“Don’t grumble; don’t complain. Don’t grumble; don’t complain. Don’t grumble! Don’t complain!”

By the time I reach the fourth iteration of my little chant, what started as a scowling whisper has turned into a howling proclamation, as I jump up and down and pump my fists through the air. One of my kids is laughing and chanting with me. The other child has eyebrows furrowed in frustration. He has now shifted from grumbling about his dinner to protesting dad’s dancing. At that point, I really have no option but to tickle him out of his ridiculous bad attitude.

I do mean ridiculous. Our sin is insane, our sin is silly, and thus, our sin is worthy not only of sorrow but even, at times, of ridicule. The baseline response to willful, intentional sin in our house is discipline. But discipline serves instruction, and instruction serves formation. My goal as a parent is the formation of a whole and holy person; I want to see my kids’ imaginations, emotions, and inclinations all pressed into the mold of God’s own mind. I want them to think and feel and react to everything, including sin, the way God does. I want them to applaud God’s thunderstorms, hum for good cooking, gag at lipstick on a pig, grieve the lost, and scorn the insane sin of grumbling and complaining.

So, I will on occasion dance and chant in mockery of grumbling. I do it because truth is sometimes better sung than stated. And I do it because, when my kids grumble, I am tempted to grumble against them in response. There are times when I need the reminder more than anyone. (“‘Calm down!’ Dad shouted” is one of my favorite jokes to mutter when I’m angry.)

Sometimes I jump around and sing against sin because the only thing more ridiculous than a dancing dad is a grumbling one.

Why do I so quickly boil when my kids complain? Probably because I feel like they are making a statement about me and their mom. They’re saying, “I don’t like what you’ve given me. I don’t think you intend what’s best for me. I don’t think you know what’s best for me. I don’t think you care about what’s best for me.” The broccoli hits the dinner plate, the TV gets switched off, bedtime shows up like a brick through the window, and in a moment of frustration and bewilderment, they respond, “I know you gave me life and always provide for my needs, but you know what? I really don’t trust you right now.”

Grumbling Lies

Beyond being offensive, this is also tragic because it is untrue. My children are deceived about their parents — just like I am deceived about my heavenly Father whenever I complain. James warns us about this lie. He explains that sin comes from our own bent desires, not God’s designs. Anyone who believes otherwise, James suggests, buys into a lie. “Do not be deceived, my beloved brothers.” “Deceived about what?” we ask.

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change. Of his own will he brought us forth by the word of truth, that we should be a kind of firstfruits of his creatures. (James 1:16–18)

When I give in to the temptation to grumble and complain, I tell a story about my Father. I’m saying his designs are subpar, less than best, leaving much to be desired. Grumbling says that God is not a good and generous Father, that he withholds his gifts, that he is stingy. Even if I’m “just venting” or “just saying” or “just getting something off my chest,” I am looking at my heavenly Father and stating rather brashly, “I know you gave me life and always provide for my needs. More than that, you gave me new life and promise me every spiritual blessing and eternity besides. But you know what? I really don’t trust you right now.”

To grumble is to be deceived. Grumbling is a muttering meditation on the dis-trustfulness of God (which is where the deception comes in, because God is always trustworthy). Grumbling is the opposite of Psalm 1: The grumbler forgets about the law of the Lord and meditates on his own discomfort and the failures of others day and night. Grumbling vocalizes in hushed tones the belief that God gives bad gifts. Grumbling is a profound act of unfaith and disbelief in the fatherly intentions of God.

Consider the insanity of grumbling. What does grumbling get you? Nothing but more grumbling! By God’s design, the consequence for sin fits the crime. For example, the wicked fall prey to their own evil traps (e.g., Psalm 7:15; 9:15; 35:8; Proverbs 28:10). So too, grumbling will get you more grumbling. Grumbling is its own punishment. You want to play with the matches of discontentment and wave the torch of complaining around? Okay. Don’t be surprised when your habit of “just saying” finally burns the house down.

