There is a conversation that happens around this time of every year, a conversation about change in the weather. This year, it began happening several days ago. Maybe you had your own conversation. We stood outside beneath the cool gray sky, a bit of drizzle around us. We remarked to each other about how it felt like summer just a few days earlier. The heat, the penetrating sun, has given way to fall, and change is in the air.

Weather may be the topic, but the real substance of a conversation like that, its true content, may lie deeper. Sometimes when we speak of the weather, we’re really talking about change. And when we speak of change, we’re really talking about fear. What is happening? Will I always have what I need? What awaits me that I cannot foresee? What have I done with the time I’ve had?

With fall comes children returning to school, an even that brings its own fears. The American poet, Howard Nemerov, in his poem called, “September, the First Day of School,” describes it this way:

My child and I hold hands on the way to school,
And when I leave him at the first-grade door
He cries a little but is brave; he does
Let go. My selfish tears remind me how
I cried before that door a life ago.
I may have had a hard time letting go.

“I may have had a hard time letting go,” the poet says. “I have a hard time letting go.” When the child gets indoors, in addition to learning about numbers and colors and words and how to stand in line, he will also begin learning life’s harder lessons, like what fear does to a person. Fear turns us into selfish people. Beneath a colorful sign that reads, “Sharing is Caring,” children will wage tiny wars for space, for property, for control. Two classmates will eye the same toy, sparking a battle within each of them. What if he keeps it or gets to it first? What if there’s not enough toy for me? What if I don’t get it for the same amount of time? What is this big, scary world?

With each new school year, the children in our parish of St. Elizabeth’s enter into a spiritual formation program called Catechesis of the Good Shepherd. In it, they learn how to develop a love relationship with the Good Shepherd who watches over and nurtures and cares for them, so that as they grow older and enter the big, scary world themselves, they may more eagerly listen for the voice of the Shepherd. Listening for that voice will become increasingly important as they grow increasingly acquainted with the problem of fear and its power.

Fear, we are told in holy Scripture, is not an emotion, but a spirit, and it is a spirit not from God. “God did not give us a spirit of fear,” the Apostle Paul writes to young Timothy, “but of power and of love and of a sound mind.” How do we know the spiritual source of fear? By the effect it has on our lives. In the Gospel of John, Christ tells us that Satan comes only to steal and to kill and to destroy. When going through a fearful stage in life—fear over money, over health, over employment, over friendships, over loved ones; fear over the future—do you feel as if your peace has been stolen, your optimism killed, your trust destroyed? We can identify fear as an unclean spirit by the mess it makes of our lives.

Struggling with fear throws the Christian into a special kind of crisis. We may question not whether there is a shepherd, but whether that shepherd really is good. Questions bubble up inside that we may feel guilty asking. “Lord, why are you letting this happen? Why are you doing this to me after all I’ve done for you? What if the worst happens and I have to deal with loss? Lord, are you trustworthy, and if so, what does that mean?”

Most of the folks in our parishes presumably are followers of Christ the Good Shepherd, and they have known times of pain and loss. Therefore, if the Shepherd is good, it must mean something more than that he will keep us free from suffering. So we must dig deeper into our faith, past the prosperity message that life in God should be nothing but sweetness and light, past the carnal desire for a faith that gives everything but requires nothing, past the anger we feel during times of pain and loss—deeper, towards some transforming truth.

What we may find there is that to call the Shepherd good means at least two things: one, that nothing touches my life that does not first filter through his love and wisdom, and, two, that whatever makes it through his love and wisdom will ultimately be good and a source of my salvation. Sorrow will be turned into joy, mud will be turned into gold, pain will be turned into insight and wisdom. With those two assurances, that nothing touches my life without first filtering through his love and wisdom and that whatever makes it through his love and wisdom will be good and salvific, we follow the Good Shepherd through what our Palestinian friends call the wadi, the valley: the valley of the shadow of death.

We trust the Shepherd, and we begin stepping out in faith. We begin taking holy risks. Instead of building walls to protect ourselves, we build bridges to connect with others, knowing that it makes us vulnerable. Instead of hiding away in self-protection, we open ourselves to new experiences, knowing that it requires courage. Instead of backing away into old fears, we move forward with a new boldness, knowing that we won’t get it right the first or second or third time. We accept that we are fearful—and act anyway.

Some churches use the fall season to focus on stewardship, and they learn that following the Good Shepherd means that instead of holding our resources close in self-protection, like the child who was afraid that there won’t be enough toy for me, we rededicate ourselves to becoming what Scripture calls “cheerful givers.”

What is the vision for the Christian and money? That he won’t give in to fear; that she will trust God in faith; that they will take holy risks. To whom exactly do we make our financial pledge? To the Good Shepherd. To whom exactly do we give our tithe? To the Good Shepherd. Why? In praise and gratitude to the Shepherd for being good. There is not a wadi, or valley, that the Good Shepherd will not lead us safely through. As we read in holy Scripture, “Draw near to God, and God will draw near to you.”

Like a scared child on the first day of school, fear turns us into isolated self-protective individuals, like an ever-tightening cocoon. So let me share what happens when we grow up a little and don’t allow fear to run our lives but instead make open and expansive choices.

In the past five months, since the growing season began here in Tennessee, volunteers of what is called Meaningful Gleaning of Rutherford County, our St. Elizabeth ministry to the poor, have collected 2,379 pounds of food from local farmer’s markets, donating it to feed the hungry. The average American eats 5.5 pounds of food every day. That means that Meaningful Gleaning volunteers have fed one human being for a whole year, or a family of four for three months, or 432 people for a whole day. How did we do it? Together.

Fear makes us stingy with our time, but faith finds time for others. Fear builds walls, but faith builds bridges. We’re learning as we go, just like everybody else. None of us individually bought our property and beautified our land and built our fellowship hall and renovated our barn, but all of us together did. None of us individually can build a new church temple, but all of us together can. None of us individually can fund the ministries that help the people in our church and in our community, but all of us together can. None of us individually can financially sustain our church, but all of us together can. None of us individually can keep this a vibrant church, but all of us together can. None of us individually can attain the kingdom of heaven, but all of us together can.

For every blessing that technology brings to our lives, a curse hides in its shadow. In an instant, we receive news from all over the world, but much of it is frightening and fear-based. It is becoming easier to live as fearful people. But he is the Christ, and you are the Church. Nothing can touch my life that does not first filter through his love and wisdom, and whatever makes it through his love and wisdom may be scary but will ultimately be good and for my salvation. Again, that does not mean that I will never feel afraid. It means that because I do feel afraid I trust the Good Shepherd and follow his voice.

How do we close the Divine Liturgy? “How divine, how beloved, how sweet is thy voice, O Christ, for thou hast promised to be with us even unto the end of the age, having this as our firm anchor of hope. We the faithful do rejoice.”