The Fast

Ironically, that's what they call the longest, slowest thing

Some of us begin the Nativity Fast tomorrow. That’s roughly 40 days of abstaining from meat and even dairy among other personal ascetic practices until Christmas. I often hear it described as a battlefield, but I think of it more like boot camp. For middle-aged accountants. Facilitated by sadists. In Florida.

I’m not a fan. One star. 

I hate it because nothing reveals how weak I am better than the fasts. I hate it because, almost by definition, we’re stepping into an MMA cage fight when we’re the most out of shape. By the time the periodic fasts roll around, we’ve likely back-slid so far that the idea of forgoing a glass of wine after work is uncivilized and inhuman.  

At least…according to some people.

However, if you conduct yourself well, you step out of the ring, (bloodied, yes), but as though you’re carved out of wood. (Nod to Ed Norton’s narration in “Fight Club.”)

The way it was explained to me back in our early days of going east is this: the ideal, the most rigorous “rules” of the fast, were intended for monks. You know - the guys whose entire lives were dedicated to ascetic rigors, and whose every waking moment is a riposte in the duel against the forces of Hell. The vast majority of us who have a different vocation, usually the married one, shouldn’t expect to have monk-like standards. I mean, come on - getting your kids to eat healthy on any given day is a challenge of diplomacy. (“Here are your choices: take it, or leave it. Which would you prefer?”)

Add certain food allergies to the mix, or an already strict healthy diet, and you’ve got yourself a mutiny. They’re small, these opinionated creations of ours, but there are more of them, so…

So, while there’s the ideal, it’s not a “bare minimum” approach. The ideal is laid out, and, as Fr. Hezekias told us noobs in the parish hall all those days ago, we just need to “do our best.”

“Do our best?!?” I remember thinking. What kind of milquetoast, saccharine advice is that? This was far different than what I knew in the west, where the rules were all neat and tidy and objective. “You can go this far before it’s sin…”

But you know what? It’s exactly what the doctor ordered. When you know what the ideal is, and you have the freedom to pursue it, you are empowered to actually achieve it - or to at least get closer to it. That’s not so true when you’re given guard rails and warnings. 

It’s a subtle but profound difference. 

What is the fast? 

It’s self-abnegation. It’s denial. It’s focus. It’s re-re-re-orienting our weak minds and weak flesh to the good, the true, and the beautiful. All of this sounds wonderful - maybe even totally uncontroversial - right up until that very first temptation to bend the rules a bit. That’s the moment you realize you’ve squared your will up against the forces of Hell, that these infernal legions have already established a foothold in your soul, and all you’ve got is a wiffle bat…

That’s pretty heavy stuff to associate with the decision about whether or not to have a breakfast sausage, but hey, whoever said this makes sense? We’re talking about restraining and retraining the will here. You know, that thing that would make itself God if it could. 

I’m approaching this fast in both the weakest and strongest mindset of my life. This is true across every category - mental, physical, spiritual, etc. It’s the weakest because, dear readers, I’m tired. I’ve tried and strived and fought and stood and compromised and argued and cried and bent and dared and sought and loved and lost. My “sin is ever before me,” as the Psalmist says, and as we pray every day. It’s a load to carry.

Not only that, someone lodged another blade under one of my ribs this weekend. It’s a beaut. Didn’t see it coming, but the ornate hilt protruding from my heart is an entirely new level of craftsmanship. You should see it.

But there’s strength? Yes. I think so. Because I think I get it now. There’s a common and entirely understandable conclusion one might come to after a long battle when there is no apparent victory:

“Nothing matters.” Or: 

“There is no truth.” Or; 

“People are liars.” Or, my favorite; 

“The only thing that really matters is making money.” 

I’m not there, although the temptation to succumb to these puerile conclusions is strong - but not inevitable. In fact, when I call these things “puerile,” that’s exactly what I mean: childish. These are the things babies say.  It’s as though I’ve been fighting in the dark my whole life, but the sun is rising, and I can see the enemy clearly now. He’s a giant, but here’s the thing: he bleeds. 

It’s revelatory.

During this fast, which is just a warm-up for the title fight of Pascha, I’m feeling strong and hopefully a little bit humble. I think, God-willing, I might make it a whole week this time.

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