two more, and by the end of the summer I had so many tomatoes I decided to explore canning--and made enough salsa and pizza sauce to last until spring. Over the winter I joined a co-op where we could buy sustainably raised meat, cheese, and eggs from local farmers year round.

This summer, my second year gardening, there were even more tomato plants crammed among the other vegetables in my crowded 8 by 10 foot plot. Vegetables took over my patio flower boxes, and herbs and a cherry tomato plant invaded the flower garden. One day as the summer produce was rolling in, my husband and I suddenly realized it: Everything about how we eat has changed. Not only what we we're eating, but our whole attitude about food.

To some this might seem like nothing more than an obsession with the local food movement, but for me it was more. It entailed a certain mindfulness, paying a special sort of attention to something that once was done without thought. I loved sitting down to dinner and recalling the faces of the farmers who had not only sold me my food, but who had raised it from seedling or hatchling on their farm. I found a new sense of connection with the place I live, with the seasons, and with the food that sustains me each day. That connection and awareness led to gratefulness and joy.

I have begun to read some of the many books currently available about the American food industry and the local food movement, and while I believe we do well to learn as much as possible about where our food comes from, making a political or economic statement does not provide enough motivation for me to sustain these new eating habits. The convenience available at the big box store would lure me back if these lifestyle changes didn't result in something more life-giving. As Barbara Kingsolver writes in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, "It can take something on the order of religion to invoke new, more conscious behaviors--however glad we may be afterward that we went to the trouble." Indeed it has taken "something like religion" for us to sustain these changes to our food life. Perhaps, like a friend of mine, I began buying and eating local "simply because it seems like the right thing to do." But since then it has transformed my choices about food (from shopping basket to dinner table) into a sort of spiritual discipline. Eating has become an intentional habit that leads me toward greater thankfulness, better stewardship, and hospitality.

Miracles and Gratitude

I love walking through my garden in the summer, sometimes several times a day. I can never resist climbing in there and peeking beneath the leaves of the plants. Peas appear like magic--yesterday I couldn't see any, today there are a handful ready to pick--the tomatoes ripen and zucchini grow steadily each day, the onions and carrots are like presents wrapped in the dirt. Every time I investigate my little plot, there is something new and I am amazed. A friend from church described how she feels about eating her homegrown foods: "It puts me at God's mercy. I understand that the seeds may or may not sprout, and each time they do, it's a miracle. And it's a miracle again when I eat that fresh corn or homegrown tomatoes. Oh, and then there's gathering wild berries! There is the feast. Here I am. Little ol' me, accepting it like Communion. Didn't do a dang thing to deserve it, but there it is, like the rain and sun."

The only difference between my garden plants and the random assortment of who-knows-what growing between the bushes by the back fence is my relationship to and mindfulness of them. It is because I tend the vines daily that I discover each new fruit as a blessing. I often wonder what will happen if I am able to continue to cultivate this kind of mindfulness--a mindfulness that allows me to see the miraculous--in the rest of my life. Barbara Brown Taylor writes in The Preaching Life that "when all is said and done, faith may be nothing more than the assignment of holy meanings to events others call random.... this changed perspective is the most valuable gift in the world, with power to save souls and change lives."

Perhaps you grew up learning the wonderful habit of prayer at mealtimes; it's a perfect time to pause and be thankful at least three times a day, but I want to propose that mealtime could take on more thoughtfulness and thankfulness than just a brief saying of grace before we dig in. Instead, in our purchasing and preparation of our food, in consideration of where our food comes from and how our choices affect other people and the earth, we can demonstrate our thankfulness and be led toward deeper gratitude for God's provision for our lives.

Stewardship and the Kingdom

In his book Second Nature, Michael Pollan writes, "My experience in the garden leads me to believe that there are many important things about our relationship to nature that cannot be learned in the wild. For one thing, we need, and now more than ever, to learn how to use nature without damaging it." The garden (and, once you understand this, the market and the kitchen and even the front lawn) is also a place to discover and wrestle with our impact on nature--in other words, to learn about stewardship.   I don't actually think I have a right to demand "fresh" tomatoes all year round. Besides, once you eat one that has actually ripened on the vine in your neighborhood, you may not ever want to eat those watery pink spheres that are available in January anyway.   Clearly I've decided that I'm willing to exert my will on nature enough to till up the soil and pull weeds, but where do I draw the line? Do I use an insecticidal soap that will kill all the bugs, or do I learn and watch, pulling off the harmful bugs by hand and cultivating plants that naturally deter pests? Do I fertilize by adding organic matter back into the soil--composting my garden waste--or do I use chemical fertilizers? And at the grocery store another set of questions arises if you let the garden or the farmers market teach you to ask them: Where did a tomato come from in January? Does organic or local food do more to reduce my impact on creation? What does "ultra-pasteurized" mean?

