Of all the elements I’ve tasted and seen in Scripture, none has proven more healing and sensual than olives and their oil. This fruit of a tree bursts with a sharp, savory zest, then transforms into a buttery coolness, much like its presence in the Bible.
The olive makes its scriptural debut when Noah, whose name means “comfort,” awakes miserable and nauseated. It’s not hard to imagine his feeling this way while imprisoned aboard a vessel full of agitated animals and their unending piles of manure. All those beasts and scaled creatures moan and groan, squeak and reek. Noah and his family work around the clock to scrape the detritus overboard, but the rocking and rolling, combined with the stink, make Noah want to hurl. Everything becomes far worse than Noah ever imagined, ever predicted. Why was I named Comfort? What a lousy namesake!
In desperation to rest his sea-weary legs, Noah sends out birds who almost forgot how to fly. A lone dove returns clenching an olive branch in its beak. Both the branch and dove become symbols of peace and spark hope in Noah’s tired bones. In that beautiful moment, God hand-delivers pax on pax, shalom on shalom, peace on peace, giving us hope that in the painful storms of life, God will heal us with his deep peace, too.
Olives continue to make surprising appearances throughout the Bible. After his people escape Egyptian slavery, God folds the flavor of olive oil into the manna. This provides the Israelites a taste of comfort, of the familiar, as they spiral through the desert. The flavor assuages the pain of where they’ve been and alerts their taste buds to the healing ahead. The land they’re promised will abound in wheat and barley, vines and figs, pomegranates and olive groves.
While massaging the drupes from the branches, I’m reminded of the myriad ways God reveals his healing presence to the Israelites through olives. Israel is named “a green olive tree, beautiful in fruit and form;” and the righteous are compared to strong olive trees. Even their children are likened to shoots from the trees’ roots. To this day, the Hebrew idiom for a good man is “pure olive oil.”
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Table Discovery: New to olives? Many varieties exist far beyond the canned version you see atop pizza or on the nacho platter. Head to your local grocer. Often newer groceries like Whole Foods and Sprouts will include olive bars. Pick up some large Cerignola olives which are mild, not too salty, and delicious plain. Next try some purplish Kalamata olives, which are saltier than green olives and provide a bold taste. You’ll be well on your way to becoming an olive connoisseur.
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With each cleared branch, my fingers dew with oil. I remember that in Scripture olive oil illuminates the tabernacle and Solomon’s temple. The ever-lit oil in the temple reminds the Israelites of Moses’s encounter with the burning bush and their hard-won journey from slavery to freedom. Oil drips from the chins of priests and kings, those set apart to serve and bring healing to the land. Israel’s first king, Saul, glows with oil during his coronation. David, too, anointed by Samuel, glimmers with liquid gold. The shepherd-king makes the store and care of olives a national concern. Baal-Hanan manages olive trees; Joash, the storage and supply of oil.
The priests catch whiffs of olive scent as oil drips into the grain and wave offerings. The cherubim, who overshadow the ark of the covenant in the holy of holies, have been carved from olivewood and overlaid with gold. And in the temple, the carpenters have fashioned four-faced, winged cherubs made from olivewood into the doors.
Isaiah prophesies the greatest display of God’s healing will come from a shoot on Jesse’s stump. The prophet’s descriptions of the shoots resemble the way an olive tree grows. This is no ordinary olive sprig, because the Spirit of God will rest on this one in abundance.
The name of that shoot?
Jesus.
Just before sunset, a passing storm whips the wind and spews its first droplets.
“Yaa, yaa!” Mama shouts, urging us toward the vehicles.
We scurry like mice, grabbing the last fistfuls of olives, then our tools and wood trimmings. I attempt to carry one of the buckets of olives to the car, but my arms feel too tired, my shoulders too sore. Leif scoops up the weight with ease. I grab a few pieces of wood instead. Unlike the firewood from pine trees on the island, which burns fast, olivewood burns slow.
“We waste nothing,” Natalija says. “Never the wood. This will keep us warm this winter.”
