"But the water's shallow here, and I am full of fear"

When I decided to write about fear, I had no idea what I was getting myself into.  Who am I to write about one of the deepest, most powerful parts of the human experience, something that has crippled all of us at one time or another, pulling us to our knees, or sending us running into someone else’s arms?  I have found the process of describing and analyzing fear much like attempting to look at a star.  When you stare directly at it, the light fades and you can barely see it anymore; only if you look next to the star does it shines brilliantly, but in your peripheral vision. Or, perhaps it is like looking at the sun, which is impossible with the naked eye, and so you must settle for seeing its effect on everything around you in the daylight.  Unable to lay bare the mysteries of fear and anxiety through my own analysis, I have instead compiled a few examples.

The Literary Example:

In Mary Shelley’s masterpiece Frankenstein (which I somehow managed to avoid reading until this semester) the monster makes this declaration to Victor Frankenstein: “For I am fearless, and therefore powerful.”  Nothing Victor does can dissuade the monster from his goal, because he has nothing to fear—he has nothing to lose.

The absence of fear gives power; the presence of fear creates weakness.

The Film Example:

The Oscar-nominated film from 2012, The Impossible shows ordinary people suffering incredible trauma, and it celebrates the tenacity of the human spirit.  Tragedy seems to bring out the best or the worst in people.  In a scene near the beginning of the film, Maria (Naomi Watts) and her son Lucas (Tom Holland) have survived the initial wave of destruction.  They hear a child crying somewhere nearby, and though Lucas tries to convince his mother to continue looking for help (since her own wounds are substantial), she insists “We have to help that child, if it’s the last thing we do.”     

At another point when the two have a moment of respite in the midst of the traumatic events, Lucas says, trembling, "Mom, I'm scared."  She responds in a whisper, "I'm scared too."

Maria’s recognition that the life of one child is worth sacrificing her physical safety for, perhaps even worth dying for, is the first of many powerful scenes in the film.  She and Lucas bond through an attempt to help the sufferers around them, and they bond through sharing their fear with each other.

The honest admission of weakness brings comfort.

The Television Example:

In the pilot episode of the TV series LOST, one of the characters (Kate) stitches up a wound on another’s (Jack) back as he tells her story to distract her from the unsettling task.  Jack Shephard is a spinal surgeon, and during his first solo surgery he accidentally sliced open some of the patient’s spinal tissue.  As panic began to set in, Jack says, “I just made a choice.  I’d let the fear in—let it take over, let it do its thing—but only for five seconds; that was all I was gonna give it.  So I started to count.  One, two, three, four, five.  And it was gone.  I went back to work, sewed her up, and she was fine.”

I remember feeling incredulous when I watched that scene for the first time in 2006.  But, if you read a bit of history and pay attention to the news (and even the lives of your neighbors), you will see that there are people who overcome impossible situations every day. 

People can fight against fear and win.

The Inspirational Speaker Example:

Lee Baca, the head of the LA County Sheriff’s Dept., spoke at a conference at CGU a few weeks ago.  He told some stories about his past, one of which involved registering for the draft during the Vietnam War.  He said he decided that if he were potentially going into battle he wanted to be surrounded by the strongest, bravest people he could find.  So, he enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps. 

Baca said one of the most terrifying moments of boot camp was climbing up and over a four-story-high wall made of logs (because he had an intense fear of heights). 

“Do you think my fear went away before I climbed it?” he asked.  “Do you think it went away while I was climbing?  Do you think it went away when I had finished and was standing on the other side?”

“Hell no,” he answered himself, “But when there’s someone climbing right behind you and another climbing in front of you, you can’t stop.  You take your fears with you,” he said.

Feelings of inadequacy, of the inability to cope with a situation, will not always disappear with Jack’s five count.  But, seeing another person go through the same frightening situation can push us to take our fears with us and to climb anyway.

When fear will not leave us, the presence of another person can bring us through it.

The Real-Life Loss Example(s):          

Joan Didion wrote a memoir called The Year of Magical Thinking (2005) about the year after her husband died.  In it she said this: “Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it.  We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death…We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock.  We do not expect this shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind.  We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss.  We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe their husband is about to return and need his shoes.”

One of my aunts keeps in touch with a young woman, Jackie* who lived at her house recently while raising money to move to another country as a missionary.  Now that she’s overseas, Jackie has miraculously found an American friend who is almost exactly her age.  This young woman, Becca,* was living in another country with her new husband until one day, on his way home from work, he was hit by a bus and killed. 

