The real lesson of fasting: Some thoughts for the first Sunday of Lent

“He fasted for forty days and for forty nights,

and afterwards He was hungry.”

--Matthew 4: 1-11

 

As another Lent begins, it is good to revisit the idea of fasting, sacrifice and penance.  Now, before we anyone starts objecting that Lent is not just about fasting, let me just say: You're right. It is also about prayer and alms giving (charity).   But the issue that most of us have more trouble with is this idea of fasting –of giving up something: food, drink, abstaining from some pleasure. Whatever it is we might be considering giving up, in the back of our head is often the nagging question: What’s the point?  Can’t I just enjoy my chocolate and be more charitable? Give money to a homeless person and eat a Snickers? Visit my sick neighbor and then sip on a root-beer float?  Would that make me any good? Any less holy?

 

My thought is that yes, you can enjoy root beer and popcorn and chocolate and favorite TV shows and still be a good person, even a holy one.  That isn’t the point of Lent—I don’t think.  I think the real point of our Lenten abstinence is not about the giving up, but about the wanting. The appetite. I have come to think that the real lesson of Lent and fasting has less to do with the value of abstaining and more to do with the importance of redirecting or refocusing my appetite, so to speak. 

 

I don’t think we are asked to give things up because they are necessarily bad for us; for instance, someone who enjoys chocolate and pork chops is not less holy than someone who lives on locust and honey—at least not based on diet alone.  As one of our local priests likes to say: Lent is not about losing weight and fasting is not a diet plan.   

 

I have begun to think that our appetites, our hungers, our desires are much more important than we might think. As the prophet Amos reminds the wayward Israelites: “Prepare to meet your God.” (cf Amos 4:12)  But who is our God?  In the book of Amos, Israel’s god is her pocketbook, her belly, her comfort. The people even pray for the end of their Sabbath so they can go back to cheating one another, and buy and sell the poor for a few shekels or a pair of sandals!  When the prophet tells them to prepare to meet your God, to my ear it sounds more like a threat than an invitation.  And now I can’t help but ponder: who is my God?  Who am I preparing to meet?

 

And isn’t that what our whole life is about?  Preparing to meet our God.  But who are we preparing to meet?  If I am all filled up with Cheetos and pickles and mayonnaise sandwiches,  I’m not going to be hungry for the kale and spinach salad my wife made for dinner.  And if all I ever eat is junk food and peanut butter crackers, how will I ever learn that I might actually like kale and spinach and cauliflower and even –dare I say… Brussel sprouts!

 

Well—the same goes for our soul.  If we fill it with momentary pleasures and self-interest and self-satisfaction, never allowing ourselves to become hungry for something more, something beyond our own whims and wants—something eternal—then who are we preparing ourselves to meet? Who is our god?

 

Fasting asks us to spend some time with that want, with the feeling of hungering for something that we cannot have, desiring something more.  It makes an opening in our soul, and gives us a chance to discover that no matter how many potato chips we eat or episodes of Midsomer Murders we binge, we will never be truly satisfied.  We will always want something more.  And that wanting of that something more—I think that is the real lesson of the Lenten fast. To –as Jesus did—separate ourselves from the ordinary and from the false security of a full belly and a distracted brain, and to spend some time wanting something more.   When we die and a voice whispers to us, Prepare to meet your God… who will you want to meet?

 

 One more note: In the Gospel for today with its story of the temptations in the desert, there is a very important lesson for all who fast. Anyone who has ever tried to fast from a habit or some pleasure (or some favorite food) knows that it doesn’t take 40 days and 40 nights for the temptations to begin.  The temptation to stop fasting, to just go ahead and do or eat that thing we are fasting from—just this one time.  The temptation to rationalize—just this once! And, the promise that if you give in this time, everything will be fixed. You’ll never be hungry again. But how does Jesus react to all these temptations? By turning to God. Reminding us: Human beings live not by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God. He redirects His appetite, focuses His desire on the eternal and lasting good of God, the Father. His Father. 

 

Lent isn’t a time to deny the goodness of bread, but instead a time to remind ourselves: there is something so much better waiting for us. All we have to do is learn to want it.

 

 

Like a thing thrown away--Some thoughts on mortality, isolation and Psalm 31

 

“Those who see me in the street

run far away from me.

