I think spending a week inside avoiding the dangers of sleetmageddon put me in a reflective mood.
Shouts of “Throw me something, Mister!” are echoing across our state again. Krewes are loading up their floats, folks are dusting off tuxes and gowns for the Balls, and everybody’s loosening up their throwing arms like they’re training for the Saints’ draft. In Louisiana, this can only mean one thing: Lent is sneaking up on us.
Most places prepare for Lent with quiet reflection. Down here, we crank up the brass band. When you see purple, green, and gold beads hanging from the power lines like Spanish moss, you know the season of repentance is right around the corner. Only in Louisiana do we get ready for fasting by throwing a monthlong party.
Lent, of course, is tied to the ancient discipline of fasting. Ever tried it? That’s where all those fishonFriday stories come from. McDonald’s once even tried a pineapple sandwich to help the Friday fasters. They won’t do that again—but somehow the McRib keeps coming back like a stray cat that knows you’re a soft touch.
But fasting isn’t about food so much as it’s about reality. It’s the spiritual posture of remembering just how dependent we are on God—choosing hunger so we can feel our deeper hunger. The truth is, we are always desperate for God; it’s just that our comforts and routines do a pretty good job of hiding it. Fasting cuts through the camouflage.
Fasting is a bold declaration that our stomachs don’t get the final say, that our bodies don’t get to boss our spirits around. In a culture that worships indulgence, fasting is downright rebellious. Yet Jesus fasted. He expected His disciples to fast. Scripture mentions fasting more often than baptism. It’s not a fringe practice—it’s a foundational one.
In the Bible, people fasted for guidance, for grief, for deliverance, for clarity, for dedication, for worship. And Jesus, in His Sermon on the Mount, told His followers to fast quietly—not with ashes smeared on their heads but with clean faces and anointed hair. In other words: don’t look miserable. Look like someone who knows God sees what no one else does.
The early church took this seriously. Clement of Alexandria tells us believers fasted on Wednesdays and Fridays. By 340 AD, Athanasius tied fasting to remembering Jesus’ wilderness journey. John Wesley even refused to ordain Methodist leaders who didn’t fast weekly. (Yes, I know. I’m preaching to myself here.)
Jesus fasted. The early church fasted. Christians throughout history have fasted. So why do so few of us do it now? Maybe some are fasting quietly and we simply don’t know. Or maybe we’ve let the noise of our culture drown out a practice that once shaped the saints.
So as the parades roll, the beads fly, and the king cakes multiply, remember this: the reason for the revelry is that Lent is coming. The party is the prelude.
And it makes me wonder—how different would our faith look if we took the fast of Lent as seriously as we take the fun of Mardi Gras?
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