Or do be surprised. Marvel that you let yourself be deceived for as long as you did. And then grab a bucket of repentance and start dousing your discontentment with thankful faith in the fatherhood of God.

Every Good Gift Comes Down

Here’s a bucket to get you started: If you find yourself giving in to the temptation to grumble and complain, ask yourself, Why did God bring me to life in the first place? It wasn’t because you had the great idea of redemption and repentance. It wasn’t because one of your submissions to the Suggestions Box of Salvation finally got through to the right person’s desk. God saved you “of his own will,” and by his own power he “brought us forth” (James 1:18). Here James employs a natal term, which the NIV translates,

He chose to give us birth through the word of truth, that we might be a kind of firstfruits of all he created. (James 1:18)

James is clearly talking about the new birth of salvation here, the new birth of the Holy Spirit. Why did he give you a new birth? To what end? “That we should be a kind of firstfruits of his creatures.” God aimed to make us preeminent in his restored creation. If he has already given us the gracious, generous gift of undeserved new life, why should we expect anything else in the future but more gifts of the same kind? If he willingly gave his Son for us, why would he withhold anything else (Romans 8:32)?

Imagine someone went to a distant country, found an orphan, spent a fully funded 401(k) to adopt the child, and then refused to meet his basic needs, skimping out on things like food and clothing. That would be an insane thing to do. But God is not insane. What is insane is for you and me to suggest with our mumbles and grumbles that God is ungenerous. So, let’s sing our way out of the impulse to grumble. “Calm down,” Dad yelled, and “Stop complaining,” he muttered. Oh, there is a better way. Learn to dance on discontentment and to smirk at the suggestion that the Giver is stingy.

Through Christ, God is our Father. We can trust that he only gives us good gifts, perfect and fitting, even when we don’t immediately recognize them as such. All he gives are good gifts, and every good gift is from him.

So, don’t be deceived. Have faith. Don’t grumble; don’t complain.

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I should’ve seen it coming. I opened my computer to pull up the dinner recipe I was following, oblivious to the danger ahead. As I scrolled down to find the instructions, my eyes took in photos of a beautiful kitchen, a beautiful cook, and beautiful cuisine. With quick steps, my mind traveled a familiar trail: Her home is more beautiful than mine. She’s younger than me, prettier than me, and cooks better than me. She is better than me.

Just like that, the trap snapped and comparison caught me again.

The Trap of Comparison

Every trap entices with bait of some kind. What bait does comparison offer that draws us in so easily? The answer lies in the conclusion at the end of the trail: She is better than me. Because comparison promises a means to measure our self-worth, we eagerly follow its breadcrumbs, hoping they will lead to the elusive certainty that we are enough; that we’re as good as (or better than) others; that when the votes come in, we’ll receive a five-star rating.

Not all comparison is sinful. Wrong comparison, however, uses other people to determine our own worth, marking the lines of our successes or failures by the yardstick of what others have or do or choose. And we women seem to do this all the time. We compare ourselves: our beauty, bodies, and abilities. We compare our possessions: our homes, clothes, and kids. We compare our circumstances: our prosperity, problems, and pain. We compare our choices: our vocations, education, or vacations. You name it, we can compare it.

While we may be good at comparison, wrong comparison does us no good. We walk into the trap, expecting the long-sought rest of a heart that knows its worth. But once inside, we’re plagued by the raucous noise of envy, covetousness, ingratitude, discontent, rebellion, and pride. We all know what this feels like. One moment, all is well with the world. The next moment, a friend’s new purchase or social media post has us all churned up inside. Love is replaced with competition. Rejoicing with jealousy. Gratitude with grumbling. Restfulness with rebellion. Or if comparison rules in our favor, suddenly we’re arrogant and self-satisfied (though still deeply insecure). When our hearts reach for worth apart from Christ, we grasp only the destructive whirlwind of our own worldly efforts.

Comparison Without Understanding

The restless racket of comparison reverberates from the voice of pride. Our hunger for worth makes us glory-seekers. As philosophy professor Rebecca Konyndyk DeYoung points out, we are “turned inward, praising ourselves or seeking our own praise” (Glittering Vices, 60). We are creatures, but we usurp our Creator with our “self-made means of affirmation. . . . We would rather create and manage our own image than try to live up to being image-bearers of God” (58).

