why are you so afraid?

Tonight I made my way over to Fran Beckett's house for a meal and Bible study. To be perfectly honestly, I stopped myself from turning around on the walk over by focusing on the former, not the latter. In the last couple of weeks, in the rare moments in which I have found myself reading my Bible or praying, I am more often than not filling my time with God than spending it with Him. This is neither intentional nor malicious. It's not that I am at a particularly low point or that I am really doubting anything. I'm just, I don't know, or I do, but...

Anyway, the meal was splendid. It is so nice to eat a healthy, delicious meal that was homemade by someone else. (I actually like cooking, but come on... it's nice that have someone else prepare food for you and even better to share said food.) As we ate, we sat there chatting about this and that and sipping wine. When we finished, we dug into jalebis and some of the best strawberries I have had in England.

Then the actual Bible study began. We were looking at the first four chapters of Mark-- the anointing of Christ, parables, and miracles. Instead of a formal study, we were presented with some questions about the nature of our faith and its implications. (I am attending a church that is wonderful, tolerant, loving, socially aware, and somewhat radical-- in the best sense.) We were meant to spend 30 minutes in silence marinating on one or more of these points. Virtually all of the questions were relevant to 'where I am,' which is probably why I didn't want to think about any of them. So instead, I decided to read through the chapters. Did I mention that I have been filling time with God rather than spending it with Him? Ummm, yeah.

As I came across the penultimate line of the tonight's reading, Mark 4:40, I found myself frozen: "Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?" A little context: The disciples, terrified that they will drown in a nasty storm that threatens their boat, wake an exhausted Jesus from his nap. He looks towards the wind and waves, says, "Quiet. Be still." The winds die and the waters become completely calm. Then he turns to these men who have given up their lives to follow him and asks, "Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?" As I read those lines, I tried to imagine the tone. Eleven words, over and over again with variation in emphasis. Is he disappointed? Angry? Frustrated? Reassuring? I couldn't reach any conclusion.

What I did realize was that those very words might as well have been directed at me tonight. So I sat there in silence going over them. "Why are you so afraid, Natalie?" I tried to answer, but every response that flowed through my mind was to a different question: what are you so afraid of? I am not very good at admitting fear. Yet, in this quiet moment of meditation, I was able to confess what felt like an endless list of fears. What am I so afraid of? I am afraid that my mother won't get this offer or that she will and my grandfather's care will suffer, that Clara's tuition won't be paid or that even if it is her opportunities will somehow be limited. I am afraid that my own father's health will become an immediately pressing issue and that I will be far away, that I am already too far away in moments of crisis, that even if I were present I would somehow still be far away. I am afraid that I won't be able to meet my responsibilities and that my responsibilities will cause my dreams to stagnate. I am afraid that I won't finish this dissertation on time and that it won't be good enough, that my applications won't be successful or that they will and I won't have the support I need. I am afraid for my family and for myself, for the future and for the environment. I am afraid of this and so much more.

While I can normally bury my fear and push forward with what has been called aggressive optimism, lately even as I do so, I feel the fear. It physically weighs on me. There are many challenges facing my family at this moment and I am, myself, in a moment of transition and uncertainty. Still, I have been through such moments before and while I did not always handle them as well as I might have, I have never experienced fear in such a visceral manner before. Grief, perhaps, but never fear. I don't like it. Quite frankly, I don't know what to do with it. (For better or worse, I am someone who has to do.)

As I sat there going over all these fears and trying to name them because I am someone who believes that naming something gives us a certain power over it, it occurred to me that I was avoiding the question. Jesus hadn't asked his disciples what they were afraid of. The answer would have been simple: 'We're afraid of the huge waves that are going to sink our ship and drown us.' He had asked something much more profound. I hadn't been asked not what, but rather why. I found myself trapped in a very circular argument: Why am I afraid? Because bad things might happen or are happening and may continue. Essentially, why am I afraid? Because I am afraid. For the life of me, I could not come up with a better answer. Had the question been different, now then I might have had something. 'Why are you upset?' he asks. 'Because you seem to have been sleeping through my imminent demise.'

The fact that I couldn't and can't answer the why, has brought me to the second question. "Do you still have no faith?" Even when I imagine a benevolent and concerned Jesus lovingly prodding his friends with this rhetorical question, I can't help but to feel that it is something of a accusation or challenge. Religious beliefs aside, one either has faith in someone or something or doesn't. Faith can't fall into the grey area. I can't mostly have faith or almost have faith or have 65% percent faith. Faith is an allegiance, a commitment, a conviction, a belief. You believe in something or you don't. So it is with faith. To do something on faith, is to do it without question. There is a reason that faith and hope are separate virtues. Faith requires a certainty, no room for doubt.

My gut reaction, the certainty that radiates through my bones, is, "Yes, I have faith." In this case, a faith in my God and by that, a faith in the future. The moment I utter that to myself, I have a revelation: I am never going to be able to answer the why. If I have faith, I have no reason to be afraid. Now, that doesn't mean that I am no longer afraid-- I am-- but it does mean that I know I shouldn't be. So, yes, right now, I still feel as though I can't breathe and my mind is racing through a million worries, but as long as I keep reminding myself that I do, in fact, have faith, I am confident that those worries will die out, choked by the strength of hope and the certainty of belief.

I don't know if any of you are out there experiencing these burdens, suffering from worries that literally weigh upon you, but if you are, please reach out to whatever you have faith in-- your God or your friends or your belief in your own abilities. When you focus on the faith, it becomes impossible to drown in the fear.


much love.