Now, months after her husband’s death, Becca is living in the house next-door to Jackie.  Some mornings, Jackie wakes up early, hearing a knock at her door.  Becca is sitting on the steps, still in her pajamas, sobbing.  She woke up that morning thinking her husband was still in bed with her, and she was forced to confront her loss again.

Working through the fear intertwined with loss takes longer than we can imagine; we look back and wonder where we found the courage to continue.  

Mother Theresa said that if God had told her the whole plan from the beginning, she would never have been brave enough to take the first step. 

Oswald Chambers writes that God does not give us overcoming life, he gives us life as we overcome.  We are healed as we stand up, as we stretch out our hands, as we respond to his call, “Arise from the dead.”

The Mom example:

I remember going through a phase in middle school during which I often worried about my siblings’ safety for no specific reason.  I remember asking my mother how she could go through the day and night without being afraid for her children.  How she could possibly know that her five children were out and about, encountering all sorts of situations that could potentially be dangerous?  She said, “How could I go through life constantly worrying about what might go wrong?”

Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow has enough trouble of its own--Jesus

(Some of ) The College Student Examples:
Last semester, a few of my friends and I decided we would try to change our language about anxiety.  In our conversations, instead of saying, “I’m worried about...” we would say, “I’m not trusting God about…” If I said the word “worry,” a friend would immediately correct me, “You mean ‘not trusting God?’”  The reason we did this was not to try to annoy each other or feel superior.  We did it to deliberately increase our awareness of how often we were giving in to fear. 

In an administrative office at my university, a young woman sat at a table with two administrators as they discussed an account of grievances she had written.  One of the men read aloud, “…Struggled with anxiety and depression in the past.”  He looked up at her, shrugged, and said, “Welcome to adult life.”

Does the pronouncement sit well with you?   

Is a state of anxiety simply part of our existence we must accept? 

Donald Miller points out in his book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years that “do not fear” is the most frequent command given in the Bible. He interprets this as meaning two things: 1) We are going to be afraid, and 2) We should not let fear “boss us around.”  Fear is sometimes an invaluable biological defense that saves us from harm, but we should not let it rule our lives. 

The indecisiveness and anxiety I’ve noticed in my own life over the past few years have forced me to confront the fact that I am a fearful, worrying human.  And yet, reading Donald Miller’s words reminded me that I am supposed to be fighting fear, not just accepting it as a governing force in my life.   

I am not writing "The Bible Example," because the topic of fear in the Bible requires more space (it has filled many books, and will doubtless fill many more).  But, along with Donald Miller, I read a lot of 1 Peter, and it has a few things to say about overcoming fear.

“Therefore, prepare your minds for action; discipline yourself; set all your hope on the grace that Jesus Christ will bring you when he is revealed.”—1:13

“You have become her [Sarah, Abraham’s wife, an esteemed holy woman] daughters as long as you do what is good and never let fears alarm you.”—3:6

“Do not fear what they fear, and do not be intimidated”—3:14b

“Since therefore Christ suffered in the flesh, arm yourselves also with the same intention”—4:1

“Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that is taking place among you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you.”—4:12

Over and over, throughout 1 Peter, the message is this: "Why are you surprised that life is difficult?  Fight against fear, and trust in God."  Peter also constantly reminds his readers who they are, writing descriptions ranging from cherished children, people receiving mercy, stones building a temple, those possessing an invaluable gift, and servants of a savior who suffered in the same way they suffer.

In the end, Peter writes this famous line:                                                                                           “Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you.”—5:7

Jesus said, “Do not worry.”  He said not to worry about the everyday anxieties of food, clothing, and tomorrow, and he said not to worry about what might happen if you are arrested unjustly. 

John writes, “God is love,” and later, “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.”—1 John 4:8b, 18a

I wonder how much of our fear stems from misunderstanding who we are? 
How much stems from misunderstanding who God is?

Many thanks for indulging my musings on this enormous topic.  

*names changed for privacy reasons

"Give all thou canst"--William Wordsworth

When I was in my second year at APU, I met a student named Lena.  Born in the USSR (modern-day Uzbekistan), Lena is fluent in Russian, which she speaks with her five siblings and parents.  While Lena and I initially bonded over rock-climbing in Yosemite (part of R.A. training), we soon found we shared a love for our respective large families, yoga, biblical studies classes, 1940s films, and eating. 