Once back at Natalija’s, my head hits the pillow with a skull thud. I collapse into bed exhausted and achy, well aware that I’ve been whupped by a seventy-five-year-old woman named Mama.
THE HEALING YOUR HEART CRAVES
The next evening, we gather around a wobbly table spread with a familiar menu of the island’s staples—pomegranates, oranges, bread, meat, and of course, a bowl of delectable olives sopping in oil. I often read of the repetitive nature of the ancient diet, and now I am experiencing it firsthand.
As we chat, the lamplight catches Natalija’s glimmering skin. She radiates with the beauty of a woman twenty years younger.
“What’s your secret?” I prod.
Natalija shares that she never uses any creams for her skin, only olive oil, because of its anti-aging properties. The oil absorbs easily, and if she desires a fresh scent, she adds rose or lavender. She tells of a woman on a nearby island who has become so obsessed with Natalija’s olive oil that she orders multiple liters every fall. She spends thirty minutes each day lathered in the oil before showering to allow her skin to heal and shine.
Natalija doesn’t realize she’s describing the beauty practices of ancient queens of the Bible. After Queen Vashti snubs her husband, King Xerxes searches for a remarkable replacement. Esther, a young Jewish woman, travels along with other beautiful young women to the kingdom to receive twelve months of beauty treatments. The first half of the year includes treatments of oil with myrrh, followed by six months of perfumes and cosmetics, many of which have olive oil as their base.
Esther shines with a beauty that catches the king’s eye, and later, as queen, she goes on to save her people. Millennia later, Natalija serves as a living embodiment of Esther’s beauty regimen.
Maybe Esther and Natalija are onto something God has known all along. At the table, I recognize this is the sacramental nature of olives: through them, we are reminded of God’s healing power.
Though I feel tired and sore from long work days, I rub my hands together and discover that where I should feel the damage of blisters and callouses beginning to form, I instead find smooth, soft, and supple skin. It’s as if I’ve been at a world-class spa with someone soaking my palms in the world’s finest oil all day. I’ve always known olive oil serves as a physical symbol of healing, but now I’m learning that it has literal healing capabilities, too. The oil of olives heals dry skin here in Croatia, in the arid Middle East of the Bible, and—I hope—in the desert of Utah too, where my skin tends to shrivel and crack.
I discover that the healing properties of olives reach more than skin deep. Olives heal us from the inside out. The oil contains oleocanthal, an anti-inflammatory which acts like the common pain reliever ibuprofen. The oil can slow the aging in bones and the pain in joints. Even the leaves of the olive trees hold healing properties. Recent studies have shown olive leaves possess antiviral, anti-bacterial, and antioxidant properties.
When asked how she became the oldest living person in the world at 119, Jeanne Calment cited olive oil as her secret. She rubbed spoonfuls into her skin daily and consumed it at nearly every meal. “I have only one wrinkle, and I am sitting on it,” she quipped.
At one of her birthday parties, a journalist said, “Well, I guess I will see you next year,” to which Jeanne responded, “I don’t see why not; you look to be in pretty good health.”
When in Israel, I never spotted olive oil in the pharmacy aisles, but one day my fishing buddy Ido started to develop a cold. When I asked if I could help him with anything, he sent me to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of olive oil. Ido drank half right away, smacked his lips, and announced with
bravado, “I do this every time I start to get sick. The olive heals, you know.”
THE CRUSHING OF AN OLIVE MILL
The rest of the week follows the same routine of olive picking on other mountain slopes, until our final day, when Leif and I crowd into Natalija’s car along with Papa to carry thousands of olives across the island for processing.
We arrive at the red brick mill, and when climbing out of the car, I struggle to find my footing. The roads around the mill are covered with slippery oil. “No smoking” signs appear everywhere. I assume it’s because the oil is a fire hazard, but Natalija explains that olive oil takes on the surrounding scents. If a person smokes near the mill, then the whole batch will taste like cigarettes.
