It’s finally here – today is “clean monday”, the fast has begun. So here’s the question: what is “the fast” all about anyway?

Athanasius writing in the fourth century said that a bit of moderate asceticism was useful for everyone – not just ascetics (read – monks, virgins, nuns and vowed widows). But the age of “asceticism” which has played an enormous role in shaping Christian praxis – is ostensibly over (something lamented by fifth and sixth century writers). Does this mean that the Great Fast no longer has purpose?

The fast before Pascha has taken on a life of its own – originating in an act of solidarity with those preparing for baptism it has grown from a one week communal event to a 50 day extravaganza. This is not a bad thing – rather it is simply the natural progression this practice took.

Similarly – in modern practice at least – many of the “mini lents” that preceded the major feast days are no longer observed – instead our communal act of asceticism and solidarity has been collected, sorted, and sunk into “Great Lent”. Are we not perhaps missing out on a valuable opportunity for re-investing in personal and communal praxis?

Stepping away from the mechanics of the when, and how of fasting – lets look at the connection between the act of fasting and the theology of food, and the relationship we as sacramental Christians have with food, and with one another through the symbolism of foods and eating. Without looking in your copy of the Gospels – recall some of the major “it” moments in the Gospels: the wedding at Cana, the feeding of the multitude, dining with Zaccheus, Jesus annointed by the woman with the alabaster jar, the last supper, the revealation on the road to Emmeus . . . Each of these major moments in the unfolding of the Salvation narrative happened in the context of a meal – of sharing food. Food, the act of eating together and alone has theological value in sacramental Christianity. If you missed that, what were you doing when you last went to liturgy?

But “food” and eating is something we in Western Europe often take for granted – it is unconsciously separted from our experience of the sacred. We rush out to grab a sandwich or a take-away during the working day – in order to inhale it at our desk, and continue ploughing through work. We attend lavish balls and parties because it is an expression of the host’s largesse (read – wealth and self importance), and it gives us a notch on the bed-post of our own accumulated status. Food is a means to an end, a means of aquiring status, but it has no overt or intrinsic link with our spirituality in day to day affairs. Periods of “fasting” throughout the liturgical year then can help us re-tune that link, restore awareness of the value and meaning of choosing, preparing, and eating a meal. Cooking and eating as praxis – who would have thought!

Revisiting the idea of solidarity for a moment – many of us are increasingly aware of how our consumer choices are having an impact on the environment, and on others. The recent mad dash for bio-fuel has meant that poor nations seeking to reap the immediate benefits of a cash crop switch from food production that is consumed locally, to crop production which is then taken away in exchange for money. The problem of course is that when you are no longer producing your own food – you have to buy it, possibly from a more expensive, non-local source. Throughout the Great Fast we can take the opportunity to choose differently, and in so doing perhaps make a positive contribution to those who have fewer choices available. This by the way ought not to be taken as a replacement for our duty to give alms during Lent.

For the reasons of solidarity with others, of re-investing in the relationship between food and praxis, I’ve wondered out loud for the past few years if it would not be better to resurrect the older model of multiple mini-fasts throughout the year. This would have the effect (in theory at least) of developing a year round awareness, and praxis rather than the mad dash to cram an enormous amount of meaning and activism into one month.

The Economist has a good article on some recent (and not so recent) moves linking religious communities with addressing ecological issues (not just climate change, I’d say). They report that a recent meeting of religious leaders, Prince Philip and Ban Ki-moon resulted in various action plans according to one’s tradition.

The Daoists for example have comitted to burning less incense – this is the one that caught my attention most. It is a rather curious idea – when you sit and think about it you can certainly see how that could affect one’s carbon foot print (the harvesting, and burning of plant materials for incense releasing trapped carbon, and/or inhibiting the absorbtion of additional/existing carbon). Here we’ve talked a little bit about incense – and sourcing it locally/indiginously – could that also have a positive effect? Think of the air-miles involved in transporting myrrh, and frankincense for example, whereas something locally grown, or produced in your region would, simply due to the reduction in transport carbon emissions – be greener.

