Tag: Fear Page 5 of 7

I’d Really Just Like to Be in Control

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On September 9, 2017

In Other

I would really like to be in control of my universe.  It doesn’t seem too much to ask, really, because my universe is quite small.  My family, my health, my friends, my stuff, my reputation, my job–that’s really all I ask for control over.  God can take care of the rest.  How generous of me.

We humans have a tendency to forget we that we are not God.  We would like to be, of course, starting way back in the Garden.  You will be like God was whispered in that first temptation.  Ironic, since that was the temptation that the Tempter himself had succumbed to: I will make myself like the Most High.



And the rest is history.  The battle continues in the hearts of each of us, wrestling with God for control.

As image-bearers of God, we are indeed powerful.  Capable of creating (and destroying) cities, splitting atoms, rocketing to the moon.  Subduing the earth, making the land bow to our wishes, growing new people inside our own bodies, snuffing the life out of others with one bullet or sometimes even just one word.  

In America, where we celebrate, encourage, and nurture that power, we are given an illusion of control.  We buckle our children into their five-point harness car seats; we buy alarm systems for our homes; we build shiny fire trucks; we put sand under the monkey bars.

Yet we are not God.  And despite billions of minds at work and thousands of years of history, we can’t control the hurricane.  Despite $1500 a month in medical insurance, we can’t control our health.  Despite years of homeschooling or thousands invested in the best schools, we can’t control our children.



We keep grasping for control, and God keeps showing us that we’ll never get it.

When God’s people were wandering the desert for 40 years, he fed them with manna.  Each day, every day, and only enough for one day, he sent them bread from heaven.  They weren’t allowed to store it up.  They just had to trust that tomorrow it would come again.

We have no concept of Give us this day our daily bread, because our pantries could easily feed us for a month.  In fact, we may decide we’re not even into bread, and we eat quinoa instead.  But God always gets around whatever system of control we construct.  We try to store up our health by eating well, but we still will eventually get sick, and eventually die.  We try to store up our wealth, but eventually the bubble will burst or the hurricane will come or the car will crash.

Even in–especially in–sleep does God assert his control.  You can’t store up sleep; even after a good nine hours’ rest, you’ll still be tired again another fifteen hours later.  Frustratingly, sleep is one of the few things in life you can’t accomplish by trying harder.  Sleep is surrender.  Sleep is trust.  It is the direct antithesis of fear and anxiety.  And it’s necessary for life itself.  Did you get that?  God programmed the necessity of surrender and trust into our DNA.  We can fight it, but we won’t win.

I am anxious when I am not in control.  Yet I am never in control, I only deceive myself into thinking I am.  Which is probably one of the reasons why God continually puts things into my life to remind myself of this fact.  Like the Israelites in the desert, often I don’t trust the manna will come the next day, even after years and years of experiencing it.  Even though he’s promised it.  And proven himself trustworthy.

Like millions of Christian, English-speaking children, the NIV version of Proverbs 3:5-6 was embedded on my heart at a young age.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; 

in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.

Last week, I was working on the list of Bible verses that all primary students at HOPAC will learn this year.  When I added Proverbs 3:5-6, I was surprised to see that the new version of the NIV changed one word.

….in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.

I can’t read Hebrew, so I don’t know why the change was made–especially since just about every other English version uses acknowledge.  But I’ve found myself reflecting a lot on that word this month:  Submit.  There’s something a lot more profound and meaningful about submission versus acknowledgement.  It’s what I desire for my life with God.  Because I am not in control.  He is.  And the more I submit to that, the straighter my paths will be.

Submit to him, and gather the manna for just today.  Trust that tomorrow it will come again.

*Many of these reflections, especially about manna, come from my current re-reading of Running Scared:  Fear, Worry, and the God of Rest by Edward Welch.

When Emotions are Untamed Horses

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On June 3, 2017

In Other

There was a time in my life when believing the truths of the Bible caused an earthquake in my life.  Did God really exist?  Was the Bible true?  Did Jesus really rise from the dead?  My search for truth in these questions dominated my life for several years.  And at the end of a rather obsessed season of study, I was convinced:  I could trust the Bible.

People often equate faith with blind faith–mindlessly chucking all rational thought into the wind for the sake of belief.  But when I talk about faith in God, and the Bible, and the resurrection, I don’t know if I could even call it faith by that definition–because it’s 100% rational for me.  And as a result, I rarely have intellectual doubts in Christianity anymore.