The owner recognizes Papa and waves us inside. Eight men scramble to empty the vehicle, pour olives into crates, and weigh the contents to determine their share of the oil. The hopper fills with olives, where they are further cleaned of debris. Grinders crush the pulp and pits into a mash that looks like a yummy tapenade, but I know better than to sneak a taste. The mash moves through a centrifuge, where hot water separates oil from the olives’ natural water content. Soon the precious liquid pours through a narrow spout.
The modern press offers many advancements, but the principles for extracting olive oil remain the same as in antiquity: crush, knead, extract. Then and now, the olives must pass through a press where they writhe and wrestle under pressure to produce the oil that feeds, illuminates, and heals.
The process at the olive mill reminds me of Jesus’s visit to an olive press. On the evening of his betrayal, Jesus retreats to pray at the Mount of Olives in the Garden of Gethsemane, a place that means olive press or olive yard. He could have gone anywhere, such as holing up with friends like Mary, Martha, and Lazarus and enjoying the comforts of their nearby home in Bethany. Instead, the “Anointed One” spends his last night on earth among olive trees, wrestling with the Father about his mission and destiny.
Jesus knows the raw brutality of the hours ahead and begs for another way, any other way. The acute anxiety crushes his body from the inside out as Jesus experiences hematidrosis, or blood sweat. The bright red secretions likely appeared on his forehead, beneath his nails, in his tears. His skin would have become vulnerable and fragile. Mark mentions that Jesus falls to the ground; he may have bled from the point of impact.
“Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me,” Jesus petitions.
To this request, there is no response. Jesus yields to the silence and surrenders to the Father’s intention: “Yet not my will, but yours be done.”
From here he walks the long, silent road of obedience toward death. Before Jesus bleeds from the cross, he bleeds in the olive garden. As an olive must writhe and wrestle under intense pressure to yield oil, so too the Savior of the world writhes and wrestles until from him flows an inexhaustible supply of grace, anointing, and healing.
Months before Jesus walked this tumultuous path, he told a story about a man who found himself imperiled along the road to Jericho. In the parable of the good Samaritan, Jesus describes a man brutalized and left for dead in a roadside ditch. Lofty leaders pass by, each carrying a mental checklist of why it’s better not to become involved. Then an untamed, unnamed man enters the scene with God’s healing in his wings. He disinfects the wounds with wine and pours the healing salve of olive oil over each gash before taking the man to long-term care. Finishing the story, Jesus, the “Anointed One,” instructs us to go and do likewise.
Then Jesus sends out disciples two by two with instructions to travel light. They anoint sick people with oil, and many whom they slather are healed. The Anointed One calls us to anoint and be anointed with oil in all our ailments, as well. Even though olive oil isn’t a magic potion, anointing people is a practice rooted deep in Scripture as an act of compassion, an expression of love, an invitation to healing. If anyone among us is sick, we should call on the church’s overseers to anoint us with oil and pray.
Years ago, I traveled to Honduras as part of a conference prayer team. I stood near the front with my prayer partner, Elizabeth, as people streamed forward. A woman approached us and described a growth in her throat that caused excessive pain. Elizabeth painted a cross with olive oil on the woman’s forehead, and we prayed for God’s healing. After a few minutes, the woman asked to sit down on a pew and then lay down on the ground in response to Jesus’s healing presence. When I placed my hand lightly on her throat, I felt the bulbous mass protruding from beneath her skin. Elizabeth and I continued to petition the Anointed One to heal her. We knew the oil wasn’t a magical potion and that neither of us had the power to heal on our own. All we knew was that Jesus had instructed his disciples to anoint and pray.
Our words felt intense, as if we were knocking on the doors of heaven and beating back the gates of hell. When the woman opened her eyes, she reached toward her neck and said, “The pain is gone—I’ve been healed.”
Only I didn’t believe her.
“Are you sure?” I kept asking.
“Si, si, si,” she said. “Curado!”
Elizabeth and I needed proof, so we tapped her neck as if we were physicians. The mass had vanished and her pain along with it. We crouched over the woman in disbelief.
