FEAR
We were at one time approached by a young lady who said, "Between
my home and the place of meeting there is an old, deserted factory
on a dark and lonesome street. Some terrible things have occurred
there. Am I wrong because I am afraid to pass that way at night?" We
replied, "You would be foolish to pass that way, go around and avoid
danger." This brings us to the thought of fear, and how far it is
consistent with holiness. Fear is defined as "an emotion excited by
threatening evil, or impending pain, with the desire to escape." We
are often told that self-preservation is the first law of nature,
and we do know that there is in every man a deeply laid something,
instinct" is perhaps the best name for it, which causes him to wink
involuntarily when some object approaches his eyes, or to dodge with
lightning rapidity when in danger of coming in contact with some
"irresistible" body, or to inwardly shudder and shrink away at the
thought of impending pain. If there were no such a thing as the law
of self-preservation the race would soon become extinct, or rather
it would never have continued. This "fear" is found in the lower
animals as well as in man and is a safeguard against injury. This
fear is not cast out when an individual is perfected in love. One
man said, "I was on a porch with a number of other people when it
began to fall. They all ran away quickly, but I didn't. I had
perfect love." That is not perfect love, it is perfect
foolhardiness. It would have been just as sensible for Jesus to have
cast Himself off the pinnacle of the temple. Why should He fear? He
surely had perfect love. "Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God."
In the village of Cortland, Ohio, there is a large brick Methodist
Church. The rear of the building, where the pulpit is located, is
towards the west, and the auditorium is on the second floor. One
Sunday morning when the people were gathered for preaching service
there arose an awful storm. The wind, lightning and thunder were so
terrific that the people became uneasy and frightened. The minister
was standing in the pulpit doing his best to encourage them, and
said, "Do not be afraid. Before I was converted, I, too, was afraid
of storms, but when I was saved I lost all that fear." At that
moment the whole gable end of the church fell in and started for the
pulpit where the minister was standing. There was no time to
consider, or to think of perfect love casting out fear; he jumped
from the pulpit and ran down the aisle, shouting, "Come on,
brethren." Some of the folks laughed at him -- after it was over. If
he had been swimming in the love of God, he would have done just as
he did or he would have been a suicide.
The writer was on the camp ground at Steubenville, Ohio, when a
cyclone struck it. Thirteen trees were blown down in the circle of
tents, the tabernacle fell on the congregation, tents were blown
about, people were pinned to the earth and one young lady was
killed. These people were good, some of them professed, and
doubtless had, the experience of holiness, but, notwithstanding this
fact, some of them were on the verge of a nervous collapse, some of
them did go under for a time, and others would leave the grounds as
soon as a little wind arose. May the writer confess that he has
never felt quite as easy in a tent since that time. If the wind
blows he would sooner see how things are going on outside than be
cooped up in his tent, and he would rather have a tent out in the
open than be in danger from suspicious looking trees. Now if any
person suspicions the state of the writer's experience, he has
company, for there are others who were there that eventful day that
will testify to the same feelings. There are possibly some "nervous
women" who have never recovered from the shock.
I do not know what form of neurosis a physician would call it, but I
have heard a big man testify as follows: "When I was a small boy I
had two older brothers who were always scaring me about ghosts and
all sorts of spookish things The impressions thus formed have never
left me, and while I know better, and have no real fear (?) yet I
can scarcely go out in the dark without a suspicion that there is
some lurking bug-a-boo about. And this is true although I have
enjoyed perfect love for a number of years." Remember the deep
impressions of this man's childhood -- and we are told that such
impressions are never forgotten -- and perhaps you will have an
explanation of this phenomenon.
Will a holy person fear a thunder storm? Some say, "No," others say,
"Possibly." One thing that convinced Wesley of the genuineness of
the religion of the Moravians was their fearlessness in the ocean
storm. It may be this question should be studied with reference to
the psychological or mental makeup of the individuals concerned. In
some the sense of sublimity is so highly developed that they stand
in awe before a mighty mountain, a waterfall, a rushing cyclone, or
the crashing heavens. They are very near eternity. Combine this with
a nervous dread of sudden developments, or unlooked-for occurrences
(and sublimity and nervous susceptibility are very often combined in
the individual,) and one will readily see why a chain of lightning
or a crash of thunder might startle such a person, and this might
develop into an almost hysterical dread. The law of
self-preservation will cause one to stand at attention when facing
real or supposed danger.
Before proceeding further may we state that there are two kinds of
fear, as there are two kinds of love, natural and spiritual. We have
never seen this distinction definitely drawn unless it is by
inference in the passage from Adam Clarke: "Natural fear is a
necessary accompaniment of our mundane existence, and is not cast
out by perfect love." It would be absurd to un-christianize a person
because he fears a backbiting dog, a kicking mule, or a murderous
man. Or because he trembles as he stands before a congregation, or
shrinks from public notice. Bramwell says, "Our work as ministers of
the gospel is of such importance that I frequently tremble
exceedingly before I go into the pulpit. Yea, I wonder how I ever
dared to engage in such a work." This is the natural man trembling
under the burden of the cross. Some of us often feel the same way!
Fletcher says that perfect love inclines to timidity.
