Fed by fear

The world is full of fear.

My email inbox fills with reasons to fear. One email bears a cute picture of four mutts and the racist message that the dogs are being signed up for government assistance since they are all “mixed race and color, unemployed, lazy, can’t speak English and have no clue who their daddies are. They expect me to feed them, provide them with housing and medical care.”

It continues: “So she looked in her policy book to see what it takes to qualify. My dogs get their first check next Friday. Is this country great or what?”

Everyone knows we can’t trust the government to do what is right. The bailouts fed the rich; our taxes feed the undeserving.

The editor of a local monthly comes in to deliver papers with news of a Food and Drug Administration shut down of a “farm to fork” dinner. The government is gaining control of the food supply, he warns, and when that happens they will control us. Not him. He has food stocks shelved high in his basement. His mother-in-law eats venison canned 18 years ago and it is still as good as the day she canned it.

Fear fuels our revolving world. So we fight. We protest. We occupy. Another email tells me just who supports that movement: the American Nazi Party, Hezbollah, the Communists, and the Ayatollah Khomeini. Birds of a feather flock together, the writers warn, and more fear descends.

Scripture tells us not to fear. The Lord takes care of us. Look at the flowers in all their splendor, Jesus taught. Look at the birds with nothing to have and everything to eat. Elijah driven to the wilderness was fed by ravens beside a brook. Joseph sent to prison was gifted to interpret dreams and elevated to save his land and family from famine. Paul placed in chains was able to share the gospel with Rome.

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” Romans 8:28.

And yet my screaming soul drives me out, day by day, to gather and store up, stewing as I bring in the sheaves. My cupboards are full of canned goods; mental lists require more. My clothing stands guard at each closet. The fuel tank rings full, and the wood is ranked high against winter.

The house is ready, but what about the temple?

In that dwelling place of the Holy Spirit within me, what whispering voice do I hear?

Fear screams a thousand messages: “Save your money! Stock the shelves! Buy guns! Buy gold!” At my antiques shop, with customers dwindling, fear hisses across the counter: “List some stuff on eBay, sell! Get some money while you can. Do it now while there’s still time!”

The man with the food piled high decreed: “What’s coming is going to make the Great Depression of 1929 look like kindergarten.”

Day by day, I wonder at how I have lived to see this great end time fear. In childhood, it was as distant, as sci-fi as Big Brother and 1984, as remote as the Mark of the Beast, and today it is as close as the next email, the next headline, and the next fellow’s words.

And what of trusting God?

The warnings of scripture are as clear as the answer. The righteous live by faith.

Today, fear’s war of words began as soon as I checked my inbox. And His Spirit held my temple firm. God’s promises are my storehouse. His word is my fuel. His righteousness my garment. His hope my joy, His joy my strength. His very nature prompts my praise. Though the whole world quake with fear, He is my portion and the Rock on which I stand.

Turn again to Psalm 27 and read it through:

^“The LORD is my light and my salvation—
   whom shall I fear?
The LORD is the stronghold of my life—
   of whom shall I be afraid?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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