Hold (a) Fast

(A version of following article was published in the November/December of live magazine. Check them out at www.baptistwomen.com)

The shortest distance between two points may be a straight line, but the quickest way to end a conversation between Christians is to suggest a fast. No one—excepting perhaps small children with food aversions—wants to do it. The word is more likely to conjure memories of yellow lab requisition forms and having blood drawn than a divine encounter. Fasting is an old school spiritual discipline that seems out of step with the current era. Unless, of course, you’re a fitness guru chronicling your progress on Instagram—then Intermittent Fasting (IF) is all the rage. We might be willing to fast for medical necessity or physical transformation, but spiritual formation is a harder sell. We don’t know exactly what we’ll find there. Besides, fasting is optional and its effects are more intangible than Instagramable.

Though, perhaps, if our situations are particularly dire, we might consider it as a desperate Hail Mary ploy; a last ditch effort to get God to move when we have exhausted every other option. Even then, though—even when all is darkening around us—the fridge seems more comforting than the fast. The reason for this is simple, fasting removes your natural coping mechanisms so that only God remains. All the noise of life fades into the background as the near constant reminder of hunger points to the One you are seeking. Fasting is travelling a narrow path at a high altitude. Each step—each moment—requires both concentration and exertion. It’s physical effort for a spiritual result. When you think about it, there isn’t much else like it. 

And, like many of the ways of God, fasting is a paradox. It is the conscious effort of subverting physical needs for the purpose of being fed. It is a moment within a moment. A secret thing between you and God. A conversation. A communion. A snuggle under His arm for comfort and rest. It is pressing pause on all that is pressing. The meals to be made, the chores to do, and the errands to run all fade into lower resolution while the spiritual conversation comes into sharper focus. It is an exchange of priorities. It is an act of faith that agrees that, ‘Man doesn’t live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.’ We can hear those words from Jesus and trust that they are true—it is another thing to hunger to hear the Word speaking particularly to us alone

The trouble with the spiritual disciplines is that we turn them into religious duties because we do not know what they are for. We get caught up in the details— wondering if we can still have our coffee during a fast so as to avoid a caffeine headache—rather than rejoicing in the freedom being loosed in our lives. It is in the heart of God to free His people from every chain that binds, every burden that crushes with its weight, and every evil oppression that torments.  It is not His heart to tie us up with the legalistic details of when and how.

Is not the time without eating which I choose, a time to take off the chains of sin, and to take the heavy load of sin off the neck? Is it not a time to let those who suffer under a sinful power go free, and to break every load from their neck? (Isaiah 58:6 NLV)

The purpose—as always—is freedom. It is our mental gymnastics—the never ending internal monologue— that convinces us that the spiritual disciplines are about lack, rather than abundance. We fast to feast because the words proceeding from the mouth of God are better.

You sly boots! You got me dialoguing!

If you're a writer and you find yourself on the internet browsing for advice about how to be a better writer; a more successful writer; you'll come across a range of suggestions from self-described industry insiders that will span the distance between Somewhat Helpful/Mildly Misleading all the way to Gag-Inducing and everything in between. Personally, I think that stuff is mostly a waste of time;--at least, I've wasted a lot of time and spent a good deal of my insecurity finding out that much of the advice is just flat out wrong. (The same principle can be applied to every Women's Magazine article you've ever read, incidentally.) But, in the interest of being more helpful than the previous appears, I say the following:

The quantity of your unseen writing should dwarf the quantity of your seen writing.

Now, most of the time, that isn't so much a goal as it is the reality of the situation; particularly in the beginning--but it is actually a good thing, though it doesn't feel that way. Every writer wants his or her words to be read. And, I hate the idea of wasting hours on pages and pages that will never be seen by another person. This, however, is the way that it should be. Most of writing is never seen. It is edited, deleted, left forgotten and mouldering in a file somewhere on an old laptop. Scenes without backstory or future. Conversations replete with witticisms that no one will ever chuckle at. Paragraphs and poems, odes and epics all doomed, like that proverbial wildwood flower, to blush unseen. Thousands and thousands of words that are never read or seen by anyone else save the author.   It is easy to regard the hours spent on those un-feted words as a waste of time, but they were not. They were the workout. They were the practice that was necessary to produce the final result. The character sketches, the descriptive settings, the opening lines that never reached their closing curtain--all essential in building the skill and refining the artistic eye that produces the one thing worth showing to someone else.

A couple of days ago, I spent most of my workday playing around with dialogue--attempting to write a perfectly comprehensible conversation without any helpful speech tags. No explanation of who is speaking, or helpful adverbs to direct your imagination. Is it comprehensible? You be the judge.

Otherwise, it will never be read by anyone.

“Is it shallow of me to think that I don’t think that I could ever be in a serious relationship with a guy who has an Instagram account?”

