Days 2-3: Fasting

Two days, two fasts.  On Wednesday night, I turned my cell phone and laptop off and put them in my desk drawer, where they stayed for 24 hours.  Already, I'm finding that the tasks I most adamantly avoid are the ones I most ought to complete.  The past weeks have been filled with phone calls and e-mails, as I've submitted applications and negotiated job opportunities for the coming year.  Aware that I might receive a time-sensitive response, I was anxious about abandoning my technology.  It felt irresponsible, even counter-cultural, given the immediacy with which people expect replies, but my professional prospects weren't going to collapse in a day.  I took a deep breath.  The influx of communication could and did wait.

I expected to feel anxious about the severed contact, but some other outcomes surprised me.  I got a little lost without my GPS.  I couldn't check the temperature before going outside.  I didn't know how many minutes remained in class.  Mostly, though, it was quiet.  Really quiet.  And I was surprised by how uncomfortable the quiet made me!  After all, you don't spend your 22nd birthday in silence unless you really, really love it.  But this year, as I've adjusted to living alone, technology has often kept me company.  From my Beyoncé-blasting alarm clock to Judy Woodruff's news reporting to a running stream of 7+ podcasts to the music that fuels my workouts, it's rare that I'm immersed in total silence.  How often do I create space to listen to that still, small, sometimes disconcerting voice of God?  Maybe I ought to make room for more uncomfortable silence in the days to come.

Today's fast was technically physical--I consumed only water and tea--but my hunger rumbled from places far deeper than my stomach.  At 9 AM, I hungered for justice, as I passed those who had slept on empty stomachs and frigid concrete in downtown Atlanta, where I volunteer each week.  During midday chapel, I hungered for the bread and wine, which represent Christ's sacrifice and enduring presence, and for a table big enough to welcome all people.  By dinner, I was just plain hungry (or maybe I mean hangry?).  I was literally hungry and running on the fumes of low blood sugar, but I also hungered for the community that forms around shared meals.  I broke bread and my fast with dozens of prospective students who are discerning whether Columbia is a good fit for them.  As I listened to various community members share their stories from this place, I felt fortunate to feed on its depth of care and opportunity.

For many, Lent is a season of continuous fasting.  "What are you giving up for Lent?" has become a common refrain as people place their bad habits on the seasonal chopping block.  It seems like the perfect follow-up to last month's New Year's resolutions.  It's a 40-day plan to cut the sugar and up the exercise, and if we're disciplined enough, maybe we'll rock that swimsuit by Easter break.  To be fair, resisting our temptations is tough and often necessary, but what if it's not so much about clearing one thing as it is about making room for another?  What feast awaits us after the famine?  In freeing ourselves from our obsession with the finite and our indifference toward the hungry, might we find space for deeply filling love?  In losing something of ourselves, might we be made whole?

"Let all who are thirsty come.  Let all who wish receive the water of life freely.  Amen.  Come, Lord Jesus."  --Taizé Community, France