Sharing meals and hopes

The Season Appears to Have Concluded. Yet, pilgrims will always ascend to Jerusalem. Calendars impose seasonal rhythms—regular, repetitive. However, they usher in new times.

Passover (Pessah/פסח) signifies a moment that transcends centuries: each Jewish service emphasizes the present, unique, and yet always real and tangible, nature of the “passage from servitude to freedom.” Shavuot (שבועות) concludes a transformation, a maturation through the timeless Gift of the Ten Words, heard by all the children of Israel, first inscribed by God Himself, then rewritten by Moses.

The entire Written Law (Torah Shebikhtav/תורה שבכתב)—the Mitzvot or Commandments—was thus engraved in the human soul, on the Sinai Peninsula—a sort of desert no man’s land. Despite appearances, it is neither empty nor withdrawn. The term “void” in English or poustynia (пустыня) in Russian denotes both a physical desert and a place of retreat. Similarly, the Yiddish expression piste mances (פוסטע מאנצעס) refers to “vain, chimerical intentions.” Sinai belongs to no one and addresses every living soul capable of locating it.

In this way, the divine Word of Shavuot marks the “limit” of the Passover festival. “Limit” because nothing is closed or completed. Every Jew is present at the Sinaitic revelation of a Voice… or two? “Once God has spoken; twice have I heard this” (Psalm 62:12 / אחת דבר אלהים שתים-זו שמעתי). It is a fullness in extension, an elasticity stretching between the past and its expansion, resembling a “no soul and body’s land” in movement, in deployment. This same movement toward a totality of fulfillment and nuptials en route to Jerusalem is found in the eschatological festival of Sukkot (סוכות). Tents and canopies cover and dominate time and space from Jerusalem to the limits of the universe we are only beginning to discover.

These are the pilgrimage festivals, the ascents toward Mount Moriah. Words become incarnate through the feet, toes, and heels. The Shirei Hamaalot (שירי המעלות)—Songs of Ascents (Psalms 120 to 134)—testify to this. In modern Hebrew, maalit (מעלית, “elevator”) humorously seems to accelerate this ascent: Saint Thérèse of Lisieux wanted to reach the Lord swiftly—she embraced modern tools for spiritual ends.

These festivals—moments of ascending toward Jerusalem—correspond to “a scroll of eternity traveling through the celestial realms, blessed quills inscribing names high above forests, valleys, endless seas, across the oceans that surround the worlds, beyond the people who clothe the Eternal in words and thoughts.”
This comes from Akdamut Milin (אקדמות מילין), an Ashkenazi piyyut read on Shavuot, composed in Aramaic, with each verse ending in ta-tha (תא), “he comes”—a symbolic loop from the last to the first Hebrew letter, and back.

At this point, spiritual geolocation becomes precise—anchored in the tribal, even narrowed, space of a singular nation, gathered in the name of all humanity. The call of Sinai extends to every human being, from every generation, beyond the constraints of past, present, and future.

Sinai is “other” (שנאה—hatred in Hebrew), and yet proposes to transform this estrangement into a symmetry—between the One who is and remains in expansion, and the human being who mirrors Him through the very nature and consciousness of language.

Hence, from the age of five, a Jewish child prepares to receive teaching—the living, vibrant repetition of a legacy forgotten at birth (Avot 5:22). At Shavuot, mothers prepare small honey cakes in the shapes of the 22 Hebrew consonants—the backbone of the Word, which seals the Hebrew soul with its imprint.

Elisha ben Avuya taught: “What is the child who studies Torah like? Ink written on fresh parchment (כתבה על ניר חדש). And the old man? Ink written on erased parchment (כתבה על ניר מחוק)” (Avot 4:20). It is no coincidence that the Tractate Avot (Pirqei Avot / פרקי אבות – Ethics of the Fathers) is read during the Mincha (afternoon) service between Passover and Shavuot.

