In a world of uncertainty, fear can be a gateway to deeper faith, prayer, and trust in Hashem’s guidance

There are moments when the world feels like it’s holding its breath. Tensions rise across the globe, markets are volatile, and news from Eretz Yisrael refuses to let up. For many of us, it feels like the ground beneath our feet just won’t stop shifting. Our sense of stability and predictability seems to be illusory.

But maybe it’s that very unsteady uncertainty that invites us to look somewhere deeper.

Rav Moshe Shapira ztz”l once offered a perspective that feels especially sharp in this moment. He drew attention to the Midrash (Bereishis Rabbah 39:1) that describes Avraham Avinu gazing upon the world and seeing a birah dolekes — a palace engulfed in flames.

Why a palace? And why aflame?

Rav Moshe explained: A palace suggests permanence, design, stability. It evokes order and purpose. But a palace on fire? Fire, for all its beauty, is fueled by destruction. It stays alive only by consuming what lies in its path. The moment it stops taking, it disappears. It may dazzle, but it does not endure.

That, he said, describes this world of ours. It presents the facade of strength, portrayed by the image of a palace, but beneath the surface, it flickers, just like fire. It can unravel in an instant. One day, everything feels grounded — and the next, it’s all in question.

But if the world is so unstable, if we live in a palace aflame, then what does that mean for us, as Yidden trying to walk through it? Are we meant to live with fear?

And what about bitachon? If sometimes things do get scary, does that mean we are lacking in our bitachon?

When Fear Meets Faith

I remember a personal moment that brought the question into clear focus for me.

We were living in Eretz Yisrael at the time, settled into the steady rhythm of kollel life. It was a quiet, predictable, and comforting life. And then the sirens went off.

Rockets from Gaza don’t check neighborhoods or street names. I grabbed my children and ran for the shelter, heart pounding.

Once ten minutes passed, we stepped back outside. Life went on. But a lingering feeling made me uncomfortable.

Why did I suddenly get scared when the sirens sounded? I certainly believed that Hashem was in charge and that He loved me and my family. So why did I feel fear? Did the fear I felt mean my bitachon wasn’t strong enough?

Bitachon is one of our most cherished values. But according to the Chazon Ish (Emunah U’bitachon 2:1), it may also be one of the most misunderstood.

Many people assume that bitachon means believing everything will turn out the way we hope. That if we truly have trust in Hashem, we should believe that it will work out well. Indeed, many of our greatest Rishonim (Rashi, Yeshayahu 50:10; Rabbeinu Yonah, Berachos 2b, and others) define bitachon exactly this way.

But the Chazon Ish (see Chovos Halevavos, Shaar Habitachon, Chapter 4, for a similar view) offers a different perspective. He writes that unless a person has prophecy, the future is unknowable. There are no promises. Bitachon isn’t about expecting a specific desirable outcome. It’s about carrying the unshakable belief that nothing is random — that every detail is guided, with love, from Above. Even when the outcome isn’t what we prayed for, we are not abandoned. Hashem is still holding the reins. Bitachon means that we trust that Hashem, our caring Father, is orchestrating every event in life with intense care and affection, not that we are confident the outcome will be the one we yearn for.

But does that mean that bitachon has no effect on the outcome at all? In terms of the end results, does it ultimately make no difference whether we have bitachon or not?

The Place for Fear

The answer is that of course, bitachon can merit a positive outcome. But the Chazon Ish (see Kovetz Igros I:2; see also 1:3–5) understands it as follows. Bitachon is the calm certainty that Hashem is guiding every moment. Maintaining such steadfast bitachon is a zechus — one might even call it a segulah — to merit a favorable outcome. What bitachon is not, in the view of the Chazon Ish, is the ability to secure precisely the outcome you desire simply by trusting that Hashem will give it to you.

But here’s the question. According to the Chazon Ish — who defined bitachon not as the belief that everything will turn out the way we hope, but as the belief that Hashem is guiding every detail of our lives — does bitachon, by its very definition, exclude any place for fear? Or maybe fear can be justified — because deep down, I’m scared I haven’t done enough to deserve a good outcome?

We seem to get mixed messages about the place of fear in Yiddishkeit. On one hand, Yaakov Avinu had a direct promise from Hashem that he would be protected from any harm. He had every reason to feel secure. And yet the Torah (Bereishis 32:8) tells us that, as Eisav approached, Yaakov was afraid: “Vayira Yaakov meod — And Yaakov feared greatly.”

Why? What precisely evoked this fear? Say Chazal: “Shema yigrom hacheit” — perhaps his sins had made him unworthy” (Berachos 4a).

This suggests that fear isn’t necessarily a contradiction to bitachon. It’s possible to fully believe that the outcome rests in Hashem’s hands, yet still feel afraid — because you worry you haven’t earned a favorable outcome. Yaakov wasn’t lacking bitachon. He wasn’t doubting Hashem’s word. He was simply aware of his own frailty — of how human he was, and how he might have lost the merit to earn a positive outcome.

Clearly, that humility wasn’t a contradiction to bitachon. The same way trust in Hashem can merit salvation, so too can sin result in the opposite. Of this, Yaakov was afraid.

On the other hand, Dovid Hamelech writes (Tehillim 112:7): “Mi’shemuah ra’ah lo yira, nachon libo, batuach baHashem — He doesn’t fear bad news, because his heart is firm, trusting in Hashem.”

