The In My Dorm Writing Space

— Written by Harrison Rucker

In the Old Testament, the primary Hebrew word used for fasting is tsûwm (pronounced “soem”), meaning “to abstain from food.” In the New Testament, the Greek term is nēsteuō, which means “to go without eating.” From Genesis to Revelation, fasting—biblically speaking—refers to a voluntary denial of food for the specific purpose of seeking God. What’s striking is that Scripture is far less interested in how long someone fasts or how often they do it than it is in why they fast at all.

Fasting, in the Bible, is never presented as a spiritual hunger strike meant to force God’s hand. It is not a way of proving devotion or earning clarity. Instead, fasting functions as a form of embodied prayer—a way of saying with our bodies what we are trying to say with our lips: “God, I want You more than what sustains me” (Psalm 63).

That’s why fasting so often appears in moments of transition, repentance, or dependence. Moses fasts before receiving the law. Israel fasts in times of national crisis. David fasts in grief. Jesus fasts before beginning His public ministry. In each case, fasting creates space—not to manipulate God, but to reorient the person fasting. Hunger becomes a tutor. It reminds us of our limits, our need, and our tendency to reach first for something other than God to satisfy us.

Isaiah 58 presses this point even further. God rebukes a people who fast meticulously while remaining unchanged. Their stomachs are empty, but their hearts are full of pride, injustice, and self-interest. The issue isn’t that they’re fasting incorrectly; it’s that they’re fasting disconnected from God’s heart. Biblical fasting, then, is not merely abstaining from food—it is abstaining from self-sufficiency.

This is what makes fasting uncomfortable in the best possible way. It exposes what we depend on. When the distraction of constant consumption is stripped away, what rises to the surface is often not clarity but restlessness, impatience, or anxiety. And yet, this exposure is itself a gift. Fasting doesn’t create weakness; it reveals it. And revelation is the beginning of grace.

So perhaps the invitation of fasting is not simply to go without, but to pay attention. To notice what hunger teaches you about your desires. To let the ache you feel become a prompt for prayer rather than a problem to solve. To ask—not “How long do I have to do this?”—but “What might God want to show me about Himself, and about myself, in this space?”

If fasting is a way of seeking God, then its success is not measured by endurance, but by attentiveness. Not by what we give up, but by who we turn toward.