The Thing about Fear

The thing about fear is that it keeps you from loving, because you can’t love the people you’re afraid of.

Fear whispers, “You’ll look stupid when you try that. Everyone is watching. You’ll make a fool of yourself.”

Fear never tells you its closest relative is Lie, and Fear and Lie have a lot in common.  

If you give it an inch, it’ll take a mile, and pretty soon it can have you making excuses, retreating, procrastinating, avoiding, and doing a bunch of other things that don’t have much to do with living at all.

It will keep gifts and talents and potential nice and safe, tucked away where they’ll never have to face scrutiny.

Fear is a trickster. It says, “Stay with me. I’ll take care of you. There’s danger out there.” Of course, it doesn’t tell you about another kind of danger: the tragedy of a risk-free existence, where little is ever accomplished because little is ever attempted.

Fear is a lot like the weather channel; it predicts possible forecasts, but it’s rarely correct.

But the other thing about fear?

It only survives when it’s given power. And it only has power when it’s fed. And it’s fed on a good diet of lies and what-ifs. And a good serving of avoiding and retreating and excuse making and not-nows- but-maybe-some days. 

And its power lessens with each choice to face the thing feared. Or when it’s not a thing that must be faced so much as believed—it grows weaker with each lie that’s replaced with a truth, each decision to focus the mind not on the “what-ifs, “ but upon the Who-Is,  who is holding all things together by the word of His power. 

I can’t win this fight with fear by telling myself, “No one thinks I’m a fool,” because there might come a  time when someone thinks I am (maybe the time has already come). It won’t help very much to say, “No one is looking at you anyway,” because even though nine times out of ten, no one is, there’s still that one percent. And sometimes people will laugh or scoff, or “say all kinds of evil against you falsely.” I can’t ultimately fight fear by saying, “this thing I fear most likely won’t happen,” because maybe it could happen. 

I need something stronger.

I experienced this reality recently. I had just gotten off work after a long day and I was exhausted and not feeling very well. But we had dinner plans with a group of people I had never met. I was overwhelmed by the thought of having to be social when all I wanted was to go home and lie flat on my back. I  was afraid of how I might be perceived, especially because I wasn't feeling very "upbeat." What will they think of me? Will they be scrutinizing me as "Geoff's wife."

Then this song came on the radio:

My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus blood and righteousness
I dare not trust the sweetest frame
But wholly trust in Jesus name
Christ alone; cornerstone
Weak made strong; in the Saviour's love
Through the storm, He is Lord
Lord of all. (Cornerstone, Hillsong United)

And everything shifted. I didn't instantly feel wonderful, but the overarching reality of who Christ is and what He has done brought the smaller circumstances of the moment into their proper perspective. I knew I didn't have to fear and I could love these new friends with Christ's help, in spite of my emotions and exhaustion. I needed to be reminded of where my hope truly lies.

I need to know that at the end of the day, no matter what, I am loved. I need to know that even if I  breathe my last breath in this next moment, I will be safe. I need to know that this isn’t all there is—that there is a hereafter and my hope will not be cut off. Back behind even the decision to hit “publish” on this post, I need to know I’m accepted and loved regardless of how I am received.

I need Jesus.

And the thing about Jesus?

He gives me all this and more. And He’s right here with me, strong enough to help me fight the strongest of fears. And unlike those fears, He always tells the truth. In fact, He is truth. And He wants even more than I do for me to be free--to live in all the fullness of a life where his truth becomes the inner voice I hear, creating new grooves in the patterns of my thinking, enabling new rhythms for things like learning and loving and risking--things we sometimes have to stumble our way into while we're still afraid. But as I put one foot in front of the other, as I take the small risks of wounding my pride and learning something new and the bigger risks of losing my life for His sake, I know I'll find the grip of fear loosening and the blessings of his kingdom breaking in, sometimes where I least expect them.