The meaning and depth of “Fasting is for Me”
In multiple reliable hadith sources, the Prophet ﷺ conveys a divine statement that has echoed through generations. It is a Hadith Qudsi, a direct word from God relayed by the Messenger:
كُلُّ عَمَلِ ابْنِ آدَمَ لَهُ إِلَّا الصِّيَامَ فَإِنَّهُ لِي وَأَنَا أَجْزِي بِهِ
“Every action of the son of Adam is for him, except for fasting. Fasting is for Me, and I reward for it.”
It is a short sentence, striking in its simplicity.
No long explanation. No complex conditions.
Just a direct claim from the Creator.
And yet, it unsettles something within us.
In our faith, we often speak about the outward rules of worship — how to stand in prayer, how to give charity, how to be seen doing good. But with this statement, the focus shifts.
Allah does not define fasting by its rules or by hunger.
Instead, He simply claims it.
“Fasting is for Me.”
The statement does not say that fasting is merely a struggle or a virtuous habit. It does not compare it to other deeds. Instead, it removes fasting from the world of showing and places it in a private space that belongs only to God.
The unseen act: when no one is watching
Fasting is the one act of worship that cannot truly be seen.
When you pray, people can see you.
When you give charity, someone benefits and sees your hand.
When you go to Hajj, it is a visible journey.
But fasting?
Only you and God know whether you are truly fasting. You could be alone in a room with a glass of water, and no one would know if you drank.
This is why fasting escapes performance. There is nothing to display. Nothing to prove. Nothing to show off.
You are who you are when no one is watching.
It is a simple truth, but a piercing one. It suggests that much of our public life is shaped for an audience.
Fasting, stripped of that audience, becomes the ultimate test of character. It is the moment where performance ends and sincerity begins.
Maybe that is why Allah says, “Fasting is for Me.”
Finding the self to find God
In this silence, something deeper happens.
In Persian spirituality, there is a quiet but powerful connection between the words Khod (self) and Khoda (God). The poets and sages remind us that the self we usually present to the world is often a mask, shaped by ego, habit, and approval. Beneath it lies a truer self, one revealed in stillness.
When you fast, you strip away the social self that wants to be seen.
You are left only with your true self, and your Creator.
By removing both the audience and the indulgence, fasting forces you inward. You stop performing and start facing yourself. You realise that you are not fasting for a reward “out there,” but to return to sincerity within.
And when the self becomes honest, it finds God.
Fasting is for Me, because it is the path where the self finally meets its Creator.
Leaving, not doing: fasting as restraint
Most acts of worship involve action.
Fasting does not.
It is restraint:
- not eating
- not speaking carelessly
- not reacting in anger
- not following every impulse
You are not producing anything outward.
You are stepping back.
In Islamic spirituality, this stepping back is not emptiness. It is powerful. It clears space. It interrupts habit. It loosens the grip of impulse and reaction.
Fasting teaches the believer not how to perform, but how to withhold.
And in that quiet restraint, something inside the heart begins to shift.
“And I reward for it”: the unmeasured reward
When we read the words “and I reward for it,” the meaning deepens further.
On one level, it means that Allah Himself takes responsibility for the reward. Because the act was hidden from people, the reward remains private between the servant and the Creator.
Other good deeds have known scales; tenfold, seven hundredfold, or more.
Here, the scale is left open.
This openness has been understood in many beautiful ways:
- that the reward is beyond calculation
- that Allah Himself is the reward
- that fasting reshapes the heart in ways numbers cannot capture
But there is also an internal dimension.
The clarity, stillness, and sincerity that fasting brings is itself a reward. When the ego quiets and the noise fades, the soul receives the gift of presence.
To reach Khod — the true self — is to find Khoda.
And in that return, the fasting person is transformed.
You do not fast for something.
You fast towards God.
Why this matters in Ramadan: body, ego, and sincerity
Ramadan has a way of exposing a difficult truth:
You can fast all day and still remain unchanged.
This hadith does not offer easy comfort.
It asks harder questions:
Who is this really for?
Is this about identity and routine, or sincerity?
Am I fasting with my body, or with my ego?
It does not shame the believer.
It simply removes the audience.
And in doing so, it reminds us that the fast was never meant to end at sunset.
It was meant to recalibrate the heart.
You may also be interested in this reflection on why the moon became the symbol of Ramadan, and how visibility and uncertainty shape the month.
A verse that deepens the reflection
There is a verse in the Quran that mirrors this meaning by asking the same inward question:
أَلَمْ يَأْنِ لِلَّذِينَ آمَنُوا أَنْ تَخْشَعَ قُلُوبُهُمْ لِذِكْرِ اللَّهِ
“Has the time not come for the hearts of those who believe to humble themselves to the remembrance of Allah…?”
(Surah Al-Hadid 57:16)
This verse does not command.
It does not instruct.
It simply asks. it invites us.
Placed beside the words “Fasting is for Me,” it becomes clear that Ramadan is not asking for louder worship, but truer worship.
It comes down to sincerity, in intention and in action.
A continuation beyond Ramadan
If fasting belongs to God because it has no witnesses, then its meaning does not disappear when Ramadan ends.
What fasting trains is not hunger, but restraint.
Not endurance, but awareness.
After Ramadan, food returns. Routine returns. Speech quickens. Reactions come easily again. But the question remains:
Can I still choose what I withhold when no one is watching?
If Ramadan softened us, slowed us, or stripped us back, then the continuation is not to recreate the fast, but to honour what it revealed.
Because the fast was never meant to be a performance.
It was meant to be a return.
If this reflection resonated, you’ll find more pieces like this in Deen & Dunya, where faith meets the everyday in quieter, more contemplative ways.
