Given that today is Mardi Gras and tomorrow begins Lent with Ash Wednesday, I decided to bump my usual Thursday post up a few days to talk about something relevant to the season.

Fasting.

I find the modern take on fasting very curious. There are those who do it because it’s obligatory, especially this time of year. There are those who refuse to do it because it has traditionally been obligatory. There are those who will fast a day here and there for really special occasions, when they need to be dedicated to prayer, and there are those who fast regularly throughout the year. I’m probably missing some. But you get the picture. Fasting, in our modern age, is all over the board.

So, first, what is fasting? Quite simply, an abstaining. Most often from it’s food, but it could be from anything, specifically something that brings us pleasure. The idea of the fast is to deny yourself something you are accustomed to, enjoy, or even crave. Why? In part to remind you to pray. In part to suffer (yes, that’s right). And in part to create discipline.

I did a lot of pondering on fasting last year when my husband and I decided jointly to do a very traditional Lenton fast. In the past, I’d occasionally given something up for Lent. But it had never been as hard as this. Those forty days stretched on forever this time. And that made me thoughtful about it.

I know that fasting isn’t always looked upon with favor these days. And that it really isn’t recommended for a lot of people. But I have to say that I learned so much–about myself, about my faith, about the purpose of this practice–when I did this.

First of all, yes, it did remind me to pray. Because hunger has a way of sharpening us. Every time my belly growls, I think about why I’m hungry. But it was so much more than that.

And it was more because it was hard. When I was hungry and just wanted to give up on this whole thing, I would think, “All I’m doing is not eating until a given hour of the day. What is that compared to what Christ did for me? How hungry was He in the wilderness, when He didn’t eat at all for forty days? How much did He suffer in those weeks leading up to the crucifixion, when He knew what was coming? He did that for me. For us. And I’m complaining about going a few hours?”

Our modern world isn’t big on suffering (ahem). Not only do we not want it, but we’re also very cynical about the forms of it that have traditionally been invited. Oh, we recognize the value of physical exercise, even though it might hurt. But something like fasting? Um, no. Many of us, especially Protestants, not only don’t participate, but we look down on those who do as being not as strong in the faith, if they feel the need to do obligatory things.

But here’s the thing. We will suffer in life. This is guaranteed. It will come. And how will we handle it when it does? Part of the point of a fast is to have created in ourselves a discipline and a strength. Just like with exercise, we condition ourselves to withstand discomfort and pain. We condition ourselves so that when a true trial comes, our spiritual muscles aren’t completely unaccustomed to it.

And then there’s temptation.

Last year, I had homeschool group the first Thursday of every month. One of the things my group always had available was a breakfast the moms could come in and grab between classes. And that particular month, there were some delicious-looking options. I wanted to get something. It looked yummy. It was a temptation–a mild one, really. I mean, a donut isn’t sinful. It’s not forbidden in general. It was just something I’d decided not to eat for forty days.

But as I sat there not eating it but really wanting to eat it, I realized this was practice. This was training myself–if I can resist small temptations, then I’ll have trained myself to resist bigger ones. Ones that actually matter.

What’s the point of all this musing? Certainly not to say, “You must fast!” I’d never say that. I fully believe this sort of thing is between us and God. But I will say, “Maybe you should consider it, ask God if there’s something He’d like you to give up for a while.” Spiritual exercise, discipline-crafting.  We recognize the value of doing that for our physical bodies. Why not our spiritual ones?

And I will also say this: it seems that when fasting is part of a requirement, people get creative in finding ways to bend it. That totally defeats the purpose. Yes, it’s hard. It’s supposed to be. If you’re bending “rules” to make it more manageable, then you’re defeating the purpose. Kinda like when I lay there on the workout bench doing nothing but still count it as part of my thirty minutes. ? (Not that I ever do that, ahem. LOL)

Maybe you fast sometimes. Maybe you don’t. Maybe, like I’ve done in the past, you give up something for Lent. Or maybe you think that’s legalistic and not embracing grace. Maybe you give up food for specific times, or maybe you can’t give up food for medical reasons and instead give up television or fiction or something else. Whatever your opinion, I thought today would be a good day to ponder the practice as a whole. 

