WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF?
The word “snowflake” has been thrown around for years now—a label for those who supposedly cannot handle discomfort, disagreement, or cultural change. It has been used as shorthand for fragility; for the need to retreat from ideas that offend; for the desire to be shielded from anything unsettling. But perhaps it is time, quietly and honestly, to ask a harder question: what are we afraid of?
We live in a moment saturated with alarm. Immigrants are spoken of as existential threats. LGBTQ neighbors are described as civilization’s undoing. Muslims are cast, broadly and carelessly, as enemies within. Every demographic shift becomes a warning flare; every cultural moment a sign of collapse. Even something as ordinary as a Super Bowl halftime show can provoke such anxiety that an alternative broadcast is offered as a kind of cultural refuge. And here the irony presses gently but firmly upon us: if “snowflake” behavior means constructing protective spaces to avoid what unsettles us, how is this different?
This is not written to mock. It is written to examine the heart.
Fear is not a partisan problem; it is a human one. The left fears losing justice. The right fears losing order. Some fear oppression; others fear erasure. But Christians are called to something higher than reaction. The earliest believers lived under Rome, a government far more pagan, far more hostile, far more morally alien than anything most of us have known. They had no voting bloc, no media platforms, no cultural dominance. Yet they were not frantic. They did not demand Rome reflect their values before they could breathe. They proclaimed Christ in the middle of the spectacle.
God does not speak in code on this matter; He speaks plainly. God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind (2 Timothy 1:7). Perfect love casts out fear (1 John 4:18). Do not fear those who can harm the body but cannot touch the soul (Matthew 10:28). These are not sentimental phrases; they are commands rooted in the sovereignty of Christ.
If immigration rises, Christ is still Lord.
If culture shifts, Christ is still Lord.
If halftime shows offend our sensibilities, Christ is still Lord.
The Kingdom of God is not fragile. It does not require a curated environment to survive. It has endured emperors, revolutions, persecutions, and ideologies far stronger than cable news cycles.
So before we point at others and say, “You are afraid,” we might look inward and ask, “What am I afraid of?” What future do I imagine that Christ cannot govern? What change do I assume His gospel cannot withstand? What group of people do I fear more than I trust the power of love?
Christians are not called to cultural panic. We are called to courage—the steady, quiet confidence that the risen Christ reigns. We do not need safe spaces to preserve the gospel. We need faithful hearts that trust the One who said, “All authority has been given to Me.”
Fear shrinks the soul. Love enlarges it. And perfect love casts out fear.
BDD
