Fear is natural. Living by fear is a choice.

Fear is a powerful thing.

Sometimes fear is good. Fear can protect us. It can warn us that something isn’t safe. It can cause us to slow down, pay attention, ask questions, and exercise wisdom.

If you see a car speeding toward you, fear is probably a pretty appropriate response. If you’re about to make a major financial decision, a little healthy apprehension might keep you from making a foolish choice. If something feels unsafe, fear can tell us to stop.

We shouldn’t pretend that every fear is irrational. But fear can also become something else.

It can become a prison. Fear of the unknown. Fear of failure. Fear of change. Fear of losing control. Fear of losing something we love. Fear of being rejected. Fear of what other people might think. Fear of people who are different from us. Fear that we won’t have enough. Fear that we won’t be enough.

And sometimes, fear takes something that might happen and begins treating it as though it will happen. That’s when fear becomes dangerous because when fear becomes the lens through which we see the world, it doesn’t just protect us from danger…It keeps us from moving.

We often talk about uncertainty as though uncertainty itself is the problem. But uncertainty is simply a fact of life.

None of us knows exactly what tomorrow will bring. We don’t know what will happen with our careers. We don’t know how our relationships will change. We don’t know what our children will experience. We don’t know what our health, finances, communities, churches, or world will look like five years from now. We don’t know how every decision will turn out.

And yet, we often respond to uncertainty by creating a story about it. “What if this happens? What if that goes wrong? What if I lose this? What if they do that? What if everything changes?”

Soon, the possibility becomes a probability. The probability becomes an expectation. And the expectation becomes the reason we refuse to move.

Fear takes an unanswered question and fills in the blank with the worst possible answer.

That happens in our personal lives. And it happens in churches, families, communities, and organizations.

You’ve probably heard the familiar claim that the Bible says “do not fear” or “do not be afraid” 365 times, one for every day of the year.

It’s a great line. It’s just not literally true.

There isn’t a single universally accepted count, and the number varies depending on the translation and exactly which expressions are included. The commonly cited 365 figure is more devotional slogan than biblical statistic.

But here’s what matters: The Bible doesn’t need 365 fear-not verses to make its point. The Scriptures are filled with people who are afraid…

Abraham is called into an uncertain future. Moses is convinced he isn’t capable. The Israelites are terrified by what lies ahead. Mary is confronted with a future she never could have planned. Joseph’s plans are completely disrupted. The disciples are afraid of storms, scarcity, failure, and uncertainty. The women arrive at an empty tomb and are initially overwhelmed by what they encounter.

Over and over again, God meets people in circumstances they cannot control. And over and over again, they hear some version of: Do not be afraid.

Notice what God doesn’t say. God doesn’t say, “There is nothing to be afraid of.” God doesn’t promise that everything will be easy. God doesn’t explain every detail of what is coming.

Instead, God says: “I am with you.”

“Do not fear, for I am with you.” ~ Isaiah 41:10

That’s the promise. Not certainty, presence.

Christian faith doesn’t mean knowing exactly what will happen. It means trusting that God will be with us when we don’t.

Sometimes Christians feel guilty about being afraid. We think that if we really trusted God, we wouldn’t be anxious. We wouldn’t worry. We wouldn’t have doubts. We wouldn’t hesitate. We’d simply believe.

But that’s not the biblical story. Faithful people experience fear all the time. The question isn’t whether you feel fear. The question is: Who gets to make the decision?

Fear can be in the room without being in charge. You can be afraid and still move forward. You can be uncertain and still be faithful. You can have questions and still take the next step. You can acknowledge legitimate risks without allowing those risks to become an excuse for paralysis. That’s courage!

Richard Rohr has written about the importance of learning to live with uncertainty rather than constantly trying to eliminate it. Spiritual maturity, he suggests, includes developing the capacity to remain grounded when we don’t have all the answers.

That’s important because we often confuse certainty with faith. They’re not the same thing.

Certainty says: “I know exactly what is going to happen.”

