Come, Afraid Together

WHAT DOYOUDO WITH YOUR FEAR? I want to start with an honest question this morning. You don't have to answer it out loud — but answer it in your head. Honestly. What are you afraid of right now? I'm not asking in a general, philosophical way. I mean right now. This week. The thing that shows up at two in the morning when everything's quiet and your brain won't shut off.

For some of you it's your marriage — not some big explosion, just a slow drift. You're in the same house but you feel far apart. For some of you it's your kids. You're watching them walk toward something that scares you and you can't stop them. For some of you it's money — you know exactly what's in the account and it's not enough. For some of you it's a diagnosis, yours or someone you love, and the ground shifted and it still hasn't settled.

And for some of you, you couldn't even name it. It's just this weight. This hum of anxiety that's always there. You're tired in a way that sleep doesn't fix. I know this because I talk to you. I sit in your living rooms. I hear it. And I feel it too. I'm not standing up here as somebody who's figured this out. I'm in it with you. I get scared too.

So let's just be honest this morning. We're afraid. And the question I want to sit with today is this — what do you do with that fear? Because I think most of us have only learned two options. And I want to show you a third one. But before I get there, I need to show you something about fear that most of us have never considered. Fear Shows You What You're Trusting Here's what I've been thinking about all week.

Fear is more honest than we give it credit for. Fear shows you what you're leaning on. The thing that scares you most? That's the thing you've been trusting most. The thing you've built your life on, maybe without even realizing it. If money keeps you up at night, it's probably because financial security became the thing holding your world together. Not God — the money. If it's your kids, maybe their success became the thing that tells you whether your life counted.

If it's your health — well, we all know how fast everything changes when the body you took for granted stops cooperating. I'm not saying that to make anybody feel bad. I'm saying it because it's actually good news. When the thing you've been leaning on starts to shake, that panic you feel? That's not God punishing you. That's your heart telling you the truth — this thing was never meant to hold me up.

I put it in a place only God was supposed to be, and it can't carry the weight. That's a gift. It doesn't feel like one. But it is. Because you can't grab hold of God with both hands if your hands are already full of something else. There's a story in the Old Testament that illustrates this better than anything I know. A prophet named Hosea — a man of God, a preacher — gets the strangest assignment in the history of ministry.

God tells him to go marry a promiscuous woman. Can you imagine that conversation? God tells Moses — go free the captives. God tells Abraham — leave everything, go somewhere I'll show you. But Hosea? I want you to marry a prostitute. Like — what? I think I need some more time to pray this through. Are you sure about this? Yes, Hosea. Her name is Gomer. Go. Now it's bad enough that God's asking a man of God to marry a woman with that kind of background.

But come on — Gomer? Why not Mary? Why not Sarah? Even Eve would've been better. There's nothing about that name that sounds like a love story. But Hosea actually does it. And God isn't just asking Hosea to make some crazy life decision. He's asking Hosea to live out a prophecy. Every painful moment, every whisper behind his back — it's all going to paint a living picture of how God feels about His people.

Of how much He loves them, even when they run away. So they get married. Have three kids. And one morning Hosea wakes up and she's gone. Just like that. He's a single father now. And the whispers around town aren't helping. I knew it wouldn't work. What was he thinking? What a fool, and where is God in this.. But here's what I want you to see. Gomer didn't make one dramatic decision to blow her life up.

She just drifted. Little by little. Until wandering felt normal. Until she couldn't even remember what home felt like. Open your Bibles to Hosea chapter 2, verse 5. Listen to how she talks: "She said, 'I will go after my lovers, who give me my food and my water, my wool and my linen, my olive oil and my drink.'" MY wool. MY linen. MY drink. She's not thinking about the covenant.

She's not thinking about Hosea. She's just thinking about what she can get and who's going to give it to her. Drop down to verse 13: "She decked herself with rings and jewelry, and went after her lovers, but me she forgot, declares the Lord." Man, what a heart filled repsosne… did it land on your heart when you heard Hose’s reply.. Me she forgot. Not — she rebelled against me.

Not — she made a dramatic choice to leave. Just... she forgot. The way you forget something slowly. The way drifting becomes so normal you stop feeling it. I can just hear God the Father saying, me he forgot, me she forgot… and just our God’s heart mourning over the fact that we tend to wonder from our first love. Now before I keep going I need to explain something. Because God says something here that sounds funny but isn't.

Look at chapter 3, verse 1. God speaking to Hosea about Gomer: "Go, show your love to your wife again, though she is loved by another man and is an adulteress. Love her as the Lord loves the Israelites, though they turn to other gods and love the sacred raisin cakes." Raisin cakes. I know — sounds almost funny. Like God is upset about a baked good. But in their culture, raisin cakes were status symbols.

