Take Eat This Is My Body

Last night my son asked me to make bread rolls. It reminded me of my childhood, when I’d watch the wife of a man who looked after my horse, make bread.

I would take the train up to their small town, telling my mother that I was going to check on my horse. The truth was that I really missed Mrs Fowler’s cooking and I enjoyed being around her grown children who were all involved in equestrian activities.

Mrs Fowler was a simple woman, resolutely Baptist, full of life and full of Christ. She could make the most wonderful breads in what appeared to be taskless seconds. And all the while she’d sing sweet songs about her relationship with Jesus.

It was quite a different world for this young Anglican mind to experience, as she'd drag me off to one of her Wednesday night services. And if the word 'confession' is appropriate in this context, it was the end of the service I looked forward to, when the local women would unwrap their fresh baked goods for the faithful to share. In my small eyes I saw this to be the communion which didn't quite seem to figure into a Pentecostal country Baptist service.

Several months before Mrs Fowler passed away I went to visit her. It had been nearly 30 years since I last saw her. I told her that I believed she was the one who had set the spark in me to start my own spiritual journey and she had given me the confidence to at least try making bread.

But no matter how hard I tried, as a young person, I could never recreate those magnificent rolls she made. It was her art and it was her gift.

That was long ago. Today whenever I make my bread, my mind is flooded with warm memories of Mrs Fowler. Typical guy; I’m probably much better at incinerating things on a grille than I am at baking, but I still enjoy it.

It’s soothing on the soul and allows me time to make mental doodle marks in the air about things I want to write about. And kneading the bread, that tactile movement, can be quite comforting. And once done, I can set it aside and allow the yeast to do its stuff.

The function of yeast is fascinating. You mix it into a cup of warm water and stir a little: within minutes it begins to breathe, to swell, to soften, and come to life. Little plant spores - that's what yeast is: cocooned in their package until you come along with warmth and water and remind it that it's alive. Mixed with the flour, it begins to feed on it as well, growing and swelling. And in time it has evolved. It has risen to great heights, cresting over the top of the bowl.

Again you work with it, kneading it in your hands, forming it, moulding it, helping it to become what you want it to be. But before it can become bread something important must happen: The yeast must die.

In each place where the yeast spore has been, there will be a pocket of air-an acknowledgement of its death. And into the hot oven it will go. The yeast spores have given their life for the bread.

But their memory is everywhere in the loaf. They shaped it. Their bodies gave it the power to rise. You even taste and smell them still, though they are gone: that flavour, unique to other breads, is what makes yeast bread so different.

Isn't that just like our relationship with Christ? "This is my body, which I have given for you." It cannot be at all unless I give my life for it. You are the body. You and I and the bread; we are body together.

And I am in You and You in me. Amen

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Father in Heaven, I submit myself to You. Guide me, be with me, lead me, and always help me to grow in Your light. I pray this in Christ's name. Amen

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