How is the divine Voice received by human ears—heard, remembered, transmitted through both oral and written mediums? It engages a vocal and linguistic consciousness whose meaning transcends any mythical “non-place”—something akin to a budding Pitchipoï, where transcendence opens space for all possible written or contemplative narratives.

Thus, “the Tablets were the work of God, and the writing was the writing of God, harut (חרות, engraved) on the Tablets” (Exodus 32:16). But do not read harut—engraved—read herut (חרות)—freedom: “No one is truly free except one who studies Torah” (Avot 6:2).

There are, then, different times in history. The Kenyanthropus platyops, a pre-hominid found in East Africa and dated to around 3.5–4 million years ago, possessed none of the vocal, mental, or linguistic traits that define our humanity. Yet he bore us in potential.

Such is our daily experience, year after year, in Israel, Zion and Jerusalem: we cross paths with one another for mere micro-moments—fractions of millionths of a second—when measured against the long stretch of time since the Kenyanthropus, and the eternity that is proposed to us as a life’s journey.

Yet in crossing without speaking, without dialogue, often without even daring to utter a word, we encounter beings from all centuries of the past two millennia. Each of us perceives our shared time as personal, fractured, or differentiated in relation to others. I meet people who live by the heritage of the 1st, 2nd, 4th, 7th, 11th, 15th, 18th, 19th, or nearly 21st centuries. This becomes palpable in dialogues with Ethiopian monks or Falashas, Copts, Jews from Yemen or Arizona, Greeks or Russians—also Inuits from the Yukon, a lama entering the Holy Sepulchre from Lhasa or Kathmandu, an Ainu from Hokkaido. Most carry tablets, smartphones, laptops.

You may also encounter the red Himba people of Namibia or Pygmy priests from Central Africa. There’s the Jerusalem-born Arab—Muslim by birth, then Orthodox Christian, then a convinced Messianic—who speaks fluent Japanese and guides Japanese visitors (without interference) on the Temple Mount, where groups of neo-Orthodox Jews attempt silent prayer beneath the tranquil gaze of meditative Muslims.

Up to 2005, we experienced something similar at the Holy Sepulcher, where the Greek Orthodox Brotherhood forbade Russian pilgrims to sing the Resurrection troparion aloud. That time is now past. In 2015, the Armenians shared their venerable hymns—often inspired by Saint Gregory of Narek—on the memorial day of the 1915 genocide.

What does this suggest, if not that we are gripped by a force we might now label “communitarian”? Yet the pilgrimage festivals—the ascents to Jerusalem—aim for unity, a movement toward togetherness within difference. This movement is possible through the sharing of words. But words alone are not enough. Orality is essential, but not sufficient.

It is now clearly acknowledged that Christianity originates from Judaism. It does not mean that it is accepted. Scholars affirm, with good reason, that the Christian liturgical cycle mirrors the annual rhythm of Jewish tradition. The academic identification of this resemblance only dates back to the late 19th century, marking the birth of modern Christian liturgical studies.

In other words, the deep understanding of the bond between these two religious traditions is just beginning.

Recognizing the inner realities of different Jewish and Christian communities, living across highly contrasting landscapes, urges us to weigh our words, our writings, our reflections with care.

I can only echo the words of Kurt Hruby, an Austrian priest of Jewish mother and Catholic father, knew the Talmud better than many rabbis. A classical priest and realistic interfaith educator, he once said:

“It will take centuries to correct centuries of mutual ignorance and persecution, of the will to destroy Jewish identity.”

This brings us to the heart of the season from Passover to Shavuot, which, in Judaism, flows into the autumnal calendar and Sukkot. The calendar is essentially the same, yet diverges in substance—while still following parallel, jealously-guarded trajectories.

As Kurt Hruby insisted:

“If one claims to speak about Judaism, one must know what one is speaking about, and know the texts (in the original), or else remain silent.” (1982)

Why mention this here? Because Father Hruby was also, at heart, an exceptional cook—ein Feinkoch, a meyvin in the culinary Yiddish sense.

