Reflection 23: You Won’t Wither Away

Let me start this by saying it is perfectly fine if someone doesn’t understand fasting or the faith. I genuinely appreciate when people ask questions. I would much rather someone be curious than silently assume. But what honestly catches me off guard sometimes is how certain misconceptions have lived on for so long that they’ve just become “truth” in people’s minds.

I’ve had coworkers — people well into their 60s and 70s — ask me what fasting actually means. And it’s always interesting because most people think it’s just, “Oh, you can’t eat meat on Fridays.” But during Lent, fasting traditionally means one full meal and two smaller meals that together don’t equal another full meal. It’s intentional. It’s structured. It’s meant to create a little bit of hunger.

And almost every time, someone asks, “How do you survive?”
Or, “Aren’t you starving?”
Or, “I would wither away if I did that.”

And I always sit there thinking… that’s kind of the point.

Not that we’re meant to harm ourselves. Not that we’re meant to collapse into dust. But that we are meant to feel it. The small ache. The small inconvenience. The little reminder in your stomach that says, “This is different.”

I don’t typically start quoting Scripture at people because, in my experience, that’s not always what softens a heart. But on Ash Wednesday, we literally hear Matthew 6:16–18 — where Jesus tells us not to fast like the hypocrites who make themselves look miserable so others will notice. What you do in private, the Lord sees. If you fast for attention or sympathy, that’s your reward. But if you fast quietly, offering it up to Him, there is something deeper happening — something spiritual.

And I think what people struggle with most isn’t theology. It’s inconvenience.

Fasting disrupts comfort. It interrupts routine. It reminds us that we are not meant to indulge every single desire the second it arises. And that feels foreign in a world that tells us to satisfy every craving immediately.

But the discomfort is the offering.

It is the tiniest participation in the sacrifice Christ made for us.

It’s not just “eat less because the Church says so.” It’s denying yourself. It’s choosing discipline. It’s telling your flesh, “You are not in control.” It’s striving — in the smallest human way — to imitate Christ, who fasted for 40 days in the desert and ultimately gave everything on the Cross.

And then there’s abstaining from meat on Fridays.

The Church asks us to fast on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday and to abstain from warm-blooded meat on Fridays during Lent. That’s it. You can eat fish. You can eat shrimp. You can eat well. Yet people are genuinely shocked by the idea of skipping meat for one day.

Friday was chosen because that is the day Christ sacrificed His flesh for us. So we abstain from flesh meat as a small, physical reminder of that sacrifice. It’s penance. It’s remembrance. It’s a way of saying, “I have not forgotten.”

When I find myself thinking, “I really wish I could have a steak tonight,” I stop and think about what He endured.

I don’t have to carry a cross.
I don’t have to be whipped.
I don’t have to have nails driven into my hands and feet.
I don’t have to hang there dehydrated, exposed, struggling to breathe.

When you actually sit with that — really sit with it — does skipping meat even compare?

It’s so small. Almost embarrassingly small.

And I know this can sound intense. I know not everyone likes hearing it framed that way. But sometimes we need to zoom out. We need to remember that our faith is not meant to be convenient. Love — real love — costs something.

He died for us.

The least I can do is accept a little hunger.
The least I can do is skip the meat on Friday.