A Perfectly Curated Christian Crime Scene

I think the most dangerous version of myself is the one I’ve convinced myself God has already changed.

Not because she’s evil.

Because she’s believable.

She’s articulate. She’s disciplined. She knows Scripture. She’s learned how to apologize without rolling her eyes, how to remain silent when she’s offended, and how to say she’s trusting God while secretly preparing for His answer to be something other than what she requested.

She’s grown.

She’s mature.

She’s even got a little fruit.

And the terrifying part is that I’ve become so impressed with her improvement that I haven’t always noticed she’s still operating from the same broken places.

I’ve been calling it transformation because modification doesn’t sound nearly as spiritual.

But that’s what it is.

I’ve modified my reactions without always surrendering my impulses. I’ve modified my behavior without always confronting my beliefs. I’ve modified the way I present myself without allowing God into some of the places where my fear, pride, resentment, and need for control are still comfortably residing.

I’ve been renovating a house God has been asking me to surrender.

New paint. New furniture. Better lighting.

Same foundation.

And I think the reason that realization hurt so badly this morning is because I’ve spent years celebrating how far I’ve come without considering how much of the old me I’ve quietly brought along.

Then I opened Acts 9.

And there was Saul.

A man who knew more about religious tradition than I could probably retain in three lifetimes, who was absolutely convinced he was doing the right thing, and who was about to discover that being certain doesn’t necessarily mean being correct.

Acts 9:1 says Saul was still breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord.

Still.

That word wouldn’t leave me alone.

Because Saul wasn’t making a mistake in an isolated moment of anger. This was his pattern. His mission. His conviction. Acts 8:3 tells us he had been ravaging the church, entering houses, and dragging men and women away to prison.

He was committed to the destruction of something God was building.

And he believed he was serving God while doing it.

I wonder how many things I’ve been equally committed to that God has been trying to dismantle.

Not because they’re obviously wicked, but because I’ve convinced myself they’re necessary.

My need to control things, for example. I’ve called that responsibility for years. And sometimes it is. But sometimes it’s just fear that has learned how to organize a calendar.

My independence. I’ve worn that like a badge of honor. But sometimes my refusal to need anyone has less to do with strength and more to do with the fact that depending on people has historically come with consequences.

My ability to recognize patterns. I call that discernment. Sometimes it is. Other times, I’m anticipating betrayal before anyone has actually betrayed me.

And my ability to explain myself?

Whew.

I could defend a bad attitude in front of the Supreme Court and probably get a favorable ruling.

I know why I am the way I am.

I know where certain behaviors originated. I know what experiences reinforced them. I know what wounds they’re protecting.

What I haven’t always been willing to acknowledge is that understanding my brokenness doesn’t automatically mean I’ve surrendered it.

And Saul’s story made that painfully clear.

Because Saul wasn’t lacking information about religion.

He was lacking revelation about Jesus.

Philippians 3:5–6 tells us how Saul later described his former credentials. A Hebrew of Hebrews. A Pharisee concerning the law. Zealous enough to persecute the church. As far as righteousness under the law was concerned, he considered himself blameless.

He had built an entire identity around being religiously correct.

And I wondered how much of my identity I’ve built around being spiritually knowledgeable.

Because I love studying Scripture. I love finding connections. I love the moments when something I’ve read a hundred times suddenly makes sense in a way it never has before.

But I had to ask myself a question that made me want to close my notebook.

Am I allowing the Scriptures I understand to transform the behaviors I still excuse?

Because I can recognize pride in somebody else from three counties away.

Mine occasionally requires a formal investigation.

I can identify when someone is operating from offense, but when I’m offended, suddenly there are circumstances, mitigating factors, and a rather compelling explanation for why my response was understandable.

I can recognize fear disguised as control in other people.

In myself, I call it being prepared.

And I can explain why surrender is essential while simultaneously asking God for an itemized breakdown of what exactly He intends to do with the things I’m surrendering.

Apparently, I want to trust God.

I just also want administrative access.

Saul was on his way to Damascus with letters authorizing him to arrest followers of Jesus when a light from heaven surrounded him.

Acts 9:4 records Jesus asking him why he was persecuting Him.

That question bothered me more than I expected.

Because Saul was persecuting people.

