Fear Must Fall

The title “Goliath Must Fall” isn’t hype; it’s a real promise. The giants that stalk our stories—especially fear—do not get the last word. Many of us say, “I don’t have any giants,” until we look into the corners and closets of our lives and discover what’s been quietly limiting us: the anxious soundtrack we’ve learned to live with, the reflex to expect the worst, the dread that keeps us from stepping into what God intends. Scripture shows fear standing right inside the David and Goliath narrative (1 Samuel 17). When Israel heard Goliath’s taunts, “Saul and all the Israelites were dismayed and terrified” (v.11). When they saw him, “they all ran from him in great fear” (v.24). Notice the sequence: what they heard and what they saw discipled their hearts more than who God is and what He had done.

Fear itself isn’t sin. It’s a natural human response—fight or flight—when we face a genuine threat. The problem comes when a momentary reaction becomes a mindset, and a mindset becomes a lifestyle. Israel didn’t hear Goliath once; they endured forty days of the same voice. They had time to remember God’s character and track record, yet they let the giant set the narrative. That’s what fear does: it rehearses worst-case scenarios until they feel like prophecy. Many of us call it “being realistic” or even “Murphy’s Law”—whatever can go wrong will go wrong. There’s a grain of truth there; we live in a broken world. But when that grain becomes our gospel, fear takes the driver’s seat, and our lives shrink to the size of our worry.

I learned something about fear on a narrow ridge in the Swiss Alps. Clipped to a guide by a rope, staring down a thousand feet, I felt terror course through my body. Later I discovered that fear literally leaves a scent; the body excretes chemicals when it’s terrified. That’s how animals “smell fear.” In other words, fear is real. Bodies react. Adrenaline surges. Hands shake. God isn’t shaming us for that. What He refuses is a life ruled by that scent—an identity formed by anxiety and a future narrated by dread. Scripture is unambiguous: “God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of power and love and a sound mind” (2 Timothy 1:7). Jesus didn’t go to the cross and rise again so His people would live small, scared lives. He came to free us from fear’s rule.

Fear and faith are more related than we think. Fear is faith—just in the wrong direction. Fear is confidence that the enemy’s plan will prevail, that the storm will sink the boat, that God won’t come through. Jesus forced that connection in Matthew 8 when a sudden squall flooded the disciples’ boat. Water in the boat is not imaginary; it’s not denial to say, “The waves are high.” But as the storm raged, Jesus slept. The disciples woke Him with a fully written conclusion: “Save us—we’re going to drown!” (v.25). He answered, “You of little faith, why are you so afraid?” Then He spoke to the weather and it became perfectly calm. The point isn’t that God will always silence every external storm on command; many of us have watched winds rise after we prayed. The point is that Jesus is in the boat. His presence, power, and track record become the pathway to an inner calm that refuses to be discipled by the waves. Faith is not blind optimism; it is a gaze fixed on the One who has authority over wind and water, who heals the sick, raises the dead, and keeps promises. If He is calm, we can be calm—until He tells us otherwise.

So how does fear win? Usually with a soundtrack. You’ve heard it: This is too big. You’re not going to make it. Everyone’s against you. There’s no way out. God has forgotten you. That loop doesn’t play in a vacuum; we have a spiritual adversary who lies in our native tongue of worry (John 8:44). He leverages our upbringing (fear-based homes), our temperament (controlling personalities), and our experiences (genuine losses) to keep the cassette turning. The solution isn’t to “hulk up,” grit our teeth, or pretend we’re not afraid. The solution is to change the soundtrack. Worship is the soundtrack of faith.

David didn’t walk into the Valley of Elah with swagger alone; he walked in as a worshiper. The warrior who felled Goliath also wrote seventy-three psalms. He knew what to do with fear: “I sought the Lord, and he answered me; he delivered me from all my fears” (Psalm 34:4). Worship turns our attention from the giant’s voice to God’s voice. Faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the word of Christ (Romans 10:17). Fear also comes by hearing. So we must decide which voice will be loudest. This is intensely practical: curate a steady diet of Scripture and songs rooted in Scripture. Put Psalm 23, Psalm 27, Psalm 46, and Romans 8 in your mouth until they reshape your mind. Build a playlist that isn’t just “feel good,” but full of God’s deeds and promises. When praise goes up, lies lose their oxygen.

If Murphy’s Law says, “Whatever can go wrong will go wrong,” the Shepherd’s Law says, “If something goes wrong, my Shepherd is with me, and He will work it for my good and His glory” (see Psalm 23; Romans 8:28). That’s not naivete; it’s theology. Sometimes God silences the storm; sometimes He strengthens the saint. Either way, goodness and mercy are hunting you down, and Jesus is not bailing on your boat.

Here’s a way forward. First, name the giant. Don’t baptize fear as “wisdom” if it’s really unbelief. Second, expose the soundtrack. Write down the lines you’re believing: It’s going to fall apart. I’m not enough. There’s no way through. Third, write God’s truth over those lines. “I am with you” (Isaiah 41:10). “Nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus” (Romans 8:38–39). “When I am afraid, I put my trust in you” (Psalm 56:3). Cross out the lie. Circle the truth. Speak the truth out loud. Fourth, worship on purpose. Don’t wait for Sunday. Flood your commute, kitchen, and nights of insomnia with songs that recount God’s faithfulness and declare His sovereignty. Finally, take the next right step of obedience. Faith isn’t passivity; it’s movement in the direction the Shepherd leads—rest when He says rest, act when He says act.

Goliath falls when Jesus fills the frame. The enemy’s monologue gets interrupted by a superior voice. The boat doesn’t define you; the Savior in the boat does. The giant doesn’t own the valley; the Lord of the valley does. Fear may still knock, and your body may still react, but fear no longer gets a seat at your table or a hand on your steering wheel. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,” David concludes, “and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever” (Psalm 23:6). That is the end of your story, too. Until you reach that house, worship your way through the valley. Fix your eyes on Jesus. Let faith in Him be louder than fear of them. And watch the giant of fear lose its footing, one faithful step at a time.