We are living in a time of great uncertainty when each new day seems to confront us with another set of frightening headlines. I hear a lot of fear being expressed right now by family and friends, people in my church community, online posts and newspapers, and particularly those who have good reason to fear because of their race, ethnicity, immigration status, gender, sexual orientation, gender transformation, disability or deep concern for the environment.
Like many of my generation, when I was in college I inhaled the science fiction novel, Dune, by Frank Herbert. What I remember most from the book is the litany of a persecuted group, called the Bene Gesserit, that begins with the words “I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear.”
Fear is the mind-killer. Fear makes us contract, pulling ourselves inward in self-defense. It shrinks the circle of those we want to relate to and, even more, the circle of those we trust. It is the primary tool of authoritarian regimes who know that, by encouraging fear of the other and defining them as a threat to us, they can build support for the necessity of oppression. Fear robs us of our agency, our generosity, and our joy.
How do we let go of fear? Many years ago, I developed a practice that helps me when I am distressed by events in my life and in the life of the world. Picture a decision tree of the kind that begins with a question in a box with arrows to a yes or no response. The question in the box refers to whatever it is that is disturbing me, and asks, “Is this something you can do anything about?” There are many things that impact our lives over which we have no control. This is frightening, but sometimes we need to recognize the truth of it. So the no arrow from my question (No, this isn’t something I can do anything about.) leads to a box that says, Let it go.
The yes arrow leads to a box that says, What can you do about it? From there sideways arrows lead to boxes where I brainstorm ideas about what I might do. For example, I could write to the newspaper or my legislators. I could donate to organizations that promote justice, work to relieve poverty and suffering or volunteer with one of these organizations.
Once I’ve recognized that I have the power to do something, I ask the difficult but important question, “In all honesty, am I actually going to do any of these things?” If the answer is no, the arrow points to a little box that says let it go. If the answer is yes, the arrow points to a box that says, do it. In this way, I look for those areas where I have control and where I can do something about things that upset and frighten me, consciously let go of fretting over those areas where I have no control.
Another way to deal with our fear is to replace fear with concern. The word afraid is almost always followed by the word of. We are afraid of something, and our tendency is to turn, or even run away.
The word concern is usually followed by the word for. We have concern for someone or something, and our concern moves us toward rather than away.
With concern one asks what we can do for the targeted communities, the environmental policies, the rights and freedoms that are most at risk, and turns us toward a determination to do the work that needs to be done. In his poem, The Work of Christmas, the theologian, Howard Thurman sums up the work of Christmas we are called to do: “To find the lost, To heal the broken, To feed the hungry, To release the prisoner, To rebuild the nations, To bring peace among others, To make music in the heart.”
I trust that God is with us when we do the right but risky thing, because I hold to the assurance, in the words of Julian of Norwich, that “there is a force of love moving through the universe that holds us fast and will never let us go.”
Rona Kinsley is a retired pastor and a wife, mother and grandmother, living in Irasburg. She has served several churches in Vermont, including the Greensboro United Church of Christ, and is Pastor Emerita of The Old Meeting House, in East Montpelier Center.
