In Luke 12: 1-7, Jesus stands before a crowd so large that they were trampling one another, and he speaks words that cut through the anxiety of existence itself. His message pivots on a profound paradox: be afraid of the right things, which is to say, fear God alone—and in doing so, discover that you need fear nothing else at all.
"There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed," Jesus declares, "or hidden that will not be made known." This is not a threat but a liberation. He's describing a universe where truth is the fundamental architecture of reality, where everything hidden moves inexorably toward revelation. In such a world, our human instinct to conceal, to manage perception, to hide our contradictions—all of it becomes exhausting theatre. The futility of cover-up is not just moral but metaphysical.
Where there is truth, fear has no place. Consider what Jesus means when he tells his disciples not to fear "those who kill the body and after that can do no more." He's making a startling claim about the limits of earthly power. The Roman Empire, with all its crucifixes and lions, could destroy flesh but couldn't touch what was essential. The Pharisees, with their social capital and religious authority, could ostracise but couldn't eliminate truth. When you live from a place of truth—when your identity, your message, your very being is rooted in what is real and eternal—the weapons of this world lose their edge.
But notice the reversal where there is fear, truth becomes pointless. When we operate from fear—fear of exposure, fear of loss, fear of death—we make pragmatism our god. We calculate, we hedge, we whisper in darkness what we dare not speak in daylight. Truth becomes a luxury we cannot afford. The disciple who fears the crowd will edit Jesus' message to make it palatable. The person who fears poverty will compromise their integrity for security. The one who fears death will betray what makes life worth living.
Fear doesn't just make us liars; it makes truth itself irrelevant to our decision-making. We know what's true, but we act as though falsehood were the safer bet. Jesus offers the antidote in the image of sparrows—creatures so abundant and economically worthless that two cost a penny, so insignificant that five could be bought for two pennies. Not one falls without God's notice. The hairs on your head are numbered. You are worth more than many sparrows.
This is the truth that displaces fear: you are known, you are seen, you are valued by the ground of all being itself. Not for your usefulness, not for your beauty, not for your accomplishments—but because you are. When this truth settles into your bones, what can Caesar threaten you with? What can the mob take from you that matters?
The question isn't whether we know the truth. The question is whether we trust it enough to live as though fear is the illusion, and God's notice of the sparrow is the bedrock reality.


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