With our sinful comparisons, we imitate the misguided people Paul describes in 2 Corinthians 10:12: “When they measure themselves by one another and compare themselves with one another, they are without understanding.” The Bible provides many examples of such comparison without understanding. Cain’s comparison provoked him to murder Abel (Genesis 4:4–8). The Israelites considered themselves grasshoppers compared to Nephilim and rebelled (Numbers 13:33; 14:4). The psalmist compared himself to the arrogant, and his steps “nearly slipped” (Psalm 73:2–3). The older son compared himself to his prodigal brother and angrily refused to join the rejoicing (Luke 15:25–30). And Peter, after learning what “follow me” might cost him, pointed to his fellow disciple and asked Jesus, “What about this man?” (John 21:19–21).

Comparison without understanding has always resulted in envy, rebellion, discontent, and doubt.

Wise Comparison

In place of sinful comparison, God calls us to wise comparison — comparison with understanding. Wise comparison considers God’s word on worth and yields gratitude, praise, and rest. It leads us to worship the incomparable God rather than ourselves.

How might we grow in wise comparison? We can ask ourselves if in our comparison we consider what God reveals about himself, about us, and about salvation.

First, wise comparison considers God. No one compares to him, as Isaiah declares: “To whom will you liken God, or what likeness compare with him?” (Isaiah 40:18). He reigns over all the earth — nations, Nephilim, and newborns are equally grasshoppers before him (Isaiah 40:22). His great might and strong power hold the stars in place (Isaiah 40:26). People flower and fade, but his word stands forever (Isaiah 40:8). Considering God moves us to proclaim his excellencies rather than to compare ourselves with others to determine our own.

Second, wise comparison considers people from God’s perspective. The brightness of his glory reveals us for who we truly are — creatures upheld every moment by our powerful, loving Creator (Romans 11:36). In his sovereignty, he formed each of us not haphazardly or injudiciously but “fearfully and wonderfully” (Psalm 139:14). In his providence, he watches over us in such a way that all things “must work together for [our] salvation.”

A woman who considers God’s design and purpose surrenders her self-approval, and as C.S. Lewis says, “she will most innocently rejoice in the thing that God has made her to be . . . which heals her old inferiority complex forever” (The Weight of Glory, 38). Our worth does not come from Aldi or Whole Foods, Goodwill or Madewell, but from the grace of being valued and cared for by God. He esteems us above well-fed ravens and beautifully adorned lilies (Luke 12:22–31). He thinks of us even more than we think of ourselves (Psalm 40:5). Such priceless thoughts led George MacDonald to conclude, “I would rather be what God chose to make me, than the most glorious creature that I could think of. For to have been thought about — born in God’s thoughts — and then made by God, is the dearest, grandest, most precious thing in all thinking.”

Finally, wise comparison considers salvation. Our glory-seeking gives way to glory-giving when we savor our Savior. God sent his own Son to redeem us and his own Spirit to live in us, giving us a worth so high, we can’t comprehend it; so beyond our deserving, we never could earn it; and so secure, we never can lose it. Like Paul, we consider Jesus and see that he is infinitely better than whatever else we could deserve or desire (Philippians 3:7–8).

The comparison between what God saved us from and what he saved us to simultaneously humbles us and lifts our head. We were dead in our sins, but now we are alive in Christ (Ephesians 2:5). We were without hope and without God, but now we are brought near by his blood (Ephesians 2:12–13). Once strangers and foreigners, we’re now fellow citizens and saints (Ephesians 2:19). We were straying like sheep, but now we have returned to the Shepherd and Overseer of our souls (1 Peter 2:25). When the trap of comparison catches and confuses us, the gospel frees us to be caught by something far greater — the glorious love of the triune God.

