Reading this Sunday's lectionary texts, specifically the Numbers text and the Gospel lesson, I found myself, for some reason, remembering the church potlucks of my childhood and the way that I would refuse to eat any pie except my mom's. Because my mother's pie was fabulous. The sweet-tart ratio, the mix of spices, the flakiness factor of the crust, were always just right. Other people's moms' pies -- well, you just didn't know. They cut up the apples differently. They topped their pies differently -- with a crust instead of my mom's delicious streusel; or, worse yet, no topping at all, just bare chunks of apple. The other pies looked suspicious; all of them.
"Try a different pie," my mother would instruct, sotto voce, at the dessert table. "Let other people have our pie."
"No," I'd whine. "I want your pie. I don't like the way their pies look."
I wonder how much spiritual nourishment, not to mention enjoyment, I miss out on because it's in the wrong pie.