A Banquet Partaken in Peace: Rethinking Kosher for Christians

Abstract

A Banquet Partaken in Peace: Rethinking Kosher for Christians Daniel G. Deffenbaugh Better a crust eaten in peace than a banquet partaken in anxiety. – Aesop I really never gave much thought to the religious significance of eating until the summer of 2001. In June of that year, I was awarded a William H. Coolidge fellowship to study at Union Theological Seminary in New York City, and this—unbeknownst to me when I applied—included the requirement that all fellows take their weekday meals at the Jewish Theological Seminary. Up until this time, my only experience with eating kosher had been two or three Passover seders that I had attended while in seminary, and watching my Jewish friends in high school eat matzo for a week every spring in lieu of the only slightly tastier fare served in our lunch room. The Books of Moses in which these laws are recorded were for me a scriptural no man's land, and the Mishnah and Talmud, where the commandments are further expounded, were little more than words on the page of some dusty history book. After all, I was Christian and had long understood that such laws were no longer binding for those who are in Christ. So when our small group of fellows was informed that our meals would be taken amidst a much larger community of Conservative Jews, I regarded the news as simply an unexpected opportunity to indulge in a little cultural tourism. I did not know then how profoundly my faith would be challenged by the people and practices I encountered there. It was obvious from day one that I and my small cohort of Christian scholars were outsiders who needed a refresher course—if ever we had a course—in eating what is “fit,” the literal definition of kosher. These rules apply not only to what is eaten but also to how and when certain foods may be prepared and consumed. The seminarians who scrambled through the lines were caught up in their own theological discussions and matters of the heart, so we were pretty much left to our own powers of observation to discern what was acceptable. And we made mistakes. Several of us were horrified one day during our first week when one of our own decided she would like to have a little peach yogurt with her chicken sandwich. Even before she could place the container on her tray, she was met by one of the workers in the cafeteria and given a stern talking to. Apparently this combination was strictly prohibited by the commandment—stated three times in the Torah for emphasis—that “you shall not boil a kid in its mother's milk” (Ex. 23:19; Ex. 34:26; Deut. 14:21), legislation that later came to be interpreted as a proscription against any mixture of meat and dairy. And there were other guidelines that had to be rigorously observed. Plates, utensils, and drinks needed to remain on trays at all times, never touching the tables. Outside food, right down to the smallest granola bar, was strictly prohibited. The entire dining area was supervised by a rabbi, no less, and his staff—whom we quickly dubbed “the kosher police”—were as vigilant as hawks on the hunt. With so much riding on what and how I ate, I considered it the better part of wisdom simply to play it safe and order the same meal, day in and day out, for five weeks straight. Better to enjoy my crust in peace, I thought, than to suffer the anxiety of feasting improperly on the banquet laid out before me. In situations like these, I think our immediate response is to focus on the sheer impracticality of such customs, and for the first few days of what I have since come to call “my tuna fish and fruit salad summer” I resorted to this natural defense mechanism. I will admit to a touch of smugness as I pondered the astronomical odds of milk from a mother cow ending up in the same city, let alone on the same tray, as meat from one of her offspring. All the variables of our modern agricultural system...