A Meal Plan for the Spirit
November 22, 2024 | By Michaela Wang BK ‘25
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The discount furniture store in my hometown sells stacks of Bible verses printed on stretched canvases, many of which feature food. One can imagine these canvases affixed to stovetop backsplashes and refrigerator doors. "Go, eat your food with gladness, and drink your wine with a joyful heart” (Ecclesiastes 9:7). “Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in him” (Psalm 34:8). No one can forget Matthew 6:25-34, which cautions us not to worry about food or clothing. The verses quell anxieties around hunger while validating our human appetite to enjoy it in communal settings.
The popular theology of food encourages trust in God’s provisions. After all, the Bible’s authors wrote about food amidst shortage: the land fell infertile, the clouds did not let out rain, and famines swept communities. Verses inspired courage in God's provisions. But I wonder what God has to say about food in a time of relative abundance, where monocropping and genetic modification have dramatically increased food access, albeit unevenly and in the short term. Even in abundance, our stomachs and souls may be growling. We may appreciate food less and covet it more. I wonder if we need an updated theology of food.
Nothing qualifies me to introduce a new theology of food except twenty-one years of being cooked for by two wonderful, self-taught cooks. My immigrant parents speak through food. There isn’t any depression a numbing concoction of star anise and peppercorn can’t kick out of the system, no anxiety an elixir of Shaoxing wine and black vinegar can’t cure. Experiencing heartache? Dwarf it with the omnipotence of fortuitous “da dao cai,” or spin it away with a brimming Chinese lazy susan. Growing up in such a food-centered household has taught me this: feeding the body differs from feeding the spirit. Food made with care nourishes and awakens a hungry Spirit in our souls. Being fed by my mother during fall break helped me to see, and learn to feed, the Spirit inside of me.
Immediately upon my return home, my mother tied an apron around her waist and rustled around the fridge for pre-cut vegetables and a pot of something she had pre-made the night before. At 9 PM she set the table: a stew of multicolored fingerling potatoes, short ribs, and wood ear mushrooms; a plate of crispy wok-fried bok choy; and two bowls, one for each of us, steaming with pillows of short-grain rice. Each short, chubby kernel drank up the wonderful meat juices––the antithesis of the long, thin, and disparate pellets of American cuisine.
By fall break, I had lost hope. Shame followed me everywhere like an incessant rain cloud hovering over a cartoon character’s head. The more shame I felt, the more hope I lost, and the more inward I began to look. I stopped seeing myself worthy of God's goodness and settled on the skim milks of life. That’s the power of shame; it takes away the true nourishment we need, putting us back in the same lonely place where shame first took place.
Denial of my needs did not come from a place of self-control or selfless asceticism. It came from a place of unbelief in the Holy Spirit, Christ’s power and authority to do a good work for me.
It often takes others who notice your burdens and advocate for the fullest version of you. My mom launched me onto a healing plan in the only way she knew how. The theme of the break, in her words, centered around “nourishment.”
At breakfast the next day, I found my mom by the refrigerator pouring herself a glass of pomegranate juice. “It’s really good for you,” she reassured me. “I am not sure why. All I know is that it’s good for you,” she convinced herself as she took another swig. While I read my morning devotional, she heated up frozen hotteok, fried Korean pancakes with a sweet red bean filling. “You have to eat it warm,” she instructed. “Be careful because the filling might burst out.”
In the past year, I had not considered myself deserving of warm hotteok and fresh berries. I equated my worth to discount cereal. The way we trust in God reflects how we feed ourselves. Nourishing our bodies acknowledges the Holy Spirit working inside of us.
After a morning of reading, I arrived at the dining table to find one of those rainbow-colored plates you see on the covers of health magazines. Ruffle-cut cucumbers, chubby cubes of perfectly ripe avocado, shredded purple cabbage, and the sweetest cameo cherry tomatoes sat over a bed of leafy fresh spring mix slathered over with stripes of her homemade carrot-onion dressing. The salad accompanied a carpet of boiled dumplings she had handmade the prior weekend, pregnant with chicken and vegetable filling.
Handmade salads and dumplings point us to God’s love: sacrificially provided, freely given, and always satisfying. Of course, good food itself cannot fix everything, but it leads to introspective conversation and equipped me with the confidence to confide in the community back on campus.
In Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, Gregor, who has recently turned into a human-sized insect, overhears his sister Grete playing the violin. “Was he an animal, that music could move him so? He felt as if the way to the unknown nourishment he longed for was coming to light.” I believe that the unidentified hunger Kafka depicts is one of a quiet, unseen Spirit suppressed by the Devil’s lies. The music—for me, nutritious food made with love—reawakens that part of our soul.
During my low points, I fall to Psalm 131 as a reminder of where my ultimate nutrition comes from. “My heart is not proud, O LORD, my eyes are not haughty; I do not concern myself with great matters or things too wonderful for me. But I have stilled and quieted my soul; like a weaned child with its mother, like a weaned child is my soul within me. O Israel, put your hope in the LORD both now and forevermore.” The psalm reminds me that though my soul may be weaned, my soul is still within me––alive, hungry, dependent. It still needs to go back to the main source of sustenance and hope: Jesus.
Feed the Spirit inside of you and in others. In bowls of cut fruit. In loaves of bread.