Tales from a Mid-Lifer

Folklore claims that I was baptized Catholic as an infant. Subsequently, I was unchurched until the age of thirteen. At that juncture, my mother decided we would attend the church of her childhood: the Greek Orthodox Church.

My Papou (maternal grandfather) arrived here from Greece, while my YiaYia (maternal grandmother) was Italian. Tradition as it was back then, my grandmother learned Greek (making her multi-lingual) and adopted her husband’s religion. My mother’s first marriage to a blue eyed, blonde American, ensured I looked nothing like the Mediterranean people surrounding me. 

Spending a decade in a church service spoken in another language, often asked what my last name was (very un-Greek), and what restaurant we owned (none since my grandfather died), didn’t generate warm and fuzzy church feelings. There were no Bible studies, youth groups, or other personal communications that were very normal for my kids growing up in an evangelical community. Yet, I took warmly to Sunday School, which I attended the last couple years of high school.

Though I had received Jesus’ gift of salvation at sixteen (another story, another time), it wasn’t until I was pregnant with my twins that I stood in a non-liturgical church, recommitting my life to Christ. That pivotal decision drove me deep into the Bible, seeking truth for myself. I had been reading scripture since my prayer at sixteen, but not gathering with anyone to discuss the meaning.

Like most who commit all-in for Jesus, I ferociously read the Bible, C.S. Lewis, Tim Keller, John Bunyan and more. I asked endless questions of any “mature” Christian in my path. Many inquiries reflected my list of rules and those of my Catholic friends. Where were the no Wednesday/Friday meat-eating scriptures? Where was the requirement for church confirmation, priest-confession, and mass attendance?  

Though freed by God’s Word, I’m not going to lie…it was hard releasing the deeply embedded practices. For years after I began attending a Biblically sound, non-denominational church (not charismatic), the casual nature of service remained unnerving. No one making the sign of the cross? Not even once like Catholics? We Greeks completed a thrice-cross-making exercise every time. Drinking coffee and wearing jeans? My grandmother would have passed out in the pew.

When I was in high school, we fasted from meat on Wednesdays and Fridays during lent. In addition to meat, most chose something else to fast from as well. God was mentioned, but religion was preeminent.

When it comes to becoming a true disciple of Jesus…sometimes rules obstruct. Jesus schooled the Pharisees regarding hard and fast rule-following, void of love. Though my religion felt far more important than God, church rules aren’t all bad. They provide structure. You know what to do, when, and how to do things. Expectations are precise. I’m a big fan of clarity.

Rule-following is easy. I wrote about my fondness of rules several years ago here. Lists and checking boxes are satisfying. No hamburgers on Wednesdays? Check. Fish fry dinner on Friday? Check. Kneel, recite, stand up, check. The rule-following was my religion and I felt very good about myself. But, the activities didn’t have my heart, which other people told me God wanted most.

Week after week, I stared at the icons above the altar, wondering about us ‘being in His image’. Did He laugh? If so, why were the icons so sad and scary? Since He is alive, why do we stare at Him hanging there every week? These are things kids think about in the pews…

Relationship was much different. I had to put my faith in Someone…even when things went sideways? Trust an invisible God when virtually no one in my world was trustworthy? What did that even look like? And, the time…this Bible-reading, praying, building relationship business took way longer than obeying my tidy set of rules.

I was changing and required more depth in my life. So, I traded my Sundays and lent God-boxes for a daily walk with Him. I was being moved away from rigidity and toward relationship.

In time, I learned that fasting can be practiced in unique ways. When I was in the Biblically-based MOPS (mothers of preschoolers) group, one of my peers shared the story about her difficulty getting pregnant. One particular day when she cried to her Mom, sharing her fears and hopelessness, her Mom said she would spend the next day fasting and praying.

My church didn’t teach one-day fasting. I also hadn’t learned a specific prayer request could be attached to a fast.

The Mom fervently prayed and fasted for her daughter to conceive. Although it was too early in the year for such an event, at the very end of the day, the Mom observed the cherry blossom tree in the front yard had inexplicably produced flowers. Lots and lots of them. She took this as confirmation from the Lord that she was heard. Yes, my fellow group member turned up pregnant a short time later.

Of course, answers aren’t always received the way the petitioner prays. I’m sharing with you a time that they were, and the relevance to a young Mom who had no idea this type of fasting was acceptable.

Fasting has purpose. As my own family grew, our fasting was less food-related, more life-focused. Less television, deleting Instagram, more Bible reading, fewer distractions. Extra giving in time or donations. If a day was missed, or the intention failed, I assured them of grace. Everyone chose their own 40-day sacrifice. I just wanted God front and center – a clear understanding of the why – the fast not centered upon the activity or food sacrifice.

That’s what lent is for those of us who practice it: six+ weeks of mild sacrifice in remembrance of the One who sacrificed everything.

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