Moving from Fear to Transformation

I recently discovered a website that lists all the legitimate phobias that could be identified. Currently the list documents 530 diagnosed conditions of fear.

I have a dear friend visiting right now from England. I am so happy that I do not suffer from Anglophobia. I am considering having some bacon for breakfast. Thankfully, I do not have Carnophobia. I am alive and wish to stay that way as long as possible, but at least I am not immersed in Thanatophobia.

But wait: Maybe I am. Thanatophobia is fear of dying. I may not be overwhelming by that documentable phobia, but I am clearly not interested in undergoing a premature death.

Recent events, however, suggest that the possibility—even the inevitability—of death hovers over all of us. Young children are sent off merrily to school and are killed by a mentally ill gunman. Runners engaged in an annual marathon and are blown up at the finish line, possibly at the hand of terrorists. A fertilizer plant in Texas explodes, taking lives and shattering an entire town.

Perhaps we can’t be blamed for just a touch of Thanatophobia.

Fear, however, often results in protectiveness (understandably so), and protectiveness can morph into protectivism (protectiveness as a core value), and the process can spawn anger, which can whip into rage. And rage wants retribution and punishment.

We who follow Jesus are told over and over again in our scriptures to fear not. But we do. And we continue to be given reasons to fear.

When we speak of following Jesus, it is insufficient to say that we follow what he taught, as important as that is. It is insufficient to claim that we are Christians because we have affirmed a particular creed or list of doctrinal statements. There must be something more to all of this, or we will project our protectivism onto our belief system and our fear will be the dominant characteristic of our faith.

The more that is required has to do with our lives being truly and deeply changed. I’m not speaking only of change that is expressed in our behaviors, but change that impacts the very essence of who we are as human beings. And the narrative of our faith insists that such change comes at the hand of God, expressed in the real, historic life of Jesus, and poured into our lives through the presence and power of the Holy Spirit.

Without such spiritual transformation—a transformation that the Bible characterizes as a movement from death to life, from darkness to light—then we’re only left with religious turf to defend. And that’s a battle that is fueled by fear.

When we see God face-to-face someday, I hope that our trembling comes, not from fear, but from joy and adoration.

A Holy Week Reflection for March 27, 2013

Jesus said to them, “The light is with you for a little longer. Walk while you have the light, so that the darkness may not overtake you. If you walk in the darkness, you do not know where you are going. While you have the light, believe in the light, so that you may become children of light.” After Jesus had said this, he departed and hid from them. (John 12:35-36)


Darkness can be a comfort. When it’s time to sleep, darkness can soothe and quiet the human heart, offering an environment for rest. But it can also be a terror, obliterating all sense of orientation and direction, projecting fears of specters and skulkers into its inky blackness.

Even the smallest light—a wooden match, a birthday candle—can shatter darkness and reveal the true nature of our fears. Ghosts and goblins were only footstools and tables. But formerly dark corners assumed to be empty could be illuminated sufficiently to reveal hypodermic scorpions and invasive vipers. The light unmasks our fearful illusions but it also exposes dangers that disguise themselves as things benign.

John uses light imagery quite often. In this account, Jesus speaks of his own presence among his people as light in the midst of darkness. He calls upon them to “believe in the light.” At first it sounds as though he is talking about intellectual illumination, an enlightening of the mind that dispels the darkness of ignorance and false belief.

But there is more going on here than simply a mental shift. Jesus calls them to belief so that they “may become children of light.” There is the suggestion of transformation here, a movement of life from the immersion in darkness to an identity that is lit up like a Christmas tree. It hints at what would later be seen as the ultimate intention of God for the world: “See, I am making all things new” (Revelation 21:5). Transitioning from darkness to light is more than a change of the mind; it is also a change of a life.

Once Jesus speaks these words—words that were somewhat cryptic to his hearers—he left them and hid for a while. When he was with them they were amazed, challenged, offended, horrified, and energized. Now they could experience his absence for a while, imagining what it would be like for him to be gone from them, leaving them in darkness.

Soon enough, they would find out. And so can we.

A Lenten Reflection for March 21, 2013

O Lord, my heart is not lifted up, my eyes are not raised too high; I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me.
But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; my soul is like the weaned child that is with me.
O Israel, hope in the Lord from this time on and forevermore. (Psalm 131)


I now have an app on my smartphone that feeds news stories to me from several sources. Now I can get the news from a variety of perspectives. And I can learn about some of the dramas and dangers that make me feel anxious, angry, and afraid.

It’s interesting to me how news about environmental crises, wars, nuclear threats, political maneuvering, professional sports, and celebrity misbehavior can make us obsessively dependent. We end up feeling as though we need the information to feel like we matter, like we have a voice, like we are joining in with things that are not only disturbing, but that also feel too great and too marvelous for us.

The psalmist speaks of a heart not lifted up and eyes that are not raised too high. Is it a posture of defeat, or is it the recognition of helplessness in the scheme of things? Either way, we are given the image of the calmed and quieted soul being like a weaned child with its mother.

It’s an image rather strange to us, I think. But perhaps it is the picture of one who is no longer dependent on the drama of the nation. For the ancient Hebrews, their identity was tightly bound in the identity of the nation. There was no identity for them outside of Israel. The psalmist might have been speaking of being weaned from that national dependency.

We are so bombarded with information about world events that it is often overwhelming. Much of the information pertains to things over which we have no control, which creates even greater distress. Sometimes we need to be quieted. A lot of the time we need to be weaned from the drama.

It would be an incredible experience to remain aware of—and even, at times, to participate in—what is going on in the world while resting in our dependency upon God. I wonder what that would do to our anxiety and frustration levels?

O world, hope in the Lord from this time on and forevermore.

A Lenten Reflection for February 25, 2013

Be gracious to me, O God, for people trample on me; all day long foes oppress me;
my enemies trample on me all day long, for many fight against me. O Most High,
when I am afraid, I put my trust in you.
In God, whose word I praise, in God I trust; I am not afraid; what can flesh do to me? (Psalm 56:1-4)


Fear is a powerful force. It can cause a person to seek protection, to react in anger, or to run screaming in terror. Fear is not a neutral emotion—it seeks resolution.

So, when I am afraid, I can put my trust in any number of places:

I can trust my political party to defeat all others and preserve what I hold dear.

I can trust my preferred legislators so that the things I own for the sake of protection will never be ripped from my hands (unless they are cold and dead).

I can trust my religious leaders to identify my doctrinal enemies and remind me that heresy is defined as suggesting an idea that I don’t already know.

I can trust my belief system and nail it to my door so that I can measure myself against my enemies of the faith.

I can trust my employer to care for me from the cradle to the grave.

I can trust my government to do the same.

I can trust my army to overpower all others.

I can trust my wise investment strategies to preserve the life to which I am accustomed, even when the enemies of finance rape and pillage the economy.

And then, in the midst of attackers brandishing swords, spears, and arrows, the Psalmist shatters my ill-placed trusts and calls me to a place that is vulnerable and yet free from fear:

In God, whose word I praise, in God I trust; I am not afraid; what can flesh do to me?