Fear Not!
Reflection on Luke 2:10
Each year, as we read Luke 2:1–20, I’m struck anew by familiar details—the shepherds, the night sky, the sudden eruption of glory in an otherwise ordinary field on what began as a typical night. It is a scene we know well. And yet this year, one phrase arrested me in a fresh way: “Fear not.”
Luke tells us that an angel of the Lord appeared to the shepherds, and that they were “filled with great fear.” That response feels entirely appropriate. Heaven broke into their routine without warning. The normal order of things was disrupted. God showed up.
Luke does not treat angels as merely gentle ornaments of the Christmas story. They are holy messengers of God whose appearance signals that something decisive is happening. Their presence in Scripture is often met not with calm, but with fear. When the glory of the Lord breaks into human experience, even intended comfort can initially stir alarm—hence their opening line, “Fear not.”
I have often read the words “Fear not” as a divine reassurance—something like a parent calming a distressed child: It’s okay. Don’t be afraid. There is truth in that. God is tender with his people.
But this year, I heard the words differently. I read them less as instruction and more as pronouncement.
The angel does not reason with the shepherds. He does not explain away their fear. He simply declares, “Fear not,” and the declaration itself carries authority. Fear does not gradually subside; it is displaced.
That distinction matters.
Three years ago, my wife and I were told that I had colon cancer. From a human standpoint, there was plenty of cause for fear. A serious diagnosis. My first-ever surgery. My first overnight hospital stay. The unanswered question of whether the cancer had spread beyond the colon to other vital organs. Much was unknown—answers that would only come in time as we walked through the prescribed treatment.
Any one of those realities would have been enough to rattle us. Taken together, they could have easily overwhelmed us.
But that is not what happened.
At the very first mention of the words cancer and tumor, our hearts and minds were stilled in a peace that made no human sense. Before we could ask questions. Before we could imagine worst-case scenarios. Before we could entertain concern or even utter the first prayer, fear had already been relieved.
I don’t say that lightly. I know myself well enough to know that this was not denial, stoicism, or emotional numbness. The circumstances were real, and the uncertainty was palpable. And yet fear was absent—and remained so—throughout my cancer journey. It was as though the Lord himself showed up first and spoke into the moment—“Fear not.” And fear never had a chance to disrupt or disable our trust.
I want to be careful here. God does not always work this way. Faithful believers often walk through seasons of fear, anxiety, and seemingly unanswered prayer, and God meets us there with patience and grace. But in this particular instance, my sense—clear even now—is that God intervened early and decisively, declaring, “Fear not.”
By God’s grace, we never worried about outcomes. Would I survive cancer, or would the Lord take me home sooner than expected? I didn’t know and it didn’t matter. But what I do know is this: either way, we were at peace.
That is why I believe this peace was not summoned—it was bestowed.
The angel in Luke’s account speaks with the authority of the One who sent him. The same God who, in the fullness of time, would still the storm and call the dead to life now speaks peace into a dark field outside Bethlehem. The voice that would one day stand in a boat and rebuke the wind and the sea—“Peace! Be still!”—is the voice whose authority stands behind this heavenly declaration. When heaven declares, Fear not, fear flees. It has no authority to remain.
This is not suggestion. It is command.
This explains why the shepherds’ fear does not linger. And that is why, years later, fear did not linger for us either. The Lord did not wait for us to gather our composure or summon faith. He arrived first. He spoke first. And fear yielded.
In that moment three years ago, God assured us—not that the path ahead would be easy, but that in life or in death, he was with us. That was enough. Perfect peace followed.
This December, I celebrated being cancer-free for three years. I am deeply grateful for that gift. But even more, I remain grateful for the Christmas miracle of 2022—the moment when God’s peace arrived before fear ever had a chance to speak. Like the shepherds experience in Bethlehem, it came suddenly and unexpectedly and was a cause for great joy.
Fear is a natural human response. We fear pain, suffering, and loss. We fear abandonment, uncertainty, and the unknown. And deeper still—whether we name it or not—many fear what lies beyond this life, including the sobering reality of eternal judgment for those who have not yet received the greatest gift of Christmas. It is into that very human condition that the angels speak—not to deny fear’s reality, but to answer it.
“Fear not,” they say, “for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.”
Whatever you are going through this Christmas, may the God of glory—who sent angels to the plains of Bethlehem proclaiming good news of great joy—speak “fear not” over you, bathing you in His perfect peace. May you sense His presence and power in unexpected ways.
This is the hope the Church has always sung. Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus, born to release us from our fears and sins. Or, as God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen puts it, “Fear not then,” said the angel, “let nothing you affright—O tidings of comfort and joy.”
Immanuel, God with us, is still with us—no longer as a babe in a manger, but as the risen and reigning Christ. He speaks still to the lowly and humble, to the anxious and uncertain, to those who languish and grieve. And when He speaks, fear gives way to the peace and joy that are ours in Christ.
Fear not.
Prayer: Heavenly Father, thank you for the ministry of angels and for the gift of salvation through your Son, Jesus Christ. This Christmas, like the shepherds, may we come in haste—seeking your presence, glorifying and praising you for all we have heard and seen, just as it has been told to us. Help us, guide us, and strengthen us. Replace our insecurities, anxieties, fears, and doubts with your perfect peace and joy, through Christ our Lord. Amen.