In church this Sunday, we heard about the angels who appeared to the shepherds and said, “Do not fear.” It’s a refrain within the Christmas story. Mary, do not fear the unexpected baby growing inside you. Joseph, do not fear the appearance that your betrothed betrayed you or that the rest of the world will shame you both. Shepherds, wise men, do not fear. Later, disciples who see Jesus walking on the water—do not fear. Disciples sitting in the upper room after Jesus’ death, do not fear. And even going way back, to the words written before Jesus’ birth, again and again the people who encounter God get the same message: Do not fear.
A friend once explained to me that these words are not a command. They are, rather, a promise.
Do not fear is not an instruction to obey a God who doesn’t understand all the very fearful realities we encounter day by day. Do not fear is not a command to deny our feelings. Do not fear is not a way to get it right.
Do not fear is a promise that God will be with us even in the midst of the most fearful, dark, and terrible moments.
It can be easy for me—I’m such a rule-follower—to berate myself for fear. I can make God’s love conditional, as if I need to prove my trust and faith by denying worry and ignoring doubt. But it seems to me that the invitation—to those shepherds, to Mary, to the disciples, to us—is to admit all the very good reasons we have to tremble in fear and to hear the reassuring words in response, “I am with you.”
As much as I love the holly jolly vibe of this time of year, if we only pay attention to the surface sparkle of Christmas, we will paper over grief, deny sorrow, and ignore darkness. We enter a holiday season right now where there is much to fear, with news of senseless killings and what can feel like endless tragedies. The Christmas story of a God who not only says “do not fear” but also says “I am with you always”—that is a story that is big enough to hold the suffering. It’s a story that invites hope and peace and love and joy, not in denial of the darkness, but in celebration of light that shines amidst the darkness.
We are invited to name the darkness and grief of this moment even as we are also invited to dance and sing and rejoice in the promise of God with us, Emmanuel.
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