As I tend to do at times, I brought more reading materials on my recent trip than I had time to read -- probably even if nothing else was happening. But since I was at Disney World, a lot of other things were going on, so I'm surprised I got any reading in at all.

I did, however, get to finish An Arrow Pointing to Heaven, a biography of Christian musician Rich Mullins -- which was written after his death by a close friend of his. If only half of what the author recounts is true, Rich was definitely an unusual and interesting person.

As thought-provokers, the book is strewn with quotes from other sources, including this one from C.S. Lewis, which I wanted to bring to your attention:

Only those who try to resist temptation know how strong it is... That is why bad people know very little about badness. They have lived a sheltered life by always giving in. We never find out the strength of the evil impulse inside us until we try to fight it: and Christ, because He was the only man who never yielded to temptation, is also the only man who knows to the full what temptation means -- the only complete realist.

I used to think that the "good" people I admired knew themselves to be good -- that their lives were somehow morally easier than mine, and that they had less evil about them. I think, as I have grown older, I have come to the opposite conclusion: that it is the truly awful people who have a very high moral opinion of themselves, and those who truly tend think of themselves as flawed are the ones who have the most hope.

Indeed, they say the first step towards combating any problem is admitting its existence. Since we all 'sin' (not just "malfunction" or "make mistakes" as so many prefer to frame it -- but actively choose things we know to be wrong) admitting we do so is an enormously healthy step. Yet, over and over, I find myself forgetting I've admitted this, and having to point out to myself, anew, that I am wrong, acting from selfish motives, etc.

It is tremendously hard and unrewarding work.

(Which is probably why I don't do more of it.)

As an aside, this part of the Christian basis for fasting: to try to resist "the flesh" for a while, to realize what a pull it has on us.

Of course eating is healthy and God-ordained. As an analogy, a little child must be fed. But sometimes the child must also realize that food comes on the parent's terms -- not his or her own -- so we teach the child to say "please" and "thank you" and finish their dinner or they won't have dessert. Likewise, sometimes the body (or more precisely, our appetites, which reside in the mind) need to learn it's they're not ultimately in charge, even in normal areas such as eating.

(I have little experience with fasting, by the way, so don't go getting any false impressions about me as some kind of ascetic.)

Although I can say being a Christian has made me a better person in many ways, I often just wish I could stop wanting to do the wrong thing all the time (and succeeding some of the time). I wish sometimes I could just put my life on a moral "cruise control" and keep doing the right thing all the time.

But it is the struggle against sin which God uses to make us aware of our weaknesses and harmful impulses and desires -- to bring us from our incessant self-centered "I demand!" to realizing that everything we've received is an act of grace or mercy, and realizing a humble "thank you" is more often the right response.