First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: Exodus 16:1-4
Knowing my wife’s reputation in the kitchen and her penchant for trying new things, someone recently gave her a “mountain and plantation” cookbook entitled “Cookin’ Yankees Ain’t Et.” Which made for good reading….including recipes for a lot of things I’d never tried. I learned about things like Hog Jowl Turnip Greens….Hopping John….Cabin Cucumber Ketchup….Pot Likker (which has absolutely nothing to do with what you think it does)….and Brunswick Stew (how can anything be other than wonderful when it starts with two large tablespoons of bacon grease).
But at the top of my list of “Dishes Yet to Be Tried” is a southern Appalachian Mountain concoction called Baked Grits and Pork. Not that I know all that much about grits. Or even like grits. Truth be told, I have yet to meet a grit I couldn’t walk away from. Which probably has to do with being a Yankee. Because Yankees didn’t grow up with grits….don’t understand grits….and have no feeling for grits (given that they have no memory for grits). But before the morning is history, I’ll hear from every grit lover in the place. In spades. Both barrels.
While spending some time in Myrtle Beach with Ann and Zeno Windley, Ann tried to introduce me to this beloved morning repast. Four mornings in a row, she served them. Four mornings in a row, I ate them. Truth be told, they got better each day (even though I swear they were warmed over from the days before). That’s because Ann kept adding more stuff. And quite apart from the blandness of the grits (which never did improve), I found myself falling in love with the add-ons. That’s because grits without add-ons don’t impress anybody. You need cheese….butter…. egg….salt….pepper. Or you can add other stuff like garlic, redeye gravy and thick, heavy cream. Or you can throw stuff on top like shrimp (and, apparently, pork). As to whether you can add anchovies and pepperoni, Ann declined to say.
Grits, of course, are nothing but coarsely ground corn. You can cook ‘em in water. Or you can fry or bake ‘em, once they harden. The corn, in question, is not the corn most of us eat off the cob. Neither is it the same corn the Jolly Green Giant tosses into those cute little cans. Grits come from corn that is raised for milling. In the same family can be found cornmeal, polenta, and hominy (which has to be an acquired taste, if ever there was one). Hominy starts with really big grits which are then mixed with ashes or limestone (the better to remove the hull).
When Ann learned of my interest in grits, she began surfing the Web. Whereupon she discovered that while the first mention of the grit was in the Sinai Desert (more on that in a moment), the next mention was found amidst the ruins of ancient Pompeii in a woman’s personal diary. The woman’s name was Herculaneum Jemimaneus (better known as Aunt Jemima to her friends). The Internet also contains the “Ten Commandments of Grits,” four of which read: “Thou shalt not put syrup on thy grits.” Apparently syrup is a really big no-no. Another of the commandments reads: “Thou shalt not eat Cream of Wheat and call it grits, for this is blasphemy.” And the fourth commandment stipulates: “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s grits,” (which is one commandment I can truly say I have never broken….or even thought about breaking). And the Internet goes on to describe ways you can cook grits, eat grits, store grits, and use leftover grits. As concerns the latter, it has been suggested that grits are very good for patching blowouts, caulking bathtubs, and making a pleasing party punch. I won’t tell you, however, what you have to add to the grits to make a “pleasing party punch.”
All of this is more than you care to know. So why am I telling you? Well, consider this. Recent research suggests that grits are the food that most commonly resembles the mysterious manna that God rained down upon the Israelites during their sojourn through the Sinai. Some critics disagree, stating that there is no record of butter, salt or cheese raining down from the sky, and that God would not punish his people by forcing them to eat grits without these key ingredients. But Barbara Brown Taylor, who is as good a preacher as the South has produced in the last 20 years, writes: “Whenever I hear about manna, I think of grits.” Although she admits she never knew what grits were until she was 12. Which was when her cousin told her that grits were small bugs that lived in colonies on the surface of ponds and lakes, like algae. At the end of every summer they were harvested, shelled and dried in the sun, so that little girls could not tell, upon eating them for breakfast, that they once had legs on them.
