Sunday Musings

The fermented life

Today is the Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost.

We’re in Ordinary Time. The reading this morning lifts up two seemingly common things — bread and wine — and reminds us how remarkable they are.

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Proverbs 9:1-6

Wisdom has built her house,
she has hewn her seven pillars.
She has slaughtered her animals, she has mixed her wine,
she has also set her table.
She has sent out her servant-girls, she calls
from the highest places in the town,
“You that are simple, turn in here!”
To those without sense she says,
“Come, eat of my bread
and drink of the wine I have mixed.
Lay aside immaturity, and live,
and walk in the way of insight.”

Ephesians 5:15-20

Be careful then how you live, not as unwise people but as wise, making the most of the time, because the days are evil. So do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is. Do not get drunk with wine, for that is debauchery; but be filled with the Spirit, as you sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among yourselves, singing and making melody to the Lord in your hearts, giving thanks to God the Father at all times and for everything in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.

John 6:51

Jesus said, “I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.”

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Some years ago, I had a friend who wanted to be wise. That was his entire goal in life. He craved wisdom the way that others might yearn for riches or fame. It was a worthy aim. But he seemed to think that simply desiring wisdom was enough, and he was impatient to achieve it. He made many foolish choices and was constantly frustrated that things didn’t go as he expected.

I don’t know what eventually happened to him. I’ve always hoped that he eventually found what he sought.

I can’t say that I’ve always desired wisdom. My heart has longed for many things — acceptance, love, recognition, happiness, success. It took time for me to aspire to wisdom and to understand its lure. It wasn’t until I’d reached forty or so that I began to hanker for wisdom, sensing a deep pull toward its promise, wonder, and mystery.

It isn’t entirely uncommon for human beings to grow more interested in wisdom as they age. While the scriptures say many things about wisdom that are beautiful and meaningful, I find this definition from gerontologist Carolyn Aldwin helpful: “Wisdom is a practice that reflects the developmental process by which individuals increase in self-knowledge, self-integration, nonattachment, self-transcendence, and compassion, as well as a deeper understanding of life.”

When it comes to wisdom, time is everything. You can’t be impatient with it. It is a practice and a process. Wisdom can’t be seized. It takes time.

And that’s where bread and wine come in.

The texts today interweave wisdom and bread and wine, they make up a kind of poetic feast of spiritual maturity and way of life.

At first glance, however, wisdom, bread, and wine seem an odd trio — like one of those old-fashioned set problems in math class. Which of these three things is not like the other two? The answer seems easy. Wisdom doesn’t belong. Bread and wine are food. But wisdom? Why is that there?

Bread and wine are, of course, liturgical elements for both Jews and Christians. And I could wax theologically about the sacramental nature of them for quite some time. But, truthfully, bread and wine need no religious explanation in this context. They are ancient staple foods, the basics of many human diets over centuries.

And they are both fermented foods.

Central to bread and wine is the exact same principle: In order to become what they are, they must be transformed from one thing into another. When a leavening agent is introduced to flour and water, it becomes a dough that bakes into bread. When yeast consumes the sugar in juice, it ferments the fruit and turns it into wine. Wheat and fruit are, in effect, broken down and simplified by an outside agent, turning them into bread and wine. That’s what fermentation does.

But this process takes time. Bread must be worked, kneaded, left to rise, reworked, and baked. Wine is the result of weeks or months or even years of yeasts breaking down sugar and slowly turning fruit into alcohol. Bread and wine are staple foods for everyone, and yet they demand great patience of bakers and vintners. Neither happens immediately. One must learn the craft of these foods over time. They cannot be rushed. Staples, yes. Slow foods, absolutely. The best things to grace our tables — those things that sustain us and give us joy — result from an intentional and gradual undertaking.

Wisdom is like that, too. How does one pursue wisdom? Where do you find it? Perhaps it is like bread and wine. It begins as something else — an experience, a loss, suffering, bad choices. But when some leaven — like the Spirit — is introduced, these original ingredients are transformed into wisdom through a process of fermentation that takes time. Wisdom cannot be rushed. You learn, you craft, you wait. Eventually, what was becomes something else — something lasting and satisfying.