But Jesus took it personally.

And suddenly I started thinking about how I’ve treated people when I believed I had sufficient justification.

I’ve been hurt. I’ve been disappointed. I’ve been lied to. I’ve been mishandled by people who should have known better.

And sometimes I’ve allowed those experiences to convince me that whatever response I chose was acceptable because my pain was legitimate.

But legitimate pain does not automatically produce righteous behavior.

And being wronged doesn’t make every reaction right.

That’s a hard thing to admit because I have spent a significant portion of my life believing that if I could explain why I responded a certain way, the explanation should somehow excuse the response.

It doesn’t.

I can be hurt and still be unkind.

I can be disappointed and still be prideful.

I can be afraid and still be controlling.

I can have a legitimate reason for struggling and still be responsible for what I choose to do with that struggle.

And sometimes I think I’ve been so focused on what happened to me that I’ve stopped examining what those experiences are producing through me.

Jesus confronted Saul on the very road where Saul was pursuing what he believed was right.

And I wondered whether some of my greatest moments of conviction have happened while I was busy convincing myself I was justified.

Because I don’t usually resist God by announcing that I refuse to obey Him.

That’s far too obvious.

I resist Him by explaining why obedience is complicated.

I explain why forgiveness is difficult.

Why trusting is risky.

Why letting go feels irresponsible.

Why being vulnerable feels unsafe.

Why I need more time.

And sometimes those explanations are genuine expressions of pain that need care and healing.

Other times, they’re beautifully articulated excuses.

I know the difference more often than I like to admit.

Acts 9:8 says Saul opened his eyes after encountering Jesus, but he couldn’t see.

The man who had been so confident about where he was going suddenly needed someone else to lead him by the hand.

And that image sat heavily with me.

Because I have always struggled with not knowing.

I can endure difficult things when I understand what’s happening. I can make a plan. I can prepare. I can research. I can anticipate the next step.

But uncertainty?

Uncertainty has a way of exposing how much of my peace is actually dependent on control.

Saul had entered that road with authority, direction, and a plan.

He left it needing someone to guide him.

And I wondered whether the very thing I keep calling weakness is sometimes the place where God is teaching me dependence.

Because I don’t enjoy needing help.

I don’t enjoy being unable to anticipate the outcome.

I don’t enjoy having to trust someone else with something I cannot manage myself.

And I especially don’t enjoy being corrected when I’ve already decided I’m right.

Which makes surrender an interesting experience.

Because I keep asking God to lead me while occasionally insisting that He follow the route I’ve already mapped out.

Saul spent three days without sight, food, or water.

Acts 9:11 tells us he was praying.

And I keep wondering what those three days felt like.

Scripture doesn’t tell us everything he thought, but I can’t imagine discovering that the foundation of your entire religious mission was wrong and not having to reconsider almost everything you believed about yourself.

The things he once celebrated.

The people he had harmed.

The certainty with which he had acted.

The identity he had built.

And I wonder whether that’s part of what makes genuine transformation so uncomfortable.

It requires me to question things I’ve spent years calling strengths.

I have spent much of my life learning how to survive.

I learned how to anticipate loss before I was old enough to understand why people died.

I learned how to function through grief because life continued whether I was ready or not.

I learned how to protect myself emotionally because there were seasons when I didn’t feel protected.

I learned how to be independent because depending on other people didn’t always end well.

And those things shaped me.

Some of them helped me survive.

I have no intention of shaming the little girl who developed those habits. She was doing what she knew how to do with circumstances she never should have been responsible for navigating.

But I am no longer that little girl.

And I cannot keep allowing the survival mechanisms she developed to determine how I respond to a God who has consistently demonstrated His faithfulness.

That’s where I started bleeding this morning.

Because what if some of the things I’ve been calling my personality are actually unresolved responses to my past?

What if I’m not simply someone who likes to be prepared?

What if I’m terrified of being caught off guard because I know what it feels like for life to change without warning?

What if I’m not just independent?

What if receiving help makes me uncomfortable because I’ve learned to associate dependence with disappointment?

What if I’m not naturally suspicious?

What if I’ve become so accustomed to anticipating betrayal that I struggle to recognize genuine safety when it’s present?