On the other hand, spiritual fear, as we have called it, for want of
a better name, is servile dread of the Almighty, slavish fear of
man, carnal shrinking from showing one's colors, shrinking from
doing one's duty because of the consequences, or any other form of
fear that hinders a man from being his whole bigness for God and
from standing in every place where brave men are needed. Then there
is what the Bible calls the fear of the Lord. This fear, in a
greater or lesser degree, exists in every saved or sanctified heart.
Rut even this fear, as we will see in the quotation from Edwards
below, is regulated by the fullness of the Spirit which one has
attained. When the fear of the Lord becomes servile, it is
inconsistent with sanctifying grace. The fear of the Lord which is
not cast out by perfect love is filial and loving; servile fear is
salutary and tends to lead the soul to God; filial fear is binding
and tends to hold the soul in loving contact with the Lord. With awe
and reverence the trusting soul pillows its head on the bosom of the
Almighty, and says, "I love Thee for Thou hast loved me."
The feeling of natural fear will cause one to shun dangerous places
or circumstances, such as burning buildings, falling walls, thin
ice, pestilences, dark and dangerous alleys, dangerous communities.
One may dread public notice, false accusations or calumny. They may
stand in awe before natural phenomena, such as earthquakes and
storms, or before those whom they consider their superiors or those
who are unduly critical; they may hesitate under the cross of an
unusual burden, and cry, "If it be possible, let this cup pass," but
grace will add, "Nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done."
Clarke says,
We are not to suppose that the love of God casts out every kind
of fear from the soul; it only casts out that which has torment.
1. A filial fear is consistent with the highest degree of love;
and even necessary to the preservation of that grace. This is
properly its guardian; and, without this, love would soon
degenerate into listlessness, or presumptive boldness.
2. Nor does it cast out that fear which is so necessary to the
preservation of life; that fear which leads a man to flee from
danger lest his life should be destroyed.
3. Nor does it cast out that fear which may be engendered by
sudden alarm. All these are necessary to our well-being. But it
destroys: (1) The fear of want. (2) The fear of death. (3) The
fear or terror of judgment. All these fears bring torment, and are
inconsistent with perfect love.
Thus far Clarke.
With reference to the latter part of this quotation: As we have
seen in a former article Wesley makes a strong point of the
depression which very often accompanies want of bread. We submit
that there is in the very nature of every man, possibly some would
not call it fear, a shrinking from the article of death. The Lord
has promised to deliver those who through fear of death are all
their lifetime subject to bondage, and He does this when He takes
away sin, the sting of death; but He still leaves the sanctified man
with a spirit which loves life and shuns death. Holiness will not
rob the judgment of its awfulness, but it will rob it of its dread,
for the heart is right. Amen. Wesley and Clarke agree in the
following statements from Clarke:
1. Profligates and worldly men in general, have neither the
fear nor love of
2. Deeply awakened and distressed penitents have the fear or
terror of God without His love.
3. Babes in Christ, or young converts, have often distressing fear
mixed with their love.
4. Adult Christians have love without this fear; because fear hath
torment, and they are ever happy, being filled with God."
Jonathan Edwards, in his treatise "On Religious Affections,"
gives the following excellent description of the alternations of
fear and love:
There are no other principles which human nature is under the
influence of that will ever make men conscientious but one of two,
fear or love; and therefore, if one of these should not prevail as
the other decays, God's people, when fallen into dead and formal
frames, when love is asleep, would be lamentably exposed indeed;
and therefore God has wisely ordained that these two opposite
principles of love and fear should rise and fall like the two
opposite scales of a balance; when one rises, the other sinks.
Love is the spirit of adoption, or the childlike principle; if
that slumbers, men fall under fear, which is the spirit of
bondage, of the servile principle; and so on the contrary. And if
it be so that love, or the spirit of adoption, be carried to a
great height, it quite drives away all fear, and gives full
assurance; agreeable to that of the apostle, 1 John 4:18, 'There
is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.' These two
opposite principles of lust and holy love bring hope and fear into
the hearts of God's children in proportion as they prevail, that
is, when left to their own natural influence, without something
adventitious or accidental intervening, as the distemper of
melancholy, doctrinal ignorance, prejudices of education, wrong
instruction, false principles, peculiar temptations, etc. Fear is
cast out by the Spirit of God no other way than by the prevailing
love; nor is it ever maintained by His Spirit but when love is
asleep.
After all real courage is not ignorance of danger or heedlessness
of consequences, but he is a courageous man, who, seeing the danger,
in spite of trembling limbs or quaking heart, goes ahead and does
his duty. The following poem by Almon Hensley, descriptive of the
reveries of the mother of a soldier boy who did his duty even though
he was afraid, beautifully expresses the thought.
"Leave me one here, proudly, with my dead,
Ye mothers of brave sons adventurous;
He who once prayed: "If it he possible
Let this cup pass" will arbitrate for us.
"Your boy with iron nerves and careless smile
Marched gaily by and dreamed of glory's goal;
Mine had blanched cheek, straight mouth and close-gripped hands,
And prayed that somehow he might save his soul.
"I do not grudge your ribbon or your cross,
The price of these my soldier, too, has paid;
I hug a prouder knowledge to my heart,
The mother of the boy who was afraid.
"He was a tender child, with nerves so keen
They doubled pain and magnified the sad:
He hated cruelty and things obscene
And in all high and holy things was glad.
"And so he gave what others could not give,
The one supremest sacrifice be made,
A thing your brave boy could not understand;
He gave his all because he was afraid!"
|