Fasting heals us. That’s the simple answer. It’s medicine for the soul, and like any good medicine, it works on the body too.
When you check into a hospital, one of the first things a doctor does is regulate your diet. The Orthodox Church does the same thing. We’re sick, sick with passions, sick with self-will, sick with the delusion that we’re fine on our own. Fasting is part of the treatment plan.
The Church asks us to fast from certain foods during specific times of the year. No meat, no dairy, no eggs during Lent or on Wednesdays and Fridays. But if you think fasting is just about what you don’t eat, you’ve missed the point entirely. St. John Chrysostom put it this way: fasting isn’t kept by the mouth alone. It means controlling your tongue, forgiving anger, letting go of lust and falsehood. You can eat nothing but bread and water and still fail the fast if you’re gossiping about your coworker at the plant or nursing a grudge against your sister-in-law.
Fasting gives you power over yourself. That’s what we’re after. Most of us go through life controlled by our appetites. We want what we want when we want it. Food, comfort, entertainment, validation. Fasting teaches us that we can say no. We can choose something higher than immediate gratification. And if you can say no to a cheeseburger for the love of God, you can say no to darker things too.
This isn’t about earning God’s approval. Christ already redeemed us on the Cross. We’re not trying to pay Him back or prove we’re serious. We’re trying to get well. The Church fasts together because we need each other in this. When your neighbor at St. Michael’s is also skipping meat on Wednesday, you’re not alone in the struggle. There’s no room for pride here. Pregnant women don’t fast. Sick people don’t fast. Kids don’t keep the full fast. This is healing, not legalism.
Jesus told His disciples that some demons don’t come out except by prayer and fasting. The two go together. You can’t separate them. When you fast, you’re making space for prayer. You’re admitting that you need God more than you need three meals a day exactly the way you like them. Your stomach reminds you all day that you’re fasting, and each time it does, you can turn that reminder into prayer. I’m hungry. I remember why. I turn to God.
The fasts prepare us for the feasts. We fast before Pascha so that the Resurrection hits us with its full weight. We fast before Nativity so that Christmas morning feels like the gift it is. And we fast before receiving Holy Communion because we’re about to receive the actual Body and Blood of Christ. That requires preparation. You don’t walk into that casually.
Here in Southeast Texas, fasting can feel countercultural in a particular way. We live in a place that loves its barbecue and its Tex-Mex. Food is hospitality. Food is family. Your Baptist relatives might not understand why you’re turning down brisket at the family reunion. That’s okay. Explain it if they ask. Don’t make a show of it. The goal isn’t to be weird. The goal is to be free.
The Triodion, one of our liturgical books for Lent, says this: “As we fast from food, let us abstain from the passions.” That’s the heart of it. Physical fasting is the training ground for spiritual fasting. When you learn to control what goes in your mouth, you start learning to control what comes out of it. When you can say no to cheese, you can start saying no to envy.
Some people worry they can’t keep the fasts perfectly. Good. You probably can’t. Talk to your priest. He’ll help you figure out what’s realistic for where you are right now. The Church is a hospital, remember? Patients don’t all get the same treatment plan. But everyone who wants to get well has to take some medicine. Start somewhere. Fast one day a week. Try it. See what happens when you let yourself be a little hungry for God.