I am like a dead man, forgotten,

like a thing thrown away.”

--Psalm 31: 11b-12

 

 

My mother-in-law and I have taken to having our coffee on the front porch. She has been living with us since shortly after her cancer diagnosis. And these days she is fairly weak, but still likes to go outside for a bit every morning.  We sit out there with our cups of coffee watching the world and listening to the voices of crooners from the 40s & 50s: Bing Crosby, Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Dean Martin, Bobby Darin, Mel Torme…  Weekday mornings the world is quiet. Not a lot to see. We throw out a few hand fulls of peanuts and watch the blue jays and the squirrels come down for breakfast; she often comments on the ants crawling along out sidewalk; occasionally a neighbor passes. We usually say hi.  This is our morning routine.  After the morning pills we go outside to the porch and sit and watch the world and listen to voices from the past; once in a while we talk—but not too often.

I have known this woman for about 35 years now.  She has never been much of a talker.  Especially about important things.  But I am and so I try. And one way I am trying is by reading a psalm to her every morning.  I figure it gives us something to talk about other than the weather, the ants, the one-eyed squirrel or the color of a car that drove by.  So far, no objections. 

Yesterday morning we read Psalm 31. When I finished reading, I noticed she had a very troubled look on her face. I asked her what she thought of it. She said: It’s kind of sad.   Grasping at this as an opening, I asked her what part she thought was saddest?  She told me to read it again.  I did.

The part that stood out to me, comes when the psalmist cries out that he is: an object of scorn to my neighbors/ and of fear to my friends…” (31: 11a)  I half expected her to say something about that. How, living with us, she didn’t see her friends anymore and perhaps she was starting to feel like people were avoiding her.  And to my ear, it seemed like the psalmist got this right.  I have noticed how often people tend to avoid the sick and the dying.  Not out of scorn or disregard, but out of fear. They are afraid they won’t know what to do or what to say. They are afraid to be a bother. Or perhaps they are afraid of the discomfort of simply feeling helpless. When you sit with someone who is dying, there is nothing you can do—except just be there.  And that can be quite intimidating—even scary.   At least that is where my thoughts were going.

 But, after a long silence she said, The part about being thrown away. 

 And that left me in silence, too.  Of course. Doesn’t that kind of sum it all up?

 We sat there watching the ants on the sidewalk and listening to the music. Neither one of us saying a word more.

Until finally, I had to ask her, did she ever feel “thrown away.”  She sipped her coffee and looked at me with a gentle, almost sly smile and said, No.  I have a son-in-law.

 We laughed a little and then listened to Nat King Cole singing “Smile.” 

When the coffee ran out and we were both getting hungry, we went inside for scrambled eggs and toast. After breakfast there was a call.  It was some of Carol’s old neighbors (Carol is my mother-in-law). They wanted to come over for a visit.  They promised not to come until after The Bold and the Beautiful. Carol has been watching B&B since it started.  That and the Astros are just about the only non-negotiables she has when it comes to the TV.

 Anyway, that afternoon the friends came. I don’t know how long they stayed, because I went to take a nap. But I could hear them talking and laughing through the closed door. It was a good sound.   Nothing special. They talked about changes in their old neighborhood. About retirement. About pets and the abundance of cats at our house. They laughed when someone remembered the neighbor who used to walk her dog every morning still in her pajamas… Nothing special. Just chatting. But what a blessing it was. The fact that they made the effort was just about everything. With their words and their laughter (and especially by their presence) they let Carol know she wasn’t abandoned. She wasn’t discarded. 
She hadn't been thrown away. Not only does she have a son-in-law, but she has a daughter who loves her deeply and without reservation. And she has friends. Friends who won't forget her. Friends who love her so much they won't leave her alone... She is truly blessed.

In fact, the visit was a blessing to us all. For an hour we all had the comfort of other voices, other lives, other stories, other things to think about… than cancer and bedside toilets and medicine schedules and what would we fix for dinner.  In a very real sense, these three people were a witness to us, to all of us, that we had not been forgotten. That in a very real sense, God was with us. And that was something we all needed to remember. That we had not been forgotten or thrown away.

It doesn’t take much to make someone’s day. To bless their life. A little time, a cup of coffee, a bit of silence, a shared memory or a silly story.  Nothing much… but in a very real sense—it could be everything.