Not a Fast We Chose
What we gain from what’s lacking in pandemic church services.
Sundays just aren’t the same. Some folks are not gathering at all with other Christians, some are gathering only online. And even those who gather on Sundays often do so without hugging, taking communion, singing. It’s not a fast we chose.
Last Sunday as I hummed along to one of my favourite worship songs, it was almost impossible to read the words without singing them. Something stirred in my heart that wanted to burst out. Something stirred in my mind that I wanted to verbalize. I felt the deep loss of the usual loop where something moves from mind and heart to mouth and out into the air where it joins the voices of others and comes back to me more whole. I feel the loss of whispered, huddled prayers, of holding the cup as parishioners partake.
I was reminded of Zechariah who, because he doubted the angel’s promise of a son, was struck dumb until his son was born. Imagine having such good news to proclaim and not being able to do so! For nine months!
What did he learn from that fast? It was not a fast he chose.
And I was reminded of the Israelites, crying out from exile in Babylon: “How can we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?” They were dragged from their beloved temple, the center of their faith. All their beautiful practices and rituals were stripped from them.
How were they shaped by that fast? It was not a fast they chose.
Fasting has long been a part of our tradition. It means choosing to refrain from a wholesome, good activity, for a time, to feel the hunger for it. And as we do, we remember that while that practice nourishes us in some way, ultimately we are nourished by the Lord. While it comforts us in some way, ultimately we are comforted by the Lord. And nothing can take God’s nourishment and comfort from us.
As we engage in ways that aren’t really satisfying, how can our hunger be a kind of fasting?
An opportunity to remember the source of every comfort?
Even if it’s not a fast we chose.
(photo: detail of Thomas Schickel stained glass at Gethsemani Abbey)