The Fast That He Has Chosen

 

Isaiah 58:6 “Is not this the fast that I have chosen: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the bands of the yoke, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke?” American Standard Version

I had a hankering, a yearning, and I longed to take up a spiritual discipline I had sitting dusty on the shelf of underappreciated disciplines. I used to fast on occasion when I was hitched to particularly difficult tasks. It has been several years since I last undertook a fast to clear the way for the Holy Spirit but I’m in a place where I find that I am again in need of the discipline.

I turned to a couple of old friends, if you don’t mind me being so familiar with them. Dallas Willard and Richard J. Foster both wrote about the discipline of fasting. Dallas in his The Spirit of the Disciplines, Understanding How God Changes Lives and Richard J. in Celebration of Discipline, The Path to Spiritual Growth.

It is interesting to me that these men eschew the use of Dr. on their book covers and instead simply use their names. I have seen them both in person and their humility is worn about them like an old familiar sweater.

Dallas Willard is known for his writing on Christian spiritual formation and having had a focus on ‘phenomenology’, a study of the structures of experience and the consciousness. He says of fasting, “Fasting confirms our utter dependence upon God by finding in him a source of sustenance beyond food. Through it, we learn by experience that God’s word to us is a life substance, that it is not food (“bread”) alone that gives life, but also the words that proceed from the mouth of God (Matt. 4:4)”

Again, from Willard: “We learn that we too have meat to eat that the world does not know about (John 4:32, 34). Fasting unto our Lord is therefore feasting – feasting on him and on doing his will.”

And again, “Actually, fasting is one of the more important ways of practicing that self-denial required of everyone who would follow Christ (Matt. 16:24)"

In his Celebration of Discipline, Richard J. Foster quotes John Wesley: “Some have exalted religious fasting beyond all Scripture and reason; and others have utterly disregarded it.”

Foster says, “Scripture has so much to say about fasting that we would do well to look once again at this ancient Discipline. The list of biblical personages who fasted reads like a “Who’s Who” of Scripture: Moses the lawgiver, David the king, Elijah the prophet, Esther the queen, Daniel the seer, Anna the prophetess, Paul the apostle, Jesus Christ the incarnate Son.”

There are a range of fasts: full fasts where we abstain from all food, solid or liquid, but not from water, partial fasts whereby we restrict the diet without total abstention (Daniel 10:3), and an absolute fast where nothing is taken in. For reference, these are people who fasted in the Bible: Esther in Esther 4:16 for 3 days, Paul in Acts 9:9 after his visitation, and Moses in Deut. 9:9 and Elijah in 1 Kings 19:8 for supernatural absolute fasts of 40 days.

For the most part, fasts are of an individual and personal nature. There are times when groups are called to fast such as the Day of Atonement for the Hebrews or when in 1756 the king of Britain called for a day of solemn prayer and fasting because of threatened invasion from France. Of this fast John Wesley writes, “The fast day was a glorious day, such as London has scarce seen since the Restoration. Every church in the city was more than full, and a solemn seriousness sat on every face. Surely God heareth prayer, and there will yet be a lengthening of our tranquility.” France did not invade.

In any case, group or individual, partial fast or complete or even absolute, we must remember one central tenet as Foster put it, “Fasting must forever center on God. It must be God-initiated and God-ordained.”

I have leaned on Foster for what I am thinking of as the process for fasting:

1.       Define your fast objectives. Outline whatever you hope to breakthrough on during your fast and define it but remain open to the Holy Spirit to redefine it.

2.       Jesus said in Matthew 6: 16-18, “¹⁶And whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. ¹⁷But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, ¹⁸so that your fasting may be seen not by others but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.”

3.       Define your fast parameters. What are you giving up and living on? How long will you fast? The following is a list of progressions to take for fasting. Figure out where you fit on the spectrum from beginner to ‘old-hand’:

a.       Begin with a partial fast of 24-hours.
  i.      Use fruit juice and water, plenty of water
  ii.      Repeat weekly for several weeks
  iii.      Monitor the attitude of your heart – prayer, meditation, singing, and worship

b.   Graduate to a full fast of 24 hours with water only and lots of it. Use the normal time spent on eating for prayer and/or meditation.

c.     Step up to a 36-hour full fast or three meals.

d.    Consider a multi-day fast of three to seven days and then after, even longer if you feel up to it. Things to consider on the long fast:
i.      The first three days are tough as the body rids itself of toxins.
ii.     Headaches are mild withdrawal systems from caffeine, consider weaning yourself before a long fast.
iii.  Around the fourth day your hunger pains should begin to subside, there may be feelings of weakness and occasional dizziness, these should be temporary.
iv.   You should feel stronger and more alert around the six- or seven-day mark of your fast.
v.     Your longer fasts should be broken with fruit or vegetable juice and small amounts of those until your system gets back to normal. I learned the hard way on this one. As a 20-year-old zealot of sorts, I broke my 4-day fast with a big greasy burrito. It was not elegant.

