Do Not Be Afraid: The Courage to Love
A sermon by Rich Novak
Grace and peace to you from God our Creator and from Jesus the Christ.
One phrase echoes through all three readings today: “Do not be afraid.”
The psalmist is afraid. He is mocked, rejected, ridiculed, and abandoned by members of his own family. He cries out, “Rescue me from the quicksand—don’t let me sink.” The disciples are afraid. Jesus is preparing them for the reality that following him will not always be easy.
And Jesus does not sugarcoat any of it.
Instead, he says: “Do not let people intimidate you.” “Do not be afraid.” “You are worth more than many sparrows.”
I have come to believe that one of the most important truths in the Christian life is this: the opposite of Christian discipleship is not doubt. It is fear.
Doubt can coexist with faith. But fear causes us to withdraw from God’s mission. Fear causes us to build walls instead of tables. Fear causes us to see threats where God sees neighbors.
We live in a world saturated with fear. We are constantly told whom to fear and what to we fear. Christians should always be suspicious when fear becomes the primary tool used to motivate people.
Because fear is not the primary language of Jesus.
Love is.
That brings us to one of the most difficult passages in the Gospel: “Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.”
Jesus is not talking about violence. He is talking about disruption.
The sword is the dividing line that appears whenever people must choose between fear and love, exclusion and belonging, self-interest and compassion.
The Gospel challenges every system—religious, political, economic, and social—that 1 decides some people matter more than others.
And whenever those assumptions are challenged, conflict follows.
Not because Christians seek conflict.
But because love itself can be disruptive.
Jesus touched people others avoided. He ate with people others condemned. He welcomed people others excluded. He crossed boundaries that society insisted should remain in place.
And every time he did, someone became angry.
We often assume conflict is evidence that something has gone wrong.
Jesus suggests that sometimes conflict is evidence that love has gone somewhere it was never expected to go.
The conflict was not caused by hatred.
The conflict was caused by radical love.
That is the sword Jesus is describing.
This week our nation observed Juneteenth, the celebration of the final enforcement of emancipation in Texas in 1865. Those who advocated for abolition, equality, and human dignity often faced ridicule, opposition, and hostility. Yet many persisted because they believed that God's truth was greater than public opinion. Juneteenth reminds us that freedom is not merely a historical achievement. Freedom is a spiritual calling. Every generation must decide whether it will organize itself around fear or around human dignity; whether it will expand the circle of justice or defend the boundaries of privilege.
People of faith helped lead that struggle because the Gospel demanded it. The struggle for human dignity is never fully finished.
Courage is not the absence of fear.
Courage is deciding that something else matters more than fear.
For the disciples, proclaiming the Gospel mattered more than fear. For abolitionists, freedom mattered more than fear. For civil rights leaders, justice mattered more than fear.
And for us today, love must matter more than fear.
This is where Paul’s words about baptism become so important.
Too often we think of baptism as a private spiritual event. Paul sees something much bigger.
In baptism, an old identity dies and a new one is born.
The fearful self dies.
The self obsessed with status dies.
The self that seeks safety above all else dies.
The self that draws circles around “us” and “them” dies.
And a new self emerges—rooted not in fear but in God’s grace.
When we emerge from the waters of baptism, we are claiming a new allegiance. Our primary identity is no longer political, economic, or tribal. Our primary identity is that we belong to Christ.
Baptism is not an escape from the world.
It is a commissioning for service within the world.
That is where this Gospel becomes deeply relevant to Emanuel Lutheran Church.
The psalmist speaks as an outsider. Many people in our city know exactly what that feels like: the unhoused neighbor, the hungry family, the immigrant searching for belonging, the person who has been told they do not matter.
And yet these are precisely the people toward whom Jesus continually moves.
Every week this congregation makes a choice.
We can see hunger as someone else’s problem, or we can prepare another meal.
We can see homelessness as an unfortunate reality, or we can learn names, build relationships, and recognize Christ in those we encounter.
We can retreat into comfort, or we can open our doors wider.
Week after week, Emanuel chooses the harder path: presence, hospitality, and accompaniment.
That ministry is not simply social service.
It is discipleship.
Every meal served declares that no one is forgotten by God.
Every conversation with an unhoused neighbor declares that dignity does not depend on housing status.
Every act of welcome declares that human worth is not determined by wealth, achievement, citizenship, language, or social standing.
That is why I am grateful for the growing participation of our Latino neighbors.
Their presence is not changing who Emanuel is. Their presence is helping Emanuel become more fully who God is calling us to be.
The Kindom of God has always spoken many languages. The Kindom of God has always crossed borders. The Kindom of God has always been larger than the boundaries human beings create.
They are not guests here.
They are part of us.
And that is not charity.
That is the Gospel.
Because the Gospel is about creating communities that look more like God’s kindom right now—communities where every person is valued, every sparrow matters, and every child of God belongs.
This weekend also follows Father’s Day. Many of us have been blessed by fathers, grandfathers, mentors, teachers, and elders who modeled everyday courage—the courage to keep showing up, to choose integrity over convenience, and to do what is right when it is not easy.
At the same time, we recognize that Father's Day can be painful for some. Not everyone experienced a father or father figure as a source of love, safety, or encouragement. For some, these relationships were marked by absence, disappointment, neglect, or even harm. We honor that reality today as well. God's love is not limited by the failures of human relationships. Where others have wounded us, God seeks to heal us. Where others have failed us, God remains faithful. And where there is pain, God's grace continues its work of restoration and hope.
Comfort and discipleship are not always the same thing.
Comfort says, “Keep things the way they are.”
Love says, “Open the door wider.”
Comfort says, “Protect what is mine.”
Love says, “Share what God has given.”
Comfort avoids conflict.
Love sometimes accepts conflict because people matter more than convenience.
So perhaps the question before us today is not whether we are afraid.
Of course we are.
The question is whether fear will be our guide.
Will fear determine who belongs?
Will fear determine who matters?
Will fear determine how we live?
Or will love?
The world tells us that fear keeps us safe.
Jesus tells us that love sets us free.
The world tells us to build higher walls.
Jesus tells us to build longer tables.
The world tells us to protect ourselves.
Jesus tells us to welcome one another.
The world tells us to be afraid.
Jesus tells us: “Do not be afraid. You are worth more than many sparrows.”
And because we are loved that deeply, we are free to love that boldly—free to welcome the stranger, free to stand beside the forgotten, free to tell the truth, free to love our neighbors, and free to follow Jesus, even when it costs us something.
Because the God who knows every sparrow knows every one of us.
And the God who raised Christ from the dead is still raising courageous disciples today.
Thanks be to God.
Amen.