Anxious but Anchored: When the Church Isn't Sure What to Do with Your Anxiety

Scripture Focus: Philippians 4:6-7 (NIV)

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

Let’s be honest. Anxiety doesn’t care that you love Jesus.

It doesn’t care that you’re a prayer warrior, a praise team leader, or someone who always sends the right verse at the right time. It seeps in slowly, even when your faith is profound. Sometimes the weight of that tension is hardest to bear when you are in church—the very place that teaches you to lay down your burdens, but often feels like an arena of unspoken expectations.

Have you ever found yourself seated in church, heart pounding so loudly you can barely hear the sermon being preached?  You know the Scripture, you’ve done the praying, but the dread… doesn’t budge. Alongside crushing anxiety, the whirlwind of feeling out of place in a ‘holy’ space can hit you even harder.

Somewhere along the way, many of us were taught that anxiety was the opposite of faith. That peace was achieved if a person truly trusted God. And if peace didn’t arrive? Well… perhaps there might have been something lacking on our end.

But that’s a lie. That’s pressure. And God never asked any of us to perform healing. He asked us to pursue healing through Him.

Philippians 4:6-7 says, “Do not be anxious about anything…” the passage is often used as a sledgehammer when it was meant to be a lifeline.

Paul did not dismiss anxiety—he chose to redirect it. He was offering a lifeline, not a lecture.

Bring it to God, he says. Wrap it in thanksgiving. Let peace come—not from pretending, but from presence.

And even then, peace does not come rushing in like a flood. Sometimes, it drips in slowly, guarding your heart while the storm is still tumultuous.

Jesus understood this struggle. At Gethsemane, His soul was beyond exhausted. He wept. He begged. He still stayed with the Father. Not because he was not feeling anxious, but because He trusted God to hold him through the storm.

If Jesus, who is God in the flesh, was sorrowful, feeling distressed, and weighed down by sadness, then why do we put shame upon ourselves for feeling the same?

In an ideal world, the Church should be the most comforting and safest place to showcase our vulnerability. But I understand that it has not always been that way. I understand that it is much easier to raise our voices in worship than it is to murmur, “I am not okay.”

So, allow me to be very clear: Just because you struggle with anxiety does not make you any less of a Christian. You are not faithless because peace takes time and doesn’t always follow ritual. You are simply human and still sacred ground.

As a community, it is pertinent that we address anxiety within the church, not simply as a prayer request, but as a tangible experience that needs to be addressed. Here’s what that might look like:

Let’s tell the truth about what it means to struggle inwardly while appearing “put together.” Let’s point each other to therapists, not just altars. Let’s hold space for stories that are still healing. Let’s teach that grounding techniques and gratitude journaling don’t cancel out Scripture—they walk alongside it.

Because healing is pure, divine work, and ultimately, wholeness—a state where a person is whole in spirit, even if not free from struggle —does not come after one surrender, sermon, or set of songs in worship.

You’re not failing. Instead, you are only beginning to bloom, one petal at a time.

If you need to exhale today, hear this:

It's perfectly fine to pray and to seek therapy. It’s valid to put your faith in the Divine and to feel sorrow. It’s understandable to be rescued and still require assistance.

Peace is not a reward for good Christians; it’s a promise for tired people.

“And the peace of God… will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

Prayer:

Father, please. I am tired of wearing a mask for one more minute. The character I would like you to help me trust is the one that feels unworthy and messy, even if it's the version of me I struggle to admit exists. Thank you for not shunning me when I show you my fears. Help me, as I am still learning, to seek you without shame so I can rest in your presence. Restore to me the reality that peace is not about having it all together, but being held together by you. Amen.