It’s something Jesus did. Something Paul and the disciples did (“often,” according to 2 Cor 11:27). Something the early church held in such high esteem that it was some of the earliest teachings in the Didache. Something that clearly is to be joined with prayer to achieve greater effects (think of when Jesus said a certain unclean spirit could only be cast out “with prayer and fasting”) because it draws us closer to the Lord.

Have you ever noticed how often children appear in the Gospels?

Have you ever wondered why?

Time and again, Jesus not only encourages children to come to Him, He holds them up as the examples of true faith.

In Matthew 21, after He’s just cleared the temple, the religious leaders chastise Him because the children were crying out, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” after they saw Him healing the blind and lame, and He did nothing to silence them.

We just read this passage in our Bible study, and it was so interesting to take it out of that “Of course this is what happened” way of thinking and instead pose questions to ourselves.

If, in your church, some guy came in and touched someone who’d been ill a long time and they were suddenly better…if your kids or grandkids or nieces or students starting shouting, “Save us, Son of David!” (the literal meaning of Hosannah), what would you do?

Quite likely, you’d hush the kids, right? Probably with something along the lines of “Only God can save us, not this guy.” Even if he was a genuine healer filled with the Holy Spirit, we would not want our kids to cry to him for salvation.

Looking at it that way, you can see where these leaders are coming from. This was a disturbing thing to hear.

But even so, the kids cried out because of what they’d just seen Him do. And if we, too, saw miracles…wouldn’t it make you wonder about who this fellow was?

As we talked about kids and how quick they are to believe, we also realized that in part this belief comes from what they’ve been taught. And what do we teach our kids? Do we teach them our principles…or our doubts?

The Jewish families in Jerusalem at that time would have been instructing their little ones in the Law and the Prophets. They would have been singing psalms with them daily; including Psalm 118, from which “Save us, Son of David!” comes. Quite possibly, these kids even would have heard their parents muttering the phrase every time more news came about the oppressive Roman regime. It would have been a cry on their lips frequently, I think.

A cry the children wouldn’t know not to take literally. Because that’s not the way a child’s belief works. They hear our words, not our internal monologue about how God sure hadn’t saved us before, so who’s say if He ever would again. They learn our lessons, even when we don’t necessarily believe them anymore ourselves. 

These children who called out in praise to Jesus in the temple weren’t encumbered by their parents’ expectations of what a Savior should look like. All they knew was that Jesus healed. Jesus did the impossible. And they believed it because they saw it. Maybe they believed it just because something showed on his face that they weren’t cynical enough to doubt yet.

Children don’t just have a strong faith–they have an honest faith. They believe what they’re taught in a way the teacher rarely does anymore.

As I let these thoughts churn during our church service, I remembered that this was something I’d thought before, actually. Something I explored in A Soft Breath of Wind. My heroine, Zipporah, is touched with a spiritual gift that her family can scarcely take in. Because she was young, and she believed. It was at the core as simple as that. She believed what they’d taught her…far more than they themselves did.

Kids aren’t jaded yet. Kids aren’t cynical. Kids don’t have expectations for the way the world–and God–works. They quite simply believe what they say they do.

There’s such beauty in that, isn’t there? And such a lesson. How often do we say the words that are expected, but inside we don’t really expect anything to come of them? How often do we teach things without examining their truth for ourselves? How have we let our honest, childlike faith become cluttered and dulled by a lifetime of questions and doubts and misunderstanding?

Those children in the temple didn’t expect Jesus to save them from Rome, as their parents did. They just expected Him to do the impossible. And He did.

We have expectations when we pray. But like those parents in Jesus’s day, they’re tied up in our wants rather than the Lord’s. But how often is Jesus standing right there before us, already doing something far more miraculous, if only we have the eyes to see…and the heart to believe?

As I let the subjects of love and romance and marriage etc. all swirl around in my head, a few things came to the surface. Some of which I intend to talk about in more detail (and with other authors) during some of my Roseanna White Live events this spring. But writing it all out here is a great place to start. ?

