On September 5, a great Sinner-Saint who has taught Ben and I much about love, theology, and cooking, and rendered us unable to separate the three, died. An Episcopalian priest and prolific writer, he wrote on parables, theology, church, and - most importantly to me - cooking. The Supper of the Lamb has saved Ben and my marriage countless times; it was Capon who reminded us that everything we receive in this world comes as gift:
"In a general way we concede that God made the world out of joy: He didn't need it; He just thought it was a good thing. But if you confine His activity in creation to the beginning only, you lose most of the joy in the subsequent shuffle of history. Sure, it was good back then, you say, but since then we've been eating leftovers. How much better a world it becomes when you see Him creating at all times and at every time; when you see the preserving of the old in being is just as much creation as the bringing of the new out of nothing. Each thing, at every moment, becomes the delight of HIs hand, the apple of His eye. The bloom of the yeast lies upon the grape skins year after year because he likes it; [it] is a dependable process because, every September, He says, That was nice, do it again," (The Supper of the Lamb, 85).
This one of my favorite quotes. I use it in many situations, but I especially need to remind myself of it when the shadows grow tall and faith grows thin. It has shaped me in ways of which I am still unsure. Capon has taught me the extravagance of the Feast and the extravagance of the Host, showering upon us things for which we would never have thought to ask in the midst of difficulties we doubt we'll survive.
I will confess it here: I don't think I've made a single recipe from the book. The recipe I have taken from it is far more powerful: it has been a recipe for living graciously and falling in love over and over again not because it is anything I am capable of doing on my own but because of the echoes of the Creator in creation: in its terrifying otherness and in participating in it, I learn who I am.
Capon has become a dear friend, whom I have never met, and is part of the cloud of witnesses that refuses to allow humanity's "no" to the beauty and extravagance of creation speak louder than the Creator's "yes."
I can't say that the world has lost someone great because great sinners are never, finally, lost; we share with them in Feast of the Prodigals, which beckons us all to its raucous celebration, as we raise a toast to the Prodigal God who is never quite what we expect.
"In a general way we concede that God made the world out of joy: He didn't need it; He just thought it was a good thing. But if you confine His activity in creation to the beginning only, you lose most of the joy in the subsequent shuffle of history. Sure, it was good back then, you say, but since then we've been eating leftovers. How much better a world it becomes when you see Him creating at all times and at every time; when you see the preserving of the old in being is just as much creation as the bringing of the new out of nothing. Each thing, at every moment, becomes the delight of HIs hand, the apple of His eye. The bloom of the yeast lies upon the grape skins year after year because he likes it; [it] is a dependable process because, every September, He says, That was nice, do it again," (The Supper of the Lamb, 85).
This one of my favorite quotes. I use it in many situations, but I especially need to remind myself of it when the shadows grow tall and faith grows thin. It has shaped me in ways of which I am still unsure. Capon has taught me the extravagance of the Feast and the extravagance of the Host, showering upon us things for which we would never have thought to ask in the midst of difficulties we doubt we'll survive.
I will confess it here: I don't think I've made a single recipe from the book. The recipe I have taken from it is far more powerful: it has been a recipe for living graciously and falling in love over and over again not because it is anything I am capable of doing on my own but because of the echoes of the Creator in creation: in its terrifying otherness and in participating in it, I learn who I am.
Capon has become a dear friend, whom I have never met, and is part of the cloud of witnesses that refuses to allow humanity's "no" to the beauty and extravagance of creation speak louder than the Creator's "yes."
I can't say that the world has lost someone great because great sinners are never, finally, lost; we share with them in Feast of the Prodigals, which beckons us all to its raucous celebration, as we raise a toast to the Prodigal God who is never quite what we expect.
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