THE GREAT CHEF-HERD

If you can cook, there is a Jesus in you

A Prologue Of Hunger and Responsibility

In many African homes, hunger is not always loud. It does not always announce itself with the drama of a rumbling stomach or the boldness of complaint. Sometimes, it sits quietly in the corner, dressed in words like “I’m fine” or “I’m not really hungry.” Sometimes, it is pride or lack, and sometimes, it is simply the absence of someone who cares enough to ask twice. I say this from experience, some people need to be asked twice or more before they allow themselves to feed and not feel ashamed.

It is often said that;

The child who says he is not hungry has either eaten or has learned how to suffer in silence.

And so the question becomes: who is responsible for noticing the difference? Who carries the burden of ensuring that silence is not mistaken for satisfaction? Is it the host in a home, or the visitor, the chef/cook, or the guest?

This is where the idea of the chef begins to stretch beyond pots and knives and into something more ancient, more sacred, because in truth, the act of cooking/feeding has never been ordinary, as I always say. It has always been a form of guardianship, an act of watching over bodies, of tending to lives, and in this way, the chef, whether structurally trained or untrained, becomes something else entirely —a shepherd.

The Theology of Feeding: More Than Food

There is a dangerous assumption in modern culinary culture that cooking is primarily for survival, and a more underwhelming (unspoken) notion that it is solely an aesthetic pursuit, that it is about plating, presentation, applause, and sometimes, survival.

If one looks closely at the patterns of life, especially within our communities within and beyond the African walls, it becomes clear that food has always been more than consumption; it has been a means of communication. How one serves is equally as pivotal as the meal being served.

In many African cultures, to be invited to eat is to be accepted, and to be fed is to be seen. As my elders would say, the hand that gives you food has already told you where you stand.

So what then does it mean when a person consistently feeds people, not as performance, but as provision? What does it mean when feeding becomes a language of care rather than a display of skill or a yearning for public prestige? There is a quiet truth hidden here: that the one who feeds carries influence, not by force, but by service. And this is where the figure of Christ begins to emerge in a way that is (read might be) both unsettling and deeply familiar.

Christ the Provider: The Unlikely Culinary Archetype

It may sound almost irreverent at first to refer to Jesus as a chef, but perhaps irreverence is sometimes the doorway to deeper understanding. For what is a chef, if not one who transforms what is available into what is needed? And what did Christ consistently do, if not meet people at the intersection of their hunger and His provision?

Consider the feeding of the multitude: a situation that, by all logical accounts, should have ended in scarcity, embarrassment, or, should I say, dismissal, especially when you look at the incident through the eyes of our leaders. Instead, it became a story of abundance that would trend for centuries and many more years to come. Not only did everyone eat, but there were leftovers; an outcome that quietly mocks the limitations of human calculation. There is an African saying that;

When the soup is delicious (original transcription: sweet), it is not the size of the pot that matters but the hand that cooked it.

So one must ask: what kind of hand multiplies food beyond expectation? What kind of heart refuses to let a crowd disperse hungry? And more importantly, what does that suggest about the nature of true leadership? Because leadership that does not feed will eventually lose its people to hunger.

Water, Wine, and the Mystery of Taste

I remember the first time I heard about a wedding where water turned into wine, and the story fascinated me. It was also bewildering that water, the same water we drink, became wine. I almost thought it was metaphorical, or rather fictitious.

Imagine a wedding where joy was meant to be full, but lack crept in through the back door, and the wine (the most significant, if not only drink) was finished.

In a culture where hospitality is not optional but essential, where families bench their honour on how well they have hosted their guests from across the nations, this was more than a minor inconvenience; it was a rupture of dignity for the chef, the vendors, the event planner, and everyone related to the couple by blood.

In today’s world, even a magician or emergency vendor would ask for a huge fee plus additional incentives to perform any feat, especially knowing that the need for a miracle was impromptu.

Yet, in that moment, something remarkable occurred. The waters in many jars became wine, and not just any wine, but the kind that made people question the sequence of excellence. It raises a curious thought in my mind: was this merely a miracle, or was it also the revelation of a standard? There is a proverb that says, " The first person to taste sweetness teaches the world how to desire”.

Could it be that in that moment, a template was set, not just for celebration, but for craftsmanship? That what we now call brewing, fermenting, refining, was inspired by a divine interruption in an ordinary event? It is a lazy/playful thought, yes, but within it lies a serious implication: that excellence, even in food and drink, has roots that may be deeper than we care to admit.

