The Anatomy of Fear

I spent fifteen years pretending to be something I wasn't.

Wearing the pastor mask. The guy with answers for everything—your marriage, your kids, your calling, your cat's anxiety disorder—whatever. I had a verse for it. Or I'd fake it.

Working myself into the ground because somewhere deep in my gut lived this terror: If I don't know everything, why would anyone listen to me?

So I doubled down. Became the expert. The professional who never said "I don't know."

Maybe it was imposter syndrome. Maybe insecurity. But mostly? Just fear. Raw in middle-of-the-night fear whispering: You're not qualified. They're going to find out. And when they do, you're done.

The stupid thing? That fear was literally killing me. And suffocating my church.

Because fear locks you into this performance mindset where you can't let anyone else touch anything. What if they screw it up? What if they realize they don't need you?

It's absolutely crazy what fear does to us.

The Fear That Actually Runs Everything

We all know the acceptable fears. Budget issues. Church growth. That one family that's always mad.

But the real fear pulling all the strings?

You're not enough. You've never been enough. And everybody's about to find out.

This had me up until 2 a.m. tweaking sermons that were already fine. Saying yes to everything because saying no might reveal I had limits. Couldn't delegate—terrified someone would discover I didn't actually know how to fix what they might break.

I've coached hundreds of pastors since. Every single one fighting the same demon.

The Expert Trap

Someone asks a question. You don't know the answer. Normal response? "Great question, let me look into that."

But fear screams: If you don't know this, why should they trust you with their soul?

So you punt. Give some vague answer wrapped in theology and doctrinal distinctives. Then go home and spend three hours researching—not because you're curious—but because you're terrified.

Fast forward a few years. Now you're the walking Wikipedia everyone brags about. Meanwhile, you're missing your kid's soccer game to research archaeological evidence for the Jebusites. Just in case.

The expert trap is a prison where you're both warden and inmate. No bad days allowed. No struggles admitted. No "I'm wrestling with that too."

Three Lies Fear Sold Me

Lie #1: "One Mistake and You're Done"

Fear's greatest hit. One "I don't know," one visible struggle, one moment of being human—and boom—credibility shot. Authority gone. Church shopping begins.

So you bury everything. Your doubts? Buried. Marriage struggles? Buried so deep archaeologists couldn't find them. That season when you weren't sure you even believed anymore? Concrete.

Truth? People don't need a perfect pastor. They need a real one.

Lie #2: "Their Disappointment Is Your Responsibility"

Someone's upset? Your fault—should've worked harder. Someone left the church? Your fault—should've loved them better.

I became a shapeshifter. Scholar for the intellectuals. Counselor for the hurting. CEO for the business folks. BFF for the lonely. Everything to everyone, nothing to myself.

But other people's expectations? That's their business. Your business is being faithful to who God actually called you to be.

Lie #3: "Weakness Equals Disqualification"

Show struggle, lose followers. Admit uncertainty, lose authority. So I maintained the image. Never tired. Never uncertain. Never wrong.

What shattered this lie? Complete system failure. My body just stopped. Exhaustion so complete the mask became physically impossible to maintain.

When it finally fell off? People were relieved. They didn't want Superman. They wanted someone who understood what it was like to be Clark Kent.

The Day Everything Changed

It was a Wednesday night. Someone asked about some theological thing. Instead of my usual verbal gymnastics, I just stopped.

"You know what? I don't know."

The room went quiet. The expert had admitted ignorance. The emperor had no clothes.

Then this older guy in the back said it out loud, "Thank God. I was starting to think you weren't human."

That's when it hit me: They didn't need my perfection. They needed my humanity.

The Vulnerability Sweet Spot

Here's where pastors screw up the opposite direction. Vulnerability doesn't mean turning Sunday into therapy.

Don't get naked. But show a little skin.

Share struggles when you've got one foot on solid ground. Talk about fears you're fighting, not ones that have you in a chokehold.

But—crucial part—make it about what God is doing, not your dysfunction. When I admit "I don't know," I'm making space for the God who does. Your weakness becomes a window into God's strength.

Do this right? You give people hope. Not just "the pastor's messed up too" hope. But the "God shows up for messed-up people" kind of hope.

What Fear Really Costs

Fear keeps you from equipping others—equipped people don't need you as much.

It blocks authenticity—vulnerability feels like death when your identity requires having it together.

It makes you the bottleneck. The lid on your church's potential.

But the real tragedy? Fear builds a kingdom where you're the king. You become the functional savior.

And that's exhausting.

Because you were never supposed to be anyone's savior. That job's taken.

Jesus doesn't do fear. When He says "fear not," He's showing how the Kingdom actually works. You don't need all the answers—the Spirit teaches. Don't need to be strong—His power shows up in weakness.

You're not the hero of this story. And that's the best news you'll hear today.

The Invitation

What would ministry look like if you stopped being afraid of being disqualified?

Write down one thing you'd do differently if fear wasn't running the show. Don't overthink it. Just write it.

Because here's what finally hit me: The thing you think will disqualify you? That's probably what'll make you human again.

And human is what people are starving for. They need to know they're not the only ones barely keeping it together.

If you're exhausted from performing, you're not weak or faithless. You're just human.

That's exactly what God can use.

The gospel truth: Jesus already did the work. Already qualified you. Not because of your performance—because of His.

Fear assumes you're on your own. That if you drop the ball, God's purposes fail. That's not faith. That's atheism with Christian vocabulary.

The real Jesus doesn't need your perfection. He needs your surrender. The work is finished. You have nothing to prove.

Go live like it's true. ◼︎

Your Fear Needs a Voice

What fear has been running your ministry? What exhausting performance are you ready to drop? Send me an email: [email protected]. Don't polish it. Just tell the truth. I read every single one. Sometimes naming it to someone who gets it is where freedom starts.

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