Could earthly food guide a person's spiritual decisions?

I took communion this past Sunday, something that once was much more of a habit than it has been in recent years. A pair of banners that hung near the lectern proclaimed: "The greatest love story of all time is contained in a tiny white host."

As the translucent white wafer dissolved in my mouth, the desire to reconnect with my nurturing past was tinged with sadness. Why tell the greatest story with something resembling styrofoam when real bread could impart the symbolism of Christianity's central mystery with so much more eloquence?

A few years ago I attended the Holy Resurrection Russian Orthodox Church in Berlin, New Hampshire. My experience with Orthodoxy is that doesn't deny the sensual world but rather addresses all of the senses directly. Churches are ornately decorated with gold-covered icons. Sweet smelling incense wafts through the sanctuary, an olfactory reminder that prayers rise like incense to the ears of God. The liturgy is sung according to an ancient 8-tone structure.

During the service, worshippers are in continual motion. bending and crossing themselves, showing reverence to the icons. Communion offered at Holy Resurrection was freshly baked chunks of bread with substantial sips of warm wine, taken from a communal chalice. It was one of the most fully realized expressions of the hospitality ritual of a faith community that I've ever experienced.

Back in the mid-80s I once had occasion to spend a day with a Hare Krishna named Romas in Lithuania. He was a classmate of a Russian friend of mine. Anyone who dared display his belief in something other than state-approved atheism, risked official persecution so rather than robes he wore jeans and t-shirts. His shaved head was the only evidence of his faith. We invited him to lunch at a creperie but he declined, saying that he didn't eat anything that hadn't been prayed over. He proposed that he cook for us instead.

Over a lovely pilaf, he spoke about the challenges of practicing his faith in a culture that was hostile to it. Vegetarianism was derided in official newspapers as expressions of bourgeois self-indulgence (who else could afford so many vegetables?). Who would willingly shave their head when it was the mark of political prisoners and common criminals? Any belief in a higher power was proclaimed delusional, and proselytizing considered anti-social behavior.

In Romas, I felt a fully-realized hospitality. His preparation of our meal was a prayer through food to the life spirit that created it. The names he used were unfamiliar to me but the intent was to create the most healthful meal possible for whoever was going to eat it. It's fundamentally the same prayer that is offered by those who work in any kitchen that serves people they do not know personally, mindfully preparing food so that it is both nutritious and flavorful. In hospital and school kitchens, in cafes, at street fairs.

Most faith traditions admonish people to not forget to offer hospitality to strangers because they might be entertaining angels unaware. How do people link how people are bodily fed with how they are spiritually fed? I have long wanted to explore this among the local faith communities. I won't be so presumptuous, as faith is something far too intimate. But what IF people chose their spiritual home based on the earthly food served there?

(Margo Mallar is a Portland resident and Daily Sun contributor.)