Each time I would walk into Lena’s apartment, she would ask, “Are you hungry?” 

If it was morning, we would brew strong Arabian coffee, cook eggs and sausages, and gorge ourselves on crepes filled with nutella and fruit.  If it was evening, we would fry potatoes and eat them with Russian carrot salad.  One time, she taught me how to make Borscht (a Russian beet soup), which we ate with slices of bread slathered in sour cream and garlic. 

And always, after eating, we would have tea.  Tea is a ritual for Lena, like it is for so many people from Europe.  She would brew Russian tea the color of copper in a little china pot, and we would drink it from wide teacups while eating whatever sweets she had on hand—sesame candies, caramel waffle cookies, spoonfuls of nutella, sweetened condensed milk, or berry jam.  We would slice lemons into wedges and eat them covered with thick yellow honey from her dad’s bees.

Hospitality—sharing your homes, your beds, your meals—is one of the most common forms of generosity.  Especially as a college student, my friends rarely offer to pay for each other; instead, we invite each other into dorm rooms and apartments where we share snacks, hot drinks, or the dinner we have cooked; we offer a couch on which to crash, piled high with pillows and fleecy blankets.

Ironically, the most generous people are often those without much money.  The most generous students I encountered at APU did not come from affluent families.  The people who would loan me their cars, no questions asked, the ones who took me to get a cup African nectar tea if I was feeling blue, did not have much money at all.  These people had every right to say, “No, I cannot afford to risk having someone else crash my car,” or another such excuse.  I would have understood completely if they had said no.  But, in saying yes, they have changed my life.  

I wonder if people without much money understand the value of possessions--if, when we have less, we empathize more with those who need.  

I wonder if appreciating and sometimes needing another’s generosity and hospitality makes us more generous and hospitable.

I hope so.

I remember hundreds of things about my time at APU: Bruner's lecture on joy, Bentz's biographies of F. Scott Fitzgerald and Eugene O'Neill, tearful conversations with Marissa after evening chapel services, the wobbly feeling in my stomach when that boy told me he liked me, the first time Kim and I hiked Garcia Trail, walking into Glyer's office and wanting to live in it, climbing onto my balcony railing under the palm trees and winter stars and saying into the phone, "I've never felt so much like myself."  But, acts of generosity and hospitality from people like Lena are some of my favorite memories.  

Generosity and hospitality are among the most-praised qualities in the Bible.  Part of this is due to the fact that in ancient near-east culture, showing hospitality to strangers was the only way to ensure safe travel.  Hotels and restaurants did not exist, and a farming family opening their home to you was the only thing standing between you and a night spent on the freezing desert ground crawling with bandits and scorpions.  As an orphan or a widow, charitable gifts from the community were the only way you survived. 

From the Torah to the book of James, the Bible urges caring for the needy as the duty of the righteous, and neglecting the poor as one of the worst sins a person could commit.  The infamous fiery destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah recounted in Genesis 15 was much less about punishing homosexual behavior as it was punishing a lack of hospitality. 

The Book of Proverbs’ wise advice is this: “A generous person will be enriched, and one who gives water will get water” (Proverbs 11:25).

Jesus said, "Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me. Whoever welcomes a prophet in the name of a prophet will receive a prophet's reward; and whoever welcomes a righteous person in the name of a righteous person will receive the reward of the righteous; and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple—truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward" (Matthew 10:40-42).

In fact, several times Jesus says our acts of generosity (or lack thereof) will come back to us.  “Give, and it will be given to you…for the measure you give will be the measure you get back” (Luke 6:38), and, “Just as you did to one of the least of these…you did to me” (Matthew 25:40b).

James writes, “Every generous act of giving, with every perfect gift, is from above, coming down from the Father…” (James 1:17a). 

There is simply no escaping the fact that using our possessions to care for others is a requirement if we are trying to live a right life. 

When I was in high school, a song that contained the line, “The beauty of grace is that it makes life not fair.”

Generosity is a form of grace.  Last semester in my Greek class we learned the verb that means both “to graciously give” and "to forgive."  It was associated with the wealthy giving a monetary gift to those less fortunate without any strings attached.  When we graciously give, we allow another person to experience grace in a tangible way.  Through generosity, we remind each other we are forgiven--we have all made mistakes, and we all desperately need the second chance we do not deserve.