Foster writes of fasts extended from seven to 40 days. I won’t go into these here. If you are moved to do anything longer than I have covered in this short post I recommend a deeper study of fasting on both the spiritual and physical levels.

CAUTION: If you have, or suspect that you have underlying medical issues consult your doctor. It is best to go into the discipline of fasting with your eyes wide open.

We must remember that the major work of scriptural fasting is in our spirit. What goes on in our hearts and souls is more important than what is occurring in our bodies. A spiritually critical period is when we break our fast and relax. Fasting can bring us breakthroughs in the spiritual realm that we can’t find any other way. I have seen it work in my own life and am looking forward to it doing so again.

We should remember Paul’s warning to the Colossians in chapter 2, verse 23, “Many things have an appearance of wisdom in promoting rigor of devotion and self-abasement and severity to the body, but they are of no value in checking the indulgence of the flesh.”

Finally, let’s remember that it is His fast and the purpose is to break chains of bondage.

In His grip and under His Grace,

Jerry

Authors note: In reaction to a sermon, I alluded to in this post I swore off purchasing and eating meat. This was not a lifestyle change but a fast of protest, surely not a spiritual fast in any shape or form. I discovered in writing this post that I no longer held my grudge and have taken up eating meat again, but I have determined not to do so in the presence of my vegetarian wife, daughter, or grandson. I have perceived it as an affront to them the numerous times vegetarians have been denigrated from the pulpit.

A Love So Sweetened

 

A year ago tomorrow, my love was sweetened through the cost of bitter tears and tears of relief and sadness, and some of love and thankfulness.

I had the onus of sitting with my dad through his last hours, how many it does not matter. My mother joined me for the last couple of hours or so, my brother-in-law spent time with me and my sister as well. I say ‘onus’ and indeed, the task was heavy. But onus is not quite the right word, too negative. It was not a pleasure, to be sure, but it was a place and time of honor, of the deepest intimacy that I could experience with my dad, the moment in time when he reached a final peace after what seemed an age of suffering.

We sat together with him holding his hand and as he breathed his last three breaths and it was eye-opening. He breathed free and easy for the first time in years and he went with a look of astonished wonderment on his face knowing that he would be breathing easy forever after.

All this is fine but what did it do for me right after or what does it do for me now? It allowed me to let go and love more sweetly. Love for my dad, for my mom, and for anybody I am brave enough love – my kids, their kids, and a wide range of family and friends and acquaintances. If I let myself do it.

I wish I’d known this as a young man when I lost friends far too early, family so near, and as an older man feeling the same as the losses grew. It is hard to forget them. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve not been so encumbered by losing friends and family as others, many others, maybe even most others.

Over the years I have told others that they have big hearts. Hearts big enough to hold the memories of a lost loved one and to continue loving others and even ‘another’. It is no disrespect the departed to love more fiercely, more sweetly once they have gone, it is an accolade to memories of them. As my friends David, Stephen, Graham, and Neil like to say, ‘love the one you’re with.’

My cousin is showing me this right now as they sit with her husband along with his mother, her mother, their kids, and grandkids, as many as can be there. They are in a place to love more. More sweetly. And they are doing so and inspiring me and warming me up. Thank you, cousin.

Hug your loves more tightly, speak to them more tenderly, laugh with them more often, be sweeter to them always.

And yes, I believe my love for Jesus has been so sweetened.

In His grip,

jerry

To My Daughters, et al.

 

To my daughters, et al.,

“Et al.” is an interesting term to use in a salutation but perfect for my point. Et al. is short for the Latin term ‘el alia’ which means ‘and others’.

It is such a broad term that it can encompass anything anyone wants to add in for reasons both proper and true and reasons so obscure only the adder knows why, adder as a noun and not to be confused with a snake. The punctuation for the term is a bit esoteric and I did the best I can.

I have been blessed with two daughters of my own, a daughter-in-law, and a bunch of bonus-daughters via their association with my kids or having come through the various youth programs I’ve served. Some of my bonus-daughters have daughters of their own who have children and that is a reflection on me being in the youth work game for a long time and achieving the title of old man. I embrace it.

