Soul Food
Written by Jason Bobo
This piece originally appeared in the book, Christ in the Time of Corona.
God Feeds His People in the Time of Corona
The liturgy of barbecue is for me a life-giving practice. The work of selecting the wood, collecting the meat, blending the concoction of spices, rising before the sun, and babying the fire to keep it right where I want is a labor of love. I get a little stir crazy if I go more than a few weeks without it. I have stacks of books on the history of the cooking method, the collision of ethnicities involved in its evolution, regional preferences, and recipes. Ten years ago, I spent a month researching heat retention and smoke distribution as I designed and welded my own reverse flow barbecue pit. It was a Valentine’s gift for my wife, but the door is too heavy for her to lift. Seriously.
I don’t just love the practice of prepping and cooking for an entire day. I’ve actually gotten pretty good at it. More people than I can remember have told me it was the best brisket, pulled pork, ribs, turkey, ham, chicken, bacon, or salmon candy they’ve ever had, and that I should dial it in and compete. While I really appreciate the compliments, I have less than zero interest in food competitions. I’m not mad at the people that compete—I think they’re amazing chefs, and I respect their mastery of the craft—but for me, I’ve come to realize, it is actually less about the meat and more about the whole event.
What I love more than the preparation, even more than the finished product, is being outside, music in the background, cold beer in hand, kids running around the yard, and folks clustered up in lawn chairs. I mill about, listening in, sometimes joining in. I enjoy the quiet, behind-the-scenes stuff. I like the finished product most days, but I most deeply love the cacophony of joy and laughter from my friends and family. In the same way that the tortilla chip, no matter how good, is simply the vehicle to shovel the queso into my mouth, my joy in barbecueing is experiencing the people I love, loving one another.
Before the time of Corona, my backyard wasn’t a viable option to smoke in because we’re on a hill that slopes away and had very limited patio space. I have to say “had” because since the advent of the ‘Rona, my sweet wife of twenty one years has been playing the role of general contractor, and we now have a beautiful flagstone patio and are in the middle of additional decking. (Someone could have contributed a chapter in this book on projects my wife has started around the house since being locked in.) All that to say, for the last four years I’ve been rolling the smoker out of the garage and into the driveway in my jean shorts and camo Piggly Wiggly shirt to get the job done in my fancy pants gated neighborhood. Basically, all I’m missing is a car up on blocks and a pack of Marlboro Reds to win this round of Redneck Bingo.
Now I don’t want to move it to the backyard, but it’s for the reason you think.
I used to imagine conversations like this:
“Oh my gosh Becky! Did you see the chubby handsome guy trashing the place up with his big ol’ smoker in the driveway? He’s gonna bring our home values down.”
“I did see him Karen, and I don’t think he’s that handsome.”
(That was a fictional conversation that I pictured a couple of ladies who walk our neighborhood having when I first started smoking in the driveway. No Beckys or Karens were harmed or offended enough to speak with the manager in this scenario.)
People would walk by, give a little side eye or head shake, and move on. Then it became a little more accepted, and folks would stop and visit and ask for a tour of the smoker. That migrated to joking shouts of “Hey, what time’s dinner?”
When Corona came to town, I decided I would heed Aragon’s challenge to Theoden in the Two Towers film, and I rode out to meet her. My way of battling the frustration and loss of communal hope was to plan a neighborhood BBQ. Some of those folks who used to squint at me jumped at the idea of a social distance barbecue block party. We fed 25–30 people. A month later I rented a margarita machine and joined forces with a couple of guys to cook the required fajitas for Cinco De Mayo. This time we had more than fifty folks. I’m convinced that my cooking in the driveway for a few years normalized the idea in people’s mind that gathering outside in the street one evening to eat together made perfect sense.
Now I don’t want to move it to the backyard because I love my neighbors, and I love the place we are becoming together.
If you could turn this mess into an equation, it might look like this: COVID-19 x isolation + fear of the unknown - normal routines = people starving for affection and connection. The two things I love most about hosting a BBQ (what we at home call Bobo-Que) are the people who come together and enjoy each other, and in my mind there had to be a way for us to be together and still honor the expectations of social distancing.
I have always loved the famous quote of Frederick Buechner, “The place where God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger coincide.” According to that theory, the place God called me to was a communal meal enjoyed at a safe distance. Not exactly battling the legions of hell, but closer than you might think.
I’ve cooked for Presbytery meetings. I once cooked for an Easter fellowship meal for an entire church. As VP for Student Affairs at now-defunct Redeemer Seminary (moment of silence), I hosted monthly barbecues for students and professors. And in my current role as Associate Pastor of my own church, I love to host gatherings for members new and old to grow together. But I had never even once considered using my passion and skills to meet new friends outside of a ministry or job setting.
It took a global pandemic for me to realize that I can de-church my cooking and use it in a missional way to bless my neighborhood. It might not be a cup of cold water (Matt. 10:42), but I offered it in his name in hopes he might use it to bless and comfort others.
