What Are You Afraid Of?

Why are you so afraid?

That was the big question today, one of the reasons I love my church; we ask questions that even Oprah might poke around at, and we invite honest discussion and difficult wrestling. We don’t always provide a solid, definitive answer, but we point the way.

People complain about our church sometimes, that we don’t “teach the Bible”. We have a tremendous amount of respect for the ability of rational, intelligent people to think for themselves. A good day, like today, is one that shows us what  Jesus said or did, and then challenges us to take a hard look and make it relevant on a deeper, personal level.

(We started a new series called “The Counselor” today, and you can check out the opening message – about fear – here.)

Why are you so afraid?

We have the benefit of an hour’s drive home to process every Sunday morning. A few weeks ago, we processed the fact that if I don’t get some positive feedback after my work is done, I shut down pretty quickly. It’s sometimes ugly but mostly true; I just need some words. He knows that, now, after enduring 30 miles of a pouty, sulky silence from the passenger seat.

Drive time.

And so now he says, “You did a good job with all the talking today, baby. You pulled everything together pretty well.” A few weeks ago, he pointed out that I tend to take on the accent of the environment, quite subconsciously, and that I adapted some weird country-girl voice that sounds great on my friend Carol but not so legitimate on me.

(This is true; it just happens, y’all; and I have to put the brakes on the Southern-girl accent. When I lived in the DR, I started speaking English like an English-as-a-second-language, Spanish-speaking white girl, with a crazy Dominican accent that didn’t make sense for someone born and raised in Franklin, Pennsylvania. When I’m around my Aunt Barbara, the deep North Carolina girl in my genes softens all her ‘R’s’, and her vowels all lay down with a cool drink on a hot day and I tahk lahk disssss…)

Anyway…

The spring sunshine and the blooming trees made for a brilliant, bright landscape today, and as we wound around the two-lane curves in the gentle heat of noon, he asked, “So, what are you afraid of?”

I had thought about it, when the preacher asked. I’d already heard the message, twice, and I briefly considered the question; but today, in the darkness of our little campus gathering, I considered my answer.

I’m afraid of failing, I said. I’m afraid of really trying, of somebody saying, “Oh, you’re a girl – you can’t be a pastor.” Or of somebody thinking, “After all you’ve done – and you are now a leader of a church? HOW RIDICULOUS.” I’m afraid of not being enough. Of being found wanting. Of being disqualified.

It came to me rather quickly – surprisingly so. I am afraid of these things, and my fear inhibits me, sometimes. It keeps me up at night, sometimes. It reminds me of all the things I didn’t do right, while the few things that went well slip through the cracks, unnoticed. It’s there, unbidden, hiding in the dark, where fears gather mold as they wait for an opportunity to make themselves known. I think it’s all good, but it doesn’t take long to summon that dark anxiety to the surface.

For the most part, I do believe I have grown past all that. Lots of affirmation has helped; confidence helps. But ultimately this is my burden to bear, my skin to shed.

You can choose to give in to fear, or you can choose to give in to faith. 

But you can’t do both at the same time.


You can try to do both at the same time, but that’s crazy-making.

I spoke my piece and he was quiet for a minute.

So who might say that sort of thing to you who you could discount, because you knew they were wrong?

I said, Probably nobody. I want to please people.

We drove another mile in silence.

Mostly, the voice in my head sounds like my ex.

And then I thought about that for a while; about how all things work together and how grace and forgiveness and a common purpose covers a multitude of pain and sin. That voice in my head is where it is for a reason – in my head, and only there. And it’s not my voice; it’s fear talking, and it’s not rational.

The point of the message hit me about 23 miles after I heard it.

You can choose to give in to fear, or you can choose to give in to faith.

You can choose.

You can.

Choose.


It was a good day; one in which I learned as much from my husband’s carefully chosen words as those of my pastor.

God works in mysterious, beautiful ways.

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2 Comments

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  1. Love this one, Beth. Those old voices in our head can have so much damage done, before we ever even realize they are in our heads.

    Like

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