Obviously, my ability to cooperate with any rules is dependent upon my comprehension of them. Sometimes I talk myself out of questioning – I mean, it does make me pretty miserable a lot of the time, and it’s not something I consider a way of life. Nonetheless, we all question our religions to some extent (many of us to *the full extent*) and I’m no exception.

Certain practices just don’t make sense to me. But I don’t want to disrespect them, and I feel that they are valuable to other people.  It’s all coming back up now because I’ve figured out why I feel detached and unable to be a part of them, even after I find a way to understand or justify them.

You know I loves my metaphors/similes/allegories/pointless an inconsistent parables. So here we go.

I’m so ridiculous about movies. I get so attached to the characters that I feel like I need a week to mourn if someone dies. I was depressed for 2 weeks after I watched the Truman Show. I sobbed all the way through Prancer… even I can’t account for that.  A friend of mine once told me that she figured movies were my way to emotionally release, and that I wasn’t crying for the characters but for some aspect of myself I saw reflected. It made sense but it didn’t ring true. There have been rare times when I wasn’t so raw. Characters I didn’t feel for and sad movies that didn’t stay with me. But generally when I am able feel something inside, and see it represented on the outside, it’s too much for me to bear.

So here we are, back to religion, although I earnestly think this is not isolated to religion.

At some point in my life as a Christian I began to wonder what fasting was all about. I’d keep my eyes open for scriptures and practical applications about it. I can’t deny it’s part of our tradition, although I kind of want to. I can’t deny it’s supposed to be a significant act. It’s supposed to mean something. At the time, I was trying to start living more faithfully taking the 3 most obvious aspects of Christian living that before, had seemed to me …well… like good ideas that had no place being considered essentials. Fasting was one. Tithing was another. Purity was the last.

In Isaiah, there’s this big passage about God’s people who were fasting physically, but they weren’t doing good to the people who needed it. God is telling them, through Isaiah (right?), that He doesn’t want them to fast because He wants them not to eat – He wants them to fast and somehow in relation to that, give to the poor, and take care of their neighbors, and not ignore the poverty and suffering around them.

The time when I considered fasting an issue worth getting to the bottom of was the single worst time in my life. I was very aware of the suffering of others, and I was – really, out of love – contributing to it, often beyond my means, and with great empathy.  My affections for people in need have waned since then, and at these times I question myself, so fasting comes back to mind.

So, I did it. This was back in the day. I did it. And instead of spiritual satisfaction, I felt emptier and emptier. Does this mean that the fasting didn’t “work” and it’s all bunk? Does it mean that fasting is supposed to make you miserable because you are taking on more suffering for the greater good? How does it do anyone any good if I don’t eat? How does it help someone else if I don’t have the strength to give anything to them? Are we supposed to be worn out all the time for the sake of love? How does it increase my relationship with Jesus to be following a rule that doesn’t make sense to me? Is this a practice that involves blind trust that obedience done in faith will cause an increase of *something* holy, somewhere?

That was as satisfactory an answer as I could find. But after several months of fasting once a week (every other week if I was honest), I found myself unable to continue, having become discouraged and worried that I was being ridiculous. I thought my inability to follow through was from a lack of discipline.

Looking back, it seems like my beliefs themselves were hampering me more than anything, from moving forward with these practices. As strange as it is that I couldn’t grasp this before now, the principles that I was clinging to were metaphors themselves. That the hunger I felt when I fasted was painful because I already suffered such an agonizing hunger every day. The tithing hurt because my money is a secondary form of power, and I was already powerless. The purity seemed out of proportion to me as well – it wasn’t going to make me pure, it was an unnecessary fence. Weren’t we just supposed to be wise? Weren’t we in a faith with no rules? Couldn’t I give or abstain from anything at any time, depending on the meaning of the moment?

I’m not the first person to conclude that everything is a reflection and lesson for the inner man. But it’s become more apparent to me as I question again why those items nag at me now and then, here after so many (4) years. The confidence to turn the physical into the spiritual with any freedom has only come to me with my slow-developing maturity. I don’t think I would have been able to accept these explanations even a year ago.

I can’t give up whatever my faith is and instead take up hedonism, pursuing rest and food and money and whatever else appeals to me. I wouldn’t be able to embrace that life. And no matter how many times you show me how easy it is to pull someone off a chair, I’m not going to be worried that I’m at risk for that. (Deep down, I’m not secure in much. But I am fully, without question, secure in my attachment to my belief in Christ. Not because “I’m sure” like a new Christian is sure, or “I’m sure” like a pastor or an evangelist is sure, and not because I hope to convince someone else for some purpose. As far as I know, no one I know has faced the intensity or horror of the testing of my faith’s sincerity that I endured. There’s a reason I call it “the year I went crazy.”)

The reason it’s so hard to do a lot of “Christian” things is because they reveal the void within us, and expose it without healing it. That’s why I couldn’t participate in fasting, et al. I was/am starved, unsatisfied, powerless, and restless in spirit. The conclusion is that if you can define yourself with the invisible form of something, the visible form seems horrific. The inability to believe that the ends are justifying the means of your suffering inwardly, seems to exclude the possibility that *anything* could justify echoing it with its physical translation. At least, that’s what seems to keep me from behaving as I’m expected. But I’m not worried. I grew a bit this month and it seemed appropriate to talk about it for a long minute.