The Gemara (Berachos 60a) tells of a remarkable moment. Hillel was walking home when he heard a piercing scream. Without hesitation, he said, “I am confident it did not come from my house.”

How could he be so certain?

The Shelah HaKadosh (Asarah Maamaros, maamar 5; see Vilna Gaon in sefer Imrei Noam Berachos ibid for another explanation) offers a powerful insight. Hillel wasn’t suggesting that sorrow would never visit his home. He knew that no one is immune to pain or challenge.

But he also knew something else: Fear did not govern his home. Panic didn’t live there. The foundation of his home was emunah — steady, unwavering trust in Hashem. That’s why he could say with confidence that the cry of desperation didn’t come from his house.

This seems to suggest that if we define bitachon as trusting that Hashem is in control, and not necessarily expecting things to turn out the way we want — that trust alone should bring a sense of calm. If we believe that our loving Father is guiding every moment, that awareness should quiet our fear and anxiety. In fact, this is the position of many great seforim (see, for instance, Michtav Mei’Eliyahu 2, maamar nefilas chomas Yericho).

But how does that align with the example of Yaakov Avinu? He also trusted that Hashem was orchestrating events, yet he still felt fear — not because he doubted Hashem’s control, but because he worried that his own sins might make him unworthy of a good outcome.

So which response is right? Should I feel serene, knowing Hashem has my back? Or should I be concerned, like Yaakov Avinu, that maybe I haven’t earned the outcome I’m hoping for?

Fear Isn’t Failure

Is fear ever justified according to the Chazon Ish? Yes. Picture a child who knows his father loves him — but also knows he’s misbehaved. He’s nervous. Not because he doubts the love, but because he understands that consequences are real — and he may have to bear the consequences of his actions. That’s human.

What is inappropriate, even according to the Chazon Ish, is letting that wave of fear fester. Fear that dominates us pushes out hope and causes despair. It causes panic and excessive anxiety. That kind of fear says: Hashem has turned away. I’m on my own. That’s letting our bitachon give way to our fear, which then takes us over. And that’s the fear Mishlei (29:25) warns us about: “Cherdas adam yitein mokesh” — fear can become a trap.

Even the Chazon Ish, who taught that bitachon isn’t necessarily about expecting happy endings, made this clear: Bitachon means knowing that Hashem, our loving Father who cares about our wellbeing, can change any outcome in a moment. And that’s comforting. When fear blinds us to that truth, it becomes spiritually dangerous. Bitachon doesn’t mean we never feel fear. It means we choose trust within the fear. It’s the quiet voice that says: I’m scared… but I’m not alone. And my bitachon will take charge over those feelings of fear.

So if a person feels fear, that in itself isn’t necessarily a failure. It’s human. But bitachon begins with what comes next. It’s the quiet resolve that says: Yes, I feel afraid — but I will not be ruled by that fear. I will take it and place it before Hashem. Because when fear is left unchecked, it takes over. It clouds the mind, dims the soul’s joy, and stifles our growth. But when fear is surrendered to the One who runs the world, that’s where bitachon begins to shine.

This is not to dismiss the very real experience of those who suffer from clinical anxiety — when the fear grips too tightly, beyond what the individual can control alone. In such cases, the person bears no blame and should, without hesitation, seek the help and support he or she needs.

But here, we speak of something more common. The everyday struggle of a person who is otherwise healthy, yet finds himself caught between two powerful forces: the fear that creeps in during uncertain times, and the voice of bitachon that tells him to trust. It’s the internal battle — and the challenge is not letting the fear define you.

Fear That Elevates

So what is the proper response to fear? For a Yid, fear isn’t the end of the story; it’s the beginning. And it’s meant to evoke something more powerful.

It sparks tefillah. Rav Tzaddok HaKohein (Tzidkas Hatzaddik, os 70) writes that sometimes, Hashem wants to give — but He waits for us to ask.

It inspires teshuvah. Chazal tell us in Kiddushin (49b) that even a single hirhur teshuvah, one genuine stirring of the heart, can shift everything. The Steipler (Karyana D’Igarsa, vol. I, letter 210) describes a person who feared he might be seriously ill and was waiting for biopsy results. In his distress, he was moved to heartfelt tefillah, gave tzedakah generously, and improved his ways. When the results came back benign, he wondered why he had been so worried. The Steipler writes that in truth, “Perhaps the fear itself, and what it awakened, was what annulled the harsh decree.” Fear opens that conversation.

It gives bitachon a role. If life were predictable, we wouldn’t need trust. Fear creates the space for bitachon to live, to breathe, to grow.

Indeed, Yaakov Avinu didn’t collapse under the weight of his fear. He walked forward — preparing, yes, but strengthening his relationship with his Father in Heaven with every step. That’s how a Yid walks through fear — not by running from it, but by using it. Channeling it.

And so we circle back to the question. Does fear have a place in Yiddishkeit?

The answer is yes — but only a certain kind of fear. Not the panic that paralyzes, not the dread that drives us inward, but the fear that refines. The kind that pulls us back to what truly matters: to tefillah, to teshuvah, to bitachon.

In a world of uncertainty, that fear becomes our compass — not to frighten us, but to lead us home.

Rabbi Aryeh Kerzner is the rav of Agudas Yisrael of Montreal and a noted posek and popular speaker. Many of his shiurim and speeches are available online. He is the author of the sefer Halachah at Home, published by ArtScroll/Mesorah

 (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1060)