“What will you be giving up for Lent this year?”

When I first heard of the season called Lent, I was concerned that it was the same word I use for what is found occasionally in belly buttons (that unfortunate collection of clothing fiber is spelled lint and has nothing to do with the Catholic season of Lent).

Lent for the people I knew growing up was a time period where you could give up chocolate, mainly so that it felt less bad gorging on the treat when the Easter bunny arrived.

It serves as a period of time for many to give up something that they know they should give up or do less of the rest of the year. It could be sweet treats, soda, alcohol, social media, or any other host of less-than-beneficial activities.

This is not the worst practice in itself. We should aim to better ourselves. And we should especially consider giving up certain treats or activities if they in some way keep us from pursuing God with all of our heart, soul, mind, and strength.

But as I grew in my understanding of spiritual practices and of church history, I found that we were missing out on something that the church has long used as a means of deepening a Christian’s walk with the Lord. We were missing a means of devotion, a means of sharpening ourselves, and a means of experiencing God’s love and grace.

I want to be a serious disciple of Jesus, and I want God to know I am serious. Lent and fasting have long been traditional ways of doing just that.

The reason Lent and fasting are tied together is due to the fact that Lent has long been a season of fasting that builds up to the celebration of the resurrection of Jesus, Easter Sunday. In the season of Lent, we experience the biblical story that is the journey to the cross, to the grave, and the conquering of death and sin and the giving of new life with God.

Lent was not something that I truly understood or experienced growing up, and I believe that to be especially true due to the lack of fasting that happened in my circle of influence. It was not part of the conversation if following Jesus, insofar as I was aware of it. Maybe I was just oblivious since fasting sounds awful.

My first time experiencing fasting came in high school, where my youth group conducted a 30-hour fast to raise money and awareness for the suffering of people experiencing food insecurity and starvation. We made little homeless shelters and slept outside on the concrete. It was formative in my compassion to the least of these and allowed me to realize that, though I did not come from much, I had plenty. It allowed me to see God in others, even if fasting as a whole did not yield the benefits it could have if I were not a high school student more interested in girls and sports than I was in God.

The most formative experience that I still am yielding fruit from came from my time in undergraduate. As a freshman class, we were forced to read Richard Foster’s Celebration of Discipline and had to choose a discipline to practice for a week. I was the only one to choose fasting. I was an excited freshman who was consuming as much knowledge of God as I could, and this week-long fast seemed like a challenge I wanted to experience alongside God.

It was a challenge.

On day one, I felt the growls of hunger, but knew I was fine. I was excited.

On day two, I felt real hunger and realized this was going to be hard. I was less excited.

On day three, I considered whether I had time to choose a different discipline. It was no longer something I wanted to do, and I began questioning why anyone would ever do this. School work became more difficult. I moved a lot slower. I went to bed sad.

On day four, something changed in my heart, my mind, and body. The pain of hunger became less potent, and I was able to focus. I felt a type of clarity. Rather than focus on the hunger, I spent some time in the university chapel. I spent extra time in Scripture. I journaled some prayers throughout the day.

Day five, I saw my energy return, and I was excited again. I was hungry, but my mind was elsewhere. It felt as if I was experiencing new rhythms, where prayer was the center of my thoughts. It was one of my first experiences of a sense of constant prayer. The hunger was a low-level constant, which turned my attention to God, and my conversation was constant. Prayer was either at the forefront of my mind or in the background.

Day six, the reality of being so close returned my hunger pangs. My focus drifted back from God and towards the end of the experiment. Though I had fasted, it had not killed my human need for food, and so I still struggled with the desire to comfort my flesh with things outside of God.

Day seven, I was ready to eat and counted the minutes. I remember looking at my watch seemingly multiple times a minute, presuming an hour had passed by.

The return to food was relief. And yet surprisingly unsatisfying.

It was this dissatisfaction that struck me most of all. My stomach had desired, even needed food. But my heart forever longs for the moments of peace that I had experienced during the fast.

It is the reason I believe fasting is one of the most beneficial practices we have in our spiritual discipline tool belt, and yet it is the least used. No one wants to fast. No one likes the discomfort, the sacrifice required.

And yet this avoidance reveals our disease. We crave the comfort of the flesh at the expense of spiritual fervor. We hardly would miss a meal, let alone fast a day, even if on the other side of this sacrifice was a depth of relationship with God previously unexperienced.

I would dare not say fasting is the only way to experience depth with God. But I would say that Scripture provides many examples of the benefits of fasting, and I, myself, have experienced tremendous benefits.

Fasting is not work; it is grace. It may feel laborious, but that is a trick of the flesh. No, to fast is to remove the base distractions of human desire in order to more clearly experience the will and grace of God. Fasting does not earn you anything. But God does notice, and, as promised, when we draw close to God, he draws close to us.

As you continue to read on Lent and fasting, know that I do not intend to establish a work or Law for you to follow. This must be and remain a voluntary practice with the hope of a closeness with God.

Many Christians before us have gathered around this season and this discipline and found great fruit in their practice. I pray that you receive these words with open hearts and minds. What is useful, keep. What you find useless, throw away. My only hope in writing is that what has been beneficial to me may also be a benefit to you.

Love, Jacob.

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