I woke up at 3:00 a.m. with my heart pounding and my mind already sprinting through worst-case scenarios. The church’s budget was stretched to the breaking point, and I was terrified we wouldn’t make payroll, terrified I wouldn’t make payroll. If the church couldn’t pay me, what would I do? How would I support my family? What would that say about me, about my calling?

And then came the shame. I was a pastor. I preached about trusting God. I counseled others through their storms. But here I was, sweating through the sheets, spiraling through financial collapse and personal failure. The anxiety didn’t care that I had a seminary degree or years of ministry experience. It just whispered, “You’re failing.”

Somewhere in the middle of that spiral, a simple prayer rose up: “Father, I’m scared. I know I shouldn’t be. But I am. Please help.” It wasn’t polished. It didn’t feel spiritual. But it was real. And it was enough.

Honest Prayer is Discipleship

We often think discipleship is about growing stronger, becoming more rooted, more mature, and of course, that’s part of it. But sometimes growth happens in reverse. Sometimes the deepest discipleship begins in weakness, not strength. Sometimes prayer doesn’t start with solid faith. It starts with panic.

I used to believe anxiety and faith were opposites. If I felt anxious, it meant I wasn’t trusting God. But that kind of thinking made prayer harder, not easier. It added shame to fear and pushed me into silence. Over time, I’ve come to believe something else: Anxiety isn’t a failure of faith. It’s an invitation to bring our real selves to God.

In Philippians 4:6–7, Paul writes:

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

At first glance, it sounds like a command to stop being anxious. But that’s not the full picture. Paul wrote this while imprisoned and facing an uncertain future and possible death. He wasn’t preaching from comfort. He was writing as someone immersed in anxiety-provoking circumstances, reminding the church that anxiety doesn’t have to isolate us from God. It can draw us toward him.

Notice what Paul actually says. He does not say, “don’t feel anxious and then pray,” but rather, “in everything, by prayer and supplication... let your requests be made known.” It’s a call to bring our panic into conversation with God, while it’s still happening. And he even includes thanksgiving, not as a command to pretend, but as a practice to remind ourselves that God’s character remains steady—even when everything else feels fragile.

And what happens when we do that? “The peace of God... will guard your hearts and minds.” I love that word—guard. Paul was surrounded by Roman guards as he wrote those words. That same image—a strong, steady, protective presence—is how he describes God’s peace. Not a thin sense of calm. Not an emotional bandage. But something that actively shields your heart and mind from being completely overrun. It doesn’t always remove the fear, but it keeps the fear from having the final word.

The Gospel Makes Room for Our Panic

At the core of the gospel is this truth: We don’t come to God based on how well we’re doing. We come because Jesus made a way. That means even our anxious, jagged, desperate prayers belong in the conversation. The cross opened the door, not just for triumphant faith, but for trembling faith too.

I once asked a Christian psychiatrist how he defined anxiety. He said, “Anxiety is anticipatory grief.” That stunned me. He explained that anxiety often stems from the fear of future loss—things that haven’t happened but could. We begin to grieve the imagined outcomes.

That 3:00 a.m. moment wasn’t just fear. It was grief. Grief over what might be lost—my job, my stability, my identity. And grief is something the Bible knows how to hold.

The psalms are full of prayers that start with panic.

“How long, O Lord?” (Psalm 13:1)

“Why have you forsaken me?” ( Psalm 22:1)

“My God, I cry by day, but you do not answer.” (Psalm 22:2)

These aren’t prayers that come after resolution. They’re prayers that begin in the storm.

The Bible doesn’t censor the emotions of faithful people. It includes them, even immortalizes them. Instead of demanding silence or spiritual polish, Scripture shows us a path forward through lament, not through denial or forced optimism.

Lament as a Spiritual Practice

Lament is simply honest prayer. It’s the spiritual practice of naming our pain before God and asking for help. It doesn’t rush to fix things. It doesn’t spiritualize or sanitize. It just tells the truth.

And that kind of truth-telling is deeply formational. It trains us to come to God with our real selves. It pushes back against the lie that we need to be cleaned up to be loved. It reminds us that we are held not because we’re strong, but because God is.

When we make lament part of our prayer life, anxiety stops being something we hide from God. It becomes something we bring to him, which leads to a shift from suppressing our fear to surrendering it, from managing the spiral alone to praying our way through it.

As a hospice chaplain, I sit with people in some of life’s most uncertain moments. I’ve watched family members pray with tears in their eyes and grief in their voices. Simply, they had nowhere else to go. They did not come with clarity or certainty. And in those moments, I’ve seen how honest lament becomes a lifeline. A holy tether. A way to stay with God when life no longer makes sense.

Jesus in the Garden

Before the cross, Jesus prayed with anxiety too. In Gethsemane, he cried out, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death” (Matt. 26:38 NIV). He wasn’t stoic. He didn’t suppress his anguish. He wept, sweat blood, and begged for another way. And then he surrendered, not to his own will, but the will of his Father (Luke 22:42).

Jesus doesn’t just save us from afar. He enters our fear. He shows us how to pray when everything in us wants to run. And through his obedience, even our anxious prayers become holy ground.

A New Kind of Strength

Discipleship isn’t about having it all together. It’s about bringing it all to Jesus. When your heart races, when your chest tightens, when your mind starts spiraling, you don’t need to pretend. You can start praying right there.

You don’t need fearless faith—just a mustard seed of honesty. You don’t need impressive prayers—just the courage to show up. God isn’t asking you to be strong enough to handle everything. He’s asking you to trust that he’s near even in the mess.

So if your prayers start with panic, you’re not failing. And you’re not alone. You’re practicing the kind of faith that cries out, “Abba, Father.”

And that’s the beginning of peace.