“Be Not Afraid”
Isaiah 43:1-2; Mark 4:35-41
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
February 4, 2018
I hadn’t paid much attention until the Hawaii debacle. Yes, of course, I’d seen all the news reports—missile tests in the Pacific Ocean, pundits’ predictions of disaster, tweets and retorts about who has the biggest button on his desk. The reports didn’t really sink in, though. There was so much other news to draw my attention away, so many other issues that demanded my emotional energy. I didn’t know what I could do about increasing tensions between North Korea and the United States; I knew I could do something, at least on a local level, to address racism and anti-immigrant policies and even health care and tax reform. With more than enough other issues to drain all my reserves of outrage and worry, I didn’t really register the growing threat of nuclear war.
Then, about three weeks ago, someone in Hawaii misheard instructions, hit the wrong prompt on a computer screen and triggered a warning of imminent nuclear attack. By the time I heard about it, it had been announced as a false alarm. For 38 minutes, though, the people of Hawaii thought the world as they knew it was about to end. A friend of mine who happened to have been there described it as “38 minutes of terror, yet surrender.” What would I have felt if I had been there? What would I have done? What would I have prayed for? It was a false alarm, but it made the threat feel very real. The unthinkable could happen. How do we live with that?
In the face of that all-too-real danger, we hear the words of Isaiah and Jesus. “Do not fear,” God says in Isaiah’s voice. When you pass through raging waters, they will not overwhelm you. When you walk through fire, you won’t be burned. “Why are you afraid?” Jesus asks his disciples, who are terrified of a storm overwhelming their little fishing boat. With a word, Jesus calms the storm.
Beautiful imagery in Isaiah; a powerful story told by Mark—but if there is a nuclear attack, will God keep us from being burned? Could Jesus really still the storms of radiation and retaliation that would be unleashed on the earth?
“Do not fear.” “Fear not.” “Be not afraid.” “Why are you afraid?” With slightly different translations and occasionally in question form, this imperative is repeated in the Bible more often than any other command. It reflects a deep spiritual insight—an awareness of how easily fear can be twisted into something that destroys our lives and our communities. Fear can make us feel powerless—and sometimes that prompts horrifying abuses of the power we do have. Fear can lead us to deadening paralysis. It can trigger our deep-rooted instinct for self-preservation, so that we give ourselves permission to step on other people in order to stay safe.
This oft-repeated biblical command, “Be not afraid,” reflects God’s yearning for us to be free from the destructive potential of fear, God’s yearning for us to live with confidence and security and wholeness. Still, I struggle with it. Fear is a natural human emotion, an internal warning signal that danger is ahead. Denying the reality of our fear can be as destructive as being controlled by it. Ignoring danger does not make it go away, and forced bravado often leads to stupid actions that make things worse. Jesus was human; surely he understands our fear. Is he really telling us to deny what we are feeling?
I don’t know what Jesus meant in that moment when he asked the disciples, “Why are you afraid?” I do know that taking his question and the biblical imperative as a challenge to stop feeling fear is not helpful to me. I choose to redefine the command. I hope my redefinition is faithful to Jesus’ intent. Instead of “Be not afraid”, I hear, “Do not allow fear to rule your life.” Be ruled, instead, by love, by hope, by trust that God is with you whatever you must face.
In a time of heightening nuclear tensions, what does it mean not to allow fear to rule our lives? When a false alarm in Hawaii reminds us how vulnerable we are, how do we honor the reality of our fear without letting it control us? This morning, I offer my own reflections: some things that help me as I seek to respond to this biblical imperative.
The first thing that helps me is to make sure I expend at least as much energy looking for signs of hope as I spend naming reasons to be afraid. When I take time to notice, I see signs of hope all around.
