A Liturgy of Care

on manna as a hymn of resistance to empire

I wake each morning to the soft stirrings of life outside my window. There’s a simple kind of grace in stepping into the cool morning air, sprinkling feed on the ground, and watching little lives rush toward me with fervor that never fails to stir something in me.

Have you ever heard that chickens are the closest relative to dinosaurs? Every time their little legs pump as fast as they can, I see it—their wings pressed against their bodies like raptors, necks stretched tall like their dinosaur ancestors. The goats bleat, the pigs snort, their little hooves tapping against the earth, eager for their turn to graze freely. Their trust is almost absurdly simple. Without hesitation, they know—all of them— they know I will nourish them. There’s something deeply profound about that kind of trust.

I collect yesterday’s scraps onto a plate at the edge of my kitchen—wilted greens, bread crusts, the bits that would have been discarded. It’s satisfying to know that even what I deem waste will satisfy little bellies. This daily rhythm of care, this humble act of provision, feels like a kind of liturgy.

Maximo and Mateo enjoying pumpkin scraps

I thought of the manna in the wilderness yesterday as I scattered these bits on the ground. God’s provision for the Israelites: sweet flakes falling with the morning dew, enough for the day, no more, no less. The more I think of it, that story feels like a hymn of resistance to empire.

Imagine a people emerging from the shadow of Pharaoh’s pyramids, their bodies cogs in a machine of endless production. Empire is a cruel master, whispering lies of scarcity and demanding infinite accumulation. It hoards, it corrupts, it bends us toward distrust. But in the wilderness, outside of empire’s confines, God gives them manna, not as a reward for labor, but as a gift. To gather it was to trust in a sacred flow of abundance.

Manna is quiet rebellion. A holy cadence of care that insists: there is enough.

For the Israelites, it was a lesson learned under a wide sky—a God who gives freely. The divine economy resists the Pharaohs of the world, teaching the Israelites a rhythm of dependence and rest. On the sixth day, they gathered for Sabbath —a sacred pause that empires would deny them.

As I feed my animals, I see it—provision that doesn’t hoard but trusts. Too much feed leaves them restless, competing, wasting. But enough for today? That brings calm, trust, and contentment.

They remind me of a truth I often forget: abundance is here, in the grace of each morning. And maybe that truth is manna for me, too.