Given His beginning, made flesh amidst the goats and sheep and cattle, the manner of His first temptation was the temptation of humanity: visions of kid marinated with spiced wine; spring lamb; succulent roasts, tender to the marrow.
    Create this for Yourself, the devil said to the Christ, showing Him whitened bones lying upon the desert sand. Come feast, O Son of God.
    And the Christ, who had hungered longer than the wax and wane of the moon, refused to transmute the bones. No, not meat, He did say.
    Ah, a vegetarian, the devil said to himself. But there are other needs of the flesh.
    And the devil displayed visions of high-reaching fountains, streams of icy water, full wineskins squirting purple juice.
    Create this for Yourself, the devil said, showing Him handfuls of trickling sand. Come drink, O Messiah.
    And the Christ, whose tremendous thirst was born of 40 days and 40 nights in the desert, quietly refused to transform the sand. No wine, thanks, He did say.
    A tee-totaller? the devil said to himself. Ah, well, there is more to man than the tender wants of the body.
    And he did display visions of warm curds of cheese with chunks of bread, which the mother of the Christ prepared for Him when He was but a child.
    Create this for Yourself, the devil said, showing Him stones as round as bread, pebbles as small as curds. Come home, son of man.
    And the Christ, who wore the skin of a man, hesitated, remembering His first meal of warm milk, His mother's palm cradling His head. He realized that he hungered for the embrace of innocence, for the acceptance of one's flesh.
    Weary from the tasks and trials that His Father demanded of Him already, the Christ understood at last the manner of temptation and the hungers of the mind, worse than that of the body.
    And sorrowfully the Christ refuted His humanity when He said, No cheese, either.

    Upon His return to Galilee, His mother pulled the Christ from His disciples.
    There is a wedding I am to attend, His mother said as she led Him into the temple. And I cannot find Your father. Your earthly father, I mean.
    Philip and Andrew and Peter looked at one another and made to follow their Master, but He bade them wait at the door, understanding that the demands of His flesh and blood were not theirs.
    At the end of the ceremony, His mother said to Him, There is no wine, Son.
    Mine hour is not yet come, the Christ replied--but respectfully because she was His mother.
    Again she did say, There is no wine. Shall my friends be shamed before their neighbors because their vineyards are dry?
    Again the Christ would refuse His mother, but He saw the joy of her Son in her eyes. Is this yet another temptation? He silently asked His Father, whose presence suffused the temple and all inside. The Christ would honor His parent--but which one, He was not certain.
    His mother bade the servants to mind her Son. Wait until you see what He can do, she told all who would listen.
    Sighing, the Christ told the servants to fill the pots with well water. Now serve the wine, He told the puzzled servants. And the guests of the wedding did drink their fill of the fruit of the vine from the pots and praised God for His selection of vintages.
    Philip and Andrew and Peter at the door licked their lips and marveled at the miracle. May we enter and drink, Master? they pleaded.
    And the Christ's mother said to Him, The wine is good, but there are no appetizers.
    The Christ shook His head, wondering at the demands of the flesh. What would you have Me do? He asked His mother.
    Make curds of cheese, His mother said. And loaves of bread.
    Philip and Andrew and Peter did encourage Him with rumbling stomachs at the door, heard even deep inside the temple.
    And the Christ did understand at last the ties of humanity to its own flesh and the unrelenting demands of these ties. Under the loving gaze of His mother, He did renounce His kin of flesh.
    Sorry, Mother, He said sadly. No cheese.