And what if I’ve been asking God to change my circumstances because changing my internal responses would require me to release the very things I’ve relied on to feel protected?

I sat with that longer than I wanted to.

Because I don’t think I’ve been intentionally refusing transformation.

I think I’ve been trying to experience it without losing the familiarity of who I’ve always been.

I want the butterfly.

I just don’t want to surrender the caterpillar.

I want the wings while preserving the ability to crawl back into every old pattern when things become uncomfortable.

And that’s not transformation.

That’s modification with an emergency exit.

Acts 9:10–16 introduces Ananias, whom God instructs to go to Saul.

Ananias knows Saul’s reputation.

He knows what Saul has done to believers.

He knows Saul has authority to arrest those who call on Jesus’ name.

And he understandably questions the instruction.

But God tells him Saul is His chosen instrument.

I love that God didn’t pretend Saul’s history wasn’t real.

He didn’t tell Ananias that Saul hadn’t done those things.

He revealed that Saul’s history wasn’t the final word about his future.

And that convicted me because I have a habit of treating my own patterns as though they’re permanent.

I say things like, “I’ve always been this way.”

Or, “That’s just how I respond.”

Or, “I know myself.”

And sometimes those statements are less about self-awareness and more about the limitations I’ve placed on what I believe God can change.

Because if I genuinely believe that the Holy Spirit transforms people, why do I keep treating certain parts of myself as though they’re exempt?

Why do I assume I’ll always struggle with the same fears?

Why do I expect to react the same way?

Why do I keep giving old patterns the authority to define who I am?

Maybe I’ve become so familiar with my brokenness that I struggle to imagine myself without it.

And that is a heartbreaking thing to admit.

Acts 9:17 says Ananias entered the house, laid his hands on Saul, and called him “Brother Saul.”

Brother.

The same man who had been persecuting believers.

The same man Ananias had just expressed concern about.

And here he was, being addressed as family.

I thought about how difficult it can be to receive an identity that contradicts everything you’ve known about yourself.

Saul knew who he had been.

Ananias knew who he had been.

But Jesus had already declared a purpose for his life that his past could not have predicted.

And I wonder whether part of my struggle with transformation is that I keep consulting the old version of myself about who I’m capable of becoming.

I keep asking my fear whether it’s safe to trust.

I keep asking my pride whether it’s comfortable to apologize.

I keep asking my past whether it’s reasonable to hope.

I keep asking my disappointment whether God is trustworthy.

And then I wonder why my answers keep sounding familiar.

I’ve been allowing the very things God wants to transform to participate in deciding whether transformation is possible.

Ma’am.

That is like asking the caterpillar whether it would prefer to remain a caterpillar.

Of course it knows how to crawl.

That’s all it’s ever done.

But familiarity isn’t the same as destiny.

Acts 9:18 says something like scales fell from Saul’s eyes, and he regained his sight.

He got up and was baptized.

Then Acts 9:20 says he immediately began proclaiming Jesus in the synagogues as the Son of God.

Immediately.

The man who had traveled to Damascus to arrest believers was now proclaiming the Jesus he had opposed.

And Acts 9:21 records the astonishment of the people who heard him.

They recognized Saul.

They knew his reputation.

They remembered what he had done.

But the man standing before them was now doing the very thing he had once tried to destroy.

And I think that’s what I’ve been missing.

Saul didn’t simply become a more considerate persecutor.

He stopped persecuting.

He didn’t learn how to oppose Jesus more politely.

He began proclaiming Him.

His allegiance changed.

His direction changed.

His understanding changed.

His purpose changed.

The man later called Paul did not become perfect overnight, and his Roman name wasn’t a reward for his conversion. His growth continued throughout his life.

But the encounter with Jesus fundamentally redirected him.

And I wonder whether I’ve been measuring transformation by how well I manage my old impulses instead of examining whether those impulses are losing their authority over me.

Because modification teaches me to keep my mouth shut when I’m angry.

Transformation confronts why anger is my first response.

Modification teaches me how to apologize.

Transformation confronts the pride that makes apologizing feel like losing.

Modification teaches me to appear patient.

Transformation changes how I respond when God doesn’t move according to my timeline.

Modification teaches me how to avoid certain behaviors.

Transformation begins changing what I desire.