Christian Pentecost first appeared as a charismatic manifestation within a small, embryonic community rooted in the Jerusalem of the 1st century. We are far removed from the 3.5 million years prior to any Homo sapiens. Even in comparison to 7000–5000 years before the so-called Christian era, it is but a fleeting moment.

The Book of the Acts of the Apostles (chapter 2) tells us that “Jews from every nation and proselytes” were gathered in Jerusalem for the festival of Pentecost. This was a convergence, happening in parallel with Shavuot, not apart from the spiritual framework of Hebrew time.

The pilgrimage festivals were marked by offerings brought to the Temple, which at the time was visible and “alive” (קיים). Today, it is no longer physically present—but it remains spiritually active through the ongoing study of Torah in Judaism.

There were two types of sacrificial offerings:

• Olot re’iyah (עולות ראייה) – “offerings of appearance” or visibility, providing evidence of the real presence of the children of Israel (cf. Ketubot 23a; Bava Kamma III, 11). These were specifically directed toward the sanctuary.
• Chagigah (חגיגה) – festive sacrifices that served to feed the entire assembly who had ascended to Jerusalem (Chagigah I,2; Yevamot 76a). These were marked by joy, as joy is central to a manifest and shared Presence.

Thus, the meal, even when rooted in sacrificial sharing with the Eternal, takes on another dimension: that of a convivial banquet, both joyous and free.
“Come, eat my bread, and drink the wine I have mixed” (Proverbs 9:5)—an echo of divine Wisdom.

It reflects the prophetic invitation in Isaiah 55:1:

“All you who are thirsty, come to the water—even without money; come, buy and eat—come buy wine and milk, without money and without cost.”

This is a call to the table. A table? Originally, a plank or board (cf. Scandinavian bord), or mensa in Latin (cf. Old French moise = table). This signifies not only a surface for eating but also the altar in the Roman Catholic Church. It represents the meal, the banquet, the sharing of food… and intelligence.
Indeed, eating incites discernment and invites us to knowledge of the nature of things.

This leads us to the Hebrew word shulchan (שולחן = table):

“When three people eat at the same table and discuss Torah, it is as if they are eating at the table of the Eternal Himself” (Avot III,3; Chagigah 27a).

The table here becomes the place of fellowship, of the dynamic power of the Word—spiritual nourishment for both soul and body, rooted in joyful, profound encounter.

This recalls the principle of mens sana in corpore sano—a sound mind (and soul) in a sound body.
It also evokes the 13 tables (shulchanot) in the Temple, corresponding to the 13 gates of Jerusalem—one for each of the 12 tribes, and one for those who had forgotten their tribal affiliation.

Christian Pentecost introduced another dimension during the gathering in the Upper Room, when the “gift of the Spirit” was received as understood by the nascent Church of Zion and Jerusalem.
This is when the first Eucharist was celebrated. Semantically, it corresponds to the Jewish zevaḥ todah / זבח תודה — “sacrifice of thanksgiving” or communion (qorban, qorbono / קורבנא in Aramaic/Hebrew and Arabic alike). This communion became a commension — a meal, a spiritual presence, a shared table.

It was defined, within the Catholic and Orthodox Churches (including Eastern traditions), as the real presence of the Risen Jesus in the substantial elements of bread and wine.

Can one speak of a Christian fulfillment? The Churches affirm a sense of completeness perceived in faith, not in proselytizing formulas, which cannot convince on their own.
We cannot summarize such a historically sensitive issue in a few lines.

However, the Jewish Re’iyah and Chagigah sacrifices affirmed divine presence through joyful and festive meals during pilgrimages — just like the Kiddush, which blesses food as belonging first to the Eternal who provides and allows them to be eaten by the human members of the community.

