Several times in the past month, my kids have fretted over expiration dates on items that I had just bought at the grocery store. The approaching “best by” date somehow struck fear into their otherwise hungry bellies. What would happen if we ate it on the exact “best by” date? Isn’t that cutting it close? If I eat it on the next day, will I get very sick? They had seen me sniffing my half and half suspiciously, and they’d heard me mention a recent food recall, and they took it all quite seriously.
In light of our household of food inspectors, devoted exercisers and a couple of OCD cases, I listened to a podcast episode featuring a theologian named Michael Reeves, who, as a bonus, spoke with a British accent. I’m glad I did, because it was a panoramic treatment of our ever-expanding universe of fears— as well as the happy fear that puts them all to rest.
Ironically, fear is the great contagion of our comfy modern existence. We who live in a padded world of seatbelts, airbags, helmets, vaccines, antibiotics, weighted blankets, surgeries, kale smoothies and helicopter parenting are the most miserably neurotic creatures yet. We do more, and have more—and with far less danger—yet we hobble along on antidepressants, anxiety drugs and psychological fads. We moderns don’t need God; we have science, globalists and retinoids to turn our shattered world into an egalitarian heaven of the forever young.
Yet despite our impressive array of God-substitutes, we labor under fear’s curse. The smallest moments invite its lab-coat inspections. You open your refrigerator in the morning to get out your breakfast things only to face a a conundrum; eat the natural, full-fat yogurt and get clogged arteries, or choose the “lite” version with sugar substitutes and get cancer. Thinking of dairy alternatives? Avoid soy, because you’ll grow an extra sex organ and get cancer. If you’re old (nowadays, over 20), you should be drinking collagen peptides in your coffee. Yum.
Moving past the breakfast scene, we get dressed for the day. You may have fancy cosmetics, but make sure they don’t contain 3-butadiene. Don’t know what that is? I don’t either, but avoid it. And are your products cruelty-free? If not, you are a rodent-killer, and shame on you. Embrace the greasy-haired look when short on time; danger lurks in your “dry shampoo” and your sulphate-laden shampoo because they cause cancer, too. Don’t forget your daily sunscreen, either. You’ll get embarrassing age spots and cancer—and shame on you for that, too!
My child’s school just sent out an automated message. It’s letting me know they completed the “active shooter” drill—which nowadays moms need to know, although my own mom watched soap operas in blissful ignorance of our 1980s’ tornado drills. I’m using a phone all day so that I can receive such instant announcements, so in addition, blue screen light may be slowly blinding me.
Speaking of my phone, my speech inspires all sorts of ads that, oddly enough, address the very things I’ve complained about! Ads for wrinkle creams popped up after I mentioned “crow’s feet” the other day. The speech minders could also find a reason to report an opinionated and frequently offensive lady like me, so now I’m wondering if we get exercise breaks in a women’s prison.
Scrolling the news—or the newspeak—the prospects for both justice and intelligence look grim. Another angry loner shot up a crowd. More political revenge is engineered by dark minions of The Regime. Flash mobs enter expensive stores at will, relieving them of all that inequitable luxury. As for intelligence? There’s little to be found in K-12 schools, and even less at universities. My alma mater now boasts a professor specializing in “fat studies” and “fat justice.” She also requires that students provide their pronouns on papers—a multidisciplinary approach to stupidity. Is this the price we must pay for college degrees?
Despite my scrupulously healthy lifestyle, I’m still tempting fate; I didn’t drink 64 ounces of water or consume probiotics today. That only invites more fear, because my gut health were likely the only thing keeping me together, if all the disgusting online ads are right.
Yes, even smart and sensible things deceive us. Exercise, hobbies, cleanliness, or writing—in their success, these good things can overpower us. They morph into tyrannical rulers that threaten dire consequences or heap condemnation and fear when we don’t perform. For some of us, achievement invites this self-imposed slavery.
I must admit that I sometimes bow to little tyrants—competing gods of parenting perfection, everlasting youth, “no regrets”, or guaranteed safety. When I do, it’s only a couple weeks before they immobilize me and reduce me to ashes. I had one of those days recently; my past struggles surrounded me like a torch mob, demanding that I grovel in guilty fear.
Thankfully, there is a fear that dislodges such cruel taskmasters—the fear of God. Our modern sensibilities stumble at the ancient phrase. Even Christians do. When we hear of “fearing God,” we imagine a frowning presence, something more like “The Great and Mighty Oz” melting us into cowardly quivers. Unsurprisingly, we run from the approaching shadow of this mysterious cosmic threat; or we pretend he’s a powerless man behind a curtain.
