Fighting fear

By Jeff Long

In Cardinals' country, my household is an isolated pocket of support for a team and a game few in this area of the world care about much. To wit: the Pittsburgh Penguins, who are embroiled this weekend in the NHL Eastern Conference finals.

The Penguins recall memories of my dad and me attending a couple of hockey games during my childhood at the now-razed Civic Arena. At the first of those games, circa 1968, I got up during an intermission to get refreshments. My cheap alligator wallet was in my right backside pocket. I had $14 in there. It was a 10-year-old's bankroll.

I picked up soda for Dad and me. (In Pittsburgh, we call soda "pop," but I yield to Southeast Missouri jargon for practical reasons.) Returning to my seat with a beverage in each hand, I felt a tug behind me. Wheeling around, three little boys were giggling. They had executed a snatch-and-grab and were running off in the other direction. There went all the money in my world. I stood there stupidly, drinks in my mitts, tears running down my cheeks.

"Hey, let's go home, son."

"No, Dad, it's fine. Let's watch the game."

And so we did, staying till the end, but my mind was racing, unable to comprehend why someone would steal my money. It felt like a violation.

From that day forward, I zealously protect my money clip. It never goes into a back pocket. In our first trip to Europe, many years after my wallet was lifted, we bought a Rick Steves money pouch, which was worn under my clothing. When the hotel clerk in Rome told us to watch out for pickpockets at the subway stop nearest Vatican City, I kept my hands very near that pouch at all times.

That long-ago robbery created fear in me, and many times it seems, even to myself, that I'm being overly careful when carrying money. I can't seem to help it. That 1968 pilfering engendered a fear of simply carrying any amount of money on my person.

People try to give me their offering sometimes after worship. "Would you put this in the offering, pastor? I forgot to put this in the plate."

I never take it. "Please don't give it to me. I don't want to be responsible."

That stance often wins me odd looks.

Fear is an invidious intruder in all of our lives. It creeps in and takes over, stealing joy and inserting suspicion in its place. My fear comes from a feeling of violation, but fear has many fathers. Sometimes we are afraid of people when they don't look like us or if they profess a different religion. There is a darkness afoot in the land today that I suspect is the simple product of fear -- perhaps legitimate in some cases, but in large measure, it is a manufactured anxiety.

The words of an old musical come to mind: "You've got to be taught before it's too late, before you are 6 or 7 or 8, to hate all the people your relatives hate; you have to be carefully taught." (Source: "South Pacific.")

If you read all the lyrics to that legendary Rogers and Hammerstein song, you'll note that "hate" and "fear" are mentioned in the same breath in verse one. Interesting. Perhaps fear inevitably leads to hate. If true, the former must be put down.

I'm fighting my fear, trying not to let it win. The New Testament gives hope here: "For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and a sound mind" (2 Timothy 1:7).

Yes, I'm fighting my fear. Fight yours. Please.