For several years when I was a young pastor, I taught a fifth and sixth-grade Sunday School class, and I would often ask my students if they knew what a covenant was. "A covenant is a promise," they would answer, in unison--those kids had been well taught! "Just any kind of promise?" I would ask. "No, a special kind of promise," they would answer. "Can you give me an example?" I would ask. "Like a wedding," they would answer.
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It all started with a tomato sandwich.
Ahab had grown up in the city. He didn't know much about life in the country. But when he visited some of his cousins in the valley, they took him out to the garden where he could see those ripe, red tomatoes hanging heavy on the vine, warmed by the sun. They picked a few of the biggest ones and brought them into the house, put them on the kitchen counter, and then showed Ahab how to cut off a juicy, half-inch-thick slab and lay it carefully on a fresh, white slice of Wonder bread. They showed him how to spread Duke's mayonnaise on another slice of bread, sprinkle on a little salt and pepper, and then put the sandwich together. And when he took the first bite, when he inhaled the aroma of fresh bread and real mayonnaise and then felt that sweet, acidic, burst of tomato flavor on his tongue, the surprising contrast of textures, the warm juice trickling down his chin--he knew that he had to have tomato sandwiches for the rest of his life.
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