When I was growing up in New York City, my family didn’t give thanks before we ate. Instead, our dinners sometimes began with a running gag.

My mother, the head of our secular Jewish household, would go unusually quiet and serious. “Let us say grace,” she’d start in a low voice, and my brother and I would seize the cue. He might say, “Grace Kelly.” I’d add, “Grace Jones” or “Grace Slick,” depending on the kind of music I was into at the time.

“Gracie Allen,” Ma would finish up. “Amen.” And then we’d stuff our faces.

So I didn’t know much about the whole business of preprandial blessings — until I met Sister Agnes Rooney.

Many years ago I visited St. Cecilia Church in East Harlem for the first time, to speak with members of its community about food stamps and other benefits that might help put meals on their tables. I was a 20-something who had recently started a job as an organizer for a grass-roots anti-hunger agency. Among other duties, I was charged with getting faith leaders in the city more involved.