The Pentecostal theophany placed the meal at the center of communion with the Son of Man.
This raised numerous questions, doubts, definitions, and redefinitions within Christianity — many of which remain points of deep agreement or disagreement to this day.

Still, the Eucharist, like the blessings over five loaves, wine, oil, and wheat grains in the Byzantine tradition (especially in vespers services), and the trapeza (τραπεζαί) — fraternal meals of shared community and spiritual communion — are known as agapes. These highlight divine love and human response to ethical and moral Commandments, both written and oral. They render Presence and Providence visible, affirm the unity of humanity, and root the present moment within a scroll of history.

In a seemingly analogous (but not strictly corresponding) fashion, the Hasidic tzaddik distributes the leftovers of his third Sabbath meal (se’udah shlishit / סעודה שלישית) as sherayyim (שריים) — sacred remnants that survive and liberate.

This is the gustatory — if not gastrosophic (yes, indeed!) — dimension of Shavuot and Pentecost.

In Eastern and Orthodox Churches, there is no so-called “ordinary time.” After Pentecost, the spiritual journey continues, carried by the breath of that holy day.

And yet, we must remain clear-headed. Every meal is pedagogical: it educates us to live in society, in community. It requires to recognize the customs of others. It may seduce, even tempt us to appropriate recipes, to distort or transform them.

Such is the gourmet and convivial meaning of a table: it may close in around co-opted groups, or open out into that Sinaitic spirit which gathers and brings joy.
It is in this spirit that the Feinkoch (expert cook) Father Hruby embodied both spirituality and beautifully prepared nourishment.

The Danish author Karen Blixen expressed this eloquently in her story Babettes Gæstebud – Babette’s Feast, adapted into a film in 1987.
A French master chef, exiled from Paris after the Commune, finds refuge in a strict Lutheran village in Jutland, taken in by two elderly sisters, daughters of a puritan pastor.
Having won 10,000 gold francs in the Paris Lottery, she chooses to spend it all on preparing a single shared, exquisite meal for the entire village.

What follows is a profound transformation of the villagers, who open up and rediscover themselves in the warmth of shared joy — a joy where the divine plan for every human being becomes tangible: in body and spirit, in this world and the next, in what is seen and what is hidden. The guests felt it deeply during the “repairing supper”.

The book was beautifully adapted into a Danish-language film. One cannot help but admire the linguistic feat of Stéphane Audran, the French “cheffe” exiled to Jutland who nourishes both friends and strangers at the Café Anglais.

Pope Francis loved this film — and likely the original text by Karen Blixen.
He saw in it a clear connection with the Eucharist: a real presence, both carnal and divine-human, brought to life by the breath of the Spirit, which leads us far beyond what we can grasp.

This makes any speculation irrelevant about what this South American pope, a deeply Jesuit soul, might have understood — or failed to — about the conduct, now often judged quasi-heretical, of Patriarch Kirill of Moscow and All Russia, Vladimir Putin, Alexander Lukashenko, and an entire hierarchy of clergy and laity who claim the mystical and nearly salvific reality of a “Holy Russia.”

No one can ignore that the support for a quasi-divine mission behind a fratricidal and criminal war in Ukraine raises fundamental questions. Such positions resemble attitudes once tolerated during the First and even the Second World War. Religious leaders co-opted faith to destroy, wound, murder, waging wars in the name of chasing the devil himself.

There is now a deep, perhaps irreparable schism between how Christic faith is lived out in Eastern (notably Byzantine) traditions and in the more Latinized Western ones. This split cannot be resolved through mere naïve goodwill or worldly diplomacy.

The Eucharistic table belongs to no one. Nor does anyone hold exclusive access to this prophetic, messianic, and eschatological Banquet.

Indeed, our time shows how deeply we are wounded by bloodshed, by fractures that still block any true reconciliation — unless it is rooted in something beyond reason: something not just rational, but truly transcendent.