How does your community source the bread used for your local eucharist? How green are Ghostie-toasties? How green is home-baked bread (leavened or unleavened)? I don’t know. I suspect however, that the lamentable bone white wafer is far from being green. But where did the wheat come from for baking your local bread? Here in the UK most of our bread baking wheat, I think, still comes mostly from Canada – eeek!

Would a service lit solely with beeswax candles be greener than say one illuminated with eco-bulbs?

Are we indie folk asking these questions in our communities? If so – what is your community doing?

But while I’m fast approaching my word-limit/post I’d like to re-visit a related topic which is, I suspect, an even more effective means of Indie-Eco-Activism: Food! Food production, and food security is a very serious issue one that has a huge, HUGE impact on ecology and not in your back yard necessarily, but in the back, front, and side gardens of those least able to afford the consequences.

Over the past 100 years throughout the Christian world our theology of food, has quietly smouldered in the background, some of the best elements – like traditional fasting periods – having been eroded, until they are little more than vestigial digits on our calenders.

Perhaps, in our tiny communities of 5, 10, and 20 people we OC/IC folk could inspire a bit of a mini-revolution in theology and praxis that brings the issue of food, and the ecological and social consequences of its production, sale, and consumption to the fore.

For much of yesterday (Sunday) we pottered about in the garden. Thinning the leaf cover on the pond, watering, planting, picking, tidying. I spent the day intermitantly considering the connection between gardening and spirituality/devotion. Early reflections on Mary – for example, relied heavily on the image of the “enclosed garden” or Paradise. This was not merely a reflection on her virginity (Paradise being un-tilled, un-cultivated but naturally beautiful), it was also a statement about spirituality and transcendance. Virgins were constantly reminded not to allow anyone to lay waste to their garden (see for example Athanasius’ First Letter to the Virgins of Alexandria) – to trod on the delicate flowers, or pick the fruit – attaining spiritual progress, demands that one not allow distractions to enter the garden, as they destroy the flowering plants.

A garden – one’s own personal Paradise – is not just a metaphore. Gardens, big and small are places of beauty, serenity, inspiration, and thanksgiving. Praxis is all about “cultivating” inner beauty, serenity (clarity of mind), and thanksgiving – with inspriation as a natural by-product of the three.

A garden is a place to commune – just as Adam and Eve communed with God before that unplesant business with the snake, we commune with nature, with one another, and in the quiet beauty of our little Paradise, with God himself.

If perhaps you are reading this thinking: Ha! I live in a flat, or a city, and have no space nor time for “gardening” allow me to attempt to pursuade you otherwise.

A window box, an old file box lined, filled with compost and placed on your balcony, or in front of a big window. A Potted fig with some small flowers around the edges, what about a strawberry pot? how are these not also mini-Paradises? The possibilities are endless, and only limited by your creative use of what’s available.

Below – for example – we’ve used an old grill to grow lettuce in. It’s pretty, it’s utilitarian, and it is extremely low maintenance.

Do you have a window in your bathroom? Why not get a couple of orchids and either stand them on the window sill, or hang them from the ceiling – many smell amazing, all of them produce beautiful long lasting flowers, and benefit from the steam of your shower.

Your own little Paradise, is about joy, beauty, and refreshment – just as our practice of Christianity is. And just as there is no set form for the practce of our faith – there is also no set form for establishing your own quiet point in space for prayer, reflection, communion, and beauty.

Earlier this week I posted on Feasts – and the converstaion took an interesting and unexpected direction to discuss fasting and the customary fasting periods before Pascha, and other feast days. I’ve been pondering this thread of the conversation ever since, been doing some reading too. It struck me this morning that many (if not all) religious traditions have fasting customs. Often (at least the examples I can think of off the cuff) these culminate in a feast.

Our historic custom of fast periods is a shared experience across the religious spectrum – a point of solidarity with other faithful people, and seekers of God. What a shame then that over the past century or so the value of fasting customs has been diminished; such that in the extreme (z.b. giving up chocolate for lent) it is little more than a quaint after-taste of a long lost medaeval tradition.

