THE HIDDEN STRENGTH OF FASTING
Fasting, when spoken of in Scripture, is not a punishment; it is a pathway—quiet, ancient, and holy—where the soul leans into God with a hunger deeper than the body’s own. From the prophets who trembled before the glory of the Lord to the early church that prayed and fasted before sending out missionaries (Acts 13:2–3), the people of God have always known that there are seasons when the stomach must grow silent so the spirit may speak. I believe, deeply and unapologetically, that fasting is good; not as a badge of honor, not as a legalistic demand, but as a gift that turns our hearts heavenward.
Yet wisdom compels us to speak with tenderness. Some cannot fast from food because of health needs—diabetes, medical treatments, pregnancy, or medications that require nourishment. The Lord who formed our bodies (Psalm 139:14) never calls us to harm the very temple He inhabits. There is no shame in this, no lesser devotion.
The purpose of fasting is not starvation; the purpose is surrender—and surrender can take many forms. Someone may set aside television. Another may fast from the endless scroll of the cell phone, that subtle thief of silence. Still another may lay aside books, hobbies, or anything that has grown too large in their affections. The point is not the object we set down, but the God we take up.
There are many kinds of fasts. Some abstain from all food for a brief season; others from certain foods like Daniel did in Babylon (Daniel 10:2–3).
Some choose a partial fast—skipping a meal to spend the hour in prayer; others choose a soul-fast—laying aside distractions that numb the spirit. Each is valid when done with a heart that seeks the Lord (Matthew 6:16–18).
In a world that feasts constantly on noise, novelty, and screens, a fast can be the holy refusal that opens the heavens.
And the spiritual benefits—oh, how rich they are.
Fasting sharpens our dependence on God; it reminds the heart that “man shall not live by bread alone” (Matthew 4:4). It softens pride, breaks stubbornness, and teaches us that the kingdom is found in weakness more than strength (2 Corinthians 12:9). It heightens our prayers, tunes our ears to the whisper of the Spirit, and loosens the weights that cling so tightly.
Many discover renewed clarity, deeper repentance, greater compassion, and a tender, almost trembling awareness of God’s nearness. Fasting can be a classroom where the flesh grows quiet—and Christ becomes everything.
But one truth must be spoken plainly. Many who champion “patternism”—the idea that we must replicate every possible detail of New Testament practice—seldom fast themselves. The early Christians fasted; Jesus assumed His disciples would fast; and fasting was woven into the worship, decision-making, and spiritual life of the first-century church (Acts 14:23).
To speak loudly of following a New Testament pattern while refusing the disciplines that shaped the New Testament people is a curious contradiction.
Fasting is not a mark of advanced spirituality; it is the humble melody of ordinary disciples who want more of Christ and less of themselves.
So, let the strong fast with wisdom; let the weak fast in other ways; let none feel coerced; let all feel invited. For whenever we set something aside for the sake of Christ, the heart discovers again that He is enough—He has always been enough.
Lord Jesus, gentle Shepherd of our souls, teach us to fast—not as a burden but as a blessing; not to impress You, but to draw near to You. Give us wisdom for our bodies, courage for our spirits, and joy in the journey. Empty us of lesser things, that we may be filled again with Your peace, Your presence, and Your perfect will. Amen.
BDD
