Fasting From What’s Eating Our Consecration – OpEd
I am stuck on why we have made fasting so narrow. We talk about giving up food for a few days, maybe coffee during Lent, and call it spiritual discipline. But what if we are missing the bigger picture? What if fasting was never just about what we put in our mouths but about what we allow to consume our hearts and minds?
Scripture paints a much broader canvas. When Ezra needed God’s guidance for a dangerous journey, he called for a fast. When Daniel wanted to strengthen his prayers, he fasted. When Esther faced annihilation, fasting became her battle strategy. These were not people counting calories or cleansing their digestive systems. They were creating space for something greater.
In our hyperconnected religious life, the things that truly consume us are not always on our dinner plates. Even within convent walls and monastery gates, we constantly feed on WhatsApp messages from family, news of church scandals, formation updates that arrive at all hours, and the relentless noise that seeps into our supposed silence. We check our phones during recreation, consume content during times meant for lectio divina, and wonder why we feel spiritually hungry despite our structured prayer life.
Maybe it is time to fast from the notifications that interrupt our Divine Office. Maybe we need to give up the morning news ritual that fills us with anxiety before Lauds. Perhaps the real spiritual discipline is putting down our phones during Adoration, not because technology is evil, but because our souls need quiet space to hear that still, small voice—the very voice we vowed to prioritise.
The Psalms talk about fasting to humble ourselves before God. For those of us in religious life, this hits deeper than skipping lunch. It means examining the pride in our community meetings, the complaints about superiors that we share too freely, and the way we always need to defend our ministries or prove our congregation’s relevance. We might justify these as “honest dialogue” or “healthy processing,” but they build walls between us and genuine humility. When we fast from our need to always be right in chapter meetings or always be heard in formation sessions, something shifts. We become true disciples again instead of veterans who have forgotten we are still learning.
Joel’s call to “return with fasting and weeping” is not comfortable, but it is necessary—especially for those of us who have taken public vows. This is the kind of fast that makes us look honestly at what we have allowed into our consecrated lives. The gossip we entertain during recreation, the toxic patterns we have normalised in community living, and the criticism of other congregations or the hierarchy that slowly poisons our joy. It is painful to cut these things out, like removing splinters that have worked deep under the skin. But this kind of fasting leads to cleansing that goes beyond what any rule or constitution could legislate.
Then there is the fasting that strengthens prayer. Daniel did not just pray the hours casually while planning his next class or pastoral visit. He fasted to amplify his petitions, to tune out distractions so he could tune into God. When we fast from entertainment—even the “harmless” shows during community recreation—from the constant background noise that fills our cells or common rooms, prayer often finds a new rhythm. Silence stops feeling like an imposed penance and starts feeling sacred again, like when we first entered formation.
Sometimes fasting is about making space for grief. David mourned through fasting, and in our religious culture that is almost revolutionary. We are encouraged to bounce back quickly when a beloved sister or brother dies, to stay busy with ministry so we do not dwell on failed vocations or closed houses, and to distract ourselves from the pain of declining numbers. But when we fast from the urge to numb ourselves, when we resist over-scheduling our calendars or endless “community building” activities during hard times, we allow sorrow to do its quiet work of healing. We honour what we have lost—vocations, traditions, relevance—instead of running from the reality of it.
Esther’s fast was about deliverance from very real threats. Our battles look different, but they are just as real. We fight the addictions that hide behind religious respectability—workaholism disguised as zealous ministry, perfectionism masked as striving for holiness, people-pleasing we call obedience, and the approval-seeking from our communities or bishops that we mistake for healthy relationship. When we fast from whatever has power over us—whether it is caffeine to keep up with demanding schedules, constant busyness to prove our worth, shopping for small comforts to fill spiritual emptiness, or the need for validation from those we serve—we are making a declaration. We are saying we will not be ruled by what enslaves us, even if that slavery feels like dedication to our vocation.
Jesus fasted before beginning his ministry, spending forty days in the wilderness. He did not jump straight into public life after his baptism. He prepared through surrender, through stripping away, through getting quiet enough to hear his Father’s voice above all others. Maybe we in religious life need to fast from our obsession with productivity—the meetings, the programmes, and the initiatives we launch to prove our congregations are still vital. Maybe preparation and contemplation matter more than the performance metrics we have borrowed from the secular world.
The question is not really what we can fast from—it is what we are willing to put down so we can pick up something better. It might be the habit we cannot go a day without despite our vows of simplicity, the voice of public opinion we always prioritise over God’s in our discernment, or the pattern of keeping up appearances that keeps us from being truly present to our communities and those we serve.
Fasting is subtraction that leads to addition. Less of the world’s noise means more of God’s voice—the voice we first heard in our call. Less distraction opens space for real purpose—the charism we vowed to live. Less rushing around with ministry creates room for actual Sabbath rest, which our rules wisely prescribed but we conveniently ignore. Whether you are seeking guidance for your community’s future, processing grief over changes in religious life, turning from patterns unworthy of your consecration, or preparing for a new mission, consider what in your vowed life needs to be laid aside.
The fast is not about deprivation—we already know about that from our vows and our formation. It is about liberation. It is about discovering that when we stop feeding on what does not nourish us, we finally have room for what our souls have been craving all along—the very intimacy with Christ that drew us to religious life in the first place. So before you plan your next food fast during Lent, look at what is feeding your mind, your community conversations, your ministry choices, and your heart. You might find that what you most need to fast from is not what you eat, but what has been eating away at the consecrated soul you once offered so freely to God.