Offerings made to other gods. The thing you chased when you wanted to feel like you'd finally arrived. Think… the newest car. The bigger house. The relationship that finally makes you feel worth something. The title. The number in the bank account. The thing that is more desirable than God… That’s the raisin cake. It looks like security. It feels like satisfaction. And it never, ever fills you up. And look at what it cost her.

Chapter 4, verse 10: "They will eat but not have enough; they will engage in prostitution but not flourish, because they have deserted the Lord." Eating and never satisfied. Chasing and never flourishing. That's the deal with whatever we run to instead of God. We reach for it because we're afraid. Because it feels like control. Because it feels like security. And it never, ever fills us up. Here's what I want you to hear.

We can have daily moments of fear in our lives, and by not bringing that fear to God, daily fear can become so familiar that we don't even realize we're walking in it anymore. It starts with small worries and anxieties we brush off as normal. But over time those fears grow. They get ingrained. They shape our thinking and our behavior. And we develop little phrases that keep us in that bondage — "better safe than sorry," "if it ain't broke don't fix it" — and before long, living in fear has become our normal.

We forget what it feels like to walk by faith. OT walk in the unknown.. to trust God has whatever in the future for us, is better than what we can have now… and above e it all… We forget what the altar feels like. And we end up exactly where Gomer ended up. On an auction block. Broke. Empty. Surrounded by everything we chased that never loved us back. I think most of us in this room know exactly what our raisin cakes are.

The thing we run to when we're scared instead of running to God. And the question this morning is — what are you going to do with that fear? Fear Can Drive You Toward God or Away From Him Our culture gives us exactly two options when we're afraid. Option one: fight. Armor up. Control the situation. White-knuckle your way through. Option two: flight. Numb it. Binge something. Stay so busy you don't have to feel it.

Reach for the raisin cakes. And both options have the same thing underneath them: it's up to you. Handle it yourself. You're strong enough. You don't need help. And both of them leave you empty. Because fear needs you alone. That's where it works best. In your own head, running the worst-case scenario for the hundredth time. When you don't bring your fear anywhere, it changes you. Slowly. You start out concerned and end up cynical.

You start out careful and end up disconnected. Somebody asks how you are on a Sunday morning and you say "good, good" and you haven't been good in a while. I did this, this week with the teens. I sat around the room and asked everyone, how was your day, how’s your week, and everyone but one said good. And that one, said I am fine.. And I know better… theres always something on our heart.

Theres always somehyting that calling for our attention… but fear wants you to be alone in your fight. Because Ecclesiastes 4:9 says "two are better than one" — and if fear can keep you isolated, it keeps you from the very thing God designed to hold you up. But there's a third option. And I want to show it to you in one of the most surprising places in all of Scripture.

Turn with me to Ezra chapter 3. A little context — this is about 537 years before Christ. A group of Jewish exiles — maybe fifty thousand people — have just walked nine hundred miles from Babylon back to Jerusalem. Most of them have never been there. They were born in Babylon. But their grandparents told them stories about the city, the temple, the God whose glory used to fill the room like a cloud.

A Persian king named Cyrus issued a decree that they could go home. So they went. And they got there. And it was nothing. Rubble. The temple — gone. Not damaged — gone. The walls were broken. The people living in the area weren't exactly rolling out the welcome mat. These exiles had no army, no political power, no protection. And verse 3 says it plainly — fear was on them.

So here they are. Their idols are gone. Their security is gone. They're standing in the ashes of their grandparents' world. And look at what they do. Verse 2: "Then Jeshua the son of Jozadak, with his fellow priests, and Zerubbabel the son of Shealtiel with his kinsmen, and they built the altar of the God of Israel, to offer burnt offerings on it." They built an altar. You're exhausted. You just walked nine hundred miles.

You've got no infrastructure, no military, no security. NO WALLS NO BUILDING… NO HOME… The people next door don't want you here. And the first thing — the very first thing — you build is a place to worship. When you're afraid and you build a wall, you're saying: my safety is up to me. But when you're afraid and you build an altar, you're saying: my safety is up to God.

And before I do anything else — before I plan, before I strategize, before I build anything for my own protection — I'm going to put myself in the one place where I know He meets me. Now don't miss verse 3. This is the whole thing right here. "They set the altar in its place, for fear was on them because of the peoples of the lands, and they offered burnt offerings on it to the LORD." Did you catch it?