I am a romance writer. In particular, a Christian Romance writer. Even more particularly, I tend to focus on historical romance. Which I think has given me an interesting perspective, because, for most of history, a woman’s primary purpose was to find a good match, get married, and raise a family. There were always exceptions, but that was the rule.

And I love that. I have other passions, yes, and I think most people do. But as goals go, building a family is one of the most important ones I’ve ever been able to imagine for myself.

Some of the critics of Christian Romance as a genre–and historicals in particular–rant about how these books teach girls to focus on the wrong things: that without a man they can’t be complete, that marriage is all they should be thinking about, and that focusing on such things might “awaken passion before it’s time.” That they portray unrealistic heroes and give us an unrealistic view of what a relationship will look like.

And this is where I always want to argue. Because no, most stories I read aren’t saying that at all. But they are saying that when we find that special someone, we are better together than we are apart. Stronger with each other than without. 

Let’s be honest: most of us end up falling in love and getting married. This is how God made us, to crave companionship. It’s going to come up. And it’s IMPORTANT. One of the biggest decisions we ever make in our life. So shouldn’t we be taught how to differentiate between emotion and something deeper? Shouldn’t we identify what makes someone a good versus a bad partner? Shouldn’t we have an idea of what a relationship with a godly man should look like? This is actually what I love about Christian romance–it’s not all about finding the alpha male who’s super sexy. It’s about finding someone who makes the heroine better. Through whom they grow closer to God. It’s about showing us all that we are worthy of love.

This is why the bride and bridegroom feature in SO MANY of Jesus’s examples and parables. It’s why we, the Church, are even called His bride.

Because it’s basic, common, something easily understood. But that’s not the only reason. It’s also because the love we feel for that special someone is such a perfect analogy for our relationship with Him.

He pursues us. We wait for Him. We can get along on our own, yes, but we are oh so much better once we put our hand in His. We’re stronger together. And once we’ve found Him, we know we always have someone to turn to. Someone to comfort us in our tears and laugh with us in our joys. Someone to work through the problems with us and whisper encouragement in our ear when we think we can’t take one more step.

As for the “before it’s time” complaint…this has long been something I take issue with. I had the blessing of meeting my future husband in middle school and dating him through high school. We went to the same college and got married after our freshman year when we were both still 18. Did I get married young because I’d read romance novels? Um…no. I got married young because God had already put in my life the man He wanted me to marry, and I recognized that and embraced it. I didn’t see the point in waiting just because today’s culture looked at me askance. I rather looked at them askance when they said things like, “Why don’t you just live together?” And now, 17.5 years later, I can still say I’m certain we made the right decision. We’ve never had a moment’s regret over marrying young. We’ve grown together and changed together and sought God more deeply together. We’ve built each other up, helped each other chase dreams, and are raising a family.

My story obviously isn’t everyone’s. No one’s story is everyone’s. But that, too, is what I love about Christian Romance novels. They give a glimpse into different stories, one of which might just strike a chord with you. One of those heroines is going to have the same insecurities that plague you. One of those heroes is going to remind you of him. And as they struggle and grow together, it’s going to remind you of the journey you’re on–and how crucial it is to keep on growing closer to each other and to God.

Whatever your romance looks like, whether you have a special someone in your life to celebrate with or not, I pray that today you feel love–the love of a Savior who loves you so much that He moved heaven and earth to meet you. A Man who gave up His kingdom for you. A Lord who stretches out his hand and says, “Come to me, my bride.”

Now that is a love story worthy of the ages…

The events of the last couple weeks, as NY passed the bill legalizing late-term abortion, have resulted in some high emotions. I don’t watch much news, but even I have seen reactions everywhere. I was horrified when I heard the VA governor, in talking about how “late” late-term could mean, basically advocate exposing unwanted children–choosing to kill them after birth if they were unwanted because of physical issues.

We have an emotional response to that. We’re supposed to have an emotional response to that.

But what is the emotional response supposed to be?