Last month I posted on food sourcing and ethics, asking about the relationship between the seemingly high proportion of OC/IC folk who have become vegetarians and spiritual discipline and theology. You can see the original post by clicking here. This morning, making my rounds I fell into this article over at Religion Dispatches about a new movement in the Jewish community re-envisioning the rationale behind kashrut in the wake of recent scandalous events surrounding one of the largest kosher abattoirs in the US.

The author, Benjamin Weiner, writes: “the Jewish principle of sanctified eating, have been using the case as a rallying point against religious hypocrisy. If rabbinic supervision as it is currently constituted, they suggest, is concerned only with ascertaining the purity of meat according to the letter of the law, and does not provide the moral foundation to militate against flagrant social abuses, then a revaluation of the concept of kashrut itself is in order. . . . The ancient rabbis taught that since the destruction of the Temple a Jew’s own table is his or her sacred altar, and should be subject to the same degree of sanctity. Kashrut is not meant to be a system of arbitrary food taboos, but a discipline that elevates the human drive to eat above the kind of desecrations Agriprocessors may have committed.”

“Sanctified eating” – my earlier post, written in Bright Week, mentions that during the Great Fast we are more conscious of food, the value of food, its preparation, and so forth. I also asked if  OC/IC folk ought to give serious consideration to carrying some of that mentality into the rest of the liturgical year; what would that look like, would we all become vegetarians?

But here’s another take on it – kashrut is a product of religious law. Interestingly enough, very early in the development of the Christian cult, we abandoned (or so it seemed) this aspect of our Jewish heritage (see for example Acts 10.9ff) – and it would seem that we have never really revisited the matter since the second century. The fasting customs (and they are that, customs, not law) evolved over six centuries in conjunction with the third and fourth century fervour for asceticism. The ascetic diet was not a reflection of ethics, morality, or even theology, rather it was (believe it or not) a medical matter that had become spiritualised. Certain foods – mainly meat and dairy – are “heavy” foods, making the individual lethargic, sluggish, and fat – weighing him down. The logic translated into areas of transcendence – a lighter diet, meant a nimble mind, a lithe body, and a lighter countenance – the individual therefore, is more able to transcend this world, and join the society of the angels. Seriously folks, I’m not making this up! Mind you – there is some truth to the logic – a heavy meal does make one lethargic, and mentally sluggish. Ancient doctors did observe that virgins, and ascetics lived longer, and were more alert. Modern medicine too has demonstrated that a diet heavy in certain ingredients shortens life, and has a negative impact on health. But this observation has nothing to do with Christian theology.

It is perhaps curious to us – in our modern world of corporate agriculture, and the growing concern many people have for the effect that has on food quality, the environment, and the poor – that in late antique Christianity there is no consideration for, or reflection on the source of the food (other than ensuring that it had not been offered to a foreign god), its quality, or the treatment of the workers, or animals produced. Why this was I think is probably quite simple, at that time people either produced most of their own food, or traded with the producers – that is to say that the chain from source to table was much shorter and simpler than it is today.

It is true that in the past decade or so we have seen various attempts to re-introduce the idea of eating as a sacred activity; I’m thinking specifically of Jeff Smith’s Frugal Gourmet, and more recently the publication of various monastery cookbooks. However, it seems that a contemporary Christian theology of eating as a sacred activity, a sacrament even, rather than as an ascetic discipline, is largely absent. If we approach eating as a sacramental activity – then the sourcing of ingredients, the preparation of the meal, and the eating itself, becomes interwoven in a chain of ideas and activities reflecting the vision and values of our sacramental theology – our life as OC/IC believers. We are challenged to be more aware of the impact our purchasing power has on others, on the environment, and yes, on our individual health. We are faced with questions of well-being, of ethics, is this food “clean” or is it defiled with suffering, and injustice?

Perhaps it is time that we OC/IC folk have a conversation about re-envisioning the sanctity of food?

PS – today’s reading by the way is Jn. 6.5-14: Jesus feeds the 5000.