Free in the Gospel

God-centered comparison reminds us of our value and motivates our virtue. A woman rooted in God’s love for her in Christ, “a love not contingent upon her performance or ranking of worthiness, . . . remains free to look at herself with honest humility and desire to be better” (Glittering Vices, 84).

By securing our worth in Jesus, the gospel frees us to become more like Jesus in our everyday lives. Our differences in spiritual growth spur us on toward greater holiness (Philippians 3:17). Our common calling teaches us to be humble (Ephesians 4:2). Communion replaces competition as we stir one another up in love (Hebrews 10:24). By repentance and faith, we confess that we are not yet what we will be, and trust that God will make us what he intends — saints who glorify him by enjoying him forever. What could compare with that?

Secular man may learn how to survive, but he does not know how to live. Because he knows not why he lives. In his sin, he gropes in the dark for meaning. He knows he can wreck any day now. He knows he will eventually hit the bottom. A forced sailor, he is born into this wild and raging sea of life he does not understand. He shudders to sink. He strives to stay aloft as long as possible. Yet he is moving, dragged toward somewhere — but where?

He discovers what pleases him and what makes time on these waters better or worse. Yet eat and drink as he may, the question finds him under silent stars — why am I here? The current of time, murmuring something, sends you on, ever on. Some sail slowly over decades. Others, days. Who decides? You don’t know. All you know is that you awake and find yourself sailing through a passing life you know not why, toward a place you know not where, for a length of time you cannot tell. You wish for fair winds and a few friends before you disappear. You want someone to notice when you’re gone.

While many of Adam’s fallen philosophers close their ears to revelation higher than themselves, the God who made us did not leave us answerless. Moses, the man of God, climbs into our boat to help us navigate the way. In Psalm 90, he teaches a generation wandering the wilderness, on the brink of great promise, how to navigate by the heavens, directing them (and us) toward God, our own death, and a fitting prayer as we hasten to our end (and a new beginning).

Eternal Anchor

Lord, you have been our dwelling place
     in all generations.
Before the mountains were brought forth,
     or ever you had formed the earth and the world,
     from everlasting to everlasting you are God. (Psalm 90:1–2)

Moses reaches back before time. Back before mountains towered toward the heavens, back before earth or wilderness or sea existed, back when only one could be found: God. “From everlasting to everlasting you are God.” So many sail without wisdom or purpose because they forget the God who outlives the seas. Made the seas. Placed us on them.

You will never find your purpose if you think you must invent it. You are a poor god, a fragile idol, a shabby alpha and omega. Should the thing created say to itself, “I shall create my own purpose for being”?

Mid-voyage, Moses recalls the God of the seas. Search all the way back; there he is. Fast forward to the very end and beyond; he sits enthroned. He was, is, and will forever be. To know who we are, we must start with who God is. The oceans are his art. The stars are his sermon. Man reflects his image.

You did not just appear in a boat going nowhere. Currently, you float within the final chapters of an epic conceived from everlasting, extending to everlasting. One authored by God, featuring God’s Son, and read to the eternal benefit of God’s people.

So Moses reminds us of God. He is, always is. Time cannot contain him. Moses introduces us to God and locates our little lives within the infinite bounds of his own existence. In him we live and move and have our being. And this, in a unique way for his people: “Lord, you have been our dwelling place.”

Navigator’s Prayer

Next, he teaches us about life by teaching us about our death. Here, we do not leave the first point but further it. God ever lives, and we always die. For romantic man, death is a fading upon the horizon, a descent below the waters, two lovers staring at each other as the ship sinks. Moses gives us another image.

You return man to dust
     and say, “Return, O children of man!” (Psalm 90:3)

He continues,

You sweep them away as with a flood; they are like a dream,
     like grass that is renewed in the morning:
in the morning it flourishes and is renewed;
     in the evening it fades and withers.

For we are brought to an end by your anger;
     by your wrath we are dismayed.
You have set our iniquities before you,
     our secret sins in the light of your presence.