And suddenly Romans 12:2 felt much less like a familiar Scripture and much more like an uncomfortable invitation.

Be transformed by the renewing of your mind.

Not become more efficient.

Not become more presentable.

Not become more skilled at hiding the things you know shouldn’t be there.

Transformed.

And Romans 6:6 makes the distinction even more serious.

Paul writes that our old self was crucified with Christ so that we would no longer be enslaved to sin.

Crucified.

Not improved.

Not coached.

Not placed on a thirty day personal development plan.

Crucified.

Which means there are things in me that God isn’t asking me to manage more effectively.

He’s calling me to put them to death.

And I think I’ve been trying to negotiate a reduced sentence.

Because I don’t always want my pride gone.

Sometimes I just want it to be less obvious.

I don’t always want to surrender control.

Sometimes I just want to control things without looking controlling.

I don’t always want to release offense.

Sometimes I want to remain offended while appearing gracious.

And I don’t always want my fear confronted.

Sometimes I want God to arrange my circumstances so that I never have to feel afraid.

I’ve wanted the benefits of a transformed life while occasionally protecting the impulses of my old one.

And I can’t keep pretending those things are compatible.

Because Romans 6:11 calls me to consider myself dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus.

Yet there are moments when I keep giving life to things that no longer have rightful authority over me.

I resurrect old offenses.

I resurrect old fears.

I resurrect old assumptions.

I resurrect the need to control.

And I resurrect the version of myself who learned to survive by expecting the worst.

Then I wonder why I feel like I’m fighting the same battles.

Perhaps because I keep inviting the old me back into situations where God is teaching the new me how to live.

And that’s when I thought about Gone Girl.

Amy Dunne’s most unsettling talent wasn’t simply her ability to deceive other people.

It was her ability to construct a version of herself that supported the story she wanted everyone to believe.

The “Cool Girl.”

The effortlessly agreeable woman who became whatever she believed someone else wanted. The woman who appeared understanding, accommodating, desirable, and completely unproblematic because she had carefully constructed herself to be perceived that way.

Amy understood how to manipulate a narrative.

She understood that if she controlled what people saw, she could influence what they believed.

And while I have absolutely no intention of staging my disappearance or framing my husband for murder, because ma’am, I have bills and a dog who requires supervision, I recognized something deeply uncomfortable about the performance.

I know how to present a version of myself that looks like what I believe a mature Christian woman should be.

I know how to say the right thing.

I know how to appear unbothered.

I know how to talk about trusting God while secretly preparing for every possible way things could go wrong.

I know how to say I’ve forgiven someone while still remembering their offense with the accuracy of a court stenographer.

I know how to speak about surrender while quietly maintaining control over everything I can reach.

And sometimes, if I’m being painfully honest, I’ve been more concerned with whether my life looks transformed than whether my heart actually is.

And I realized that I’ve occasionally constructed my own version of the Cool Christian Girl.

The woman who is always patient.

Always understanding.

Always surrendered.

Always at peace.

The woman who knows exactly what Scripture says and somehow always seems to have a revelation ready.

The woman who can turn disappointment into a testimony before she’s even finished processing the disappointment.

And sometimes that woman is genuine.

Sometimes she’s the evidence of what God has done in me.

But sometimes she’s a performance I’ve learned to give because admitting that I’m still struggling feels like admitting that I haven’t grown.

And I don’t want to do that anymore.

I don’t want to become so invested in appearing transformed that I stop allowing God to expose what still needs changing.

I don’t want to keep presenting the version of myself that sounds spiritually mature while privately protecting the things that are hindering my growth.

I don’t want to be a woman who can explain surrender beautifully but struggles to practice it when obedience costs her something.

I don’t want to know the Scriptures so well that I can identify everybody else’s dysfunction while remaining remarkably creative in explaining my own.

And I don’t want to keep calling modification transformation simply because modification is easier to measure.

Because there has been growth.

Real growth.

There are things I no longer desire.

Decisions I no longer make.

Relationships I no longer pursue.

Responses I no longer consider acceptable.

And I refuse to dishonor what God has already done in me simply because He’s revealing what still needs work.

But I also refuse to use yesterday’s progress as permission to resist today’s correction.

Philippians 1:6 reminds me that the One who began a good work in me will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.