In my study at home, there is a framed photograph of Richard Nixon and Leonid Brezhnev signing the first SALT–Strategic Arms Limitations Talks–treaty in Moscow in 1972. It was a landmark moment, the first major treaty to limit the growth of nuclear arms. The moment would have been unimaginable a few years before. It’s on my wall because, standing behind Nixon, leaning over to show him where to sign, is my grandfather. Granddaddy was not a grand visionary; he described his job as making sure all the I’s were dotted and the t’s crossed, ensuring that this ground-breaking, world-changing treaty was in compliance with international law.
That photograph, for me, is a sign of hope. Whatever we may think about our national and global political leaders, we know there are people like my grandfather working quietly and assiduously, doing the behind-the-scenes work that lays the groundwork for the possibility of a break-through.
Another sign of hope: Last month it was announced that ICAN—the International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons—was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. ICAN’s Executive Director, Beatrice Fihn, was so shocked she thought the phone call was a prank. It wasn’t. ICAN’s ambitious goal is the complete elimination of the world’s 15,000 nuclear warheads. It seems impossible, and we could have a thoughtful debate about whether or not it’s a helpful approach. What gives me hope is that Beatrice Fihn and her colleagues dare to dream big. They have a vision that the world can be different. As long as there are people who dare to envision a new world, change is possible.
Yet another sign of hope: In PyeongChang, South Korea, less than 200 miles from where Kim Jung Un sits with his supposed nuclear button on his desk, athletes are gathering from around the world for the winter Olympics. I don’t know whether the ways North and South Korea are joining together for the games will bear fruit. I do know that when there is an impasse in a conflict, sometimes the best thing we can do is find other ways to build positive connections, to create the beginnings of relationships that can ultimately soften the hard lines we have drawn. It gives me hope that athletes—North Korean, South Korean, American, Russian, Haitian, Iranian—will be competing side-by-side, and the whole world will be watching.
I see signs of hope in the hard work of people who quietly lay the groundwork for change, in the courage of visionaries who refuse to accept that things have to be the way they are, in the athletes—and scholars and travelers and business people—who come together beyond the hardened walls of conflict. These signs of hope do not erase the reasons to be afraid. But hen I hold them side-by-side—hope and fear—I gain fresh perspective on fear, and I can choose to devote my attention to hope.
It helps me to look for signs of hope; it also helps me to find some small way I can be a sign of hope. The threat of nuclear war makes me feel powerless; I need to name and claim the power I do have. I may not have the skills to examine the intricacies of international law like my grandfather—but I could write letters of encouragement to the people who are doing that work. I have the power, like the people of ICAN, to dream of a different world, to refuse to accept that this is the only way. And while I don’t actually know anyone from North Korea, I certainly have the power to keep building connections with people whose lives are very different from my own. While these things hardly seem big enough to matter, I try to do them anyway, trusting in the promise of our faith. God works through the smallest of our actions, and God is at work far beyond what any one of us can do.
A final thing that helps me not be controlled by fear is a choice to treasure life now. The threat of nuclear war makes us acutely aware of how fragile our lives are. Awareness of our vulnerability can paralyze us, or it can lead us to claim that every moment is precious, a gift to be treasured. I choose—or try to choose—the latter. Even in the face of all that is horrifying and terrifying in our world, there is beauty to inspire awe. There are people to love. There is music to stir our souls. There is laughter and friendship and art and delicious food. There is so much to be treasured—right here, right now.
These are the things that help me as I seek to respond to the biblical imperative, as I try not to be ruled by fear. I look for signs of hope. I try to do something to be part of that hope. I treasure this fragile gift of life. What about you? Where do you see signs of hope? What small thing can you do to be part of that hope? What does it mean for you to treasure the gift of life?
“Why are you still afraid?” Jesus asks the disciples. They are afraid because they are in a tiny boat in the midst of a violent storm. “Why are you still afraid?” Jesus said to us. We are afraid because missile tests and bellicose words and false alarms make us acutely aware of a very real danger. Yes, we are afraid. By the grace of God, we are not controlled by our fear, for we know God is with us even through storm and fire. By the grace of God, we choose to look for hope. We choose to be hope. We choose to treasure life. Thanks be to God. Amen.