My husband and I were talking about this on the way home from church. Those of us who believe that life begins at conception must, therefore, believe that abortion is killing. And since it’s purposeful killing, premeditated, against someone not engaged in war, or who is not threatening the life of another…yes, I believe it does meet the definition of murder. BUT.

But.

If we truly believe life is sacred…that has to apply to the mother too, right? We have to look at those who are debating and decide on abortion and love them just as much as we love the idea of their child. We have to be horrified, not just at the thought of ending a baby’s life, but at the thought of a mother feeling so hopeless that she would consider it. We need to learn how to open our arms wide and support those who find themselves in such a situation rather than just shaking a fist and calling anyone who would do so a murderer.

Many people do this. And many people think that, through their heated words, everyone just knows that they’re outraged at the act, not that they hate the person committing it.

But friends–those people can’t tell the difference. Because when someone is screaming at us in rage, all we know is that we have two choices: we can fight them back, or we can run away.

Neither of these is the response the Church wants people to have. So why do we continue shouting?

The emotion though…we can’t–and shouldn’t–just shut it down. So what do we do? What is the correct emotional response?

As I contemplated this, I remembered in the Gospels where Jesus, not long before his trial, pauses outside the city and weeps over Jerusalem. Weeps for the people who refuse to believe. Weeps for the prophets they’ve killed. Weeps for what He knows is to come.

Ah. Yes. That is the response that is appropriate. Not outrage–sorrow.

Anger, my friends, will do nothing for the causes we believe in. But sorrow…sorrow is something most of those mothers feel too. They feel it when they realize they’re pregnant. They feel it when they decide to go to that clinic. They feel it later when they look back on what they’ve done. Calling them a murderer is not going to bring them to the arms of our Savior, friends. But crying with them–wrapping them in our arms and mourning–that’s a different story.

I remember in college one day, looking around at all those people who didn’t believe like I did, who thought sex was just for fun and nothing to take seriously, I was moved to tears (which is very unusual for me) because they didn’t understand. They didn’t understand the beauty of what God created. They didn’t understand how sacred their bodies were supposed to be. They didn’t understand the value and worth they have, which ought to be protected. 

And it’s the same thing here. They don’t understand. They don’t understand how these decisions will affect them for the rest of their lives. They don’t understand that the panic, the pain, the fear is so small compared to the regret and mourning that consumes most of the women who go through with an abortion.

They don’t understand. And this is NOT cause for outrage–this is cause for sorrow. Full, profound, soul-deep sorrow.

Now legislators might deserve some of the outrage, as might the Church for making so many women think they sit in judgment over them, making them think a private, secret appointment is better than living with people looking down their noses for the next two decades. But the women? I think Jesus had something to say about how to treat them. And I believe it began with, “He who is without sin…” 

So often in church, we speak out against the sin without thinking about the heart of the sinner. We’re just so outraged, so horrified, that we don’t pause to think about who might be sitting there, bearing our accusation, feeling hated and reviled and condemned because of a choice made decades, years, months, or just weeks ago. People who don’t feel loved. People who don’t feel there’s a difference between what they did and who they are. Certainly not in our eyes.

The world has enough outrage, my friends. We who follow Christ need to choose something different. We need to #BeBetter. We need to show His love and support them, bear their burdens, and make it clear that we love them, not just the child in their womb. Cry with them. Embrace them. Don’t cast stones at the choices they’ve made or are considering. Instead, mourn with them for what they lost because they didn’t understand. Be there. Support. Encourage. 

Outrage divides–but sorrow…shared sorrow will knit us together.

9 Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good. 10 Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves. 11 Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. 12 Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. 13 Share with the Lord’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.14 Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse. 15 Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.Romans 12:9-15 (NIV)

This past week in our church Bible study, we were on the well-known parable of the workers in the vineyard. You know the one–where the landowner hired people at the start of the day for an agreed-upon amount. Then throughout the day, he goes back to the marketplace and hires more people. At the end of the day, he pays everyone, starting with the new arrivals. When he gives them the same amount he’d promised the earliest hires, those who had been working all day expect more–and get a bit irritated when they’re only given a denarius as well.

