Pleasant Memories of Food Poisoning
It started innocently enough—a meal shared in good company: Tandoori chicken, naan, and some spicy, side dishes. A few hours later, I found myself locked in an epic battle with my own digestive system, doing anything but ‘living the good life.’
For a while, my entire world narrowed to cold, bathroom porcelain, a vague promise to God that if I survived, I’d never take food lightly again, and a firm resolution that I wouldn’t be visiting India anytime soon. Funny how moments of clarity can come to you in the most unexpected ways.
Food poisoning is humbling. No matter how independent or organised we think we are, being physically incapacitated strips away our sense of control. It is a reminder of how fragile we are—how, despite our best-laid plans, life can unravel with something as small as a piece of undercooked chicken.
In much the same way, our spiritual lives can be interrupted by unexpected challenges. These moments expose our illusions of self-sufficiency and bring us face-to-face with our need for grace.
My recent experience brought back vivid memories of my first trip to India in late 1979, when I joined a group visiting development projects, rural churches, and the famous tourist attractions.
Being in India is an overload for the senses—its vibrant colours, sounds, smells, and tastes create an intoxicating experience. It’s a place that invites you into curiosity and wonder, if you’re willing to let it. Despite the cultural shock, I remember being so intrigued by everything around me, just like a child. Children aren’t overwhelmed by newness—they embrace it. And India was full of the new.
While I did get to visit Mumbai, Delhi, Chennai, and Kolkata, I felt most drawn to India’s quieter rural regions. A couple of friends and I rented a bungalow in Dhond, a small town about 140 km east of Mumbai, spending four weeks there. We immersed ourselves in the rhythms of rural life—shopping at the local market, eating at the railway café, riding bikes through the sorghum fields, fishing, playing street cricket with children, attending a wedding, and going to church.
We took in each new day with the sense of inquisitiveness that children so naturally have. I even got my hair cut by a barber in the main street—a young, white man losing his afro haircut drew quite a crowd! The local Indians were curious, I was curious, and our curiosity broke down barriers, creating a sense of connection.
Eating Indian food always brings back pleasant memories—and ironically, so does food poisoning. During my six weeks in India, I had three bouts of it. Each incident was tied to moments when I had let down my guard about food hygiene, swept away by the excitement of the journey.
The first time it happened, we were on a train from Chennai to Ootacumund, passing through the lush hills of southern India. Young hawkers would hop on at each stop, selling steaming plates of food. It was delicious, but deadly! When I became sick, my body gave me no choice but to slow down. I spent three days in bed, recovering.
While lying in bed, I realised how infrequently I allow myself to simply be present. Food poisoning became an invitation to embrace stillness, even if not by choice. There is something profoundly spiritual about slowing down and realising that life continues just fine, even when we’re not in control.
Even though I was quite ill for three days, I didn’t stop exploring and trying new things. This made me think of the resilience of children. When they fall, they get back up. When they have a bad experience, they might cry, but it doesn’t stop them from trying again.
Children are open to new adventures, even when they have scars from old ones. I realised that to truly live well, we need to cultivate that childlike courage—the kind that doesn’t let one bad experience close us off from the next exciting adventure. Sure, I’d had food poisoning, but it didn’t stop me from trying more local food, from getting back on a train, from continuing to explore all the wonders that India had to offer. Life is full of risks, but it’s also full of rewards which make those risks worthwhile.
When you’re healthy, you rarely notice it. It feels like our default setting. But when health slips away, even temporarily, it becomes clear to us how precious good health is. The first sip of water that stays down, the first nibble of toast that doesn’t revolt us—these small victories feel like gifts. And perhaps that is the essence of ‘living the good life’: noticing the little things we take for granted until they’re gone, then savouring them when they return.
My experience of food poisoning reminds me of how Jesus taught his disciples to receive life as children: helpless, trusting, open to the unexpected. Illness forces us into that posture, whether we like it or not. We can only accept care from others, let time do its healing work, and trust that better days will come. It’s a small death to pride and self-sufficiency, and in that surrender, we rediscover what really matters.
Like children, we need to stay curious, to keep asking questions, and to not let fear of discomfort stop us from living fully. Children live in the wonder of the world around them. They aren’t jaded by setbacks. They find joy in discovery. They have the courage to keep trying, even after they’ve been hurt. It’s that kind of curiosity and courage that makes ‘living the good life’ possible.
So, while I wouldn’t recommend food poisoning as a spiritual practice, it did give me an unexpected reminder of what it means to live ‘the good life’.
Life is fragile but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It just means we need to be gentle with ourselves and others. And if a dodgy meal can teach me that, then maybe it wasn’t such a bad experience after all. (But, even so, next time, I’ll think twice about ordering the Tandoori chicken.)
This is the gospel, and it’s good news.
Brian Spencer, Minister, Waranga Uniting Churches