I am the master of self-imposed fasting.

The cycles goes something like this. First, I indulge in some kind of excessive or destructive behaviour. Second, I declare a fast, usually grandiose in its scope and austere to the point of ascetic. Third, I am unable to keep the fast because I’ve made it so difficult even Francis of Assisi would find himself wavering at its demands. Fourth, although my conscience is momentarily salved (because surely the gods were pleased with what I did accomplish), I slip back into the bad behavior.

Then, when things get bad enough, I declare another fast and the cycle starts again. Rinse and repeat.

In therapy, I gained enough clarity to see and articulate one of my deep-seated tendencies. I declare fasts in the hope that it will get to the root of the issue. Slowly, I’m seeing that we can’t heal our broken parts by starving them off.

But I have to confess something: I have declared another fast. After the recent elections in America.

Here’s how it came about. During the first several nights after Trump got elected I would wake up from a fitful slumber with unusually vivid images swirling through my head. As I stumbled to the bathroom, I saw cinematic visions of Trump; Trump stoking the basest impulses of his crowds, who support him unwaveringly; Trump persuading the working class he is their champion, only to get in bed with the rich after he takes office; Trump wrecking our planet.

It’s happened to me before, waking in the night with that feeling of low-grade existential dread. Other times, though, it was when our bank account languished, or when one of the girls was going through a tough time at school, or when Esther and I were slogging through some morass of conflict between ourselves or in our family relationships.

In other words, the events had always been closer to home, within my orbit. Never before had it been something as detached from my immediate existence as a presidential election. That’s how I knew I had to declare another fast. No more short-form media until a week after the orange one has made his inaugural speech in January.

This time, unlike so many other fasts I have declared in haste, I continue to feel it was the right decision.

Thanks to the fast, there is an entire negative field of energy that I can simply opt out of now. I don’t have to shoulder it. I know in the back of my mind that it exists out there in the ether, a dark cloud, a heavy sodden blanket, an ongoing oozing quagmire. But I feel gloriously free of it. It doesn’t exert any pressure on me. Occasionally I still listen to long-form news podcasts, but the short blips of news designed to evoke fear and anger aren’t part of my daily routine.

This time I know it is a good fast. It is a slow fast–calmer somehow and more premeditated. My darker impulses finally have a chance to rise to the surface where the Holy Spirit can deal with them. As often as not, I had read the news not to become a more responsible citizen but to fortify myself as superior to “those people;” those benighted Trump supporters; those idiots who trust conspiracy theorists and demagogues over expertise and science. But the Christian faith, in contrast to my superiority, is founded on humility. God draws near to the humble. Wisdom reveals herself to the humble. Peace visits the humble.

The right kind of fasting means replacing destructive practices with healthier ones. During an afternoon lull at work, when the urge comes to scroll for incendiary news items, I try to feed that urge with something healthier. What Jesus said in Matthew 12 about the seven demons keeps ringing in my ears. No matter how immaculately we clean our house, if we do not take positive action, the unclean spirit will return and fill it with seven other spirits more evil than itself.

Dallas Willard once said that the best fasting leads to feasting. The foolish indulge in the short term but feel empty in the long term. The wise fast from certain ways of thinking and behaving, not to escape the complexity of the world, not to gain favour with the gods, not to starve off integral parts of their personhood, but in the hope of having their eyes opened to eternal things.

As in all the oldest world religions, fasting is crucial for Christians. (A Sunday school once pointed out, a little sanctimoniously but still accurately, “Jesus said when ye fast, not if ye fast.”) So let the resolution stand for fasting in 2025. I shall avoid the slapdash fasting which seeks to bypass spiritual formation and tries to starve off integral parts of my character and personhood. Instead I will pursue the fasting that, amid reflection and prayer, transforms us into humble Christians, produces penitent and textured lives, and sends the unclean spirits packing.