Later, I confessed to Elizabeth that I didn’t think God would heal the woman. Elizabeth felt the same way. We had asked God to heal out of obedience, not faith, and Jesus healed her anyway.
Healing remains a mystery. Sometimes we obey Jesus by anointing and praying, and people return to full health; other times the sickness and suffering remain. The healing of the Anointed One doesn’t flow in the way or timeframe for which we often grievously ache. I know this firsthand as someone who lives in chronic pain.
I have asked God to heal me for years, and I sometimes become despondent in the affliction. Some days the pain is better, sometimes worse. Despite the pain, Jesus sends us out like the disciples to anoint and pray regardless of the immediate, visible outcome.
We are called to be people who give and receive anointing and prayer. The act itself can be healing as we make ourselves vulnerable, allow someone to enter our space and physically touch us, to remind us that we are not alone.
Any healing we see or experience is a gift from God, a glimpse of the future we’ve been promised.
In the fullness of time, God promises we will experience the fullness of healing. Sometimes the wait feels unbearable. Olives and their oil remind us to stay hungry to what’s possible and coming with God. Like the widow, we are to set out our jars alongside each other that God might fill us in ways we never thought possible.
Before we leave the island of Hvar, Natalija informs of us of a common practice within the olive community: Those who harvest receive one liter of oil for each day worked. Knowing how much this will cost her family, I resist. Yet Natalija insists and hands us a stack of soda bottles full of olive oil, with instructions to transfer the liquid into a dark glass container as soon as we arrive home.
With a full heart, I receive the bottles of oil and tuck them into my bag. On the ferry back to the mainland, Leif leans against the window for a much-needed catnap, but I’m still buzzing with energy. I check social media on my phone until my cell service dies, then I play a game on my computer until my battery dies. I review my notes from the trip, journal a few pages, and pace the deck. But then curiosity sparks and I retrieve one of Natalija’s bottles.
I loosen the cap of the holy gift, arch my neck downward, and breathe in its buttery scent. These bottles contain more than oil; they are full of memories. My olfactory receptors fire, triggering remembrances from our Croatian whirlwind trip. I think of Mama and I think of Natalija. I recall the hard days and the soft skin on my hands. I remember the grove and the harvest and the mill. I am reminded of Elizabeth and the healing of the woman in Honduras. I consider the healing that has taken place in my body, in my heart, in my relationships, and the healing I still long for. I think of Jesus, the Anointed One, wh
o writhed and wrestled for our sake. For our healing.
AROUND THE TABLE
Place a bottle of olive oil on the table and invite everyone to join in the following prayer:
Blessed are you, Lord, our God, King of the universe, who creates the fruit of the tree. Heal me, O Lord, and I shall be healed; save me, and I shall be saved, for you are my praise. Amen.
Hand out photocopies of the download at
www.margaretfeinberg.com/tasteandsee,
along with pens. Invite everyone to spend a few moments asking God to reveal any areas that need healing. Write down names, places, memories, or regrettables that come to mind. Ask God to heal each one.
Then invite each person to share aloud one area of personal pain. When the first person has finished, someone else should use a dab of olive oil to anoint the sharer’s forehead or arm as a symbol of Christ’s presence in suffering as the Anointed One. Pray a blessing over the one who has been anointed with oil. Repeat until everyone at the table has received prayer.
JESSICA’S OLIVE OIL DIJON DRESSING
This tangy dressing is a must-have on salads, veggies, or in your favorite wrap.
PREP: 3 minutes COOK: none COOL: none
2 tablespoons whole grain Dijon mustard
2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
pinch of pepper and garlic powder, to taste
DIRECTIONS
1.Mix ingredients thoroughly and pour over your favorite salad or roasted veggies.
2.Save extra dressing in a sealed container in the fridge.
Makes ½ cup dressing.
MARGARET’S BASIL OLIVE OIL DIP
This fast and simple olive oil dip goes well with freshly baked bread.
PREP: 5 minutes COOK: 3 minutes COOL: none
½ cup olive oil
Taste and See Page 11