No, where faith comes in for me is in the area of emotion.

I must admit that I don’t have a lot of patience for emotion.  I prefer rational, clear thinking based on facts.  But my emotions don’t often cooperate, bucking around like untamed horses, refusing to be domesticated.

Sometimes I think that the entire Christian life consists of believing God over believing my emotions.

Anxiety tells me, You must control your life or everything will fall apart and the world will end.  But God tells me, I am in control.  Nothing can separate you from me, and that is the One Important Thing.

Resentment tells me, You deserve to be treated better.  You deserve more appreciation.  You have a right to demand it.  God tells me, This life is not about you.  You can forgive because I forgave you.  Wash their feet.

Despair tells me, The world is dark.  Things fall apart.  There’s no point in fighting.  God tells me, I am the Light of the World, and there is always hope.

So who will I believe?  My emotions, or God?  Believing God–right there–that is faith.

The problem is–everyone knows–that emotions are powerful.  So powerful that they cloud the way we see the world.  When anxiety or resentment or despair or lust or anger or grief or happiness have taken over our souls–then that is reality for us.  The emotion, quite literally, defines our universe.

It doesn’t help, of course, that we live in a society that glorifies emotion.  From the time we are small children, we are told to Follow our hearts and Get in touch with ourselves and Validate her feelings, which really are just other ways of saying that we should let our emotions rule us.  And, of course, I’m not suggesting that we become a society of stoics who stuff and deny and shut up everything we feel–because that’s not the right path either.

But as those who have been transformed by the gospel, who are being controlled by the Holy Spirit, there’s got to be a better way.  There’s got to be a way where we feel deeply, and yet at the same time, learn to take those emotions by the scruff of the neck and wrangle them into submission to God’s Truth.

And that’s why faith is so important.  Because when I’m seeing the universe through an emotion, I must have faith that what that emotion is telling me is wrong.  I must step back and look at myself from the outside, and analyze what I am feeling from the rock-solid words of Scripture, and then preach to myself instead of listening to myself.*  

That means, sometimes, that I must loudly rebuke my despair or shame or self-pity, or, the most aggressive in my case–anxiety.  It means I must hold on by my fingertips to the things I know that are true.

And it also means that in those times when I am thinking rationally, that I do the hard mental work of knowing what God’s Word says and why I know it is true.  Because if I am not absolutely convinced, then there is no way I will be able to fight that fear or resentment or frustration when they take over my brain.

Faith isn’t blind–except when I am blinded by emotion.  Then, faith is believing what I already know to be true.

*from John Piper

God Would Never Ask Me to Sacrifice My Kids….Right?

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On October 1, 2016

In Other

Documented incidents include Christians being hung on a cross over a fire, crushed under a steamroller, herded off bridges and trampled under-foot.



I know so little of sacrifice.  



A new report was recently published about the life of Christians in North Korea, and all of the incredibly creative ways that regime has invented to humiliate, torture, imprison, rape, and murder anyone who dares pick up a Bible.  



But the scariest part of that report?



A policy of guilt by association applies, meaning that the relatives of Christians are also detained regardless of whether they share the Christian belief.



Did you get that?



The cost of following Jesus in North Korea is not just your job, not just your well-being, not just your freedom….but your whole family.  Your mom, your brother, your children can be put in a prison camp, raped, or run over by a steamroller because you chose Jesus.  



It’s incomprehensible.  Unfathomable.



I know so little of sacrifice.  



Sure, I can tell myself that I have chosen to live in a country with medical care that is vastly inferior than we would have in America.  Sometimes it is scaryto raise kids here.  But I also am still American, with my full-coverage medical insurance that allows my children to be medically evacuated if it ever comes to that.  Sure, I worry, but I know the risk is low.  



Besides….God would never ask me to sacrifice my kids….right?



Yet I worship the same God who has asked exactly that of the North Korean Christians. I stand under the same sky, breathe the same air, and have the same kind of soul as they do.   Who am I to think that he wouldn’t ask the same of me?  



In America right now, the sentiment seems to be exactly the opposite.  We sacrifice for our kids, but we wouldn’t think of sacrificing them.  We start college accounts when they are babies.  We go to every soccer game; we work two jobs to send them to private school; our lives revolve around their extracurricular activities.  I get this.  I feel this, even from here.  I want the best for my kids too.



