Gosh, that picture makes me salivate! (Too much peanut butter can do that to you. I need to go get me some hot Indian food.)
Anyways, the other day I had a patient in my clinic. I could tell he was Indian before I even set my eyes on him. No, I had not seen his name or glanced at his chart before I came to my conclusion. He—or she—was Indian. I was sure. I had just walked by the room (s)he was in and discerned it instantly. Indian. One of that ilk—or there could have been a whole host of them Indians lurking around in the clinic (besides me). Indian it/he/she/they was/were, no matter what the gender, number, caste, or creed. No question. Indian.
For out from the room was wafting the delicate aroma of a mixture of esoteric spices from an exotic land. A profusion of fragrances—ginger, garlic, mustard seeds, sesame oil, hot peppers, coriander, turmeric, cumin, saffron, and a host of other enigmatic odors—dancing with abandon upon my olfactory nerve endings. Yup, Indian.
You see, novices of Indian cooking are unaware of one of its potent idiosyncrasies. The spices employed in that fine epicurean art invade and attach themselves to everything, and I mean everything. Your clothes, your rugs, your curtains, your lampshades—everything. Everything takes on a curry flavor! And that signature bouquet emanates from your person broadcasting your culinary inclinations and possibly your ethnicity as well. That’s how I knew there was an Indian around there that day. (Now peanut butter, stink, it doth not. Then again, it doesn’t taste as good as a fried hot pepper. Not by a long shot. Nope, not even JIF.) The cognoscenti, like my sister-in-law, know to use industrial grade fans in the kitchen (that can blow your hair off!), or to perform all those intricate gastronomic maneuvers on the deck outside the house (announcing an Indian meal to the rest of the neighborhood!). But gourmets like me—we know best: we just eat out! (Or stick with JIF!)
All this olfactory talk reminds me of a verse from Paul.
Anyways, the other day I had a patient in my clinic. I could tell he was Indian before I even set my eyes on him. No, I had not seen his name or glanced at his chart before I came to my conclusion. He—or she—was Indian. I was sure. I had just walked by the room (s)he was in and discerned it instantly. Indian. One of that ilk—or there could have been a whole host of them Indians lurking around in the clinic (besides me). Indian it/he/she/they was/were, no matter what the gender, number, caste, or creed. No question. Indian.
For out from the room was wafting the delicate aroma of a mixture of esoteric spices from an exotic land. A profusion of fragrances—ginger, garlic, mustard seeds, sesame oil, hot peppers, coriander, turmeric, cumin, saffron, and a host of other enigmatic odors—dancing with abandon upon my olfactory nerve endings. Yup, Indian.
You see, novices of Indian cooking are unaware of one of its potent idiosyncrasies. The spices employed in that fine epicurean art invade and attach themselves to everything, and I mean everything. Your clothes, your rugs, your curtains, your lampshades—everything. Everything takes on a curry flavor! And that signature bouquet emanates from your person broadcasting your culinary inclinations and possibly your ethnicity as well. That’s how I knew there was an Indian around there that day. (Now peanut butter, stink, it doth not. Then again, it doesn’t taste as good as a fried hot pepper. Not by a long shot. Nope, not even JIF.) The cognoscenti, like my sister-in-law, know to use industrial grade fans in the kitchen (that can blow your hair off!), or to perform all those intricate gastronomic maneuvers on the deck outside the house (announcing an Indian meal to the rest of the neighborhood!). But gourmets like me—we know best: we just eat out! (Or stick with JIF!)
All this olfactory talk reminds me of a verse from Paul.
But thanks be to God,
who always leads us
in triumph in Christ,
and manifests through us
the sweet aroma
of the knowledge of Him
in every place.
2 Corinthians 2:14
who always leads us
in triumph in Christ,
and manifests through us
the sweet aroma
of the knowledge of Him
in every place.
2 Corinthians 2:14
Can they tell that I’m a Christian from far, before they set their eyes on me or read my name or look at my chart? Does the aroma of Christ emanate from me everywhere I go? Does anyone know? Do they see, hear, feel, taste, and smell Christ when I’m around?
God has this thing about smell. He loves fragrance. The Scriptures are awash in stuff about God being pleased by perfume. But only one particular kind of perfume. Not the concoctions of Gucci, Cavalli, Prada, Saint Laurent, or Chanel. Rather, the soothing redolence of sacrifice. That’s what pleases God.
Then Noah built an altar to the LORD,
and took of every clean animal
and of every clean bird and
offered burnt offerings on the altar.
The LORD smelled
the soothing aroma …
Genesis 8:20–21
and took of every clean animal
and of every clean bird and
offered burnt offerings on the altar.
The LORD smelled
the soothing aroma …
Genesis 8:20–21
Christ also loved you
and gave Himself up for us,
an offering and a sacrifice
to God as a fragrant aroma.
Ephesians 5:2
and gave Himself up for us,
an offering and a sacrifice
to God as a fragrant aroma.
Ephesians 5:2
Now that’s an aroma that is pleasing to God. And our Christlikeness, our aroma of Christ, likewise pleases Him.
… we are a fragrance of Christ to God.
2 Corinthians 2:15
2 Corinthians 2:15
May our lives be spicy for God!
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