“Food is a gift of God given to all creatures for the purposes of life’s nurture, sharing, and celebration. When it is done in the name of God, eating is the earthly realisation of God’s eternal communion-building love.” ― Norman Wirzba, Food and Faith

I have a deep dislike for roads paved with bricks. The colour, the feel, the shape, the drabness, the hard structure, the weight. Nothing about a brick on a road warms me. Yet, to reach this one place, I will have to overcome my aversion to this street stone. As the bricks wear down the soles of my shoes, I cross the street towards an old auto garage. The resident mechanic, a kind Turkish-Dutch man of 70, smokes a hand-rolled cigarette while sitting on a large white bucket, turned upside down. His wrinkles, deeply set into his face, are as friendly as his smile. The smell of petrol, oil, and metal fills my nose.

All of this appeals to me, because it means that I am approaching the place I love the most. Next to the auto garage is another garage, a place that stands out because it is the only one in the row that does not have corrugated iron on the facade with a pebble-dash wall beneath it. A white roller shutter, currently reaching down to the ground, but one that, after a few good kicks from my shoes, slowly and noisily rises with much clatter.

While I wait for this racket to end, I try to imagine what it must be like to step into the Fronleichnam Church in Aachen. I think of the oasis, the openness, the abundance of white, a churchly calmness, a door that leads to another world. The words of the architect Rudolf Schwarch, who designed the Fronleichnam Church, are as follows: “What stands within and who enters here receives the curious grandeur and intensity of existence.” Meanwhile, a bright yellow front comes into view, and within it, a door unfolds. This door resembles that of the Fronleichnam: the door takes me to another world. Once inside, the smell of metal is replaced by aromas of stewed meat in broth, the scent of tomatoes, garlic, fish, but also that of freshly baked bread.

My movements through time and space somehow seem trivial compared to these scents. You are always greeted with a loving welcome. It is one of the few places where I feel I am not being judged. This place is authentic, and whatever is not entirely authentic, in itself and in our souls, is doomed to fail. That’s just the way it is.

The biggest difference between food and religion is that religion confuses me and food does not. The endless wars and misunderstandings—would they be fewer if we believed in the power of (sharing) food? Food is everything we are. It is an extension of culture, of nationalistic feelings, ethnic feelings, your personal history, your province, your region, your tribe, your grandmother. To connect and share, to better understand each other and to get to know each other better, we can share food. Just as God has love for everyone, so does food.

A church was built to serve God. A restaurant was built to to serve food. I suspect a connection between the two. It is with a body that we experience a building, it is the space we can occupy with outstretched arms, it is the feet that move through that space, the wandering gaze that absorbs the space, the ear that explores the sounds within it, and our breath that fills the space. Space is experienced through movement, through dance. Is eating not also a form of dancing? How else can you explain the sensations that flavours create in your mouth, sometimes accompanied by so much expression and emotion? Architecture or ingredients are not merely the creation of living forms. Church and restaurant are not just enclosed spaces, they are everything at once: building and people, body and soul, the people and Christ, a spiritual universe; a universe that must constantly be made real again.