A few days ago, I took my mother-in-law to the hospital. Standing in a crowded private hospital, surrounded by ailing patients, the desperation of living a healthy life grew loud and urgent.
“I must eat well, I must cut down sugar, I must walk and exercise more,” I heard myself panic. The thoughts clothed themselves in the deception of other thoughts: “I don’t want my children to suffer on my account.” Noble from the outside, for sure.
Then, I heard that still small voice, “How long will you preserve your life?”
As Christians, we surely have a mandate to steward our bodies, minds, and spirits—yet, along with the rest of humanity, we are caught up in prolonging our lives. Looking younger, delaying ageing, shedding those layers of fat, competing with that Insta-perfect picture. We are constantly in a contradiction: the desire to control so that we look good, and the temptation to give in to the flavours delivered by Swiggy, Instamart, Zomato, and Blinkit.
And so, what begins as a desire for stewardship quickly turns into either over-control or complete indulgence. It's tough to make the pendulum rest in the middle with peace of mind.
Control makes us manage our bodies like a project rather than a God-given gift. We depend on optimising, tracking, fixing, preventing—as if, with enough discipline, we could outwork the decay itself. On the other hand, indulgence makes us order and eat at the most unearthly hour as if there were no tomorrows. After swinging to either extreme, it has only left me with pride or guilt-ridden shame.
But the gospel does not begin with preservation. It begins with surrender. Most recently, I enjoyed a time of fasting. I tried the trending Daniel fast, but with the hope of spending time with God. I have fasted before (usually for a day or three days in a row), but this time, I set aside 21 days. In those 21 days, God refreshed my mind on these thoughts:
Fasting is an act of submitting our bodies to the Lord and denying what seems most natural—hunger. Each time one says "no" to food, we are reminded that man does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God (Matthew 4:4; Deuteronomy 8:3). Fasting humbles us. It interrupts our appetites and exposes how quickly the body demands to be served. And in that holy interruption, while the flesh may grow weak, our spirit is strengthened in the Lord.
Fasting is not a punishment for our bodies. It is not a spiritual performance either. It is a quiet declaration that my flesh does not rule me, and my cravings are not my master, my god is not stomach (Philippians 3:19). It is a simple way of saying, “Lord, I want You more than I want this meal.”
While I stayed vegetarian during this fast, I wondered how my body would fare without non-vegetarian sources of protein. God reminded me of Daniel and his companions. When they chose what was set apart, God gave them knowledge, wisdom, and even a healthier appearance than the others (Daniel 1:12–15, 17). That verse was of great encouragement.
It reminded me that nutrition matters, but nutrition is not sovereign. Food can nourish, but it cannot give life apart from the One who created life. We can eat the best of foods and still miss the truth that health ultimately comes from the Lord. He sustains, strengthens, and preserves our lives.
This does not reduce the importance of food, but rather puts food in its place as a means of sustenance. We are stewards, not saviours. As Christians, we have been given wisdom to eat well, but we cannot worship nutrition. We care for our bodies, but need to remember that they are not immortal.
What does it mean to present our bodies as a living sacrifice? It means the body is not mine, but an offering to God. Romans 12:1 calls us to present our bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to Him—our reasonable act of worship.
This is a much harder calling than self-indulgence, and also a much gentler one than obsessive control. It means my body belongs to the Lord on the days I feel strong, and on the days I feel weak. It belongs to Him when I exercise and when I am tired. It belongs to Him when I choose a simple meal and when I am tempted to consume without restraint. It belongs to Him not because it is perfect, but because it was purchased at a price (1 Corinthians 6:19–20).
So this changes the question from, “How do I preserve my life?” to “How do I honour the Lord with this life, this body, this appetite, and all its strengths and weaknesses?”
The grace of it is that God is not asking for a polished, model-like body. He is asking for a surrendered one.
Fasting helped me see that.
In a time of feasting and constant access, fasting becomes countercultural. It tells my body it does not always get what it wants. It reminds my soul that satisfaction is not found in satiety. It teaches me that my spirit can be full even when my stomach is empty.
And perhaps that is why fasting still matters. Not because hunger is holy, but because it reveals what we trust. Food is not evil—but it can become loud.
So yes, steward your body.
But let it be worship, not anxiety.
Let it be surrender, not an obsession.
Because in the end, whether in fasting or feasting, health or illness, strength or weakness, our hope is not in preserving our body, but in belonging to the One who redeems it.
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