We fast on Wednesdays to remember the betrayal of Christ by Judas, and on Fridays to remember His crucifixion and death. It’s that simple, and it’s that ancient.
This isn’t something we made up in the Middle Ages or borrowed from monastics. The early Church fasted on Wednesdays and Fridays from the beginning. The Didache, a first-century Christian manual, tells believers to fast on these days rather than Mondays and Thursdays like the Jews did. The practice goes back to the apostles themselves.
Wednesday marks the day Judas made his deal with the chief priests. Thirty pieces of silver. The conspiracy began, and by Wednesday evening Christ would be arrested in Gethsemane. We fast to remember that betrayal, to mourn it, and to examine our own hearts for the ways we betray Him.
Friday is obvious. That’s the day He died. The cross, the nails, the vinegar and gall. “It is finished.” We don’t skip over Good Friday once a year and move on. We return to it every single week because the crucifixion stands at the center of everything. Every Friday is a little Good Friday.
But here’s what trips up a lot of folks coming from Baptist or Bible church backgrounds in Southeast Texas. Fasting isn’t earning anything. It’s not a work that makes God like you more or gets you into heaven. We’re not trying to rack up points or prove how spiritual we are. Fasting is medicine. It’s a discipline that heals the soul, trains the body, and opens us up to God’s grace in ways that constant comfort and indulgence can’t.
St. John Chrysostom said fasting is about more than food. You fast from anger, from gossip, from lust, from the passions that eat away at your soul. Skipping meat but spending your evening nursing resentment or scrolling through garbage online misses the point entirely. The food part matters, but it’s connected to everything else. Body and soul aren’t separate.
So what does the fast actually involve? On regular Wednesdays and Fridays outside of major fasting seasons, most Orthodox abstain from meat. Many also skip dairy, eggs, fish, and sometimes oil and wine. Different parishes and jurisdictions have slightly different guidelines, and your priest can help you figure out what’s realistic for your life. Someone working twelve-hour shifts at the Motiva refinery might need to approach it differently than someone with a desk job and a predictable schedule. That’s fine. The Church is a hospital, not a courtroom.
During Great Lent or other major fasts, Wednesdays and Fridays get stricter. That’s when you really feel it. No oil, no wine, one meal. It’s hard. It’s supposed to be hard. Not as punishment, but as training. Athletes don’t get stronger by staying comfortable.
What surprises people is how normal this becomes. At first it feels impossible. How can I possibly skip meat twice a week, every week, for my whole life? But after a few months it’s just what you do. You plan around it. You discover that beans and rice can actually taste good. You realize you won’t starve. And on the weeks when you mess up or forget or decide you just can’t do it that day, you go to confession and start again. That’s how this works.
The rhythm of Wednesday and Friday fasting weaves the Passion into the fabric of every single week. We don’t treat Christ’s suffering as ancient history or a theological idea. We enter into it. We remember it. We let it shape how we live, what we eat, how we spend our time. This is what it means to take up your cross daily, not just sing about it on Sunday morning.
If you’re just starting to explore Orthodoxy, don’t panic about the fasting rules. Nobody expects you to jump in with both feet on day one. Talk to Fr. Michael or one of the catechumens who’ve been at this a while. Start small. Try one Wednesday. See what happens. The point isn’t perfection. The point is turning your heart toward Christ, again and again, every week, until the day you die.
