On Fear and Faith

A reflection on the quiet courage of trust

This morning, as I sit beside the familiar window where the light first touches the day, I find myself reflecting on a familiar visitor—fear. It is, I think, a rather discourteous guest. Fear does not approach politely, nor does it wait for invitation. It bursts in, bold and unbidden, and settles deep within the hidden chambers of the mind. There, it weaves itself quietly into our thoughts, our judgments, and even our vision of the future. It tightens the chest, clouds the mind, and makes cowards of even those who once thought themselves stout of heart.

This, I hasten to say, is no ordinary fear. Not the healthy kind that sharpens the senses against real danger, but the corrosive sort—debilitating fear—which paralyses the will and convinces the soul of defeat before the first blow has fallen. Many of us, I suspect, know this fear intimately: the fear of illness, of failure, of loneliness; the fear of change, loss, and the stark uncertainty of days to come. In our modern world, with its ceaseless tumult and its unrelenting tide of information, such fear has, unfortunately, become a steady companion to many.

And yet, even in such moments, there remains a path—a narrow but luminous path—lit not by self-confidence or bravado, but by the steady flame of faith in the divine will.

When I was a boy, I often found myself drawn to a calendar that hung in my mother’s office, one she kept long after its days had passed. Upon it was an image: a youthful figure standing before Father Time, seeking guidance as he approached the uncertainties of the road ahead. Beneath the image were the words of Minnie Louise Haskins, words that etched themselves into my memory. 

I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year:‘Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.’And he replied:‘Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the Hand of God. That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way…’ 

This morning, as I sat in the quiet of my nook, that message returned to me—fresh, living, and full of the same quiet strength it held all those years ago.

It must be stated plainly: faith is no mere talisman. It is not a charm to wave against the dark, nor is it a guarantee that we shall be spared hardship. Rather, it is a posture of the soul—a deliberate orientation of the heart that quietly declares, “I will trust.” Faith in the divine will is not simply the belief in a higher power, but the deep conviction that this power is intimately present in the course of our lives—guiding, shaping, and weaving meaning even through our suffering.

The courage born of such faith is unlike the noisy heroism celebrated in song and story, and modern media. It is quieter, humbler, and more enduring. It does not boast; it abides. It does not demand to see the outcome; it rests in the knowledge of the One who sees beyond the veil of time. This courage is not something we summon from our own meagre strength, for that strength, as all men know, is easily spent. Rather, it arises when we surrender—not in despair, but in trust—to the good providence of God.

Consider the saints and sages of old: women and men who faced war, plague, betrayal, and exile, yet walked forward with a serenity that confounded the logic of fear. Their courage did not come from self-assurance, but from the unwavering belief that their lives were held securely in divine hands. They did not claim to understand the ways of Providence. Often, they journeyed blind through suffering. Yet they moved forward, step by faithful step, confident that love and meaning lay even beneath the mystery.

To overcome fear with such courage does not mean we never feel its presence. Indeed, true courage often emerges precisely within the crucible of fear. Faith whispers to us what fear never can: that we are not alone; that our lives are not a haphazard series of misfortunes, but part of a grand design; that even in our losses, in our grief, in our aching uncertainties, there is purpose, and there is presence.

Faith does not demand that we be fearless; it asks only that we be faithful. It calls us, each morning, to the simple and difficult decision to trust again—to place one foot before the other, even when the path ahead is shrouded. Each act of trust, however small, chisels away at fear’s power, strengthening the soul in quiet, unseen ways.

In living with this orientation, we taste a freedom far richer than mere safety, and a joy that endures beyond fleeting comforts. We cease to live as prisoners of dread, and instead as those who know that our lives are guarded by hands far more capable than our own. It is the courage that comes not from denying fear, but from recognising that, beyond it, lies the eternal embrace of a will that is wise, tender, and unfailing.

Or in the words of Minnie Louise Haskins,

“…So I went forth, and finding the Hand of God, trod gladly into the night. And He [They] led me towards the hills and the breaking of day in the lone East.”

In the end, what greater strength could there be than this—to face the unknown not with trembling, but with the calm assurance that whatever may come, we are seen, guided, and loved by the One who has inscribed every chapter of our story before the first word was ever written? That is courage. That is faith. And that, at last, is peace.