Why Fast?

A feast prepared for us by our companion parish in Cuba, La Trinidad, Bermejas.

I’m not sure a priest is supposed to confess this, but I’ve been wrestling for a few years with the idea of Lenten fasting. It started with the phrase, “I’m not giving something up for Lent, I’m taking something on” absolutely grating on me. 

“Of course we should give something up!” I’d think, “that’s the whole point of Lent. We follow Jesus into the desert, and there we fast with him.”

And so, every year, I’d figure out how to give up fast food or social media or alcohol or something like that. I’d do so for a while, then find ways around it or reasons that I really had to break the fast, and eventually I would forget about the whole thing. 

I’d feel guilty, not particularly closer to Jesus, and Easter would still come, thank God.

Which made me think—maybe these ‘take something on’ people are onto something. So I spent a few years trying that on. I’d try to figure out: what’s the perfect practice that’s going to finally enable me to reignite my prayer life, to feel the closeness with Jesus that I’m sure I once had, and set my heart on fire with love for God? But I never really stumbled on the right one. So I’d struggle with this rigid schedule of prayer and Bible reading for a few weeks, only to realize it had sputtered out by the time we got halfway through the season.

I want to be clear here, of course these acts of self-denial and discipline were sometimes just what I needed. There were absolutely years when it all lined up. I just could never figure out which ones were going to do the trick and which ones wouldn’t.

And now, a week or so into this year’s Lent, I have to admit that I haven’t been really excited about either approach. And I’ve been pondering all over again—what exactly is the point, the benefit, the grace of Lenten fasting? 

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I heard a poem by Sanah Ahsan recently, Ramadan’s Greeting, where they reflect on the practice of fasting during Ramadan. It awakened me to something of what might be at the heart of our own call to fast during Lent. Ahsan beautifully describes the hungers brought on by Ramadan, met with the sweetness of the dates, which are the traditional food consumed at the end of the daily fast. The poem tells us that the point of the fast is not so much the letting go of food and drink for the day, but the delight of returning to it. 

In this way, fasting puts those who fast more deeply into connection with what it means to be truly human. In traditional fasts, people don’t give up optional things. They give up necessities. Things they enjoy. Things they must have. Not chocolate, dessert, or Facebook (at least not in and of themselves). But food.

And the fast is undertaken, not to give something up forever—cigarettes or alcohol come to mind—but in order to go without something essential for a little while. As this is done we learn how much we need it. And, when the time comes to break the fast, we can reengage with the thing we’d left behind more fully. That is, more mindful of our own limits, our own mortality. As a result we are made all the more aware of the fact that we are creatures. 

We don’t usually love to think of ourselves that way, but the fact should delight us. 

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Christians believe that creation is sustained moment-by-moment by God. So to remember that you are a creature is to remember that you are one who is sustained by, in constant relationship with, God.

So where does that leave me, us, as we begin this Lenten season? On one hand, I’m not quite ready to reengage the traditional practice of fasting from sunup to sundown for the whole of the season. For one thing, I’m just not sure I have the courage to do so. For another, I think that makes most sense in a communal setting, not as an individual, and I’m not sure our society is able to think about bodies, food, and fasting in a way that’s actually conducive to holiness.

Yet, I am truly drawn to all that the traditional fast gets at. So here’s what I’m asking myself early in Lent, perhaps these questions are helpful for you too—what is it that will put you more in touch with the reality of your own humanity? What will make you aware of your limits and needs? What will give you the gift of reminding you that you are mortal—dust, and to dust you will return? 

Because finding a fast, finding a practice, that answers those questions will have me positioned to answer Lent’s ultimate call, which is into the deep love of God. A love that, as it turns out, doesn’t need my fasting to accomplish its work, but delights when I return to it all the same.