Slaying The Giant Of Worry

The call came at 2:47 AM. Sarah stared at her phone’s glowing screen, watching it vibrate on the nightstand, her heart already racing before she even answered. It was the hospital. Her father had been admitted. As she drove through empty streets toward the emergency room, her mind became a battlefield—a thousand fears colliding like waves against crumbling cliffs. Would he survive? Could they afford the treatment? What about her mother? The bills? Her job? Each question spawned ten more, until worry had constructed an entire architecture of catastrophe in her mind, a towering giant casting shadows over everything she knew to be true about God.

We’ve all stood where Sarah stood. Perhaps you’re standing there now.

Worry is the universal giant. It stands at the threshold of every season of uncertainty, every financial pressure, every health crisis, every relational fracture. Unlike the giant Goliath who taunted Israel once daily, the giant of worry whispers continuously—in morning traffic, during midnight wakings, between heartbeats. It speaks a language we understand all too well: What if? What now? What next?

But here’s what we must grasp: worry isn’t merely an emotional inconvenience or a personality quirk to be managed. It’s a spiritual stronghold to be demolished. It represents, at its core, a crisis of trust—a gap between what we know theologically and what we believe experientially. And God’s Word doesn’t simply acknowledge this giant; it provides the stones and the sling to bring it down.

The Soul’s Interrogation

The Psalmist understood worry’s anatomy. Listen to his soul-searching question: “Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my salvation and my God” (Psalm 43:5).

Notice the confrontation happening here—the Psalmist is interrogating his own anxiety. He’s not ignoring it, not suppressing it, but engaging it directly with a fundamental question: Why? Why this turmoil? Why this casting down? He’s doing what we must learn to do: he’s putting worry on trial.

And then comes the verdict: “Hope in God.” Not hope in circumstances changing. Not hope in finally having enough. Not hope in worst-case scenarios never materializing. Hope in God—in His character, His promises, His proven faithfulness.

This is our first stone against the giant: active, chosen hope. Worry is passive—it happens to us. Hope is active—we must place it, direct it, and anchor it deliberately in God Himself.

The Divine Burden-Bearer

The pressure builds. The weight feels unbearable. And then God speaks through the same Psalmist with a command that sounds almost too good to be true: “Cast your burden on the LORD, and he will sustain you; he will never permit the righteous to be moved” (Psalm 55:22).

The Hebrew word for “cast” here is violent, active—it means to hurl, to throw forcefully. God isn’t asking for a gentle transfer of concerns. He’s inviting us to heave our anxieties at Him with the full force of our desperation. Why? Because He can bear what we cannot. The same shoulders that carried the cross can carry your crushing concern about tomorrow.

But notice what He promises: not that He’ll eliminate the circumstance, but that He’ll sustain you. The giant of worry wants you to believe that if the circumstances don’t change, you’ll collapse. God says, “I won’t let you be moved. Not even when the storm doesn’t stop. Not even when the hospital calls. Not even when the bank account empties.”

This is our second stone: radical transference. The giant falls not when we solve every problem, but when we throw every burden at the One who says, “I’ll carry this. You walk light.”

The Father’s Track Record

Jesus confronts our worry with a devastating question: “If God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?” (Matthew 6:30).

He’s making an argument from the lesser to the greater. If God adorns wildflowers that exist for a moment—flowers no one may ever even see—how much more will He provide for you, the bearer of His image, the object of His redemptive love?

Our worry reveals what we actually believe about God’s heart toward us. The giant whispers, “You’re on your own. He’s forgotten you. You’re too small, too insignificant, too far gone.” But Jesus says, “Look at the evidence. Your Father dresses the grass. You are infinitely more valuable than grass.”

This is our third stone: reasoned faith. God invites us to think clearly about His character, to let His past faithfulness speak louder than our present fear.

The Peace That Makes No Sense

Paul, writing from prison—let that sink in—pens what might be the most comprehensive anti-worry manifesto in Scripture: “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” (Philippians 4:6-7).

From chains, he prescribes the cure: prayer laced with thanksgiving. Not denial—he says make your requests known. Not suppression—he acknowledges the temptation toward anxiety about everything. But transformation through the discipline of grateful petition.

And what follows? Peace that transcends understanding. Peace that doesn’t make logical sense given your circumstances. Peace that stands guard like a Roman soldier at the door of your heart, turning away each fresh assault of worry.

Later, he’ll add this promise: “And my God will supply every need of yours according to his riches in glory in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:19). Not according to your resources, your résumé, or your track record—according to His riches in glory. When you measure your need against God’s supply, worry becomes mathematical nonsense.

These are our fourth and fifth stones: gratitude-infused prayer and His unlimited resources.

The Final Cast

Peter, who once worried about sinking waves, writes with hard-won wisdom: “Casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you” (1 Peter 5:7).

“All.” Not the big ones only. Not the justified fears. Not the emergencies. All. The giant of worry tries to categorize: “This concern is reasonable. That fear is prudent. This anxiety is just wisdom.” But God says, “Give me all of it. Every last thread of it. Because I care for you.”

Not “because you’ve earned it” or “because you’ve managed to stop worrying enough to deserve My intervention.” Simply: because I care for you. That’s our sixth stone: His relentless affection.

Sarah stayed with her father through that long night. The treatments would be expensive. The recovery would be slow. But somewhere between the hospital coffee and dawn breaking through the waiting room windows, she stopped constructing towers of catastrophe. She cast. She prayed. She remembered grass and lilies. She thanked God for what was still good. She found herself, impossibly, at peace.

The circumstances hadn’t changed. But the giant had fallen.