For all our days pass away under your wrath;
     we bring our years to an end like a sigh.
The years of our life are seventy,
     or even by reason of strength eighty;
yet their span is but toil and trouble;
     they are soon gone, and we fly away.
Who considers the power of your anger,
     and your wrath according to the fear of you? (verses 5–11)

Man’s life was to be a connection, a fellowship, and an enjoyment and glorifying of his God. But man chose sin and, with it, death. “In the day that you eat of it you shall surely die” (Genesis 2:17). And so God returns man to the dust. He dispels him like a dream; passes him away with a sigh. His anger causes man to fly away; the ship breaks. Fallen life is fragile and fugitive.

We live in a day and we die in a day and then enter into the shoreless forever. What will become of us? Beneath, Leviathan. Above, the God of the Leviathan, who takes offense at you in your sin. We have no hope but for a gracious God.

So, we realize that our life, frail and fleeting, is found within the grand context of the life of God against whom we have sinned. Our death is not natural but judicial, an act by God’s righteous decree. What shall we do? Moses’s answer is to pray. But pray for what?

Teach Us to Tell Time

So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom. (Psalm 90:12)

So much wasting of life, so much reckless living, so little thought of forever. We are men and women who spend all our energies trying to make the short trip comfortable; we forget where we sail. Sinners are so casual about their souls, so careless about the next life. We need God to instruct us on how to make the most of our days. We need his help to count our days, redeem our moments, and keep pace with sprinting time. We need hearts that see God in all things and trust him with our sin, our souls, our salvation — now and always. Jesus Christ — living a perfect life, dying in our place, and rising from the dead, soon to return — is what hearts of wisdom chiefly believe and delight in.

Pity Your Servants

Return, O LORD! How long? Have pity on your servants! (Psalm 90:13)

He teaches us to regard our Lord as master indeed, drawing on the covenant name given to Israel: Yahweh. Apart from any gracious covenant, all that God can remember is how treacherous we’ve been toward him and how he owes us immediate and unrelenting wrath. But he made a first covenant with Israel, and he makes a new covenant with all who believe in Jesus Christ and repent of their sins. Before we return to dust, we must each cry out to our Lord to return to his servants with pity. We can safely ask him to come to us only after we have gone to him through his Son by his Spirit.

Satisfy Our Hearts

Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love,
     that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.
Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us,
     and for as many years as we have seen evil. (Psalm 90:14–15)

These days can pass miserable and empty. We need satisfaction; we need it early, and we find it, if we find it, in his steadfast love. No matter what our days contain, if they are contained within his love, we can be glad all our days. So many turn their vessel toward what they think will make them happy. But here Moses makes clear what will make man happy: God. And he pleads with God to satisfy them for as many days as he has afflicted them.

Establish Our Work

Work is such a toil when death approaches so speedily. “What’s the point?” as the sage in Ecclesiastes asks. Born in futility, labor in futility, die in futility. But Moses teaches us to plead for more:

Let your work be shown to your servants,
     and your glorious power to their children.
Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us,
     and establish the work of our hands upon us;
     yes, establish the work of our hands! (Psalm 90:16–17)

We need God working in our working. Our work is cursed; we need his blessing. Our labor is futile; we need his favor. Moses teaches us to pray for it. Unless the Lord builds the house, those who labor labor in vain.

Ancient Prayer for Modern Times

We live our lives in reference to the everlasting-to-everlasting God. Our death is a consequence of our sin and Adam’s sin; justice demands capital punishment. Yet Moses teaches us about life. He teaches us how to pray. We cry out to God for wisdom, for pity, for satisfaction, for him to establish his works in ours.

Those who find themselves on board are not here by accident. We were placed on this sea, but we are not alone. We sail under God toward God. When we die, we return to God. And in the meantime, those who are wise, who have learned the secrets to living, will cry out to Jesus Christ, their hiding place from the wrath to come.

Then death will not prove to be the beginning of our miseries but the beginning of our true life.

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Canto VI of Dante’s Inferno paints a sobering scene.

Dante and Virgil have just arrived in the third ring of hell, where God punishes the sin of gluttony. An accursed rain — cold, foul, toxic — pours down on the circle. The eternal deluge turns the ground into a horizonless slough of stinking refuse.

