We have nothing to fear except fear itself.
I recently watched a documentary about the life of Franklin D. Roosevelt, the American President who led
his nation through the Great Depression and much of World War II. At the time of his inauguration, America, like
most of the industrialised world, was in the depths of the Great Depression; since the stock market crash in
1929, whole industries had shut down, throwing millions of people out of work. Everywhere was stagnation,
unemployment, poverty, suffering; and worst of all, it seemed endless, without any hope on the horizon, without
any relief in sight.
The Great Depression was more than an economic or social phenomenon; it was an existential crisis as
well. Prior to the market crash, people had understood the world in a certain way, had grown up with certain
expectations, had believed that human and economic relationships operated according to certain norms and
standards. But the Great Depression changed all that; it destroyed all the old certainties, overthrew all the old
expectations and world orders. Now nothing seemed real anymore; people didn’t know where to look for hope
or answers, couldn’t find anything certain to which they could anchor their lives. Everything seemed in flux, in a
state of constant change, reversible at a moment’s notice.
And so the nation which elected Roosevelt to office was a nation of people who had lost hope, who had
lost confidence in the future, whose trust in civil and political institutions had collapsed under the onslaught of
their suffering and the perpetual uncertainty of the times. It was a nation that lived in fear, that was captive to an
abiding sense of hopelessness and powerlessness. It was a nation whose people often felt they had nothing to
live for, and right to expect a brighter future.
And it was this dimension of fear that Roosevelt addressed in his Inaugural Address. He was well aware
of the economic situation, but he didn’t talk economics. He was well aware of the social dislocation, but didn’t
talk about sociological realities. Rather, Roosevelt talked about hope, about the rekindling of trust and
expectation, about the promise of potential fulfilled and capacity realised. Roosevelt understood that before any
economic or social issues could be addressed, he had to remove the pall of fear that hung over the nation’s soul;
he had to capture what a later, more cynical, generation would call the “hearts and minds” of his compatriots.
Before anything else could be done, Roosevelt realised that he would have to turn the tide of fear that paralysed
his nation’s collective psyche.
We have nothing to fear except fear itself. In squarely addressing the issue of fear, Roosevelt offered
the American people a “New Deal”: a new way of thinking about the world and its social and economic
relationships; a new way of being community and nation; a new way of understanding the role of government in
setting economic policy and establishing social safety nets. Economists today still argue about whether
Roosevelt’s “New Deal” policies lifted America out of the Great Depression, or whether that was a product of the
industrialisation sparked by the Second World War. But what I think they overlook in these squabbles is the
element of hope: the possibility of liberation and release from fear which the “New Deal” offered; the potential for
some new reality to emerge, into which people could cement their lives and a hope for the future. Whatever else
Roosevelt may or may not have achieved, I think what can be said is that he gave the American people a cause
to hope, to once more look to the future, not with fear, but with trust and faith.
Today’s reading from the Gospel According to Luke is a story of liberation and release from fear, and from
the powerlessness which fear induces. We all know the story of Zachariah, but we pay it little attention: we tend,
for obvious reasons, to be more focused on the stories of Mary and Elizabeth and, to a lesser degree, Joseph.
Of course, we know the outline: Zachariah, and his wife Elizabeth, being past the age to bear children, are
visited by an angel and told that God will give them a child who will be someone special; but Zachariah is
sceptical, and so is rendered mute for the term of Elizabeth’s pregnancy.
We tend to think of this story in judgemental terms: Zachariah is punished for his lack of faith. But I think
we can actually understand it in terms of fear: Zachariah is rendered silent by his fear, by his inability to trust, by
the fact that he has given up hope. Afterall, how many times in our own lives has fear made us silent; how many
times has it shut down our capacity to trust and hope? Zachariah, instead of being a negative figure of
instructional caution, becomes a sympathetic figure to whom we can relate: his silence is the consequence, not
of punishment by God, but of his own crippling fear and sense of hopelessness.
And in today’s reading we have the moment of liberation and release, the moment of joyous celebration
that is known as the Song or Canticle of Zachariah, also called the Benedictus. Having affirmed – by way of a
slate - that his son’s name will indeed be John, Zachariah suddenly finds that he is able to speak again: and in
speaking, he offers a hymn of praise and thanksgiving to God. Thanksgiving, not that he can speak again, but
that he has been delivered from the fear that stripped him of his capacity to have hope, to live in trust and faith.
By affirming that his son’s name will be John, Zachariah is affirming his trust in God’s faithful promise; and in
making this affirmation, he realises that he is no longer afraid. And being released from fear, he is free to sing
God’s praises.
But this is more than a hymn of thanksgiving: it is also a prophetic statement. It draws attention, not only
to his son, John, who will one day proclaim the coming of the Messiah; it draws attention to the work of liberation
and release which God will work though the person of that Messiah. The promise, made long ago to Abraham,
will be fulfilled: Israel will be released from its fear of its enemies. But those enemies will not be external
aggressors, such as the Babylonians of old or the Romans of Zachariah’s day: rather, that enemy is the fear
which resides in all our hearts, which cripples our emotions and stymies our capacity to love and trust and live in
hope.
And we all have our fears. For some of us, it is the shameful secret, the skeleton in the closet that we
would be mortified if other people discovered. For some of us, it’s the addiction or patterns of behaviour which
we know are destructive, but from which we can’t seem to release ourselves. For some of us, it’s the events of
our past that continue to haunt us, and which obstruct our capacity to make ourselves vulnerable to others and
enter into relationship. And for some of us, it’s fear of the future, whether it’s the issue of climate change and
global warming, or the ever-escalating property prices and our fear that our children may never be able to afford
a home of their own. Fear taints and contaminates us all, binding us in chains of silence, in a bondage of
hopelessness.
And as a Church, we live in fear. We live in a fear that feeds our addiction to property, that binds our
identification of “church” to buildings and location, precisely because we cannot imagine what it might be to be a
church that resides, not in a congregational bubble, but in the community by which we are, at present,
surrounded. We live in fear of the future, because we cannot imagine how we can make the transition from
property-bound to missional church; and so we cling ever more tightly to the structures of that church, even as
our capacity to maintain them wanes and ebbs away. We live in fear, because we cannot imagine the future that
we are called to, not by the reality of dwindling congregations and budgets, but by the very Spirit of God. We are
a Church that lives, not in hope and trust of the Gospel, but in fear for the future of our institution.
But the Canticle of Zachariah declares the moment of liberation and release; it gives witness to the One
who makes real our freedom. And so the last thing I want to do today is to leave you with your fear; I want you
to watch the following video, which is a rendition of the Benedictus. And as you watch and listen, I want you to
think of all your fears – personal, social, and faith related – and offer them as a prayer to God.
Let us pray:
Lord God, in this season of Advent, open our hearts and minds to your Spirit of Grace, that we may be free
from fear, that we may love and be loved, that we may live in hope, and trust enough to be and embody your
Kingdom, for the liberation of our lives from the bondage of fear, and the deliverance of all people into your
Realm of hope and peace.