“Of course you couldn’t. That isn’t shallow. It’s a strike against shallowness— judgemental, sure, —but not shallow. Guys worth having don’t have Instagram accounts. Preferably they have no social media. But if anything, it’s Twitter—and probably Facebook because we all got those before we realized what we were getting into. But now we’re all too far into the social media honeycomb to get unstuck. No one can claim ignorance. But Instagram for manly men is just not a thing.”

“That was my thought as well.”

“Just out of curiosity, whose Instagram did you see and think, ‘Pass’?”

“Is that really important right now?”

“These thoughts don’t come out of a vacuum. Last night I posted on Facebook that the inventor of three quarter length sleeves should be banished from civilized society, along with whoever created the open-toed boot.”

“What prompted that?”

“Someone posted a video where I was wearing a three quarter length sleeved shirt. They should also be banished.”

“Did you get rid of the shirt?”

“No,  because I need it for choir performances. So I’ll just be wearing it like an A-hole for many holidays and special occasions to come. Whose Instagram were you creeping and determined it would never work?”

“Shane’s.”

“The video editing guy?”

“Yeah—it’s tragic.”

“That is tragic. Wait, maybe it was for his work? Instagram accounts for work are okay.”

“He has one of those, too. This was personal.”

“Maybe you should make an exception. He’s heart-stoppin’ handsome. Like, not usually seen in real life.”

“It appears he thinks so, too.”

“Vanity is unattractive is a man—worse than in women. I don’t know why. Still, that's a shame.Maybe you are being too harsh? He seems worth further investigation—you know, just to be sure.”

“He goes on beach holidays and takes artful pictures of his muscle definition.”

“Never mind. Scrape him off. Don’t be me with the three quarter length sleeve equivalent of a boyfriend.”

“Since we’re not dating, done and done.”

“He was dancing around it, though.”

“Maybe, but I think he got distracted taking a picture of himself in black and white.”

“What’s his account? Maybe I should follow it.”

“Nice.”

“Maybe he dabbles in photography?”

“Everyone with an Instagram account dabbles in photography.”

“That’s not entirely true. I follow yours. The last thing that you posted was a picture of a plant you killed.”

“That was photo realism.”

“Yeah, well, that’s really not the point of Instagram.”

“So you can see how Shane and I wouldn’t be a great fit. He understands Instagram. I don’t.”

“He could light your dead plants better. Looks like you overwatered—“

“I did not over water. I gave it the same amount it had been happily imbibing for months. It just did that for no reason. That was the whole point of the post. It was a hashtag #whatthehellplant hashtag #someplantsaresuicidal kind of thing. And, what’s with this reversal? At first you said, of course I couldn’t date a guy with an Instagram account.”

“No, I said you couldn’t be in a serious relationship with a guy with an Instagram account.”

“You said I should ‘scrape him off’.”

“I was overzealous. I didn’t remember what he looked like until I looked him up again just now. It might be worth it. Besides, he could really punch up your Instagram account. Get you a few more followers; maybe you could crack the fifties.”

“Nice.”

“Look, I get it. No one is perfect and vanity is a failing and it looks like it might be his.”

“One doesn’t usually lead with the failing.”

“Vanity isn’t incurable. In the next ten years or so, his looks will start to fade, and the filter use will increase as his Instagram usage decreases…”

“But until then, I can’t compete with that. I’d feel insecure and unattractive. I don’t want to be the one in the relationship with the good personality.”

“Oh—I thought you were just turned off by his vanity. I didn’t realize it was because of your vanity.”

“My insecurity—not my vanity.”

“Other side the coin, kitten. That’s just the other side of the coin."

Advent: Love in Pretendovia

"Darkness was cheap, and Scrooge liked it."

'Tis the season of the Christmas special.


Netflix has been trimming Hallmark's grass in these last few years; producing the kind of saccharine love stories accessorized by holly that are as addictive and unsatisfying as the boxes of over-sweet waxy chocolates that also glut the month. And, like that box of chocolates, without knowing the precise nature of the filling of these films, we all know exactly what we're going to get.

Due to the fact that I get offended at bad writing that makes it to the big screen, it wasn't until I was sick last year that I finally watched several of these movies in a row. None were particularly memorable and there was an incognito prince kicking around in a couple of them. The female protagonist is always klutzy with glossy, salon-worthy hair; a fish out of water in the paper thin backdrop kingdom/quaint village/Christmas 'miracle' setting. Her prince/village inn manager/soup kitchen owner(?)/single dad/brusque-handyman-with-a-heart-of-gold male lead is inevitably a cardboard cut-out of a man, but with less to say for himself. But let us not forget the antagonists. These movies have their stock villains, too--generally a sleek, beautiful woman. But not too beautiful. Our villainess isn't a klutz either, and most of her characterization is accomplished by the presence of a large, designer purse which is how you know she's both shallow and bad for our cardboard fellow who cares passionately for the homeless/stray dogs/motherless children, etc.