But what if our kids’ activities become so important that we have no time for ministry?  No time to get to know our neighbors?  No time even for church?  What if God called my children to be missionaries…in Congo…in Iraq…in North Korea?  What if I was convicted that the college money would be better spent showing a dying neighbor that Jesus loves him?  Would I resist….or obey?

I realize it’s a hard balance.  I’m not saying we go back to the old days when fathers would leave their families for years at a time in the name of ministry.  I know of missionaries who waited to work in highly dangerous countries until their children were grown.  I have supported many missionary friends who left Tanzania due to the needs of their children.  It goes without saying that Christians are to put a high priority on ensuring their children are safe, educated, and loved.  

Yet when do we hit the point where we love our children more than Jesus?  Where we tell him, You can have anything, Lord, just not my kids?



I really don’t know where that line is.  It might not be the same for each person and it might not be the same in each situation.  But judging from the example of my North Korean brothers and sisters, I must come to the conclusion that God does sometimes ask us to sacrifice our children for the sake of the gospel.

After all, the greatest treasure in the universe came from the sacrifice of a Son.

My Deepest Fear

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On August 29, 2016

In Fear

It’s not just my darkness–that creature within me that must be tamed–that I fear.  It’s my frailty, my weakness, my humanness that terrifies me the most.

When I was about 15 years old and living in California, one warm evening I was baby-sitting a couple of little boys.  I was watching them play outside, and they climbed into the bed of the pick-up truck that was sitting in the driveway.  I remember that this made me nervous, as the boys were only about two and four years old, but they assured me that they were allowed to play there.  So I went against my better judgment and let them jump around.

I was watching them carefully, but before I could stop it, the toddler slipped off the ledge and fell.  Onto his head.  Onto the concrete driveway.

He instantly started screaming.  I brought them into the house in a panic.  I did everything I could think of to calm the screaming boy, but nothing worked.  He screamed for a long time.  I can’t remember how long, but it was until his parents came home at least an hour or two later.

I told them he had fallen, but I did not tell them that he had fallen out of the truck.  I was overwhelmed by a terrible sense of horror that this had been my fault, that I shouldn’t have let him play there and I should have been watching him more carefully.  I never told my parents, and I never told his parents what really happened.  I was terrified of being deemed irresponsible.

As far as I know, the child was perfectly fine.  But the scenario has haunted me since then, especially once I learned more about concussions and brain injuries and what could have happened that day.  I realize now that my irresponsibility was less about letting him play in the truck, and more in my lack of calling for help.

A few years ago, while living in Tanzania, a young boy stayed with us for a couple of weeks while his parents were traveling.  One night, the power went off, and since he was afraid of the dark, I lit two candles.  I put one on the desk in the guest room, and one one the washing machine in the bathroom, in case he needed to use it.  The candles were in plastic bowls.

The power came back on an hour or so later, and the boy blew out the candle in his room.  But the candle in the bathroom continued to burn, and in the middle of the night, we were awakened by the boy’s cries.  When I opened our bedroom door, the hallway was full of smoke.  The candle had burned through the plastic bowl, caught the plastic lid of our washing machine on fire, and had continued to melt through all the plastic parts of the machine.

We were able to put the fire out easily, but the smoke was incredibly thick.  To this day, I am haunted by the what ifs.  What if the boy hadn’t blown out the candle in his room?  What if the smoke had made him unconscious….or worse?  And what on earth was I thinking in putting a candle in a plastic bowl?

Marianne Williamson famously wrote, “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.  Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.  It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.”

I know this quote has been the climax of many inspiring movies, but I just can’t agree.  I do agree that I am afraid of my power.  But not in a good way.  My deepest fear is the devastation I am capable of.

my deepest fear

It’s not just my darkness–that creature within me that must be tamed–that I fear.  It’s my frailty, my weakness, my humanness that terrifies me the most.  The lapse in judgment that kept me from telling the truth to the toddler’s parents.  The pure foolishness of putting a candle in a plastic bowl.

Like everyone, I suppose, I am afraid of what could happen to those I love.  I have occasional anxiety about natural disasters or terrorist attacks.  I am mildly OCD and triple-check the door locks at night.   I am afraid because I know I cannot control my world.  But what do I fear the most?  That something terrible will happen, and it will be my fault.  I cannot control myself.  

