As a child of evangelicalism, I know the textbook altar call like the back of my hand:
“Do you know where you’re going when you die? Well, if you haven’t accepted Jesus as your lord and savior, you’ll end up in an eternity of suffering. You’ll be separated from God, and if your loved ones are Christians, you’ll be separated from them as well. Jesus wants to save you from that suffering; all you have to do is commit your life to him. If that sounds like something you want to do, come forward and receive Jesus.”
Ever afraid that I hadn’t accepted Jesus the “right way,” I walked down the aisle so many times as a youth that I lost count. I was baptized three times from middle school through high school because I was afraid I didn’t understand the commitment properly the first and second times. Because Jesus himself never appeared to me to tell me to my face that I was officially saved, I agonized over whether I was actually a Christian or if I was just fooling myself into thinking I was “right with God.”
That fear poured over into my relationships with my friends. I had several long, tearful conversations attempting to convert friends who weren’t Christians because I didn’t want them to suffer in hell. I also had several just as long, just as tearful conversations with friends who were Christians but were living lives that I didn’t think were holy enough to get them into heaven.
Over time, that anxiety bled into other areas of my life. Did I pick the right major in college? Did I sign up for the classes God wanted me to sign up for? Did I pray for that person the way God wanted me to? How do I keep demons from coming into my home? How do I ensure Satan’s influence doesn’t get into my head when I listen to secular radio?
It’s no wonder I developed generalized anxiety disorder in my twenties–something I still manage today.
Despite all that internal chaos, a specific Bible verse kept calling to me, echoing in my subconscious: Perfect love casts out fear. (1 John 4:18)
By the time I graduated college, I was tired of continually living in fear, of fear motivating my every action–fear of going to hell, fear of my friends going to hell, fear of misunderstanding God’s call on my life and ministry. I was exhausted from listening to people yell about fire and brimstone, flushed-red faces telling me I was a broken sinner.
None of this sounded like the Jesus I saw in scripture.
Once I began to focus on God’s radical, intimate love, my faith changed dramatically. I no longer agonized over the status of my afterlife but instead asked how I could inhabit Christ’s love in the world. My relationships improved. My ministry became more genuine. My experience of God became more life-giving. The deeper in love I fell with God, the better I was able to interact with God’s creation.
What can I say? Perfect love casts out fear.
To say that it’s a generational divide–that boomers thrive off the fear of fire and brimstone and young folks thrive off love and acceptance–is a gross overgeneralization.
Sure, I know plenty of older folks who feel that they haven’t actually gone to church if the preacher didn’t make them feel bad, but I know just as many millennials who feel the same way. I also know just as many (if not more) older folks who would much rather listen to sermons that teach them about peace, love and charity than angry pontifications on why they should judge everyone and themselves.
By and large, the people of faith in my life are tired of participating in a religion that values the manipulative power of fear more than the deeply transformative power of love and hope.
That fatigue is not only prevalent in our faith journeys. The current election cycle is a real-time case study of how exhausted most Americans are from living fear-motivated lives.
This reality is most clearly seen in the change in the Democratic Party’s presidential campaign advertisements. When Democratic President Joe Biden was still the candidate, the campaign ads were bleak: red and black coloring; a stern, disapproving (usually male) voice telling listeners who they should be afraid of; images of chaos.
When Biden dropped out of the race and the Democratic Party endorsed Vice President Kamala Harris, the images changed dramatically. They are now filled with bright colors, images of diverse American families, smiling faces, and Beyoncè’s now-iconic song “Freedom” playing in the background.
New life has been abundant in the Democratic party since this change.
That’s not to say they have abandoned the fear rhetoric entirely. Many social media posts focus only on stopping Project 2025 and not what Harris plans to do in her term. But the broad emphasis of her campaign is now on the America we want to create, not the America we’re afraid of becoming.
Christians across America–on all sides–have spoken: We know perfect love casts out fear, and we are done being afraid. Fear is no longer an effective motivator for us. We are saying it in our prayers. We are saying it in our church affiliations (or lack thereof). In November, we will say it with our votes.
See you at the ballot box.
A bivocational pastor, writer and spiritual director based in Atlanta, Georgia, she currently works as a Spiritual Director at Reclamation Theology. Cawthon-Freels is the author of Reclamation: A Queer Pastor’s Guide to Finding Spiritual Growth in the Passages Used to Harm Us (Nurturing Faith Books), and a contributing correspondent at Good Faith Media.
