Whenever I hear this Bible passage, I smell potato soup. One day when I was about fourteen years old, my mother announced we were going to church for something called a “sacrificial” supper. She said  it had something to do with the season of Lent. That was curious, too. We were a low-church Presbyterian family. Liturgical seasons didn’t mean much to us. Any talk of Lent didn’t make much sense. At least, not until that night.

There we were, one Sunday night in late winter. The fellowship hall was half-empty. We sat at tables and waited to be served a great banquet. When the kitchen door finally opened, somebody brought out a pot of potato soup. It was white and pasty. It smelled like onions. I pushed my bowl aside and waited for the next course, which never arrived. It seemed like a crue…