Manna and the Discipline of Enough

Long before structured kitchens and measured recipes, there were people in the wilderness faced with a daily question: what will we eat? And the answer came, not as stored abundance, but as daily provision. Manna did not arrive in excess; it arrived in sufficiency. And when greed attempted to stretch it beyond its intended purpose, it decayed.

That has always been a lesson for me, quite uncomfortably so, with many modern systems of productivity and hustle. For we are taught to accumulate, to store, to secure tomorrow at all costs. Yet here lies a countercultural rhythm: that there is wisdom in enoughness. That the stomach that is filled with tomorrow’s food may forget how to trust for tomorrow’s provision.

What does this mean for the chef who is constantly striving, constantly producing, constantly fearing lack? Could it be that part of the discipline of cooking is learning when enough is enough? When to serve, when to be creative, when to stop, and when to trust that provision will meet the next day?

The Shepherd’s Instinct: Feeding Before Leaving

There is a particular kind of restlessness that comes when people are unfed. It is not always visible, but it is deeply disruptive. I have felt it, I have been on both sides of the coin. An unfed person wanders, not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually. This is why the image of the shepherd is so powerful; it is also why I have adopted the act of feeding people during my occasional evangelical outreaches structured by my local church. For how will the word of God rest comfortably in an empty and rumbling stomach?

A shepherd does not merely guide; he sustains. It is said that he can leave the ninety-nine for one, but wisdom suggests that he does not abandon them that same 99 in hunger. Because a hungry flock does not wait for its shepherd, it scatters in search of survival.

This instinct finds its way into my everyday life in ways that are almost unnoticed. It’s in the quiet decision not to eat until everyone in the room has been served, in the pauses taken to ask, “Do you want more?” “Are you sure you don’t want something?” It’s in the awareness that appetite is not always immediate, that sometimes it arrives late, shy, or hidden behind discomfort and shame. These small acts may seem insignificant, but they are, in truth, reflections of a deeper calling, the calling to care beyond convenience.

The Language of Bread: Feeding the Body and the Soul

It is no coincidence that much of Christ’s language is rooted in food. Bread, water, wine, these are not abstract concepts; they are daily necessities. And perhaps that is the point. That the most profound truths are often communicated through the most ordinary experiences. To say “I am the bread of life” is not just a metaphor; it is an invitation to understand sustenance in a fuller sense, because hunger is not limited to the stomach.

There is a hunger for meaning, for belonging, for peace, and just as physical hunger can distort behavior, so can spiritual hunger. An African adage reminds us that a hungry man does not hear proverbs. And so, before wisdom can land, hunger must be addressed. This is the balance that defines true provision: the ability to feed both body and soul, to recognize that one without the other leaves a person or the message incomplete.

The Ethics of the Kitchen: Beyond Performance

In a world increasingly driven by visibility and validation, it is easy for the kitchen to become a stage. A place where meals are crafted not just to nourish has now become the arena to impress multiple kinds of audiences. There is a quiet warning in this shift that my people are not wary of yet. For when performance becomes the primary goal, people become secondary.

Every chef, or food handler, homecook, or professional reading this must know that the kitchen that forgets people has already lost its purpose. To be a chef “the right way” is to resist this drift, to anchor one’s practice in responsibility rather than recognition. It is to understand that every plate carries weight, that every meal is an opportunity to reflect care. As the saying goes, the firewood does not boast of the meal; it is the eater who knows its worth.

So my question to ask you is: what/who is the meal for? Is it for applause, or is it for sustenance? Is it for display, or is it for dignity?

Reflections: Becoming the Image We Reflect

If indeed man is made in the image of God, then it follows that our actions, even the most mundane, carry echoes of that image. To cook, or feed, then, is not just to perform a task; it is to participate in something divine. It is to mirror a pattern that has existed long before us, a pattern of provision, of care, and of intentionality.

Perhaps this is the true calling of every Chef, to be a Shepherd Chef-herd: not just to cook, but to watch over; not just to serve, but to see; not just to feed, but to understand, to be an empath. Because at the end of the day, food will finish, plates will be cleared, but the experience of being cared for, of being considered, of not being left to hunger and internal turmoil, that is what remains.

And so, a final question that lingers quietly yet persistently in my mind: when people eat from the works of my (or your) hands, what exactly are they receiving? Is it just food… or is it something more?