When I was young, Super Bowl Sunday was our family’s turn to have everyone over.
Super Bowl Sunday: a day where superstars – seen as supercilious and superficial to some, supernatural supermen to others – play a game that superimposes a supermarket of supernumerary and quite often superfluous superlatives on a supersaturated audience.
For our family, though, it was more than just the game.
Thanksgiving was at Grandmom Johnson’s house because she had the monstrous dining room. Christmas was at Aunt Mary’s because she had the basement, where it was easier to corral us kids. But Super Bowl Sunday was at our house because my father made clam chowder.
Early in the day, my father would shuck fresh clams, slice potatoes, chop celery, onions and peppers, dice tomatoes and salt pork, and add spices, slowly, while tasting until he was satisfied that it was just right. He followed a recipe handed down to him from his father, and perhaps from his father’s father. Family lore says the recipe goes back for generations.
During the first half of the game, our family clustered into our small living room, munched on snacks and chatted with each other more than paying attention to the game.
The game itself was inconsequential most of the time. Since most of our extended family were Eagles fans, we would half-heartedly root for a team based on a preferred uniform color or perhaps a friendly wager.
The Super Bowl was merely a pretext. The real reason the family gathered was to spend time together, catch up with one another, and, of course, the clam chowder.
When halftime arrived, the exodus from the living room to the kitchen began, with the exception of one uncle who would always fall asleep, belt buckle loosened, in the recliner – and a cousin who kept anxiously checking his multiple football pools.
My family would line up, bowl and spoon in hand, as my father hovered over the large pot, steam fogging up his glasses, tenderly ladling out the chowder.
Some took their bowls and sat around our kitchen table. Others carried their bowl back out into the living room to watch the halftime show, while others stood, leaning on the kitchen counter, sipping spoonfuls of the savory sustenance.
This was the main event.
During the second half of the game, less than half of the family returned to watch, preferring to remain around the kitchen table, talking, laughing and dipping into the pot for another bowlful.
Saint Francis Xavier said, “It is not the actual physical exertion that counts toward a man’s progress, nor the nature of the task, but the spirit of faith with which it is undertaken.”
I often think about the example my father set having the spirit of faith in the tasks he undertook for his family, from building a deck and tending a garden to cutting firewood and maintaining our cars. And, of course, the time, love and care he put into his clam chowder preparation, the joy he found in serving it, and the humility in his smile as everyone raved with each spoonful.
It’s fun getting caught up in the pre-game hype, the chants, the stats, the stories; suiting up in game gear, hats, jerseys, and jackets; and prepping for the occasion, food, banners, and beverages.
However, in all this, we need to remember what Saint Paul told the Corinthians, “… whatever you do, do everything for the glory of God.”
We don’t leave our faith on the sideline at kickoff. We congregate to support our team and cheer for a victory. But more importantly, in the spirit of faith, we cherish the fellowship of friends and family, the hospitality of hosts, the gratitude of guests, the solidarity of fans (Go Birds!) and the empathy for that other team’s fan(s).
Deacon Dean Johnson serves at Church of the Holy Family, Sewell.
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