And I needed that reminder because this morning’s conviction could easily have turned into condemnation if I allowed it.

The fact that I still struggle does not mean God has done nothing.

The fact that I still have areas requiring surrender does not mean transformation hasn’t begun.

It means the work is continuing.

And my responsibility isn’t to manufacture a new identity through sheer determination.

It’s to participate in what God is doing.

To allow revelation.

To respond with repentance.

To release what He’s asking me to surrender.

To relearn what I thought I understood.

To stop arguing with correction.

To stop treating conviction like rejection.

And to trust that the God who began this work is faithful enough to finish it.

Because Jesus didn’t wait for Saul to recognize how wrong he was before confronting him.

He met him on the road where Saul was actively pursuing the wrong thing.

He interrupted him.

He exposed him.

He redirected him.

And He gave him a future his past could never have predicted.

And maybe that’s what makes this morning both painful and hopeful.

I don’t have to remain the woman I’ve always been.

I don’t have to keep obeying every old impulse.

I don’t have to keep allowing fear to dictate my decisions.

I don’t have to keep treating my trauma like a permanent personality trait.

I don’t have to keep protecting the habits that once helped me survive but now hinder my ability to trust.

And I don’t have to despise the woman I’ve been in order to surrender what no longer belongs in the woman I’m becoming.

I can have compassion for my history without remaining captive to it.

I can acknowledge my wounds without allowing them to define me.

I can celebrate my progress without pretending the process is complete.

And I can allow the Holy Spirit to expose what needs to change without immediately presenting a defense.

Because revelation is a gift.

Repentance is a gift.

And even the uncomfortable process of becoming someone new is evidence that God hasn’t abandoned the work He began.

I thought transformation meant becoming so different that the people who knew the old me would no longer recognize me.

But this morning, I realized something far more uncomfortable.

I’ve been asking God to make me unrecognizable to everyone else while privately remaining deeply attached to the woman I used to be.

I want the testimony.

I want the evidence.

I want the wings.

But am I willing to stop resurrecting the caterpillar every time flying requires faith?

Am I willing to release the attitudes that make me feel powerful?

The habits that make me feel safe?

The defenses that make me feel untouchable?

The familiar patterns that allow me to avoid being vulnerable?

Am I willing to become someone I don’t yet recognize?

Because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life starring in my own spiritual version of Gone Girl.

A carefully constructed woman.

A convincing performance.

A beautiful narrative.

And an entirely different reality underneath.

I don’t want to be the Cool Christian Girl.

I want to be changed.

Not just in the places people can see.

In the places where fear still whispers.

Where pride still negotiates.

Where offense still lingers.

Where control still feels safer than surrender.

Where the old me still tries to convince me that she’s necessary for my survival.

I want those places surrendered too.

And perhaps the most devastating realization of this entire morning wasn’t that I still have things to work on.

I already knew that.

It was realizing that I’ve sometimes been more committed to preserving the woman I survived as than becoming the woman God is calling me to be.

And I cannot keep calling that faithfulness to myself when it’s becoming resistance to Him.

So here’s my confession.

I’m not nearly as transformed as I’ve sometimes convinced myself I am.

In some areas, I’ve simply become better at managing what still needs to be surrendered.

And while that realization hurts, I’m grateful for it.

Because the Holy Spirit doesn’t need the polished version of me I’ve learned how to present.

He already knows the real one.

The impatient one.

The fearful one.

The occasionally petty one.

The one who loves Jesus deeply and still has the audacity to negotiate with Him.

The one who knows better and doesn’t always do better.

The one who has made progress and still needs grace.

That woman.

The real one.

I want her transformed.

And maybe that’s the prayer I’ve been avoiding.

Not “God, help me become a better version of myself.”

But “God, make me willing to become someone I don’t yet recognize.”

Because I don’t want butterfly dreams with caterpillar discipline.

I don’t want the appearance of wings while remaining committed to crawling.

And I certainly don’t want to spend my life decorating a cocoon God is calling me to emerge from.

I thought the evidence of transformation would be that nobody else recognized the old me.

Turns out, the real question is whether I’m willing to stop resurrecting her every time obedience gets uncomfortable.

Lord, I don’t want to be better at pretending.

I want to be changed.

Even if the first person who no longer recognizes me is me.