He had anxiety at work that day.

That’s what a close friend told me when we were talking on the phone last week. I told him, “next time you have anxiety, just don’t.”

“That’s what I do,” I said—

“I just stuff it down, crush it, and it disappears.”

We had a long chuckle.

What makes it really funny is that it’s true—not that one can just stop having anxiety, but that some people actually say stuff like that and think it’ll be helpful.

We have a mental health crisis in the United States. I recently read Abigail Shrier’s recent book, Bad Therapy, in which she makes the compelling point that mental health resources have exploded in the West in the last two decades, and yet the mental health crisis has consistently and relentlessly kept ballooning. She asks why our solutions don’t seem to be working. Shrier is a somewhat controversial figure, and I don’t agree with everything in the book, but she definitely gives some food for thought. But neither she nor any mental health professionals are saying “just stop.”

The poem below is from my friend Andrew Williams’s *A Weathered Ship*. Get yourself a copy here.

A Familiar Weight, after Franz Wright

By A.R. Williams

I carry anxiety around in my pocket, a small,

familiar weight.

I fidget with it when silence grows too loud. I’ve learned

if I leave it out too long, let it linger

in the open air,

it balloons.

What fit in my palm

soon presses against my chest,

tightens in my throat, until I am

no longer holding it, but held by it and

my anxious ponderings are pondering me.

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Jesus might be interpreted as having said, “just stop.” In Luke 10, he says quite directly, “do not be anxious.” He says a lot more than this in the passage, which is the first clue that he’s not pretending it’s that simple.

Equally, it’s also important to remember that Jesus’s words are different from our own in their potency. God spoke creation into existence, and the Word he spoke was Jesus, which is why we say all things were created through him (Col 1:15-20). So when Jesus says something it happens. Not necessarily so with us.

As a Pentecostal and Bible-believing Christian, I definitely believe that we humans can also make things happen with our words. But a miracle that takes place by our words will only happen when the words are said in the name of Jesus. And we can only speak in the name of Jesus if we are one with Jesus by the anointing of the Holy Spirit. When we say words that heal, Jesus is saying them with us and through us.

There was a moment when I was in high school that I felt like the sky was falling on me. By the grace of God, I’d had enough Christian discipleship and the example of my believing parents to know that when I felt that way I should pray. I asked God for help, and I remember hearing him—almost audibly—say “stop.” And I stopped. The anxiety dissipated, like the ropes that had tied me down were suddenly burst with the snip of extra-sharp scissors.

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Nevertheless, there’s been many more times in my life when I’ve felt the crushing force of anxiety and there doesn’t seem to be any halting command from my Lord.

Anxiety is an entirely natural and important emotion, necessary for human flourishing. Which is important to say, because sometimes the conversation around mental health seems to imply that anxiety is intrinsically bad. The real problem is runaway anxiety, the kind of anxiety that’s like an addiction, a disease, an abuser.

I don’t have answers for how to solve the mental health crisis, but I do think that Jesus offers even the most anxiously oppressed person a path to healing. He may dispel it with a command. Or he may offer a long term recipe that combines all sorts of resources, from exercise and diet, to friends and family, to therapy and SSRIs, and, of course, long relaxing prayer in his loving presence.

I think we will always want the simple command. We may resent him offering us a long-term recipe instead. But even that is a gracious gift and a manifestation of his love because Jesus isn’t so naive as to think that anxiety is our only problem. It might be most pressing thing to us (when is anxiety not?), but he’s not willing to let us escape one demon only to remain enslaved to several others.

If you have runaway anxiety, I really, really, really believe God has a word or a recipe for you—maybe both. For my part, one of the necessary ingredients has been learning the love of God all over again. My spiritual director, Dale Gish, wrote the prayer below. I invite you to pray it with me.

And remember: perfect love casts out anxiety.

Your Gaze

a prayer by Dale Gish

Lord, you look upon me with a gaze of love: consistent, unwavering, constantly new.

Whether I return the look or hide my face,

Awake or asleep, aware or unaware, anywhere and everywhere, you invite me to meet your gaze, look into your eyes—

So you can fill my heart with love, till it becomes too much for me and I turn my eyes away. But you patiently wait till I glance your way again so you can offer me just a little bit more.

Your loving gaze takes many forms. Sometimes I sense your joy.

Other times, I’m struck by your delight, or catch you showing favor, and notice when you revel. So each day I will open my eyes, let your smile shine upon me—

Warmed by your love, surrounded with your care, upheld with your compassion, drawn deep into the heart of your love.

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Just *Stop* Having Anxiety (I'm Kidding)

Just Stop Having Anxiety (I'm Kidding)