Fasting from harsh words

A excerpt from the Message of the Holy Father Leo XIV for Lent 2026, on the theme: “Listening and Fasting: Lent as a Time of Conversion”.

Our sons follow the same pattern as their father — which is also the pattern of paupers, billionaires, gangsters, and warring neighbors. How conflict escalates is predictable.

And the beef always starts with words.

With our sons, it starts with teasing. Then harsher teasing. Then a shove or a hip check. Then a hockey stick to the back — sometimes literally. And then it ends with tears, an ice pack, and resentment that must be slowed down and resolved.

It is the same pattern with many homicides. It starts with disrespect at a party. One thing leads to another. And eventually, someone is dead.

And perhaps the same with nations. It starts with jabs in the press. Then it escalates.

This is the pattern, so much of the time.

So of course, what the Holy Father shared makes sense: if we want a more peaceful and loving world, we begin by abstaining from harsh and hurtful language. And for those of us who are brothers and sisters in faith, we can make space for grace by fasting from that endlessly hungry gremlin — the words from which all beefs begin.

This is indeed a very practical form of abstinence — whether we approach it secularly, as members of an interfaith community who care about peace in a pluralistic society, or specifically as Christians seeking repentance and renewal during Lent.

No matter our posture, it makes sense to abstain from the thing that starts a wildfire.

—

And I need this fast myself, in a very guttural and deep way. To contemplate this as a fast is precisely the point. Because part of me needs to starve.

There is a part of me that is angry — frustrated by what I cannot control. It is the part that is deeply wounded and inflamed by small irritants. It is the part that is addicted to aggression and conflict, because the anger distracts me from the worries and doubts I would rather avoid. This all-consuming part of me is often unseen, but heard by my children when I am having a bad day.

I need to starve it of harsh words.

Because harsh words are what give an angry, fearful, selfish appendage its nourishment and oxygen. It feeds on vindictive and cutting language and asks for more the more it burns.

Harsh words and the anger that spurs them are not something I merely need to moderate. These are not like a bottle of wine, to be enjoyed over two or three days. These are things I need to abstain from — so that the appendage shrinks, withers, and perhaps one day fades.

I do not know if I can do this. My inner monologue feels rigid, and harsh words are deeply reinforced in our culture. It even feels expected that national leaders swear casually and publicly. Harsh words are one of the only forms of catharsis I know that are not drinking or some other youthful foolishness. And if I’m being honest, I’ve dropped a screaming “damn it!” In front of my sons twice since I started drafted this post over nothing - once over crispy crown potatoes, and once over a snow brush. I really do not know if I can do this.

And if I can? Who will I be if this appendage shrinks? I may not know myself from a stranger without this angry appendage that has been attached to me since coming of age?

Will I be delicate? Weak? Exploited? Bored? I do not know what this fast might make me into. If the appendage withers, will anything be left?

We never really know. This is how transformation works.

First, we suffer and sacrifice — through fasting, grieving, contemplation, exercise, or simply listening more deeply. This makes space for grace and other mysterious psychological forces to do their work.

Then we wait, not knowing who we will become on the other side.

That is the point.

All transformation requires an act of faith. Whether we understand it mystically or secularly, we cannot have renewal without trust in what lies beyond our sacrifices.

If we want a changed self — or a changed world — we must believe there is something worth becoming on the other side.