Faith says: “I don’t know what is going to happen, but I trust God enough to move forward.”

One of the most common ways fear keeps us stuck is through our discomfort with the unknown.

We want a map. God often gives us a next step.

Abraham didn’t get the whole itinerary. Moses didn’t receive a detailed leadership manual. Mary didn’t get a guarantee that everything would turn out the way she hoped. The disciples didn’t get a risk assessment before they followed Jesus. They were simply invited to trust.

Bob Goff has often returned to the idea that following Jesus is about taking the next step rather than waiting until we have everything figured out. That’s good advice for life.

We don’t have to know everything. We don’t have to solve everything. We don’t have to control everything. Sometimes we simply need to ask: What is the next faithful thing? And then do it.

Maybe this is why change is so difficult. Change reminds us that we are not in control. We like familiar things because familiar things feel predictable. We know how they work. We know what to expect. We know where we fit.

But sometimes we become so committed to preserving what is familiar that we fail to recognize what God might be doing next. We say: But we’ve always done it this way. What if people don’t like it? What if this doesn’t work? What if we lose something? What if things don’t turn out the way we hoped?”

Those are legitimate questions. But sometimes legitimate questions become disguises for an illegitimate conclusion: Therefore, we shouldn’t change anything.

Fear loves that conclusion because if nothing changes, nothing unexpected can happen. Of course, nothing new can happen either.

Fear also has a way of creating categories. Us and them. People like us and people unlike us. People we understand and people we don’t. People who belong and people who don’t.

When we’re afraid, it becomes easier to keep people at a distance. We don’t have to know them. We don’t have to listen to them. We don’t have to understand their story. We can simply make assumptions.

Father Gregory Boyle has spent much of his ministry challenging the fear and separation that allow us to dehumanize people who are different from us. His emphasis on “kinship” is rooted in the conviction that we cannot love people well from a safe distance. We have to move toward one another.

That’s the movement of Jesus. Jesus continually crossed boundaries. He ate with people respectable religious people avoided. He touched people others considered untouchable. He spoke with people others dismissed. He welcomed people others excluded.

Fear builds walls. Love builds tables.

Fear asks, “How do I protect myself from them?” Jesus asks, “How do I love my neighbor?”

That’s not merely a difference in attitude. It’s a difference in discipleship.

Another fear that quietly controls our lives is the fear that there won’t be enough. Not enough money. Not enough time. Not enough opportunity. Not enough resources. Not enough security. Not enough love. Not enough for us.

Scarcity says: “Hold on tightly. Don’t risk it. You might need that later. What if it doesn’t work? What if there isn’t enough?”

Sometimes scarcity is real. Wisdom requires us to acknowledge our limitations. But there is a difference between recognizing limits and living as though God is limited by them.

Jesus encounters a crowd of hungry people. The disciples see scarcity. “We have only five loaves and two fish.”

Jesus sees possibility. “Bring them here to me.”

The miracle isn’t a promise that God will magically solve every financial problem we encounter. But it is a reminder that discipleship begins by bringing what we have rather than obsessing over what we don’t have.

Sometimes the question isn’t: “Do we have enough?” It’s: “What could God do with what we have?”

Fear doesn’t always look like panic. Sometimes fear looks like cynicism. Sometimes it looks like complaining. Sometimes it looks like withdrawal. Sometimes it looks like passive-aggressive comments. Sometimes it looks like endlessly revisiting what we have lost. Sometimes it looks like saying, “I guess things just aren’t what they used to be.” Sometimes it looks like quietly hoping the new thing fails so we can say, “See? I told you so.”

In other words: Sometimes fear looks like sulking.

And sulking can feel strangely satisfying. It allows us to feel like victims without requiring us to do anything. We don’t have to risk. We don’t have to change. We don’t have to participate. We don’t have to take responsibility. We can simply sit back and complain about what is happening around us.

But here’s the problem: Sulking doesn’t stop change. It just makes us miserable while change happens around us.

