Is the problem with the world that people don’t fear God enough?
The fear of God has become a hot topic in some quarters recently, stoked by claims of prominent preachers that a shortage of such fear is at the root of societal breakdown. The logic is intuitive and as old as monotheism—those who don’t fear God don’t believe they’ll be held accountable for their actions and thus feel free to indulge their most destructive impulses. You don’t have to ascribe to any particular ideology to believe that a dash more fear—of God or karma or the long arm of justice—might do the body politic some good.
But what, a friend asked me recently, is a Jesus-centered perspective on the fear of God?
I can’t help suspecting that Jesus’ friend John the Baptist would side with the modern preachers. After all, John spent his career in the wilderness shouting about the nearness of God’s judgment and urging people to change their ways while they had a chance. Many of Jesus’ own initial followers came from the pool of those who were first brought into crisis by John.
But while Jesus’ own ministry is clearly linked to John’s, it also contrasts in notable ways. Jesus self-describes as “gentle and humble” and is called by others “friend of sinners.” John had announced that Jesus was coming with fire to clear the threshing floor. But the flames, it appears, did not turn out to be as scorching as he expected (Lk 3:17). Jesus’ demeanor was in fact so different from John’s expectation that it eventually caused John to doubt whether Jesus was truly the divine representative he was waiting for (Lk 7:18-23).
Fear can be a very effective motivator. But it has all kinds of built-in limitations. For starters, it doesn’t change hearts or minds; it only suppresses behavior. As soon as the threat is removed a bit into the distance or even simply becomes too familiar, the potency is lost. Fear of a speeding ticket keeps me relatively restrained. But if that fear is the only reason I keep it under 80 mph, when it’s late and I’m tired and road looks wide open, all bets are off.
Fear is also a rather poor foundation to build a relationship on. As a parent, you’d like your kids to listen to you because they believe that you love them and that you know more about the world than they do—not because they are terrified of your response. Wield fear and threat too often, even if for a good reason like trying to protect, and fear will cause others to withdrawal and keep a distance.
For the most part, Jesus is a practitioner of the prophetic wisdom that it is the kindness of God that leads to real repentance. He makes it feel safe for people to turn around and come home. He ties his commands to God’s desire that we have abundant life.
It is love, not fear, that remakes our desires. It is love for the kids in the backseat that checks our speed even when no one is watching. It is love that causes us to take pleasure in what benefits someone else. Love, not fear, is the motivational engine that God’s kingdom runs on.
But here’s the thing—I’m also not ready to sideline the fear of God as unnecessary or as contradictory to the love of God. Because I believe that the fear of God, correctly understood, is not rooted in God’s anger but in God’s overwhelming reality.
There’s a feeling you get when you stand above Niagara Falls—especially on the Canadian side. The water rushes so rapidly on its approach, then drops dramatically. It is painfully beautiful. It is thrilling. It is terrifying. But the kind of fear that tastes delicious in your mouth. This fear is rooted in the sudden awareness that you are small and vulnerable and in the presence of something huge and unthinkably strong. You don’t have to believe that the falls are out to get you to feel it. This fear is about reality, potentiality, about relative scales and absoluteness.
“Let justice roll on like rivers and righteousness like a mighty stream,” the prophet Amos says (Amos 5:24). The justice and righteousness of God are a powerful flow, like the water moving toward Niagara. Where they fall, it is a matter of beauty, not threat. But nobody wise, nobody who values their life, would try to stand against the flow.
God is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. Israel always knew this. It is always safe to run toward this Goodness, because the Goodness is always already running toward you. But I suspect we’d be missing something profound and beautiful and important if we don’t also stand before the window in awe and wonder at love’s flow. This love is coming for everything. It is remaking everything. It is bursting all boxes and toppling all idols. It is bringing low all the stands against it.
Jesus talks regularly about judgment. These teachings are often unsettling, sometimes even frightening. But the point, I think, is not to threaten humanity into good behavior. It is to reveal the wisdom and urgency of wiser investments. It is to expose the utter foolishness of building on fault zones, of spending your money on castles made of sand. Good fear is rooted in the recognition that there are many things worth keeping, and in the ability to distinguish the courses that lead to long-term gains and losses.
I think the fear of God and faith in God will always go together. Neither one is about anger. They are about power and potentiality. They are about recognizing the might of the river, the irresistibility of its flow, the inevitability of its grand, climatic fall. If you can stand above this, gaze on it, and not feel the fine hairs rise on your arms, I suspect you might be a bit calloused. It is the beginning of wisdom to recognize it. It is the middle of wisdom to relish it. It is the culmination of all wisdom to fully cast your life into the flow.
