From Fear to Trust

Lent has a way of bringing our fears closer to the surface.

It is a season that invites honesty. The ashes remind us that we are mortal. The prayers of confession give voice to what we would rather hide. The silence stays with us a little longer. In Lent, we do not run past our fragility. We stand in it. And that can feel unsettling.

It is no accident that one of our Gospel readings in this season begins in the dark.

Nicodemus comes to Jesus by night. He is a respected leader, a teacher of Israel, a man who knows the Scriptures and understands religious life. But something unsettles him. Something draws him out of certainty and into a conversation. Under the cover of darkness, he looks for clarity.

There is something very human about that. We often come to God at night: when questions surface, when the noise quiets, or when fear whispers. We may not name it as fear. We may call it confusion, uncertainty, doubt, or exhaustion. But beneath it all is the same longing Nicodemis carries: a desire to understand how to live faithfully when the ground feels unstable.

Jesus does not scold Nicodemus. He does not dismiss his questions. Instead, he speaks of being “born from above,” of life not shaped by control or status, but by the Spirit of God. He speaks of wind that blows where it chooses, of mystery that cannot be contained.

For those of us who like clarity and order, that can feel like more uncertainty. But what Jesus offers is not instability. He offers new birth into trust.

To be “born from above” is not about mastering belief. It is about surrendering to grace. In the Episcopal Church we speak often of grace preceding us, God acting before we ever respond. Baptism is the sign of that truth. Before we can prove anything, before we achieve anything, before we fully understand anything, we are claimed as beloved. We are born into a life not grounded in fear, but in God’s initiative.

And then there is that familiar verse: “For God so loved the world…” Not “God so loved the worthy.” Not “God so loved the certain.” The WORLD. The whole of it. Including those who come by night. Including those who are afraid and those who act in good faith towards others though they do not know what they believe.

If John’s Gospel begins in darkness, the psalm we will hear on Sunday meets us on the road.

“I lift up my eyes to the hills, from where is my help to come?” It is the prayer of a traveler, perhaps heading toward Jerusalem, perhaps facing a journey filled with risk. The hills were beautiful, but they were also places of danger and uncertainty. The psalmist does not deny the threat. Instead he asks the honest question: Where does my help come from?

The answer is steady and simple: “My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth.” The One who watches over you will not slumber. The One who keeps you will not sleep. The Lord shall preserve you from all evil; it is God who shall keep your going out and your coming in. Notice what the psalm does not promise. It does not promise that the road will be smooth. It does not promise that there will be no shadows. It promises presence.

In Lent, we are invited to examine our fears, not to shame ourselves for them, but to bring them into the light of God’s steady watchfulness. Fear often tempts us toward control, toward self protection, toward withdrawal. Trust invites us into relationship.

Nicodemus moves, slowly, from fear toward trust. The psalmist moves, prayer by prayer, from anxiety toward assurance. And we are invited to do the same.

Trust does not mean pretending everything is fine. It means believing that God is at work even when we cannot see clearly. It means allowing the Spirit to reshape us. It means remembering that we are not self made, but Spirit born. It means lifting our eyes beyond the immediate hill in front of us and remembering the One who made heaven and earth.

Lent is not a season of religious performance. It is a season of return. Return to the truth that we are loved. Return to the One who keeps watch. Return to the quiet, sometimes uncomfortable conversation in the night.

Perhaps this week the invitation is simple. Where do you notice fear stirring? Where do questions rise after dark? What hills are you facing?

Lift your eyes. Not to pretend the road doesn’t exist, but to remember who walks it with you.

The God who calls you into new birth does not slumber.

Jesus who meets you in the night does not turn away.

The Holy Spirit who moves like the wind is already at work within you.

In this holy season of Lent, may we be led; from fear into trust, from night into dawning light, from anxiety into the steady embrace of the One who keeps our going out and our coming in, now and always.

Kevin+