    In Bethsaida, upon the mount, the twelve bid Him to send the multitude away. After a day of sermons, the crowds were famished but reluctant to leave the presence of the Master.
    More than their bodies hunger, the Christ told his disciples. We will feed the flesh and hence the spirit.
    Would we buy meat for five thousand? the twelve asked. For amongst us we have only five loaves and two fishes. And we have no scrip, Andrew added. Unless You have some tucked away.
    Sit them down, fifty by fifty, the Christ replied.
    The disciples did as he bid. And the Christ took the loaves and fishes and blessed them and broke them in two, over and over. Yet the fish and the bread did replenish themselves, until each in the crowd had half a fish and half a loaf.
    Noticing the masses silently clutching the food, the Christ did say, My Father in heaven bids you eat.
    Still the crowd did not.
    Master, Peter said, tugging the sleeve of the Christ's robe. They do not eat because they wish to retain proof of this day's miracle.
    There is no end to My Father's bounty, the Christ answered. Bid them eat.
    Again Peter did say, They will not. Give them something to take home, Master, something to accompany the bread and the fish.
    And the Christ felt sorrow that the masses wished evidence of the hand rather than of the heart. He knew this to be a faith fanned by words and hungering for gifts, thus easily led astray.
    No, Peter, the Christ said, His heart heavy, refusing humanity's need for His presence in flesh. No cheese.
    Actually, I was thinking about the water to wine business, Peter muttered. But softly.

    The end of His flesh came upon a cross of wood, where even the faith of the Christ was sorely tested.
    O, Father, where are You? He moaned as agony gnawed His body and the pain of a million untouched hearts ate His soul.
    Perform one last miracle, the unseen devil murmured in His ear. Save Yourself and bring the Word of God to all. Are You not both man and God? Why permit Your flesh to die?
    And the Christ, struggling against the temptation licking at His resolve, dropped his gaze to the soldiers, who were gaming for His ragged garments whilst they ate.
    I hunger, He said to them, speaking not of his bodily desires but of the sudden famine of His spirit.
    The soldiers laughed and mocked Him. Here, one of the soldiers said, taking a morsel of bread that had fallen to the dirt. Take this that You may eat. And he threw it upward at the Christ's face.
    It did miss.
    Another soldier dipped a rag in vinegar and put it at the end of his spear. Thrusting it up at the Christ, the soldier said, Drink of the vine, O King of the Jews.
    He did not turn from the rag but gladly welcomed it, sucking the bitter liquid while the soldiers jeered. His mouth yet parched, the Christ thanked the men with puckered lips. And He asked them then, What, no cheese? He knew in that moment, as His spirit began to shed His flesh, that He did love all humanity, in spite of its frailties--a gift only brought by His death.
    As the soldiers stared at one another, puzzled, He hanged His head and whispered, It is done. And joyfully did the Christ give up the ghost before the soldiers could respond with a smart reply.
    That night, as the soldiers ate their evening meal around the fire, all of them found small warm curds of cheese in their packs. In each chunk, the visage of the Christ was etched with a slender ribbon of mold. Disgusted, the soldiers pitched the cheese over their shoulders.
    They, like us all, knew not what they did.

    It is for reasons of remembrance and worship that we partake of the cheese during communion, along with the bread and the wine. The latter two are the Christ made flesh and blood; the former is humanity's faith in God, the Father.
    The symbolism inherent in the cheese, the holiest of foods, urges us to throw off the robes of materialism and ties of the flesh and to seek a purer kind of faith. A faith that is not demanding of reward, a faith that is not tied to the frailties of flesh, a faith that requires no miracles.
    We are reminded of this through images of the Christ that have appeared, sporatically, in every manner of cheese since the year of His death and resurrection.
    Who can doubt the craggy profile of His face discovered in a hunk of feta cheese in Ancient Rome, displayed for decades in the coliseum until mice overran that grand monument? Or His bemused countenance appearing in slabs of bleu cheese during the Middle Ages, slabs that were hoarded and eaten by monks in search of visions? Or even His writhing body upon the cross, found in a box of Velveeta during the last decade and currently on display at the Vatican?
    With the Jesus in the cheese, our faith is renewed and the skeptics are silenced. But the miracle of visitation through the holy cheese is a parable for another time.

"Parable of the Cheese" copyright 1997 Kim Fryer. All rights reserved.