Introduction

For JW, with gratitude.

In my earlier posts on this blog, I have written about fasting as an ascetic practice, or a discipline. Much of my work on this, especially from the view of theology, was on the benefits that it offers us, improving our self-control, increasing our capacity for joy in the midst of suffering, and overall, helping us to flourish individually.

I believe that was short-sighted, and did not encompass the fullness of the message of the Bible, and in fact, I nearly missed it. Indeed, I believe I was instead informed more by a self-help approach, or what Baylor theologian and ethicist Matthew Lee Anderson would call a therapeutic approach to the practice. (You can read more of his thinking here on painkillers and caffeine, and or in his 2011 book Earthen Vessels: Why Our Bodies Matter to Our Faith, which really shaped my thinking on this topic.) The last year or so has helped me to not only deepen my research on fasting, but also to broaden my perspective personally and theologically. The following will be a small sliver of what I have been thinking about lately.

First, I want to define the word shalom for us, or perhaps redefine it. Secondly, I will look at the role of humility and weakness in the fasting we see in the OT. Finally, I will connect those two ideas to show how fasting should generate compassion, and why this is so important.

Peace or Mutual Flourishing?

Shalom is broadly and most commonly defined as “peace,” but linguistically, and therefore theologically, it is much more than that. The way Hebrew works is that each word is built from a 3-letter root, made up of only consonants, thus in English we could transcribe this base word as sh-l-m (שׁלם). If we change the vowels according to certain rules, or add a prefix, we can also derive the words for “perfect” and “whole.” I am no expert (least not yet) in this realm called philology, but these literal meanings should inform the understanding of the word. Shalom is more than peace or simple tranquility; it is wholeness and well-being. In the context of the OT, it conveys the value of mutual flourishing, summarized by the command to love your neighbor as yourself (Lev. 19:18).

What has obsessed me about this topic is trying to understand why this practice is so powerful. Why is fasting efficacious? Why do I seem to at times find breakthrough when I have spent concentrated time in prayer and fasting, even though this is a normal, unremarkable, weekly practice for me? Do I really move God with my piety, or is it me that is moved instead?

Fasting in the Old Testament

The practice has its origins in the Ancient Near Eastern rites associated with mourning, which means wearing sackcloth and ashes, in addition to not eating. So many instances of fasting in the OT include some kind of mourning either for grief of loss; or anticipatory grief, when there is some threat on the horizon. It is a strong physical response to deeply disturbing events of life. Another important time when fasting was practiced in the Bible was on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. This was part of how they were commanded to observe this holy day, so there is some connection between fasting and repentance.

So what’s the big deal?

Why deprive yourself of food? When one is grieving or suffering in some way, it is easy to not want to eat, so this is a natural, physiological response. But when it is practiced regularly, in a kind of ritual way–meaning that it is not a responsive act only–something special can happen, if we have the right mindset.

There is a lot going on here, in terms of social dynamics, that is not so obvious to us when we read the OT. This practice of fasting was probably always accompanied by some sort of physical, outward sign, like wearing sackcloth and throwing ashes on one’s head. This, by the way, is why Jesus tells His followers in Matthew 6 to essentially do away with the outwardness of fasting, and to let it be an inward, secret practice of piety that is for you and God alone.

I won’t bore you with the philological details or the minutiae, but what can be summarized as a common thread of fasting in the OT is humility, and by extension, weakness. The idiom in Hebrew used to sometimes refer to fasting can be literally translated as to “afflict oneself.” This has connotations of and connections to shame, humility, diminishment, self-abasement… basically to make oneself small and insignificant. 

But are we truly making ourselves smaller than we actually are when we throw ashes upon our heads, whether literally or figuratively? Or is it based in a recognition of our smallness and relative insignificance? Why deprive ourselves of food when we can become “hangry” in just a number of hours? Why should we, essentially, lean into and actually increase our weakness, even if just for a day?

My Hebrew teacher said once that, anthropologically, fasting is a way to shame the deity into action. As a woman of faith, I doubt that we can move or influence God in some way, but we can attune our prayers to His will better when we decenter our selves by fasting.

I have become painfully aware lately of my weaknesses and my limits. Nowadays, the most normal things like grocery shopping and taking public transportation can result in huge upheavals of anxiety. Yesterday I was on the bus for one hour, and today I am utterly wiped out from the extra effort of keeping myself calm and distracted during that period.

Think about it this way. When I say weakness, it should not sound like a dirty word, because we all have them. What other weaknesses do I carry? Vices? Bad habits? Nervous habits? Coping mechanisms? What unites all these things is an understanding that we are human. At our limits is where we find God.

Daily Bread

When I was constantly running around at my café job, I struggled to keep a fast twice a week, because I always felt too tired and hungry to tolerate another fast. But the typical peasant of the time would have been constantly in motion like me, except unlike me, they had no easy access to extra calories. Their labor was hand-to-mouth. The words “food” and “bread” are synonymous in Hebrew for that reason; that’s all they could afford, and it was the basis of sustenance. I wonder if peasants in that time weren’t edged with hunger at all times, constantly aware and thus constantly both thankful for and fearful of their subsistence and the fruitfulness of their crops.

So then, why willingly deprive yourself when you’re already hungry? According to the OT, it is so you see and help the poor and the oppressed. What fasting does is simultaneously heighten the threshold for personal suffering, and deepen a sense of compassion because of that suffering. (Read Isaiah 58.)

Conclusion: The Generation of Generosity

This is not just an intellectual exercise; it is changing how I live my life. The last number of months I have been facing financial uncertainty, and I have felt like I can’t afford to tithe, like I normally do. Despite the fear, I chose to give anyway, because if I hoard out of greed and hunger and fear, this will consume me, and I will be of no use to the people around me: my neighbors.

Generosity is not only financial, though that is an important part of practicing love for neighbor. For many months it has been my hope and prayer that this pandemic will result in deeper compassion for the other through acknowledging our own fears and weaknesses, and in so doing, loosen our resources to be at the ready for someone else who is in need.

The secret? We are all in need. The main principle is that if we develop in a spiritual discipline like fasting, and it does not benefit our neighbor, then we have failed. My challenge to you: how can you prioritize generosity in your life so that you can more sustainably give, and in so doing, create mutual flourishing?

This is why we pray that God’s kingdom will come on earth as it is in heaven. We are seeking shalom.

Read Part II here.