Knowing

Generally once a year, sometime in January or February, I will get bronchitis and lose my voice. Since it is now only the beginning of December, I was  surprised that on Monday I had a cough and no voice. Bronchitis does not seem to take into account that the time for singing carols in long-term care communities is now. My voice is inching its way back, but while one can make do with a raspy voice for speaking, the singing voice is slow to regenerate. 

 

Fortunately, a beautiful book also arrived this week, and I have been able to take some time to savor it. The title is A Blessing of Bread, the many rich traditions of Jewish bread baking around the world by Maggie Gleezer.  Like all cookbooks I love, it weaves recipes, suggestions, and touching stories of families and communities. 

 

Here in the Bay Area, as long as one can afford it, there is access to a  wide variety of foods from many cultures.  If you are even more affluent, you can feast on delicacies prepared with an eye focused on uniqueness and perfection.  The quest to sample the newest culinary achievements interests me less and less. Yet, I very much appreciate food cooked and shared from a sense of tradition and love. Such heartfelt cooking can help us put down roots in a lifestyle that is constantly on the move. It also teaches us frugality which can foster a sense of the sacredness of life. To cook and eat is sacramental. This is true whether you come to a table centered with a beautifully woven challah, a stack of fresh tortillas, a pan of cornbread, or a bowl of noodles.  This is communion. At the Christian Communion table, we hear Jesus (revealing his Jewish roots), asking us to remember as bread is broken. To remember what was given up.  What was sacrificed. Who and what was, and is loved.    

  

One of the most poignant stories in this book is a reflection attributed to Helen Spiegel. She remembers visiting her grandparents who lived in Bamberg Germany.  It was a time when everyone would prepare the berches dough (challah made with potato and no eggs), and then would take the their dough to the local baker.  Women could have some time to walk together and talk, and the children would play.  The dough would be dropped off,  and in about three hours the cooks and the children would return and pick up the beautiful braided loaves.   

 

"It was a very, very nice custom. And it lasted till about 1934, and then the Jewish people couldn't come to the bakery anymore for the baking, because the baker was forbidden to do this."  Much worse was on the horizon. Wars, greed, adventures, and disasters can break up families and communities, dispersing the people across land and seas.  Yet, when we can hold on to a few food traditions, making adaptions as needed, we can remember who we are to whom we belong.    

   

As I write this, I am saddened and concerned that there are still voices in our nation and the world calling for separation, segregation, and destruction. Yet, a few days ago, I saw this handmade sign in a window, and I felt encouraged by a young artist wanting the voice of love to be heard.  I also was re-united with a beautiful Advent prayer and I include that as well. This morning I will bake bread to take to a memorial service. We will remember for we are human; we are community, and we love.    

  

Thou shalt know Him 

when He comes

not by any din of drums

nor his manners, nor his airs

nor by anything he wears...

 

For His presence known shall be 

by the holy harmony 

that His coming makes in thee.  

 

15th Century Advent Poem/Evensong 

Thin Places, Westminster Presbyterian Church

Minneapolis, MN