Discovering How Courage Arises

Renaud Confavreux, Unsplash

Occasionally, a story lodges itself so stubbornly in my imagination that it refuses to leave. One such story comes from a dramatic retelling of the life of King David. In that scene, David is just a boy. He arrives at the battlefield looking for his brothers and instead finds Israel’s army—his heroes—shrinking back in fear. Across the valley stands Goliath, taunting and daring anyone to fight him.

David says, almost incredulously, “Who is this uncircumcised Philistine that he should defy the armies of the living God?”

“The living God”—I remember shuddering at that line. I had read it before, but this time it felt dangerous—like someone staring down the barrel of a gun. Except this gun was not Goliath, but God, and it was not pointing at David, but Goliath.

Israel’s army had assessed the situation. The giant was measured. His height documented. His armour described. The risks were obvious. To the reasonable observer, the camp was not being cowardly. It was being careful.

And yet David’s response cuts through that caution. It is not bravado. It is memory. He is not primarily sizing up Goliath; he is remembering God—the One who rescued him from bears and lions, the covenant-keeping God from the stories of old—the One who is faithful to His people. 

That distinction between David and the camp has become increasingly important to me. 

There have been moments when I felt I was the only person in the camp not clutching a shield. The giants I face today do not wear bronze armour, but they are just as loud. They carry spreadsheets, projections, and tidy long-term plans. They speak in the language of prudence: Be realistic. Be sensible. Be responsible.

And often, the camp nods along.

If I am honest, I am capable of very great faith—just often in the wrong things. I can place enormous trust in systems, in an excellent government, in tried-and-tested masterplans that promise smooth progression from one stage to the next. I can sincerely believe that if I align myself properly with these structures, they will deliver security.

One of my more “measurable” giants appeared when I decided to pause work for nine months to study the Bible overseas. No income. Savings slowly falling. No neatly packaged plan for what came after.

To be clear, this is not the only way to know Jesus. Many love Him deeply while faithfully working in Singapore. This is not about a moral hierarchy of choices. It was simply the decision with which I sensed peace. 

Still, the numbers were real. Career momentum is not something one steps away from lightly here. The giant did not roar; it asked practical questions: “Is this wise? Is this necessary?”

The courage to eventually go did not come from me feeling particularly spiritual. It came from remembering who Jesus is—that He provides and He never wastes faith and obedience.

It is striking how much faith I can muster for the wrong saviours. But that mustered-up “faith” rarely produces life. It keeps me calculating and anxious. It does not move mountains. By contrast, my faith in Jesus often feels small and reluctant. Some mornings it is little more than, “Lord, I want to trust You, but I cannot see how this will work.”

And yet that mustard seed, placed in the right Person, carries disproportionate weight.

I used to think courage was the result of spiritual intensity. If I prayed longer or loved God more fervently, perhaps I would become brave. Well-meaning advice sometimes reinforces this—as if sincerity could manufacture courage.

But the more I read Scripture, the less convinced I am that courage originates in emotional volume.

The faithful were courageous because they encountered a Person. David did not run toward Goliath because he had worked himself into a devotional frenzy. He ran because the living God was known to him.

I have begun to notice that my own conviction works similarly. There are times when the Holy Spirit makes Jesus vivid—not as an idea, but as the faithful Son who has already overcome a far greater enemy. In those moments, something in me rises. Not hype. Not self-generated zeal. Recognition.

Like a knee-jerk reflex. 

Encountering Jesus gives rise to a response of faith and courage. Of course, I can resist it. I can stifle that reflex. I can remain in the camp. There are always sensible reasons to do so. The giant is large. Prudence has a reasonable voice. But when I do, I feel the quiet death of hope and life.

When I respond—not because I feel heroic, but because I cannot unsee who Jesus is—there is life.

Courage, I am discovering, flows from encounter.

When Jesus is small in my imagination, giants grow. When He is clear, even briefly, proportions shift. The giant may still be tall, but he is no longer ultimate.

Jesus’ faithfulness—not mine—is the ground beneath my feet. My small, wavering trust is held within His perfect obedience.

Which means I do not need to muster extraordinary faith. 

I simply need rightly-placed faith.

Giants will always appear—in armour or in spreadsheets. They may roar or politely suggest realism.  But courage is not generated by staring them down.

Courage arises as I hold still and let the Holy Spirit reveal Jesus.

And that is enough for me to pick up a stone.

Adeline is part of a church community in Bukit Batok and is passionate about Scripture and discipleship. She enjoys time with her family and meaningful conversations with friends, especially when humour is involved.