Saturday, March 14, 2009
I have a confession to make. I hate fasting. I do it rarely, but when I do fast, I find myself miserable all day long. I get headaches. I feel crabby and tired. I always begin the day excited for what spiritual epiphanies might result from my sacrifice. But by the end of the day I always feel disappointed. What purpose does fasting serve? What am I supposed to be learning? Why isn’t God paying attention?
Last week I was discussing Lenten disciplines with a friend of mine. During the course of that conversation she told me that for five years of her life, she fasted every Monday. Wide-eyed, I asked her, “Why? What did you learn?” She sort of shrugged and said that she did it because Christians throughout the ages have fasted and prayed, and because she felt it was a small, doable sacrifice to make. She always came away from those Mondays feeling solidarity with those millions around the world who survive on one meal a day or less, those who know the feeling of hunger intimately. She felt keenly aware of her own humanity and fragility, and a desire to find out what it means that we do not live on bread alone.
Maybe fasting isn’t the problem. My problem is that I expect spiritual disciplines to yield results. I want to control the outcome. I want God to work on my terms, and according to my needs.
The lessons of fasting may not be mind-blowing or even very rewarding sometimes. But training myself to go without, to experience the feelings many around the world feel every day, and to make an offering to God, however small, are the lessons that really matter. And so with the Ash Wednesday refrain still fresh in my mind—You are dust, and to dust you shall return—I continue my journey toward God with no expectations, only renewed knowledge that I am so human and yet God speaks to me quietly and gently, one fast at a time.
