From the desert to today: Why Christians fast

In an age of wellness trackers and intermittent fasting routines, the ancient Christian practice of fasting might look like it’s having a comeback. But while both involve skipping meals, the similarities are only surface-deep. Modern fasting often aims at self-improvement. Christian fasting is about self-gift.

For Christians, fasting is not about control or efficiency — it’s about making space. It’s a voluntary hunger that points beyond the body, a way of returning to God with both heart and flesh. The Catechism of the Catholic Church explains that fasting expresses conversion in relation to oneself, to God, and to others (CCC 1434). It trains the soul in humility, opening a quiet path for grace.

These ideas didn’t begin with Christianity. In the Hebrew Bible, fasting appears as a deeply embodied form of repentance, mourning, or preparation. The people of Nineveh fast when they hear Jonah’s warning. Queen Esther calls for a three-day fast before pleading for her people’s lives. The Day of Atonement, or Yom Kippur, remains the holiest day of the Jewish year, and fasting is central to it — not to earn God’s favor, but to be reconciled and renewed.

Christianity inherited this understanding of fasting as a sacred practice, not an end in itself, but a signpost pointing toward something more. Jesus himself fasted for 40 days in the desert, not to prove strength, but to prepare for his mission — and to stand in solidarity with human weakness. His teaching, too, is clear: When you fast, do not parade your piety. Wash your face. Go quietly.

In the Catholic tradition, fasting typically takes place on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday, with abstinence from meat on others Fridays, especially during Lent. The fast is modest — one full meal, two smaller ones, no snacks — but its simplicity is part of its power. It asks very little, and yet it asks something real.

In Eastern Orthodox Christianity, fasting takes on even greater intensity. The Great Fast before Easter, as well as other fasting periods throughout the year, often call for abstention from meat, dairy, oil, and wine. These fasts are not seen as rules to follow perfectly, but as an invitation to grow in love. We don’t fast because God needs it. We fast because we need healing.

This spiritual logic is far from today’s culture of performance and perfection. Intermittent fasting apps track calories and hours. Christian fasting, on the other hand, resists metrics. Its fruit is not always visible. Sometimes, it reveals weakness more than strength. But that, too, is part of the grace.

In a world of abundance, fasting becomes an act of resistance — a way of remembering that fullness isn’t always found in having more. It reconnects body and soul. It binds us, quietly, to others who go hungry without choosing it. And it prepares the heart for the feast that follows.

As Easter draws near, the fast doesn’t just make space for resurrection — it sharpens our hunger for it.