You young women are raising children who are loving, open, and inclusive. As mothers, you are completely vested in your kids and present in their lives. You take them on adventures to the park, walks around the block, vacations, and stay-at-home exploits and flights of fancy. You guys hug your kids through every childhood misadventure and scraped knee, laugh with them in play, and dance, and understand jokes only your child knows the punchline to.

The investment of unyielding and unconditional love from mothers, and in particular the ones I am holding in my heart as I write this, will pay off in healthy, loving, and brave young adults and responsible people over the next generation. I am in awe of you and in truth, more than a bit proud. You warm my heart on chilly days and refresh me like the breeze coming in off the lake on a hot summer day.

These things did not come about by accident. Your mom invested in you as their mothers invested in them. They put the right ingredients in the bowl just so and if you were a fortunate lass, your grandmothers added dashes of wisdom and caring and stirred the pot just enough that all the ingredients were thoroughly mixed. They didn’t stop with the mixing and taste testing, they put you in the oven and let you bake into the women you have become. I salute them and wish I could hug each of them right now and thank them for the work they did and the miracles they performed.

Thank you ladies for being amazing. Happy Mother’s Day.

Now, if you have read this far and you are asking yourself if I meant you then yes, I meant you. If you don’t have kids yet or might never have kids then I submit to you that you likely still qualify as a bonus-mom or a fantastic aunt and are adding critical ingredients to the next generation. Keep stirring them in and watch that they aren’t left in the oven too long and burn. And, as any good cook will do, taste test often.

Again, happy Mother’s Day.

I love you all,

Dad or Jer Bear as the case may be.

Confessions of a Wayward Writer

 

What do you do when you believe God has called you to a vocation and you engage in all manner of ‘good’ things instead of that which you are called to? 'Good', as in necessary everyday activities like three sets of tax returns, including your recently deceased parents’ final return, and any number of things – wash dishes, cook, do yard work, work on estate processes, spend time with family… What do we do when we know we should be spending time and energy on activities we are beckoned to do by that quiet voice we have come to trust as God’s?

Confess with a sincere heart, move on, and get down to it. And so I confess:

I am a writer. I believe God has called me to it and He did so after I searched for the creativity that exists in each of us. We who are created in the image of God have a spark of The Creator in us. I searched for mine after giving up on the notion that I was creative on the basketball court. While that may have been so, if the divine creativity for me was that of an athlete I would be writing this as a former NBA player, or at least that is how I see it.

I did a lot of business writing for the phone factory and was well thought of for my efforts. White papers, business cases, reports, and all sorts of communications that paved the way for me to have a nice little career.

I hadn’t started my search for the creative spark at the time but when a student ministries director asked me to do the writing for the church’s monthly newsletter, I took to it and enjoyed the outlet. I wrote about our youth activities and what was coming up and did some pieces about the depth of our mission trips and camps. What I really loved doing was zeroing in on a particular person and writing a story about him or her and what I found special about them. I could and did write from the heart on those occasions and they were the ones that touched people. My mom and mother-in-law were my biggest supporters in this and they carried it over once I heard the call to write creatively.

I am not a good writer and I feel this way for several reasons. I do not do it consistently enough to say I have a writer’s life but I wish that I could claim that I have such a life. My work needs a lot of editing and I need to learn the craft more completely. I write some good pieces here and there but nothing that has been published outside of my own blogs or social media outlets. Some of that has to do with me lacking the confidence to believe the piece is worthy of printing and some of it has to do with me lacking a tough inner shell to withstand the common practice of writers to collect rejection letters.

I completed a novel a couple years ago but it has been left idol. It is the book I believed I was urged to write by the Author of our Faith and yet I cannot bring myself to rewrite it as it desperately needs. The book needs to be cut it in half if there is any hope in having a publisher even look at it. The story is mortally out of date due to my delays and I need to refigure the timeline and at least bring it up to the point where it touches on the pandemic.

All of this falls short of a legitimate excuse for falling short of having a writer’s life, one meant to touch the hearts of at least one person with each piece I publish. For all of this, I am sorry and will rekindle my efforts.

I am a writer. My best of friends Mike and Jim say so. Mike even puts ‘Writer’ as my occupation when he uses me as a reference when he is job seeking. Mike is a professional editor so it must be true that I am a writer. Jim is my coach and he tells me how touched he is when he reads my work. He was key in showing me the error in a short story I have now submitted several times to start my collection of rejections, so it must be true that I am a writer.