For fear was on them… and they offered burnt offerings. The NIV says "despite their fear." But that's not what the Hebrew says. The scholars agree — the grammar here is causal. Fear wasn't the obstacle to worship. Fear was the reason for worship. They built the altar because they were afraid. That changes everything. We treat fear and worship like opposites. Like you've got to get rid of the fear before you can really worship.

Like worship is what happens when the crisis is over, when you feel strong and grateful and peaceful. And these exiles — standing in rubble, surrounded by enemies, with nothing to their name — say: no. Fear is not the opposite of worship. Fear is the doorway to worship. We're not here because we're brave. We're here because we're terrified, and the only safe place for a terrified person is at the feet of God.

Fear says: you're alone in this. And then you walk into a room full of people singing the same song, praying to the same God — and suddenly you're not alone. Fear says: this is the end, this is where it falls apart. And then you stand at the altar and remember that this God has been bringing His people through impossible situations for thousands of years, and He hasn't lost one yet.

Fear says: it's all up to you. And worship says: it never was. Fear didn't disappear for the exiles. Look at it.. fear was redirected. It drove them somewhere — not into a bunker, not into panic mode. It drove them to God. And at the altar, the fear was still real, but it wasn't in charge anymore. Some of you almost didn't come this morning. I know because I almost don't come some mornings.

The week is heavy and the bed is warm and the voice in your head says what's the point? And you came anyway. Showing up afraid is not a failure of faith. It's the beginning of worship. Because when you walk through those doors and sit down next to somebody else who's also afraid — even if neither of you says it — you are doing the most defiant thing an afraid person can do.

You are refusing to let fear have the last word. God Meets You in the Fear Now I want to show you what God does when you bring your fear to the altar. Because this is the part that undoes me. Go back to Hosea. Remember where we left Gomer. On an auction block. Broke. Ashamed. Surrounded by everything she chased that never loved her back. And God tells Hosea — go get her.

Not — wait for her to come back. Not — let her figure it out. Go. Find her. Bring her home. Think about what that costs Hosea. It's one thing to forgive someone who comes crawling back. It's another thing entirely to go looking for them. To make the first move when you're the one who got hurt. To settle a debt you didn't create. But Hosea goes. He finds her on that auction block, covered in shame, and he pays a price he didn't have to pay.

She was already his wife. He buys her back anyway. Chapter 3, verse 2: "So I bought her for fifteen shekels of silver and about a homer and a lethek of barley." He paid a price he didn't have to pay. Because she was already his. I have an old pastor friend — mentor of mine, I spoke to him this week — and he told me one time, sometimes you just gotta learn to eat crow.

And I didn't fully understand what he meant until I got older and life humbled me a few times. Eating crow means you do the right thing even when you didn't cause the wrong thing. It means you make the first move even when it wasn't your fault. It means you swallow your pride and you go. That's exactly what Hosea did. He ate crow. He walked up to that auction block in front of everybody who had been whispering about him for years — I knew it wouldn't work, what was he thinking — and he paid for her anyway.

He didn't have to. He chose to. And that choice cost him something. It cost him his pride. It cost him his dignity in front of the whole town. It cost him fifteen shekels of silver he didn't owe. And that's the picture of Jesus. He didn't have to come. He chose to. He didn't owe the debt. He paid it anyway. He walked straight up to our auction block — in front of all of heaven — and bought us back.

Not because we deserved it. Because we were already His. Sometimes the most Christlike thing you can do is eat crow. Go first. Pay what you don't owe. Make the move you didn't have to make. That's not weakness. That's the most powerful thing a person can do. Because that's exactly what God did for you. Listne, churhc… Our Heavenly Father is never surprised when we admit to Him that for which He sent His Son to die.

When we confess our sin to other people, they may be surprised and shocked. But God already knew. He loved you at your darkest moment. He loved you even when you've hurt others. He loved you so much that He gave His only Son to die in your place. And 1 John 4:18 says this — "There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear." Not your perfect performance.

Not you getting it all together. His perfect love. When we are abiding in God and His love, we find the strength and courage to face our fears rather than hide from them. Can I explain somehtign.. Do you know why I spend so much time at the altar? Because that altar isn't just a piece of furniture up here. That altar is the operating table of Jesus. It's where He does His best work.

My master doesn't show up to places where people believe they are well. He comes to places where people are sick and need healing. He looks around the room and He looks for pain. Why would Jesus show up here if there is not one person who needs the physician? That's why I come. Because on this side of heaven, my heart needs altering. And so I lay it down — here's my heart, Jesus.

What's wrong with it? Why won't it love the way You've called it to love? He won't heal what you won't confess. But when you bring it — He is always, always there. And again, listen churhc… Repentance is one of the most beautiful things we can ever experience in this world. And it begins with honesty. It begins with coming to the altar afraid — not brave, not polished, not with all the answers — just afraid.