I grew up as part of the self-esteem generation, which is why it is supposed to be our “light” that most frightens us.  We were told that our top priority should be finding our identity, following our hearts, and reaching our dreams.  The problem is that along with discovering our power for success comes the discovery of our capacity for failure.  Serious failure.  Because no matter how many times you tell me otherwise, there are times I will always be inadequate.  Sure, I might do some pretty good stuff in my lifetime.  But I will make the wrong decision sometimes, and other times I will make terrible decisions.

I can’t fix that.  And so I am afraid.

So what’s the antidote?  Looking in the mirror and trying to convince myself that I am smart, capable, and powerful is just not going to work.  Or even the Christian version of self-esteem talk–I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me–falls flat.

The only way I can defeat my fear is to take the “I” out of the sentence all together.  Why does it matter what Amy Medina is capable of–either good or bad?  What matters is what God is capable of.  He is all-knowing and all-powerful.  He is good and can do anything He wants to do.  He is the one who is in control of this universe.  And even when I do something evil or just plain stupid, He is sovereign over that too.


“Does failure on our part to act prudently frustrate the sovereign plan of God?  The Scriptures never indicate that God is frustrated to any degree by our failure to act as we should.  In His infinite wisdom, God’s sovereign plan includes our failures and even our sin.”  (Jerry Bridges, Trusting God)

It is there–and only there–that I am no longer afraid.  The longer I look at myself, the harder I try to convince myself that I’ve really got my life under control, the more afraid I am.  The more that I just stop thinking about myself all together, and focus on the One who created me, that’s where everything clicks into place.  

Which is why I must continually lift up my eyes.  Fear makes me focus inward, and ultimately that will only breed more fear.  There’s not much in myself that can alleviate my anxiety.  What I need is to look up.  To look out.  God gave us this mind-blowingly massive universe so that we can comprehend our smallness.  The vastness of the ocean, the intricacy of a flower, the realization that something far, far bigger than us is going on.  Who am I to think that I have the power to thwart God’s plan?  I can rest in the knowledge that God is a trillion times stronger than me.

There is a profound comfort in understanding my insignificance in the universe, and yet my significance in God’s sight.  It is there that my fear dissolves.

If We Perish, We Perish. But Let’s Choose Love Over Fear.

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On November 18, 2015

In Other

*Note added 11/20/15:  Please be assured that my intentions were not to make a political statement as to what the U.S. government should do about the refugee crisis.  I only want Christians to think about our reaction to the “dangerous” people and places in our society that we often try to avoid.  

A couple years ago, the U.S. postal service came out with a series of stamps showing children in active activities.  They never went to print.  Why, you ask?  Because many of the children on the stamps were participating in “dangerous activities.”  Look carefully:  No helmets, no knee pads, and [gasp!] one child is even doing a cannonball.

We are a culture that is obsessed with safety.

Is the house I am buying in a safe neighborhood?

Is my child’s school safe?

Are vaccines safe?  Pesticides?

Will less guns make us safe?  Or more guns?

Prayer meetings are often dominated by requests for safety in traveling.  We spend hours researching the safest car seat, baby monitor, and crib.  We always buckle.  These aren’t necessarily bad things.

Until this obsession gets into the way of obeying God.

What happens when God breaks your heart for the low-income neighborhood in your city?

What about when your firstborn child is called to be a missionary in Iraq?  Or Afghanistan?  Or North Korea?

What about when that unseemly neighbor wants her kids to come over and play?

Or how about something as simple as finding out that 10,000 Syrian refugees are being sent to your city?

It’s ironic that two months ago, when a drowned toddler was the Face of the Refugee, there was only criticism for those countries who didn’t open their arms wide.  Now, when the Face of the Refugee is a terrorist, those same doors are slamming shut.

I don’t want to make a political statement here.  I realize that the refugee situation is complicated and not easy to solve.  However, I do want to make a Christian statement.

When our love of safety gets in the way of obeying God, we are wrong.

When our love of safety gets in the way of loving people, we are wrong.

When we see the dysfunctional neighbor, the unruly child, the refugee, the Muslim, we should see the face of Jesus.  When we see the low-income neighborhood, the Arab country, the dilapidated house down the street, we should see places to which Jesus would have run.

Yes, we should be safe when we can be.  But as Christians, for the sake of love, we should err on the side of risk.   

Who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?  



To cross the railroad tracks.

To open our homes to the international college student.

To welcome the foster child.

To befriend the woman behind the veil.

To give generously.

To love lavishly.

And be willing to say with Queen Esther,

If I perish, I perish.  

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