Ani is a published writer, has a master’s in fine arts (MFA) Degree, and is an entrepreneur. She took a short story I wrote almost on a whim for the family and put it in a picture book for us. My mom had me autograph her copy, so it must be true. I guess this means I need to retract my earlier statement that I have not be published outside of my own media resources.

What led to me writing this confession was Phil talking to the men on our Zoomeeting the other morning and telling the group what a good writer I am and how he appreciates the works that I put up. Having spent that morning in the presence of the Holy Spirit, I was uplifted, touched, and convicted all at the same time. Phil is a published writer himself, so it must be true.

Thus, I must confess that I fall short of God’s call to me.

I looked on the back of a piece of intarsia my late father did for me and he said, “Together in His grip, love Dad”. And so I’ll sign off on this confession as I frequently sign off on my Calvary's Thread posts.

In His grip,

jerry

Waves of Grief

 

Personal observations on the process and state of grief upon the loss of a parent or spouse, or maybe worse yet, a child:

Grief is like standing on the beach just in the surf-line where most of the waves lap up and tickle our toes and encompass your foot. As the wave recedes we can feel the sand erode from under our feet and sense that if we stood there long enough, the beach would altogether cover us up.

Now and again a wave comes in as an ankle slapper and we get surprised but not too worried at the sensations. Then an outsider comes and we are standing up to our thighs in the ocean and we feel like we’ll be pulled out to sea. And so we sob quietly but manage to recover on our own though the emptiness leaves us hungering for another day with our loved one.

Then there is the rogue wave. The ones we hear about that come unexpected and wash people out to sea because they weren’t being vigilant while going about their day on the beach or sitting on the jetty letting their minds wonder. The wave takes us out, off the beach and into a surf so roiled as we feel we may drown. We need help, a lifeguard to show up in his rescue dory or maybe in a Baywatch boat. We need them to pull us in and take us to safety.

Let the toe ticklers do their work. Let the ankle slappers have their way. Be wary of the outsiders and stand firm. Let the lifeguards to their job and bring us in when the rogue wave crashes over us and tosses us about. If you don’t see them, call out and someone will come for you.

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Author’s Notes:

During the past six months my family has endured the loss of both my parents, first my dad early in September 2020 and then my mom ten weeks later in November. Neither was the result of covid-19 and the path we followed starting this last July was shocking and unexpected, almost violent. No, certainly violent to our souls.

While traveling the path of grief I have on occasion written a piece about each of my parent and put up various Facebook posts on the sensations of grief and loss. I took the first motorcycle ride with friends since this all began for me and we ended up at Duke’s Malibu for lunch out in their patio dining area. The above piece came to me while enjoying discussions ranging from home sales riding and what the future has in store for us as we learn to contend with the pandemic. We did not speak about my loss and grief but the waves coming up on the rocks below us and the vast Pacific Ocean stretching out in front of us spoke clearly to me.

Putting up the above observations as a Facebook post generated good discussion points and a great deal of sympathetic replies. One such reply came from my friend Lisa Brickner, a practicing psychologist. She suggested that with so many people in isolation and experiencing the ravages of loneliness that I should submit the writing to newspapers, something I’ve never done. Once I put this post up on Calvary’s Thread I will heed the advice of the professional and submit it somehow to our various local papers and perhaps to the Grants Pass Daily Courier where I will shortly be sending the obituary for my parents.

As a Christian, I have the additional benefit of The Great Lifeguard, Jesus Christ, and his followers.

I am no professional, simply a man in grief feeling his way along the surf line.

Drafted. Doggone it!

 

I called to her, as I have been for weeks now. Finally, she turned to me, the smile on her lips giving her careworn face a lift I hadn’t seen since she last talked to her great-grands. She handed me a wallet card she was holding in her hand. Nothing fancy, muted blues and reds printed on a beige card that read in eighteen-point Times New Roman font “Drafted” across the top.

A message followed in twelve-point Freestyle Script, “Your services are required in the Heavenly Host. Please report at once.”

In the lower right corner in the tiniest of prints possible to read was the signature, “Jesus Christ, Lord and Savior”.

As small as it was, the signature brought a burning to my eyes and as simple as the card was, it broke my heart.

How could I beg her to stay when the servant at her core commanded that she obey the God she had served for at least my lifetime? A lifetime of devotion required one last act of service above and beyond her will to stay and love her kids, laugh with her grandchildren, or teach her great-grands. And so she went quietly and finally without the struggle that so defined the final years of her devotion to her husband.

