I can control my consumption of all foods but three: donuts, Derby Pie, and pizza. As a result, I refuse to go near the first and indulge in the second only once a year. When it comes to the third, however … let’s just say we have an unhealthy relationship. There’s no such thing as just one slice for me. If I am in the same room as a pizza and there’s no one to restrain me, untold amounts of fat, carbohydrates, and protein will be riding the red pepper train to Steve’s stomach.
Whenever a pizza bacchanalia is on the schedule, I can’t stop thinking about it. There are so many choices to ponder. For example, will it come from Joe Peeps, my favorite local pizzeria, or a chain? I do not discriminate in this regard. Pizzas are not superior to each other, only different.
After I decide which hallowed hall of pizza production I shall commission to create my pie, my thoughts turn to the toppings. For the first time, uncertainty encroaches on my unfettered food fantasy. While it would be hard to choose a topping that would ruin the pizza (except for anchovies), the toppings alter the overall experience. Maybe I want to try something new, like salami and pepperoncinis, or barbecued chicken or stuffed crust. No matter what I choose, it’s still pizza, which means it’s still paradise. My only risk is a culinary experience not quite as divine as one I have known heretofore.
In the end, I’m eating pizza. That’s the important part. Even though my stomach will soon feel like an anvil and my dreams will feature purple llamas singing “My Old Kentucky Home,” I got my pizza.
That’s a lot better than eating lima beans.
In an article titled, “The Lima Bean Gospel,” Mark Labberton says that Christians often make the gospel look like lima beans—“small, smooth, and tasteless.” I agree that we too often make the message of Jesus seem bland and unappealing. However, I think the gospel is more like pizza. The problem isn’t so much that Christianity lacks flavor; it’s that we quibble over the toppings. And that’s all anybody notices.
