Janie B. Cheaney: Soup for the soul

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LINDSAY MAST, HOST: Today is Wednesday, November 12th. Good morning! This is The World and Everything in It from listener-supported WORLD Radio. I’m Lindsay Mast.

NICK EICHER, HOST: And I’m Nick Eicher. Up next, WORLD commentator Janie B. Cheaney welcomes us into her kitchen for a healthy serving of practical theology.

JANIE B. CHEANEY: When the bright October days give way to gray November, there's nothing like a bowl of old-fashioned vegetable soup to remind us what chilly days are for. Three ways to make it: Open a can—ready in 15 minutes. Open lots of cans—takes about an hour. Or start from scratch—a process that fills an afternoon.

The first two options are easy enough. But if you’ve never taken the time to make soup from scratch, here’s a quick guide: set a large heavy kettle over medium-low heat for about 15 minutes while you cut chunks of fat from two to four meaty soup bones. Throw them in the pot to melt. When the chunks are spongy and a layer of tallow greases the bottom of the kettle, add the bones. Turn the heat to low and let them brown. Don't rush—slow browning develops a depth to the flavor that can't be shortcutted.

When a rich, savory smell fills the house, add two to four quarts of water and salt to taste. Bring to boiling, skim the foam, and lower the heat to a simmer. While the tough and gristly meat slowly tenderizes, assemble your vegetables and make sure your knife is good and sharp.

Vegetables come from everywhere: your garden, farmers market, produce aisle, freezer case, even a can. They come in every color: reds and oranges and yellows and greens, bright as crayons. They come with contrasting textures and flavors. For example, carrots are hard, onions are sharp. But when they cook together one becomes tender, the other mellow. Still themselves, only better.

Remove the bones from the broth and toss in the vegetables. While they come to a boil, you'll be picking meat from the crevasses of bone and sheaths of fat. It will come off in chunks and slivers. Cut up the big pieces and throw them back into the pot for another hour or so, while the meat and vegetables settle in together.

A soup made with only vegetables can be delicious, but it's a little thin. Flesh gives body, richness and character. It begins and finishes the job that bloodless vegetables complement; it forms the medium in which they consist. And it requires someone's ultimate sacrifice.

In John 6:56 we hear Jesus say: "Whoever eats My flesh and drinks My blood abides in Me, and I in him." Of all his sayings, this one shocks us as much as it did the original hearers. Eat His flesh? Drink His blood? Yes, it's metaphorical, but He literally offered His flesh and blood: the former to abide with us, the latter to pour out for us.

He gathers us, with our sharp angles and hard surfaces, our squishy and acidic selves, and chops us with the sharp blade of His Word. He adds us with all our imperfections and cooks us down to a mellow whole, conforming to Him and confirming each other. He sanctifies the garden and the butcher's block and the kettle. As we cook, a pleasing aroma rises to His Father. And when we're done, He serves us up.

The world stumbles on and today's controversies become tomorrow's table fare. Meanwhile we're cooking in the Lord's kitchen. Let's be patient, with ourselves, the world, and each other. Someday we'll be done.

I’m Janie B. Cheaney.

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