This summer we bought a share in a local farm through a program called Community Supported Agriculture (CSA). We paid a set amount before the beginning of the growing season, which entitles us to a portion of each week's produce, whatever it might be. Our CSA share meant learning a lot about when each vegetable is in season, eating vegetables I had never seen before, and sometimes receiving more produce than we could eat in a week. By August it seemed like vegetables were taking over my refrigerator and countertops, so I started preserving them--steaming, blanching, freezing, and canning like crazy. Maybe a lifestyle like this isn't for everyone, but for me, growing, cooking, and preserving my own food by the seasons is related to a recognition that my convenience and my schedule are not bigger than this world or more important than seasons. I don't actually think I have a right to demand "fresh" tomatoes all year round. Besides, once you eat one that has actually ripened on the vine in your neighborhood, you may not ever want to eat those watery pink spheres that are available in January anyway.

Other friends I talked to spoke of their experiences of eating seasonally and locally as connecting them to "the way things are supposed to be." One said, "I do believe in not getting too comfortable (convenience foods, over-packaging, etc.). I don't think it's right to be comfortable about the way things are; we need to keep working to make this life a little more like heaven. And I don't think there're fields and fields of genetically modified corn being raised to be turned into corn syrup, put into over-processed food, and trucked across the country to fatten up children in heaven." I believe these friends are sensing a connection between stewardship of the earth and a vision for the Kingdom of God.   Jesus taught us about the kingdom by talking about seeds and vines and weeds and soil.   After all, Jesus taught us about the kingdom by talking about seeds and vines and weeds and soil, and he taught us that our role is something like the steward left in charge of the master's property while the master is away. Our day-to-day choices in every part of our lives, including what we eat and where it comes from, are part of our discipleship--our halting steps, imitating Jesus as best we can as he shows us what life is like under the Reign of the Most High.

Hospitality: Sharing the Joy of Food

The final step in buying local or growing your own food is to prepare or cook it. By "cook" I mean really cook--nothing out of a box and no frozen premade meals (unless you combine and freeze it all yourself for later, which is a great idea!). This means meals take more time, but it can also mean cooking and eating together with friends and family more often. As I have grown in the habit of cooking I've noticed that I rarely do it for myself. Sure, I choose meals that include my favorites, but if there isn't someone to share them with I'll simply scrounge for leftovers or throw cheese and pepperoni on top of bread rather than cooking from scratch.

And the more I cooked at home throughout the past couple of years the more our house has become the place where friends gather. It became a Sunday evening ritual with one group of friends who came every week, bringing appetizers and desserts to share around the kitchen table while a couple helpers and I whipped up something for dinner. Yes, at times it started to feel like a burden to spend Sunday afternoon cleaning up the house and planning a meal after a busy weekend. But usually as the kitchen warmed with bubbling sauces and too many bodies my heart warmed with joy. I've realized that I love having people over. I love that my friends just pop in the back door while I'm chopping veggies or stirring a pot. I love sharing what I've made and perhaps a story of where it came from, and I'm learning to care less about the state of cleanliness in my house.

I'm convinced food is for sharing. Despite all the convenience available today, a meal of quality, which requires someone's time and attention, is something we all instinctively appreciate sharing with others. That's why we celebrate by sitting down with friends and loved ones at a favorite restaurant, throw dinner parties or potlucks, and even invite over the piteous college students who (we can safely assume) are sick of cafeteria food and ramen noodles. Something about the combination of food and friends and family makes us feel at home.

Clearly Jesus understood how food affects us when he shared bread and wine with his friends and asked them to remember him each time they gathered. Our celebration of the Lord's Supper should be like coming home to your favorite home-cooked meal--a celebration of reconnection that you can smell, touch, and taste. In a worship class I was once asked to imagine I was invited to Jesus' house for dinner: Jesus is in the kitchen with an apron around his waist, enthusiastically stirring a large bowl in his arms. As I stand watching, the doorbell rings; more guests are arriving. "Can you get that? " Jesus asks. And suddenly I find myself participating in Jesus' hospitality, extending it to other guests like myself. Whether I end up helping with the cooking or setting the table, or even if I'm the last one in the door, I am participating in this hospitality modeled by Christ.

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Food is more than simply fuel to keep our bodies going throughout the day--a truth that is perhaps best grasped through the cultivation of intentional habits of thankfulness, stewardship, and hospitality in connection with our eating. It could begin today when you look out the window and choose the sunniest spot in the yard or on the patio to grow your favorite vegetable--and your sense of the miraculous. It could begin with your next trip to the grocery store or farmers market as you consider the stewardship of the land and what it took to get each item from field to shopping basket. It could begin the next time you share a meal with family or friends as you work together to prepare the food and participate in the hospitality that Jesus modeled. With practices like these, our eating can become a spiritual discipline, and a mealtime shared with others can become more than just food, but rather a celebration of God's providence, the creation, and our invitation to participate in it all.