And saying: God, I've been chasing raisin cakes. I've been reaching for the thing that felt like security. And I'm empty. And I'm here. That's enough. That's always been enough. The exiles in Ezra 3 set the altar on its foundation — the exact spot where the old altar used to stand. They cleared away fifty years of rubble and wreckage, and underneath it all, the ancient foundation was still there.

Still solid. That's what God does with the altar you walked away from. He doesn't tear it down. He doesn't move on. Under all the rubble in your life — under the fear, under the mess, under the years of things not going the way you planned — the foundation is still there. God hasn't moved. He's still meeting His people at the altar. The question is — are you ready to come back to it?

Bring It Home Here's the whole thing in one sentence. You don't have to stop being afraid to start worshiping. You start worshiping because you're afraid. That's it. That's the whole sermon. Fear is not the enemy of your faith. Fear is the doorway to worship — if you let it drive you to God instead of away from Him. The exiles didn't show up because they were ready. They showed up because they were desperate.

And God met them — not at the end of the process, but at the very beginning, when all they had was an altar and each other. That's what we have this morning. And it's enough. I know what some of you are carrying. I've sat with some of you this year and heard it. And for the ones I haven't sat with — I see you. I see the tiredness.

I see the weight. And I want you to know: you don't have to be good to be here. You just have to be here. Response In a moment I'm going to ask you to do something. And I want you to stay with me on this. Look at the rock in your hand. Feel the weight of it. Because that rock is not an accident this morning. That's your fear.

That's the thing that's been sitting on your chest all week. That's the marriage, the diagnosis, the money, the kid you can't stop worrying about. That's the thing you've been carrying alone that was never meant to be carried alone. And here's what I want you to know about those exiles in Ezra 3. They showed up to Jerusalem surrounded by enemies. Real threats. Real people who didn't want them there.

They had every reason to pick up a rock and throw it. To fight. To defend themselves. To protect what little they had left. Instead — they took those same rocks. And they built an altar. Same rocks. Different choice. That's what I'm inviting you into this morning. Not to throw it. Not to keep carrying it. But to lay it down. To take the thing fear has been using against you — and let God build something holy out of it.

Because that's what He does. He takes the heavy things, the sharp things, the things we've been holding so long we forgot we were holding them — and He builds altars out of them. In a minute I'm going to invite you to come forward. And when you come, bring your rock. Bring your fear. The thing that's been sitting on your chest. The thing you've been carrying alone. Come lay it down right here at this altar.

You don't need the right words. You don't need to know what to pray. You can just come and stand here and open your hand and let God hold what you've been holding. And I want to say this — because I think somebody in this room needs to hear it specifically. Maybe the rock in your hand isn't just fear. Maybe it's anger. Maybe it's hurt. Maybe there's a person attached to that rock — somebody who wounded you, somebody who walked away, somebody who let you down.

And you've been holding that rock for a long time. Turning it over in your hands. Thinking about it at two in the morning. You know what we do with rocks when we're hurt? We throw them. That's the human response. That's what those exiles wanted to do to their enemies. And honestly — nobody would've blamed them. But Jesus says something different. He says — blessed are the merciful. He says — forgive as you have been forgiven.

He says — lay it down. Maybe this morning, coming to this altar isn't just about laying down your fear. Maybe it's about laying down the rock you've been holding over somebody else. Maybe the most important thing you do today is open your hand — not just to release what's been done to you, but to release the person who did it. That's not weakness. That's the hardest, holiest thing a human being can do.

And you can't do it alone. But you don't have to. If you want someone to pray with you, our pastoral team is here. If you want to come alone, come alone — but you won't be alone when you get here. And if you want to stay in your seat and pray right where you are — that's worship too. Just open your hand. Just let it go. And when you lay that rock down — when you turn and walk back to your seat — don't just stand there.

Don't look around. Don't check who else is coming. Worship. Close your eyes. Lift your hands. Sing the words. Let God meet you right there in that moment because that walk back to your seat is holy ground. That's not the end of something — that's the beginning. You just laid down what you've been carrying and your hands are finally free. Use them. Worship with everything you've got. Because here's what I've learned — the altar isn't just where you lay things down.

The altar is where God picks you back up. I just don't want you to leave today carrying what you carried in. Because the God who went looking for Gomer on the auction block — the God who met His people in the rubble of Jerusalem — is meeting you right now. And He's saying what He's always said: bring it to me. I can hold it. You were never supposed to carry this alone.

Come. Afraid. Together. Worshiping. That's enough. *