As I was walking out of the weight room the other day, my buddy noticed the neon yellow helmet in my left hand and a matching padded jacket in my right. With raised eyebrows, Ivan asked, “You got a bike?” I confirmed that I had, and we chatted a bit about it. Motorcycles scare him, and I admitted they scare me too. I noted that a motorcycle wasn’t on my wish list, but that I’d gotten one to spend time with a good friend who had a similar bike. I then explained that I’ve been on a media tour where I’ve been challenging people to lean into their fears and that riding a dual sport bike was part of how I practice what I preach.
I walked out of the YMCA, snapped this picture, and texted it to Ivan.
He texted back simply, “That’s a beautiful scary thing.”
I’ve been thinking about Ivan’s words—about how beautiful and scary go together. For sure, I’ve found that juxtaposition to be true over the past 16 years of both my global adventure travel and my spiritual journey. I’ve experienced poignant relational moments after broaching a hard topic or showing up in an awkward situation. I’ve felt something close to transcendence after surrendering my plans, my resources, or my dignity for a Holy Spirit prompt that raises my heart rate. I’ve witnessed incredible beauty and serendipity when I’ve leaned into my fear of heights, my fear of whitewater, and my fear of being rejected.
I reflected on that again this morning for a minute in my church’s parking lot. An eighteen-year-old stopped to chat on his way back to his vehicle after the service. He told me he was on his way to ask a girl out to coffee. His nervousness tightened his gait; I could tell he was trying to will himself to courage. So, I pumped my fists like I was rooting for him at a sporting event. “Yeah, dude! Yes, sir!” He divulged that he was nervous. I replied something like, “Every great accomplishment in life comes after we’re scared.” He smiled. His shoulders squared. He promised me he’d respect her even if she turned him down. His dad had trained him well. I grinned as I returned to directing traffic. Whether this young man gets to hang out with that young lady in a coffee shop or not, he gets to experience a beautiful, scary thing about the human experience: the adrenaline rush of vulnerability and what it feels like to be courageous.
Because of the religious messaging of my youth, I used to think Jesus wanted me to be less human. I thought being more like God meant being less like my embodied self. For decades, I didn’t revel in the truth that he was the one who wired me from the factory with emotions and interests and personality. For most of my life, I failed to see the profundity inherent in Jesus dignifying humanity by taking on human form. God with us. Immanuel. The more fears I’ve fully faced, though, the more that truth permeates me.
The Bible is filled with stories of people who leaned into fear, challenge, and discomfort. So are our favorite movies and the bestselling fiction & nonfiction books. We get to feel the full beauty of our humanity when we push against our limits and past the edges of our comfort zones. We get to feel part of the heroic redemption of pain, trauma, loss, and limitation when we move past our fear, worry, and anxiety.
Personally, I take the oft-repeated “Don’t be afraid” commands of Scripture—not as a call to stop being scared but as an invitation not to remain in fear and not to be paralyzed by it. What I’ve found every time I’ve jumped off a bridge or building or mountain is that the reward for overcoming my trepidation is worth the difficulty of moving through a moment of faith. I’ve experienced similar relational rewards after making hard surrenders or obeying uncomfortable assignments from whispers in my soul and from the pages of Scripture.
Why wouldn’t Jesus want us to absorb all we can be, all of what life can be? He said he’s the way, the truth, and the life. I’ve never felt more alive than in the moments after I held my fear, acknowledged it, and then leaned into it. Why wouldn’t Jesus challenge our atrophy, apathy, and comfort, if he knew there was a beautiful scary experience waiting on the other side of surrender?
Those moments aren’t always as dangerous as riding a motorcycle or as scary as hanging out on the wing of an old biplane while it does aerobatic maneuvers. Sometimes, the crucibles look like confessing a weakness, asking for help, apologizing to a colleague, befriending an awkward person, or texting someone you haven’t seen in a long time. I face these moments every day—not just when I’m out of the country or hanging off a cliff. You can too.
And when we do—when we lean into our fear and out of our comfort zone—we get to feel fully alive. We get to feel connected to something bigger and older and more permanent than our frail, little lives. When we do the beautiful scary thing, we find purpose and meaning. On the other side of our anxiety wait experiences that lead to gratitude, worship, and transcendence.
That’s not hyperbole. I’ve lived it. And I hope you get to live it too.
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PS: I wrote and posted this blog while sitting exactly right here in Otter Creek.
