“Facing Our Fear”

A Sermon Preached by

The Rev. Jean Niven Lenk

First Congregational Church of Stoughton

United Church of Christ

One September day eighteen years ago, while I was walking home from the train station, I managed to lose my pearl necklace.  I went back to retrace my steps, and as I was walking along the sidewalk, head down, scanning the ground for my pearls, I came upon a skinny, scruffy black cat who immediately began rubbing up against my legs.  As I picked it up, a neighbor standing nearby told me that the cat had been abandoned.  I never found my pearls, but on that day, I found my Sweetie Pie, the world’s greatest cat, and I always considered the deal a bargain.

Almost fifteen years later, three years ago, Sweetie’s kidneys were failing, he wasn’t eating, and he had no strength.  When I was ready to bring Sweetie to the vet for the last time, my son Ian -- who was then just five -- asked to come with me because he didn’t want me to have to go alone.  And the trip became a teachable moment.

“Why does Sweetie have to die?” he asked.

“Every living thing has to die some time,” I said.

“It’s not fair,” Ian declared.

“Well, Sweetie has had a wonderful life, and he’s old and sick,” I explained.  “It doesn’t seem fair when someone dies too young, but this is the right time for Sweetie.”  I think I was trying to convince myself as much as Ian.

“Will Grandma and Grandpa die?” Ian asked.

“Yes, when it’s their time.”

“Will you die, Mummy?” he asked me, wide-eyed.

“Someday, yes, but hopefully not until you’re at least my age.”

And then a shadow of fear passed over my son’s face.  “Will I die?”

“Yes, honey, but not for a very, very long time, when you’re very very old.”

“But I don’t want to die!” he wailed and his face crumpled into tears as he faced his own mortality for the first time.

People – and pets – don’t die until they are very, very old.  That’s what I assured my son, although I know it is not always true, and so does he – his father died at age 44, when Ian was only eight months old.

But I want my little boy to believe, at least for a few more years, that the world is fair, that nice people live until they’re very very old, and that bad things don’t happen to good people.  I want my son to think that, because someday – probably in the not-too-distant-future – he’s going to lose his innocence; someday he will learn the truth: that you can do everything right and still get hurt, that you can be good and still suffer pain, that people – nice people – can die when they’re much too young. 

And if life teaches us that the world is not fair, our faith confirms it.  Jesus was as good as you can get – and yet, he died much too young.  But despite what Scripture teaches us, despite daily events to the contrary, most of us still cling to our own version of the truth: namely, that if we are very, very good, God won’t let anything bad happen to us. 

It’s not a biblical response, but certainly a very human one, as human as Peter’s reaction when Jesus broke the news to his disciples that he would soon suffer a bloody, humiliating death: Matthew tells us that “…Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering...”

And Peter cried out, “God forbid it, Lord!  This must never happen to you!”  Certainly, his outcry was prompted by his love for Jesus.  But perhaps it was also prompted by fear.  Fear of losing Jesus, yes, but perhaps even more so, fear of his own death.  “God forbid it, Lord!  This must never happen to you!”  Why?  Because if it can happen to you it can happen to me.  If Jesus was vulnerable, then so was everyone else. 

If Peter and the other disciples weren’t already afraid of death – Jesus’ or their own – all they had to do was walk the road to Jerusalem.  It was lined with crosses, each of them bearing the dead or dying body of someone whose public execution was meant to scare everyone who saw it.  And no one who saw those crosses and their human toll could doubt that death was the most awful, most frightening thing in the world.

Jesus was not spared from such fear.  In the garden, knowing what lay in store, he prayed to God, “Father if it possible, let this cup pass from me…”  And yet, God enabled him to see something beyond the pain of his own death.  The light of eternal life shown through the dark vision of death, and Jesus knew his job was to take up his wooden cross and carry it toward Golgotha.

It has been said that courage is not the absence of fear, but the ability to act in the face of it.  Certainly, Jesus modeled this.  And throughout the Bible, we see people who felt fear but who were able to carry on in spite of it, because they also felt God’s presence.

God says to Abraham, “Be not afraid, I am your shield.”  And God says to Isaac, “Do not be afraid, for I am with you.”  God says it to Jesus’ earthly father, Joseph, and to his mother, Mary: “Be not afraid.”  And to the shepherds, and to women at the tomb, and to the Apostle Paul.  And in the gospel of John, God in Jesus says to his disciples, “Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”

What frightens you to death?  That is your cross.  And Jesus tells us to stop pretending those crosses are not there, lying at our feet; he tells us to just pick the wretched things up, get hold of them so we can find out for ourselves that there is more to life than being afraid.

What is your cross?  What frightens you to death?  For some, it is the fear of admitting an addiction that is eating away at their life.  I’ve known addicts who didn’t want to give up their heroin – even though it made them sick, destroyed their families, ruined their lives.  They didn’t want to give it up, because they were afraid of having to live life without it.  And I’ve known spouses of addicts who were so afraid of revealing the shame of their loved one’s illness that they preferred to suffer alone, in silence.

What is your cross?  Maybe it is the fear of your next doctor’s appointment, when you might get an unwelcome diagnosis.  Maybe it is the fear of being incapacitated by illness.  Maybe it is the fear of losing your independence, or being separated from your loved ones.  Maybe it is the fear of loneliness, or isolation, or dying too soon, or living too long.

Whatever it is that terrifies you – that is your cross, and if you leave it lying there at your feet, it will paralyze you and destroy your soul.  Because if you give into your fear rather than pick up and deal with your cross, then you deny God the chance to show you that right there in the dark fist of your worst fear, Jesus is waiting to envelope you in his unconditional, life-giving love – a love that transforms, heals, and makes all things new.

Stop running from your cross, he says.  Reach down and pick it up – it won’t be nearly as scary once you get your hands on it, and you won’t be handling it alone.  All you have to do is believe in God more than you believe in your fear. 

“Be not afraid, for I am with you.”  That Voice, through the ages, has told people who were frightened that they had nothing to be fear, for God was with them.  That Voice has never promised safety, but it has always promised life.  It doesn’t offer freedom from pain, but it does offer freedom from fear.

And that gentle Voice tells each one of us today, “Face your fear, pick up your cross, and come with me.  Be not afraid, for I am with you.  And I will never let you go.”  Amen.