The landowner’s response is, “Friend, I am doing you no wrong. Did you not agree with me for a denarius? Take what is yours and go your way. I wish to give to this last man the same as to you. Is it not lawful for me to do what I wish with my own things? Or is your eye evil because I am good?”

The parables are often taught all on their own; and in this one, I’ve pretty much always read it as, “Those who repent in the last hour will receive salvation as surely as those who’ve been serving the Lord for a long time.” And I don’t think that view of it is wrong. 

But last weekend, as I looked back over the conversation this parable was a part of, something new struck me.

What came before? Well, first you have the rich young ruler asking what he needs to do to gain eternal life. Jesus tells him, “Obey the commandments.” 

To which he says, “Yep, I’ve done that. Am I missing anything?”

And Jesus says, “Well, if you want to be perfect, then sell all you have and follow me. If you do that, you’ll have treasures in heaven.”

We all know that story really well too, right? And we probably recall that Peter, after the young man has gone away, says, “Hey, we’ve given everything up to follow you! So what will we have?” (One has to assume he’s asking “what treasures in heaven.”)

And Jesus answers that they will have quite the positions of power and authority in heaven. That anyone who makes a sacrifice for His sake will receive a hundredfold, AND inherit eternal life. THEN he launches into the laborer-and-vineyard parable.

So here’s what struck me: the denarius is salvation, yes. Given to all who follow him into that vineyard. No matter when they joined Him. (Note, however, that this landowner did NOT go back to the marketplace at the end of the day and give out coins to everyone still waiting. You have to follow him in.) This is that “AND” part–they receive eternal life.

But Jesus repeatedly speaks of a hierarchy in heaven. Of those who lay up treasures there. Of those who will receive greater or lesser reward. 

And it occurs to me that in the vineyard parable, this might be about what happens the next day. Do those first laborers go off in a huff, grumbling because the lord wasn’t fair, according to their own definition? Do they figure, “Hey, I’ll just wait around until 5:00 tomorrow evening and then come in and get that denarius anyway”? 

Are they content to get just enough? Get that salvation by the skin of their teeth and put in no more work toward the vineyard, the kingdom, than necessary?

Or do they see the mercy of their lord and think, “Wow. If this guy has such a loving heart that he’ll grant the full wage to this dude…what will lie in store for me if I serve him faithfully for weeks and months and years?”

This, my friends, represents a key difference in the thought of us, His workers. Do we view what we do for Him as mere labor for a wage? Do we count the hours we put in and the reward we see at the end of the day and grumble and complain? Is it enough to simply have been given that salvation? Is it enough to know we’ll get into heaven? To get that final paycheck?

Or do we view it instead as heirs to that vineyard? In ancient society, the most faithful of servants were quite often given an inheritance along with the sons. This is what Jesus speaks of us receiving too, and which Paul expounds on even more. We are co-heirs with Christ. That means we’re not just laboring in that vineyard for a day’s wage. We are laboring because we want it to thrive. Because we want it to grow. Because we know that our futures are linked to it. We serve because we love our Lord, our Father, and want Him to look at our work and pronounce it good.

We do not earn salvation, other than by joining Him in His vineyard, by accepting and believing in the gift He offers–but there’s more to eternity than simply being there. There’s that hundredfold. There’s listening for and hearing His call, and then obeying it. There’s sacrifice. There’s giving up what the world says we should want in favor of what He says we need in order to attain perfection. There’s going into that vineyard every day, going above and beyond, not because we think we need to earn that denarius–but because we are invested in the vineyard and in the landowner.

I don’t want to be just a laborer. I don’t want to view this life that way–that I’m just toiling every day for a wage. 

I want to work for Him because of all He’s done for me. 

I want to sacrifice for Him because of how He has already sacrificed for me. 

I want Him to look at me and not see someone who will do the bare minimum to get salvation. I want Him to see someone He knows will come running when He has a task that needs attention. 

I want to be one of His trusted servants, faithful…an heir.