Life in the "Fast" Lane

I Recently Completed a 108-Hour Fast  

(4.5 days: water, black coffee, nothing else)

I didn’t do it to be holy or to punish myself. This was a controlled test of one question: Can I stare down the loudest, most primitive drive in my body for four and a half days and refuse to blink?

The answer is yes. And the side effects were a fair bit more interesting than I anticipated.

**Hours 0–60: Pure Carnage**  

Exactly what you’ve heard. Stomach growling like a chained dog. Brain projecting 4K fantasies of pepperoni pizza, ribeyes, diet coke, ice cream straight from the tub. My mouth literally watered at memories of foods I don’t even like that much. Hunger doesn’t negotiate; it screams, threatens, bargains, sulks, then screams again. It’s astonishing how creative the mind gets when you tell it “no” for the 50th time in a row.

**Hour 60–108: The Script Flipped**  

Then, without ceremony, the noise just… stopped. Not diminished; stopped. The body finally accepted the new management and shut the alarm off. The last two days were eerily peaceful. Energy stable, mood level, mind sharp. I wasn’t “fighting” anything anymore because there was nothing left to fight.

In that vacuum, something else moved in.

I didn’t go hunting for divine response; it walked through the door the moment the toddler tantrum wore itself out. A deeper signal—quiet, steady, unmistakably alive—rose to the surface. The same nervous system that had been hijacked by cravings suddenly had more spiritual bandwidth. It tuned to a frequency I usually drown out with snacks, scrolling, and background noise.

When you forcibly dethrone the hunger for food, another hunger wakes up— It’s subtle, but once you feel it, it’s unmistakable. The air tastes sweeter. Colors look richer. Prayer feels less like talking to the ceiling and more like talking to Someone who’s been waiting in the next room. 

I now have added firsthand proof that the loudest tyrants in life—food cravings, impulse buys, doomscrolling, fill-in-the-blank—are paper tigers. They only rule because I keep taking their calls. Say “no” firmly, consistently, long enough, and they go quiet. And when they do, there’s room for a Voice that was always there, waiting for the stage to clear.

The fridge is full again. My appetites pacing at the door, whining to be let back in. But the Guest who showed up on day four hasn’t left. And I’ve decided I like His company a lot more.

Signed

John The-Not-So-Beloved

Math for Dummies

In the familiar story recorded in all four Gospels, a crowd of five thousand men—plus women and children—has followed Jesus to a remote place. Evening approaches, people are hungry, and the disciples panic. They find one boy with a small lunch: five barley loaves and two fish. To the practical mind of Philip, it’s laughably inadequate: "two hundred pennies worth of bread is not sufficient for them, that every one of them may take a little." (RE John 5:9)

Andrew voices what everyone feels: “But what are they among so many?” ( RE John 5:10). The boy’s offering looks like a drop in an ocean of need.

Yet Jesus does something outrageous. He doesn’t scold the boy for bringing so little. He doesn’t wait for someone with a bigger basket. He simply says, “Have the people sit down,” takes the meager gift, gives thanks, and starts breaking the bread. And the bread keeps breaking. The fish keep coming. Twelve baskets of leftovers remain after everyone has eaten their fill.

The miracle didn’t happen in spite of the smallness of the gift; it happened because of it. The boy had to release what little he had into Jesus’ hands. If he had clutched his lunch to his chest, embarrassed by how tiny it was compared to the need, the story would have ended with five thousand hungry people and one well-fed child.

Most of us live inside Andrew's question every day.

We look at the hunger of the world—its loneliness, injustice, grief—and our five loaves feel ridiculous.

But the Gospel refuses to let us measure first and give second. It insists we give first, and let God handle the math.

Your kindness is never weighed on the scales of visible impact; it is weighed on the scales of surrender. The moment it leaves your hand, it ceases to be bound by your limits. It becomes raw material for divine response.

Mother Teresa used to say, “We cannot all do great things, but we can do small things with great love.” She understood the secret of the loaves and fish: small things, freely given, are the currency heaven uses for miracles.

So bring what you have today—your imperfect apology, your too-small donation, your faltering prayer, your one afternoon of volunteering, your risky word of truth, your quiet act of forgiveness. Do not wait until you have “enough” to give, because “enough” is a mirage that keeps receding. Bring the five loaves while they are still five.

The same hands that broke bread for five thousand are extended towards you. They are not inspecting the size of your gift; they are waiting to receive it. And when you finally open your fingers and let go, you will discover what has stunned God’s people for two thousand years:

There is always more than enough when we stop withholding the little we have.

Bring your loaves.  

He is still in the business of multiplication.

Signed

John The-Not-So-Beloved