Spiritual Starvation

 

This Christmas, I put on weight. A number of suits which I enjoy wearing would not permit me to use their waistcoats and several pairs of trousers refused to fasten. I had over-indulged and was paying the price. Three weeks ago, I did what many Britons do, I began a diet. Not being a man to do things by halves, I fed myself nothing or a piece of lettuce for breakfast, no lunch, a bowl of soup for tea, with plenty of water in between. It worked; I lost one and a half stone in those three weeks.

 

I'm in danger of becoming one of those bores who assume everyone else is interested in their girth size and stomach content. No, the reason for telling you this is the unexpected consequence of my harsh regime: I ceased being hungry. I expected to miss food, to crave its passage down my throat. At first, this was the case. But within a few days, my stomach adjusted and asked for no more. I was so used to not eating that I came home from work one day, having eaten nothing for 24 hours, and almost forgot to make my soup. Indeed, it was only my acknowledged need for vitamins that persuaded me to eat at all. This of course is dangerous: we need food to live. 

 

Herein lies an explanation for something I've never before understood: why do some truly born-again Christians attend churches in which they're hardly fed? Listening to anemic sermons in which someone drones on, vaguely mentioning the gospel, barely dipping into the riches of scripture. These believers are so accustomed to receiving weak spiritual food that they've stopped longing for it. Their spirits have shrunk to match their diet. They've been starved for so long, they've not noticed that they're slowly dying. 

 

Today, when my lips began to crack, and my mouth was parched despite copious drinking, I modified my diet and ate a solid meal. A lack of hunger pangs doesn't always mean you're full, it means you're dying for food. 

“Ho! Everyone who thirsts,