Her reasons for equating grits with manna are threefold. Both are fine. Both are flaky. And both are absolutely no good as leftovers. Concerning manna, God told Moses: “Each day the people shall go out and gather enough for that day. One day’s worth. No more.” Manna would not keep. Whenever the people tried to hoard it, it spoiled overnight. In the morning it stank and crawled with worms. When the sun got hot, it melted.
The only exception was the Sabbath. Since God meant for the people to rest on that day, God let them gather twice as much on the day before. Manna was the Israelites’ food. Raw manna…. boiled manna….baked manna….ground manna. Manna was a symbol of God’s very practical care for them. Long after their sojourn in the desert was over, they remembered their manna meals. Which is why they kept two quarts of it in a jar by the tablets of the Law as an everlasting reminder of their dependence on God….who gave them (each day) their daily bread.
There has been a good bit of speculation about what manna was. The Bible simply says (Exodus 16:31) that it was “like coriander seed….white….and the taste of it was like wafers made with honey.” The linguistics scholars don’t help us much. For the word comes from the Hebrew “man hu”….which means: “What is it?” But if you go to the Sinai Peninsula, it will not stay a mystery for long. The Bedouin shepherds still gather it and bake it into bread….which they still call “manna.” The flakes, themselves, come from plant lice that feed on local tamarisk trees. The lice go to the trees to suck the sap. But since the sap is poor in nitrogen, the bugs have to suck a lot of sap in order to live. In point of fact, they suck far more sap than their bodies can retain. So they excrete the extra in a yellowish-white flake (from a juice-like secretion) that is rich in carbohydrates and sugars. Once exposed to air, it decays quickly and attracts ants. So a daily portion is the most that anyone gathers.
Some believers reject this explanation because they think it takes away from the miracle of manna. In other words, if it comes as a byproduct of nature, God can’t be in it. But think about that. Does manna have to come out of nowhere in order to qualify as a miracle? Or does the miracle consist in the fact that God heard the complaining of hungry people and fed them with secreted bug juice….fried into bread cakes….which was something that would never have occurred to them to eat? Or, to put it another way, what makes something “bread from heaven?” Is it the thing itself….or is it the one who sends it?
Which is not an idle question. How you answer has a lot to do with how you sense God’s presence in your life. If your manna has to drop straight out of heaven looking like a perfect loaf of butter-crust bread, then chances are you are going to go hungry a lot. When the bread you get does not look like the bread you are praying for, you tend to think God is ignoring you, punishing you, or….worse yet….non-existent. Then you start comparing yourself to other people and wondering why they have more to eat….or get more of their prayers answered….than you do. Meanwhile, you miss most of the things that God is doing for you….because they look too ordinary (like bug juice), or too transitory (like manna, which melts the minute the sun gets hot).
Isn’t that the point of that old-as-the-hills story preachers love to tell about the storm that floods the town and threatens the inhabitants. One man’s house floods, whereupon he stands on the porch and prays to God to save him. A rowboat comes by and offers him a ride. “No thanks,” says the man. “God’s gonna rescue me.” Flood rises. Man climbs. From the second floor balcony, the man prays again. Second rowboat comes. Same offer. Same refusal. Finally, the man is on the roof, praying for all he’s worth. A helicopter flies by and offers to drop him a ladder. “Thanks a bunch,” says the man, “but God’s gonna be along any minute.” Five minutes later, there’s no more footing on the roof and no more life in the man. “Death by drowning,” is what they write on the death certificate. On to heaven he goes. Looking like a drowned rat, he confronts God for failing to answer his prayers. Causing God to say: “Hey, I sent you two rowboats and a helicopter….”
The issue is not whether that joke is old or new, witty or lame, funny or unfunny. The issue is whether it’s true or false. Because if it’s true, then you’ve got to be willing to look at everything that comes your way as a gift from God. Which, if you do, will mean that a can of soup can be manna….a buck to buy it can be manna….a pot to cook it can be manna….a fire to warm it can be manna….an appetite to enjoy it can be manna….and a friend to share it can be manna. Especially the friend to share it, given that even manna braised in puff pastry (with a gentle whisper of Bernaise on the side) doesn’t taste like all that much, when night after night you have to eat it alone.
