Give us this day our daily bread.
New Testament stories about Jesus’s promotional campaign for the Reign of God or Heaven, are always about FOOD.
Give us this day our daily bread.
It is a phrase we privileged folk deny, despite the daily news. Not me. Oh, it’s just a temporary shortage or “food insecurity”. I don’t watch the news any more. What’s the matter with the markets? They should get jobs. The food tonight in the dining room was pretty bad. The pictures of starving children, women begging for help, men in tears are right here—beautiful downtown Connecticut. Our neighbors. Where the hell is God? And so we pray.
Give us this day our daily bread.
The sight of starvation is ugly. It is terrifying. It is encroaching all over the world alongside war and violence, young children falling out the window—fewer mouths to feed, women black and blue.
We can no longer avoid this spreading scourge. I am very used to understanding my “daily bread” as emotional food—the love and security of my family and my husband breathing easily next to me in bed—comfort, daily bread of security, not to mention my own security. And so I pray.
Give us this day our daily bread.
Cyndy McCain, widow of the late Senator John McCain, is an activist working hard to end hunger. She gave me a good diagnostic phrase for the way I feel: donor fatigue. This diagnosis actually inspired me to give MORE to relevant causes.
And for hope ongoing, the gifted theater talent Judi Dench who is no longer able to see scripts because of age-related macular degeneration, offered this wisdom: “In my mind’s eye, I’m 6 foot and willowy and about 39.” My own mind’s eye envisions a banquet enough to feed all creation—emotionally and bodily. Still, I pray.
Give us this day our daily bread.
But I ponder: what is this feeling of discomfort I feel because I have bread enough and more? It is COMPUNCTION, a word derived from Latin, compungere (com + pungere to prick.) It means “to prick sharply.” It is not guilt as if I hit someone with a bat on purpose or carelessly while swinging. It is not empathy as if I suffer the same. It is not shame as if I’m ashamed of my limits.
No, compunction is true heart-squishing sorrow the kind that transfigures my heart. I am limited with resources and conscience. I cannot do more. Even my prayers are not enough. I am totally dependent on the good will and energy of those—near and far—who heal wounds, provide humor and smiles, feed the poor, maintain emotional intelligence, manage governance, and make decisions about food for peace and peaceful policies, locally and worldwide. And of course I can still VOTE. And I will still pray.
Give us this day our daily bread.
It is only by faith with compunction that I continue to have faith/hope/love in a God who is close and caring and incarnate/indwelling in all things animate and inanimate—no matter what.
GIVE US THIS DAY OUR DAILY BREAD.