It doesn’t make our families healthier. It doesn’t make our churches stronger. It doesn’t deepen our faith. It doesn’t build relationships. It doesn’t solve the problem. It simply keeps us stuck.

This may be the most dangerous part. Fear can become habitual. We can become so accustomed to looking for what might go wrong that we stop noticing what might go right. We become people who instinctively ask: “What’s the catch? What’s going to go wrong? Who is going to get hurt? What are we going to lose? Why won’t this work?”

Eventually, we don’t even realize we’re doing it. Fear becomes our default setting. And when fear becomes our default setting, we can begin to mistake pessimism for wisdom.

But Scripture offers another way. “For God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.” ~ 2 Timothy 1:7

Notice the contrast. Fear. Power. Love. Self-discipline.

The Christian response to fear isn’t recklessness. It’s not pretending that risks don’t exist. It’s not refusing to plan. It’s not blind optimism.

It’s power, love, and self-discipline. We can acknowledge reality without being ruled by it.

This is where the question gets personal. What are you afraid of?

Not just the obvious things. What are the fears underneath the decisions you are making? Are you afraid of failure? Are you afraid of disappointing someone? Are you afraid of being rejected? Are you afraid of losing control? Are you afraid of getting older? Are you afraid of starting over? Are you afraid of being vulnerable? Are you afraid of someone who is different from you? Are you afraid that you won’t have enough? Are you afraid that the future won’t look like the past? Are you afraid that if you change, you’ll lose part of yourself?

Some of those fears may be completely rational. Some may be irrational.

Some may be based on real experiences. Some may be based on stories you’ve created about things that haven’t happened.

The important thing is to ask: Is this fear protecting me? Or is it imprisoning me?

Is it helping me exercise wisdom? Or is it keeping me from taking a faithful step?

Is it helping me see danger clearly? Or is it convincing me that every uncertainty is a threat?

Is it prompting me to ask good questions? Or is it giving me permission to remain exactly where I am?

Brennan Manning wrote extensively about the radical trust at the heart of Christian faith. For Manning, faith was never about having everything under control. It was about entrusting ourselves to the God who loves us.

That kind of trust is difficult. Because we like control. We like guarantees. We like certainty.

But Jesus never promised us control. Jesus promised us presence. “I am with you always.” ~ Matthew 28:20

Always. Not just when things make sense. Not just when the future is predictable. Not just when the budget works. Not just when everyone agrees. Not just when we know how the story ends. Always.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe faith is not about eliminating uncertainty. Maybe faith is learning how to live faithfully in the middle of it.

There will always be reasons to be afraid. There will always be things we cannot control. There will always be risks. There will always be uncertainty. There will always be something that could go wrong.

If we wait until we have absolute certainty before we move, we will spend our entire lives standing still. And that isn’t the life Jesus calls us to.

Jesus calls us forward. Out of boats. Out of comfort zones. Out of locked rooms. Out of old assumptions. Out of fear.

And into love. Into relationship. Into service. Into justice. Into generosity. Into peacemaking. Into the kind of life that requires trust.

So perhaps the prayer isn’t: “God, take away all my fear.”

Maybe it is: “God, help me not to be ruled by it. Help me recognize the fears that protect me. Help me release the fears that imprison me. Help me distinguish wisdom from anxiety. Help me distinguish discernment from resistance. Help me distinguish legitimate caution from the stories I tell myself about what might happen.

Give me courage to take the next step. Give me grace when I get it wrong. Give me love for people I don’t understand. Give me generosity when scarcity tells me to hold on. Give me hope when nostalgia tells me the best days are behind me.

And when fear tells me to sit down, withdraw, complain, sulk, or stay exactly where I am…remind me that you are still with me.”

Because the opposite of fear isn’t certainty. The opposite of fear is trust. And trust gives us the courage to move.

So ask yourself today: What is fear keeping me from doing?

And then ask one more question: What would I do next if I trusted God just a little more than I trusted my fear?

Maybe that’s where the journey begins. Not with certainty. Not with a guarantee. Just with the next faithful step.