Dante beholds a mess of souls lying prone on the ground and drowning in this thick paste. Like great slugs, they can barely move beneath the weight of their sins’ consequences. Yet as heavy as they seem, they are insubstantial; Dante treads right through them.

Without warning, Cerberus, the three-headed monster of hell, bounds out of the downpour. He bares three sets of teeth and opens three maws wide to devour Dante and his guide. Virgil reacts fast, scooping up two heaping handfuls of mud and shoveling them into the beast’s triple gullet. Like dogs with a spoon of peanut butter, the ravenous mugs of Cerberus gobble down the disgusting meal and leave Dante free to pass through “that polluted mix of soul and slush” (The Inferno 6.100–101).

Heavy Sin of Making Light

Dante’s grim picture of gluttony mirrors the tone of Scripture (Deuteronomy 21:20; Proverbs 23:20–21; 28:7). The Hebrew word for gluttony (zālal) derives from a verb not specific to food. Often used in contexts that describe reckless overindulgence and wastefulness, it means to make light of, to despise, to handle as worthless, and so to squander. Moreover, gluttony is a species of idolatry (1 Corinthians 10:6–7), which treats the belly as a god (Philippians 3:19), worshiping and serving the contents of the cupboard rather than the Creator.

Ironically, by assigning food the weight of glory due to God alone, we make light of it. Let me explain: God designed every bit of creation to communicate his glory. That means food has a peculiar derivative glory intended to help us savor God. It is weighty because it is attached to him. But untether that gift from the Giver, and it drifts away like an escaped birthday balloon. Elevate food above its Maker, and we gut it of its glory. When you divinize the gift, assigning to it more weight than God intends, you desecrate the gift and dishonor the Giver.

Thus, gluttony is the heavy sin of making light. It indulges in one of God’s gifts (generally food or drink) untethered from supreme satisfaction in God. It is the disordered eating that springs from disordered desires. The glutton despises God’s good designs for food, and thus, squanders it.

Bite-Sized Theology of Food

God invented food and gives it to man for at least three glorious purposes. First, to fuel our bodies for fruitful dominion and labors of love (Genesis 2:16; Psalm 145:15–16; Ecclesiastes 3:12–13; Acts 17:25). Food strengthens us for God’s mission.

Second, to facilitate fellowship through Christlike hospitality. Jesus catered truckloads of food and wine during his earthly ministry as a foretaste of the jovial hospitality of his kingdom (Matthew 14:13–21; John 2:1–11), and he calls his followers to feast others in the same Spirit (Luke 14:12–13; Matthew 25:35–40; cf. Nehemiah 8:10).

Third, to further our delight in him. Food communicates God’s fullness (Proverbs 24:13–14; Isaiah 55:1–5; John 6:35; Romans 1:20). God created food — aged cheddar, sourdough bread, campfire hotdogs, ice cream — as tangible, tastable images of divine things. Food’s greatest glory is divine flavor; it tastes like the Trinity.

In other words, God designed food to help fulfill the greatest commandments: Love self rightly, love others generously, and love God fully and increasingly. He gives us principles and patterns for our use of food to guide us toward these ordered loves.

Good Gone Rancid

But as we all know, sin defiles our use of food. Sin does not spoil food itself; all food is clean (Mark 7:18–19; Romans 14:14; 1 Corinthians 10:25–26; Titus 1:15). But when sin disorders our desires, we become disordered eaters. When you seek in food what you can only find in God — control, happiness, identity, comfort, hope — the good gift goes rancid.

Satan loves to help us turn food into idols (Genesis 3:1–7; Exodus 16:2–3; Luke 4:1–4; 1 Timothy 4:1–5). From the start, he has employed sinful eating with great success. Whether we overeat (Psalm 78:21–31; Ezekiel 16:49) or undereat (1 Timothy 4:3), he cares not; gluttony concerns the manner and motivation of our eating, not the amount.

