"Fasting days and Emberings be
Lent, Whitsun, Holyrod, and Lucie."
The Old Testament reading for this past
Sunday was about Isaiah’s call to prophecy. He experienced a vision where
seraphim said the Sanctus around the
Lord’s throne. Isaiah feels doomed, because he is a man, a sinner, unworthy to
be a witness to the beatific vision. It is too clean, too pure, and too bright
for him. As wonderful as it is, he knows he can’t be there. But then a seraphim
takes an ember from the altar and presses it against Isaiah’s lips. This
removes his sin and makes his lips pure to preach the message from God.
Firstly, the story shows humans’ unworthiness to enter heaven. We are unclean,
but we can be made clean again. And it is not necessarily a tidy process; it
might burn. Fire is cleansing. We are not just washed clean, but purified all
the way through.
Secondly, it is fitting that Isaiah’s story is this week, as the first week of
Lent includes an embertide. Embertide, or ember days, are days of particular
prayer and fasting and occur four times a year. It is a Western church
tradition that developed between the fourth and sixth centuries. It became an
official Church tradition under Pope Gregory VII, who declared them Quatuor Tempora, the Four Times. Ember
days occur the Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday following the first Sunday of
Lent, Whitsunday (Pentecost), Feast of the Holy Cross, and the first Sunday of
Advent. Those days of the week traditionally are fasting days because they were
the day of Jesus’ betrayal, death, and decent into hell.
After 1969, Catholics were no longer
obligated to fast on ember days. The same for Anglicans after 1976. I think
that’s rather sad; the Eastern church fasts much more often and with stricter
rules than the West. Ember days were a fasting tradition that the West had all
to itself, and yet it has been pushed aside. I think an extra 12 days a year
(beyond our current two) would do the Church well. I seriously doubt that a
seraphim is going to descend with an ember from the altar to purge my lips. But
I can participate in the grace I’m given. By fasting and praying, I can ready
my soul for purification.
Despite its sometimes stately power,
Christianity is a religion of the poor. It promotes the worth and dignity of
each person and shuns the entrapments of earthly power, wealth, and
significance. Pope Francis said, “Lent is a fitting time for self-denial. We
would do well to ask ourselves what we can give up in order to help and enrich
others by our own poverty.” People commonly give up something for Lent. But
what is the point of giving up something, or of fasting, or of self-denial? How
does my poverty actually enrich others?
First, it breaks us out of our daily
habit. Giving up chocolate or coffee seems trivial, until you experience
cravings and find yourself reaching out for that comfort throughout the day.
You realize how dependent you have become and how privileged you are. You see
the poor around you, the ones who have less and suffer more. It opens your eyes
to what needs to be done. Second, you have more resources to share with the
needy. Be it money saved from not purchasing that drink, or time saved from not
playing that video game, you now have something extra to offer—money to a food
bank or volunteer time to a homeless shelter. Fasting is not just about
avoiding certain foods but about living a more simple, focused life.
Third, each time you remind yourself,
“don’t do that” you also remind yourself why.
You turn a mindless habit into a reflection of faith. I’m fasting today, why? Because Christ was tempted in the desert.
Because Christ was turned out from his hometown. Because Christ was betrayed.
Because Christ suffered torture. Because Christ died. In just a bit of
discomfort, I am turning to Christ, trying to meagerly share in his suffering.
It seems counterintuitive to engage in
an uncomfortable activity. Isn’t the world uncomfortable enough? Yet to me, it
is like a training exercise; a small amount of suffering prepares me for when
real suffering occurs. I learn that I can make it through, that faith doesn’t
wane when comfort does. In something as simple as Lent or fasting, I remember
that life is not about comfort. It is a trial, an ordeal, a preparation. It is
temporary discomfort itself, for the sake of a better afterward. Spiritual
enrichment emerges from pain. It is not about being burnt, but being forged
into something pure and strong. Isaiah had an ember pressed into his lips so
that his lips might be worthy of the Truth. Might a few days of fasting forge
me in a similar way.