As fermented foods, bread and wine are alive. Fermentation actually slows the process of decay as it enriches and extends the life of food. When Jesus refers to himself as “living bread,” the remark is kind of funny. Because any baker knows that all bread is alive, yeasty and transforming all the time. Wine is the same. These are living foods that give us life. Once the process of fermentation starts, it just keeps going. You can’t really stop it! Bread can mold or wine spoil — but that’s because they are living, growing, organic things. Bread is alive; wine is alive.

This is my body; this is my blood. Of course bread and wine are body and blood. It is a miracle, but it is an ordinary and everyday sort of miracle. Living bread and living wine are the source of our very lives. All the time. Everywhere.

And so it is with wisdom. Like bread and wine, wisdom grows and keeps growing, like a metastasis of intuition, sagacity, integration, empathy, and compassion. Once the process begins, it takes on a life of its own, transforming us. Our entire being becomes different, leavened with insight and self-knowledge that lasts. Wisdom offers its life that we may live.

All the time. Everywhere.

To those without sense Wisdom says,
“Come, eat of my bread
and drink of the wine I have mixed.
Lay aside immaturity, and live,
and walk in the way of insight.”

We only need to sit and feast. Eat and drink. Some will be called to become bakers and vintners; others will set the table and pass the basket and cup.

But we can all live yeasty, fermented by the Spirit.

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INSPIRATION

From death of star to new star's birth,
    This ache of limb, this throb of head,
This sweaty shop, this smell of earth,
    For this we pray, "Give daily bread."

Then tenuous with dreams the night,
    The feel of soft brown hands in mine,
Strength from your lips for one more fight
    Bread's not so dry when dipped in wine.
— Countee Cullen, “Bread and Wine”

What is green in me
darkens, muscadine.
If woman is inconstant, good,
I am faithful to
ebb and flow, I fall
in season and now
is a time of ripening.
If her part
is to be true,
a north star,
good, I hold steady
in the black sky
and vanish by day,
yet burn there
in blue or above
quilts of cloud.
There is no savor
more sweet, more salt
than to be glad to be
what, woman,
and who, myself,
I am, a shadow
that grows longer as the sun
moves, drawn out
on a thread of wonder.
If I bear burdens
they begin to be remembered
as gifts, goods, a basket
of bread that hurts
my shoulders but closes me
in fragrance. I can
eat as I go.
— Denise Levertov, “Stepping Westward”

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam,
hamotzi lechem min ha’aretz.
[Praised be thou, eternal God,
who brings forth bread from the earth.]

Surely the earth
is heavy with this rhythm,
the stretch and pull of bread,
the folding in and folding in
across the palms, as if
the lines of my hands could chart
a map across the dough,
mold flour and water into
the crosshatchings of my life.

I do not believe in palmistry,
but I study my hands for promises
when no one is around.
I do not believe in magic.
But I probe the dough
for signs of life, willing
it to rise, to take shape,
to feed me. I do not believe
in palmistry, in magic, but
something happens in kneading
dough or massaging flesh;
an imprint of the hand remains
on the bodies we have touched.

This is the lifeline —
the etched path from hand
to grain to earth, the transmutation
of the elements through touch
marking the miracles
on which we unwillingly depend.

Praised be thou, eternal God,
who brings forth bread from the earth.
— Lynn Ungar, “Blessing the Bread”

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📣 BIG CHANGE AT THE COTTAGE!

The upcoming election is already contentious — and I imagine that conflict will increase.

As a result, FROM SEPTEMBER 1, 2024 - JANUARY 30, 2025, ONLY PAID SUBSCRIBERS WILL BE ABLE TO COMMENT ON POSTS.

Paid subscribers will be able to comment as usual and can read or reply to all posted comments. However, free subscribers and visitors will still be able to read comments but will NOT be able to post comments. Commenting will be a benefit available only to paid subscribers.

This is meant to guard community safety, make sure trolls cannot swarm comments, and enrich meaningful conversation.

I resisted doing this for a long time (many newsletters already follow this policy). But I find myself deleting more comments than usual and I don’t want The Cottage to become like Twitter/X.

Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world.
Today I am wise, so I am changing myself.

― Rumi

Wonder is the beginning of wisdom.

― Socrates