Aside from being my biggest fan and encourager, I remember mom as being a model of devotion – as a mother, a pre-school teacher, youth advisor, Stephen Minister, Elder, Deacon, bonus mom to many, sister to many more… When you were with her she was devoted to being with you and being whatever it was you needed at the time.

I would really like to know what is behind the door and within the misty room she walked into. I want to know what critical service she is being called to, away from me. Selfish, I know. I suspect a portion of her service will be like that of her father before her, looking over my shoulder and from time to time giving me a nudge.

Mom does nudging well. It is because of her that I started this blog, Calvary’s Thread. I had just put up my second post in Iron Side Up, it was about some Christian mussing or comment of some sort while riding my bike. She said, “You should have a blog just for this kind of stuff.” I had to do what she said, she is my mom after all.

I imagine that after she handed over the card to the gatekeeper, she was ushered into a big hall and greeted by the One Who Invited her, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” And then there was a reunion – Aunt Jean (Mom’s oldest and closest friend), Carol and the other cohorts who started the Center For Children, my dad, her parents, brothers, and sisters. A bunch from the Heavenly Hall of Fame showed her around, there was singing, worship, incense, and an awesome silence filled with love and warmth.

I can live with this vision of her.

jerry

Forever In His Grip

 

Forever in His Grip

He evolved. During a lifetime of being a leader and possessing intelligence, of being athletic and artistic - dad applied those things to a changing landscape of passions throughout his life. Russell Jay White, aka RJ to my mom and friends, aka Russell to his mom, aka Rusty to his aunts and uncles, and Russ to just about everybody else. Dad and Batman to me.

Dad was class president as a senior and while I don’t know his GPA, I know he was among the top of his class. He led. He was in the DeMolay and that required commitment and leadership. Following high school he went into the Navy and while he was never an officer, he was looked up to by his peers and he led them. He went to work at Pacific Bell Telephone and Telegraph and led his way up from an entry level installer position to a be second level manager and his people loved him. He figured things out and designed systems and procedures that improved every team’s performance.

I am not sure what sports dad participated in as a little boy as it seems we never talked about that. As a high school athlete he was an all-league football player, went to the state gymnastics meet in floor exercise, and was an all-state competitor in wrestling. While playing for and being captain of the football team at El Camino College, Paul Hornung pointed to him and, using some profanity, said to keep that guy out of my face. While Hornung didn’t remember it specifically, he smiled at my telling of the story and said that sounded like something he’d have said. While in the Navy, dad boxed and was the ship’s champion. Not a bad accomplishment on an air craft carrier with 1200 men on it. I was a different athlete and once he figured that out he helped me go my way into baseball, basketball, and track.

He and mom got into racquetball in their mid-forties and I rarely beat him. He won a few club tournaments. Then it was golf, something that took he and mom on wonderful journeys and tourneys. I never beat him.

He evolved.

He loved music. He played clarinet in the school band, must have fooled around with the French Horn because we have one in a closet at the big house. He played keyboard, harmonica, and the kazoo. He sang in the choir and had a lovely voice that ranged from basso to baritone. I got none of this from him and only played the drums one year as a sixth-grader. He finished his singing activities by being part of the praise choir at Bethany Presbyterian Church in Grants Pass, Oregon.

He loved building and home projects and creating cool spaces and watched every nail being driven into the house he and mom built in Merlin, Oregon. Later in life he discovered Intarsia, the art of making wood mosaics using the natural colors and grains of various types of wood. He loved making them for family and friends and he told me he thought lovingly about each person as he created the piece. A bit of his soul rests in every piece he made. He had Stacey and Denise and every grandchild pick a piece from the pattern catalogs he had and then he went out to his shop, found the various woods, cut them, sanded them, and pieced them together, sealing in the textures of his love with coats of varnish. He didn’t have me pick mine as he had one he wanted to do for me and it was spot on – the Red-tailed Hawk, my favorite bird. It is one of the most ubiquitous birds and is found in every state of the union but Hawaii. I call it the “Everyman Bird”.

I was relocating mine today so I could put the piece that I brought back from their house as my keepsake and my red-tail now sits where I can see it out of the corner of my eye as I write. While moving it I looked on the back to his inscription, “For ‘Stick’. Together in His grip. Dad 10-24-05”. ‘Stick’ is the nickname he gave me and the one I hold dearest to me of the oh-so-many nicknames I have. I sign off many of my letters and emails ‘In His grip’. It is a phrase I want desperately to always be true.

In His grip,

jerry