DC pastor Russ Whitfield and I have been close friends for a long time. We often daydream about starting a multi-ethnic, artisanal, small-batch, pasture-to-plate barbecue restaurant (humorously called Ebony and Ivory) where the space would double as a worship and teaching space for a local church to gather—a church which we of course would pastor. It’s a terrible plan because Russ plays too much, and I would non-fatally stab him some day, but also because he is so much fun to be with that I doubt we would get any work done most days. But it’s also kind of brilliant too if you think about it.
Some people who might never darken the door of a traditional church, but who are longing for the affection and connection that Christ supplies, might join a group of people meeting in a barbecue restaurant—especially a group willing to display Christian worship and biblical values in compelling and innovative ways. For them, that might sound like a really cool experience. I doubt it would click with everyone, but I also imagine some folks would be intrigued by a gathering of Christians who add a tasty and tangible value to the community space; a gathering of people who are so passionate and good at their craft that even outside participation feels fulfilling; a gathering of people who don’t have talk about money so much since they generate enough income to pay for the building and give their funds to the mission of serving others.
God, too, loves to feed his people. In the very first chapter of the very first book of the Bible we read “Behold, I have given you every plant yielding seed that is on the face of all the earth, and every tree with seed in its fruit. You shall have them for food” (Gen. 1:29). And in the very last chapter of the very last book of the Bible (Rev. 22:1–2), we find him doing it again: “Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city; also, on either side of the river, the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.”
From the world’s first drive-through of manna with a side of rock water in the wilderness (Ex. 16 & 17), to the little boy that got his lunch jacked by the apostle Andrew so that Jesus might multiply his fish and barley loaves at the beginning of John 6, the story of the Bible is the story of God feeding his people. Sometimes it’s the morsel of daily bread that sustains us in his mercy, while other times it’s a wedding feast of steak and cabernet that overwhelms us in his grace. God feeds his people all through the stories of Scripture.
In John 6:53–58, Jesus, says:
Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day. For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink. Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him. As the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever feeds on me, he also will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven, not like the bread the fathers ate, and died. Whoever feeds on this bread will live forever.
All the bread and barbecue we’ve ever eaten came to us as a gift of grace to bring us to the place where we might feel hunger and thirst for the body and blood of our Savior—true food and true drink in union with the Father and the Son, made eternally alive by the Spirit. Salvation feels like a feast even though it looks like so much less right now. Right now, it looks like a little corner of bread with half an ounce of boxed wine in the sacrament of communion. Pretty basic. Not something you’d order off the menu of La Grande Maison de Bernard Magrez in Bordeaux, but it is the true food and true drink that I long to eat and drink in union with Christ, in fellowship with my friends and family at Christ Presbyterian Church in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and with the universal Church.
God feeds his people in order to bring us into the resurrection life of the Son. He also asks us to feed his sheep as we follow him (John 21:18–19). My barbecue is good, but in the grand scheme of things it’s little more than fish and loaves. I hand it over to Jesus by faith, in hope that he’ll bless it and multiply it and draw some spiritually hungry beggars to himself, the truest food and drink. To that, I say, “Amen.”
BBQ Tips I’m willing to share:
Buy a few BBQ books and pharisaically follow the directions as if you’ll be stoned (not in a good way) for breaking them. Once you’ve done a recipe with success two to three times, you are deputized to get creative with it. Aaron Franklin’s book Franklin Barbecue is awesome and so is Meathead by Meathead Goldwyn. You’ll find lots of science and terrific recipes in both.
My briskets are done at 203, pork at 195. Cook to temp not to time, and plan to let your meat rest in a towel lined ice chest (no ice) for at least an hour to two before you dig in.
Beef loves salt, pork loves sugar, and poultry loves a brine.
You can smoke hotter than you probably think without sacrificing texture. I don’t go much higher than 275, but there’s no reason to stay down at 225.
Just like with Calvinism, there can often be a cage stage with pit masters young and old. People are always willing to fight about what constitutes true BBQ—logs, pellets, or charcoal, offset vs. green egg, sauce or no sauce, etc. If I made the food and they are arguing, I send them away. If they made the food and they are complaining (and its good), then I agree with them and continuing eating. Just don’t fight about good food, OK?
My favorite spritz to both moisten and sweeten the meat, but also add a nice bark, is a 1/4 to 3/4 blend of apple juice and olive oil. I hit it every 45 min to an hour with that.
I have saved myself so much frustration by buying a flame thrower that attaches to a propane tank for when I’m smoking, and it’s cold outside.
One of my family’s favorite traditions is coming up with innovative new dishes for two to three days after a big BBQ. We love green chile pulled pork enchiladas and brisket and veggie pastys. I recently made pulled pork curry that may have changed me at a cellular level.
Jason Bobo is Associate Pastor of Christ Presbyterian Church in Tulsa, Oklahoma. He has degrees from Grand Canyon University (BA) and Westminster Theological Seminary (MDiv). He and his wife Tiffany have four children.