Now, if I have convinced you that the sustenance of God can be incredibly ordinary, give me half a chance to convince you that the sustenance of God can also be incredibly daily.
When Kris and I were a whole lot younger than we are now, somebody tried to sell us a food plan. For a mere several hundred dollars….in monthly installments, of course….we could have a year’s worth of meat (roasts, chops, loins, ribs, patties, stew scraps) along with a whole lot of other stuff to go with it. Leading us to exclaim: “So much food. We’ll need a freezer to store it.” And leading the salesman to answer: “That’s the idea, Mr. Ritter. For a few hundred extra, a freezer can be part of the deal.”
Needless to say, we didn’t buy the plan. We didn’t buy the freezer. And we’ve never even opened the huge freezer chest we found in the basement of the parsonage. Instead, we use it for a shelf. Still, we’ve got two full refrigerators and a well-stocked pantry, so it’s not like we’re living on roots and berries. I suppose you could call it our “manna insurance,” in case God does not come through. But, then, where did we get this “insurance,” if not from God?
But prudent as we may be….and careful as we try to plan….some of the stuff in there spoils. Just like God said it would. So we have to clean it out and flush it down the disposal….lest it turn to worms, or something equally gross and smelly. Point being: some things nourish us, only if consumed in a timely fashion. Like when they are given. Or as they are needed.
Over and over again, I see people with terrible problems….great burdens….devastating illnesses….unraveling relationships….and I find myself wishing I could make it all go away and praying that God will make it all go away. But I can’t. And God doesn’t. Which does not always make perfect sense to me….until my head comes to terms with what my heart never fully accepts….that some storms have to be ridden and some valleys have to be crossed. Although God can….and does….provide shelter in the storm, while setting tables in the valleys.
What am I talking about? I am talking about the sustenance of God, most of which comes in bite-sized chunks….a mouthful at a time….an hour at a time….a day (or a night) at a time. A favorite verse from a cherished hymn reads:
Lead kindly light, amid the encircling gloom,
The night is dark and I am far from home.
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene….one step enough for me.
As concerns the Christian faith, I signed up (50 years ago) for the lifetime food plan. But there are days, even now, when I go to the cupboards of the spirit and find them bare. And so I pray: “Give me, O God, whatever you can give me. Right now. For now.” And I leave it for you to judge if God has answered that prayer or not. I mean, do I look undernourished?
And while you’re considering that, chew on one thing more. The gospel tells me that Jesus once fed people in Galilee….thousands of them. I don’t know how he did it. But, then, neither did they. Still, while sopping up the last little bit of fish juice with the last little hunk of bread, it must have occurred to them that this was remarkably reminiscent of the “manna stories” they had heard since they were little kids. So they figured that maybe (in Jesus) they had a second Moses in their midst….an eternal bread truck that would follow them wherever they went. So they stuck to Jesus like glue. I mean, it was like living above a bakery.
But to the disappointment of everybody, nothing ever appeared “fresh from the oven” again. Which led some to say: “What happened to the butter-crust?” And which led Jesus to answer: “I am the true Bread from Heaven….the Bread that gives life to the world.”
And the ones who didn’t go chasing the skirts of Sara Lee, understood. Which is why they said: “Lord, give us this bread always.”
Which was their choice. And a good choice, I might add. But would it….would he….be your choice? A loaf of bread versus a relationship with Jesus. A loaf of bread versus a relationship with Jesus. That’s a pretty weighty question.
But before you answer, think back to when you were young….single….smitten. One night the two of you went out to dinner. Nice place. High price. Wonderful chef. Great reputation. Sterling service. And you ordered well….and sat long….endlessly talking…..discreetly touching…. searching and discovering.
Food came. Food sat. Food went. Back to the kitchen….barely picked at….largely uneaten.
Two questions:
Did you go home hungry that night?
If not, how can you remember it as being the best meal of your life?
Note: I am indebted to Ann Windley for her meticulous research on the issue of grits (and for preparing some). I am also grateful to Barbara Brown Taylor and her most-thoughtful book, Bread of Angels.
