When Life Gives You Locusts, Call a Fast
Reading the book of Joel feels like stepping into the aftermath of a catastrophe. The land has been devastated by a locust swarm, and the community is in shock. There’s a sense of urgency in the way Joel describes it, not just because of the physical destruction, but because something deeper has been disrupted. In the middle of all this, one instruction keeps repeating: call a fast.
"Announce a time of fasting; call the people together for a solemn meeting" (Joel 1:14, NLT). Again, in the next chapter: "Turn to me now, while there is time. Give me your hearts. Come with fasting, weeping, and mourning" (Joel 2:12, NLT). Fasting isn’t presented as a personal spiritual practice here—it’s a collective response. The entire community, from the elders to the children, even the newlyweds, are expected to participate.
Mourning, Group-Style
That emphasis on doing something together caught my attention. In modern life, especially in more individualistic cultures, we often handle pain and crisis privately. We go to therapy, we take time off work, we retreat inward. Joel offers a different model: when things fall apart, the people gather. They fast, they mourn, and they speak their fears out loud.
I’m curious about what that kind of communal response does to a group of people. Does gathering together help them feel less alone? Does the act of fasting make the crisis feel more real, more shared? There’s also something about the vulnerability of it—admitting things are not okay, and doing that in front of others, seems like its own kind of courage.
Rip Hearts, Not Robes
Another line in Joel 2 adds a layer to this: "Don’t tear your clothing in your grief, but tear your hearts instead" (Joel 2:13, NLT). The outward rituals matter, but they’re supposed to reflect something internal. It’s not about appearances; it’s about being honest.
This makes me wonder how we express grief or regret today, especially as a society. Are there any shared rituals left for that? Moments where we all pause together, not just to move on quickly, but to feel the weight of what’s happened?
The Power of Showing Up Messy
Joel’s version of fasting isn’t neat or quiet. It’s loud and emotional and messy. It involves children crying and priests pleading. There’s a rawness to it that feels both unfamiliar and very human. The book doesn’t stay in that place of mourning forever. It moves toward renewal and repair. But it doesn’t skip over the hard part to get there. First, the people have to stop and face what’s happened. Together. There’s something powerful in that image—not just the act of fasting, but the act of being present with one another when things are broken.