Satan has always been an influencer for the demonic diet plan. We spy the first glutton in the first garden. Eve may have taken only one bite, but her tongue trumped her obedience. Or think of Esau. He exchanged his birthright, the promise of God’s presence and blessing, for a bowl of bean soup (Genesis 25:29–34). Jesus himself would have succumbed to gluttony if he took Satan as his dietician (Luke 4:1–4).

In modern times, the father of lies has had a heyday with food. Many still overeat, but perhaps even more become gluttons through strict diets, food legalism, undereating, or endlessly scrolling “food porn.” Many of the fittest people on Instagram are gluttons because diet dominates their lives. Washboard abs can be just as accurate an indicator of disordered eating as a beer belly.

Consider yourself. Has food become an idol? Does your life revolve around meals? Does your mind fixate on food? Do you keep secrets about your eating habits? Do you ignore your diet’s effects on your body — or obsess over them? Does your relationship with food hobble your ability to love others well?

Munching on Mud Pies

Returning to Dante, his repulsive images help us grapple with “the sin of the throat that damns the soul” (Inferno 6.53). In The Divine Comedy, Dante paints soul-pictures to show us the reality of sin and its effects. His images incarnate the sins they depict. So, what does Dante reveal about gluttony and God’s three glorious purposes for food?

First, gluttony is self-destructive. Gluttony may seem like a warm, cozy, even festive sin. However, freezing rain and stinking mud come nearer the truth. Food should fuel us, but Dante shows gluttons as lethargic, lacking all the alacrity fruitful labor demands. Ironically, as gluttons make light of God’s good gifts, they become at once physically heavy and insubstantial. By eating more, they become less. At its best, food sharpens our capacities to know God and draw us up to him; gluttony mires the soul in mud.

Second, gluttony isolates. In Dante’s vision, none of these souls speak to one another. In one sense, they wallow together; in another, they are totally alone. Gluttony has this effect. Overeating is often a private affair. But overscrupulous eating can isolate as well, tempting us to refuse the hospitality of others due to calorie count or content. The imperatives of “clean eating” can divide Christians just as surely as the old-covenant food laws misapplied in the New Testament (cf. Galatians 2:11–14).

Finally, and most seriously, gluttony spoils our appetite for God. Dante captures this tragedy through Cerberus. With three mouths and one stomach, the hound of hell perfectly symbolizes eating gone wild. Even more striking, this thrice-ravenous beast is satisfied with handfuls of mud. C.S. Lewis loved Dante, and I wonder if he had this scene in mind when he wrote,

We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased. (The Weight of Glory, 26)

Gluttony makes light of glory. Like Cerberus, the glutton munching on mud pies settles far too easily. Food will never satisfy the soul’s ravenous appetite for eternity (Ecclesiastes 3:11). Above all, Dante reveals the sin of gluttony as insufficiently hedonistic.

Too Full to Be a Glutton

Eating devolves into idolatry when you look to food to meet a hunger only God can sate. So don’t eat to fill a hungry soul. Until you are “filled with all the fullness of God,” food will always tempt you to squeeze more than it can give (Ephesians 3:19). Food threatens the soul until we heed God’s call to glut ourselves on him (Isaiah 55:1–2).

Scripture so often compares God to food because the delights of the table point to him. He satisfies the soul like a cool draft in the desert (Psalm 42:1). He thrills more than new wine, fills more than fresh bread; he is sweeter than honey and richer than milk. He is the fullness and fatness of all delicious things (Psalm 63:5). When we come to him, we “eat what is good” (Isaiah 55:2). All the best things we seek in food, we find in God. So, devour the Bread of Life. Drink down the Living Water. When it comes to this divine food, gluttony is impossible. You cannot overindulge in God.

And when you’re full of God, you’re free to feast (and to fast!). In other words, when your appetites are ordered under God, and his gifts are tethered to him, you are free to enjoy food or forgo it as a means of enjoying God — just as he intends. This is the glory of food: to help us taste and see that the Lord is scrumptious.

When you savor God and delight in food as a means of tasting him, you will be too full for gluttony.

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