There are twinkle lights and cabs called in the wake of misunderstandings. And, perhaps the line of succession in the little remembered European country of Pretendovia is threatened by some unworthy Pretender and the climatic moment inevitably occurs on Christmas Eve as the clock strikes midnight. And yes, there is Christmas Eve monologuing. Resolution is swift; the nefarious Gucci-clad greyhound of a woman sent packing, and the music swells.  Somehow Christmas has been saved--; and hopefully all within a tidy ninety minute time frame.

These films have little to do with Christmas other than giving the set decorator a theme in which to work, but they do provide an empty sugary treat of a romance story for a cold winter evening. And, really, considering the fact that Hollywood doesn't seem to bother making love stories anymore, it isn't any wonder that we find ourselves scratching that cultural itch with less fulfilling means. The season seems to lend itself well to the notion of romance--it being cold outside and all. But there is more to it than that. We expect magic at Christmas. And what, more than love, is closer to our ideas of magic?

Love--unlike its counterfeit, lust--is not about ourselves. It is almost the only thing that isn't these days. Love is the demotion of self on another's behalf. Love is selfless while paradoxically being the most fulfilling emotion that we can experience.

It is because there is a sense of expectation that precedes Christmas that we look for stories about love sought and attained. Even if it is only the thinnest suggestion of love from the feeblest of actors working with the tritest of scripts. We long for love stories all the same. We long for the magic that removes us from ourselves and places us in a better story.

 Advent-- the four weeks leading up to Christmas--are pregnant days. It is the preparatory season that deepens the joy of Christmas. It is the building of expectation that something wonderful is coming. There is a miracle due on December the 25th. There is hope that love will be born.

This love that we are all hoping for--reflected in romance-- is the manifest, incarnate love of God. Women in particular, look for romantic love to save them. As much as the current wave of feminists scream that women don't need men to save them; we can't seem to help but hoping that some particular man will. Not just anyone, either. It has to be the right one. People misuse the fairytales, too. Cinderella needed the prince to fall in love with her to rescue her from toiling away for people who did not love her. Love rescues us from indifference; from rejection. Love looks upon a masses and chooses you for your own self. Love is rescue, because it fills up the empty places where people and things are missing in our lives. Love makes the bleakest outlook bearable; love imparts meaning and purpose.

It is love that clothed the Word in flesh in at Christmas. It was love that brought Him to dwell among us; plucking us from the impossible problem that we have been living in.  Without this love-prompted departure from Heaven, we would still be stumbling about in the dark.


The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light,
those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them a light has shined.
[...]
For to us a child is born
to us, a son is given; 
and the government shall be upon his shoulder,
and his name shall be called,
Wonderful Counsellor,
Mighty God,
Everlasting Father,
Prince of Peace.
(Isaiah 9:2,6)

The best of the Christmas-themed stories are all grounded in the need for a miracle; for the perspective of Heaven to break in and change the parameters of the possible; for love to break through. In Charles Dickens's, A Christmas Carol, the hard reality of dwelling in deep darkness is tangible in Bob Cratchit's cold hands and long hours, in Tiny Tim's sickliness and  Scrooge is not merely an old crank; but instead a man who has lived life according to his own morality of self. He has submitted his will to nothing and no one. It is only through an unwelcome encounter in which the  spiritual world clashed with his material world, does Scrooge come face to face with the agony of regret.

“You are fettered," said Scrooge, trembling. "Tell me why?"
"I wear the chain I forged in life," replied the Ghost. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it.” 

The miraculous coming of Jesus to earth is the answer that the world has been waiting for without knowing it. Light has dawned. Jesus is the antidote to regret; not for the hope of better actions but receiving from Him a living heart, rather than the one of stone engirded by the chains we make for ourselves.  The Netflix/Lifetime/Hallmark movies are saccharine without substance because they have no past tense--they acknowledge no real sorrow or regret. There is no danger of the story not resolving. As such, they can only offer a sugary confection that evaporates as soon as it is ingested.

The weighty joy of Christmas surpasses mere gaiety because there are stakes. There is evil. Mankind is fallen from glory. We are all in desperate need of saving from the shadow of sin that covers each one of us. Dwelling in darkness is to reside in fear. It is meaningless, direction-less, and characterized by confusion. Living there has externalities: hopelessness, faithlessness, lovelessness, joylessness. It is the reactionary world of addiction and abuse; abandonment and rejection. The stakes are real.
We are in desperate need of the Light of Christ.

That is why we expect miracles at Christmas--because we got One.