Unfortunately, receiving such things is not always comfortable experiences.  If there is an art to giving, there is definitely an art to receiving.  Receiving grace and forgiveness, like receiving charity (a word that used to encompass unconditional love but is now almost exclusively associated with monetary handouts) can be extremely difficult.  Asking for a favor requires courage and humility, whether it’s the price of a cup of coffee because you forgot your wallet, $200 because you cannot make your rent payment on time, or a ride to the airport at 5am because your friend bailed on you.
Accepting unexpected favors when you need them but have not asked is perhaps even more difficult.
Sometimes, we feel guilty, unworthy, in debt, and altogether uncomfortable, so we refuse gifts from others.

However, in refusing a gift, you are refusing to allow a friend the joy of giving--the joy of using their time, talent, or treasure to show their love and appreciation for you--the joy of remembering that what we own is not only for us.  If we do not practice giving and receiving, we forget that a life of selfishness is the most worthless kind of life.

Though I don’t struggle with that much when it comes to humans giving me things (I have no problem with someone wanting to buy me a cappuccino, throw me a party, give me diamonds, etc.), I wonder how often I have pushed God’s grace out of my mind so I don’t have to deal with the gnawing feeling of my own inadequacy.  

"But he gives us greater grace" (James 4:6a).

Spaces

Coming off the plane in Ontario, CA on Wednesday morning, I did something I've never done at SeaTac Airport; I walked down a staircase at the back of the airplane onto the tarmac in the open air. As I did so, I was struck with the space of California, its brightness and width. This was not the first time that has happened.

I remember walking off a similar plane in a similar way last year, three days after leaving Oxford, England. The 360-degree expanse of flat, hazy horizon is a far cry from the narrow cobblestone streets of Oxford. In the cafes and libraries of Oxford you watch students, monks, and tourists rush by the windows. You can breathe in the age, intelligence and writing of the city; you can experience a palpable sense of possibility. The possibility that you could write a book, prove a theory, or convince an audience comes from the knowledge within the spaces of Oxford. The creaky little rooms and crooked passages leading to low doors seem bursting with knowledge. Studying in those spaces, it feels like you can access that knowledge, and not only in books. Because you are in such close quarters with your thoughts, it seems easier to recall information from the deepest corners of your mind.

When I left Seattle Wednesday morning, it was raining the proverbial cats and dogs, fat wet raindrops pouring down in the dark. Even when the rain is not as heavy as it was that morning, the Seattle sky feels closer to you than the sky in L.A. The moisture hugs you, envelops you in mist, fog, or at least a heavy blanket of clouds far above your head. Seattle is my childhood home, and my family lives there. It is a place I associate with comfort, old friends, coffee shops, childhood imagination and high school escapades.

The sky here in Upland is infinite blue, interrupted both by enormous cloud formations in every shade of gray, and by the brown foothills to the north (these days, the hills are dusted with snow like powdered sugar on a craggy waffle). Weather in the “Inland Empire” is as predictable as Seattle’s, but instead of cloudy with a chance of showers it is predictably dry, hazy, and warm.

Studying in California feels completely different from studying in Oxford. In this geographical space, the top of the box has been left open, and ideas can float up to incredible heights like as many balloons. This space doesn’t beg for an open mind, it demands one. Oxford beckons you to consider the past scholars who scribbled by candlelight and paved the way for your meager ideas to grow. California demands you remember the men and women who traveled this land by starlight on horseback and in wagons. They left familiarity behind to go west, believing they would reach a golden land on the edge of the Pacific. Their freedom of thought, the freedom to go anywhere your thoughts go, is palpable here. We travel in cars now, not horses, zooming through the golden land on concrete freeways until we reach the Pacific.

Drive fast, live young, be beautiful, question everything--those are the cultural rules here. We are not in Oxford anymore, nor are we in Seattle.

Our space affects our lives. Nancy Wilson says that your room reflects your theology. I say an ugly library ruins reading. And I am sitting at my desk laughing with the Creator who made both the open sky of California and the rolling green hills of the English countryside. For I stumbled into the only English country house in San Bernardino Country. When I arrived here, it felt familiar because it felt like England. When I arrived in England, it felt familiar because it felt like dozens of books I love. C.S. Lewis would say those books felt familiar because their beauty felt like heaven.

Enjoy your space. Return to the spaces you love. Find the beauty where you are.

 xx