Reasonable Doubt

There are two versions of me.

There is the one that has difficult conversations.

Then there is the one that rehearses difficult conversations approximately 847 times before they happen.

One of those conversations actually exists.

The other 846 have Oscar-worthy performances, dramatic lighting, background music, and enough plot twists to make Viola Davis ask me to calm down.

I have realized something about myself over the last few days.

I don’t just have an imagination.

I have a production company.

Steven Spielberg and I apparently share office space in my head.

Give me one unanswered text message, one slightly different tone of voice, or one upcoming hard conversation, and by lunchtime I have written a trilogy, cast the supporting actors, designed the movie poster, and convinced myself it deserves an Academy Award.

The problem?

None of it is real.

Paul must have known minds like mine existed because after telling us not to be anxious in Philippians 4:6-7, he doesn’t simply say, “Stop worrying.”

He gives us something else to do.

“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable, if anything is excellent or praiseworthy, think about such things.” (Philippians 4:8, NIV)

Notice something.

Peace isn’t only protected by prayer.

It’s protected by what we permit to occupy our minds.

That exposed me more than I wanted it to.

Because maybe my anxiousness isn’t always caused by my circumstances.

Maybe sometimes it’s fueled by an undisciplined imagination.

That phrase kept sitting with me.

An undisciplined imagination.

Not imagination itself. God created imagination. Without it, Noah never builds an ark. David never imagines a giant falling. Architects never build. Authors never write. Artists never paint.

Imagination is a gift.

Undisciplined imagination is when the gift forgets who it’s supposed to serve.

It’s when my mind starts creating “what if” scenarios without inviting God into the writers’ room.

It begins producing fears that haven’t happened, conversations that haven’t occurred, rejection that hasn’t existed, and outcomes that have absolutely no evidence supporting them.

The imagination wasn’t supposed to replace discernment.

It was supposed to submit to it.

Then Paul starts listing evidence.

Not emotions.

Evidence.

The Greek word for “true” is alēthēs.

It means divine truth. That which corresponds with God’s reality.

That stopped me because I’ve spent a lot of time confusing facts with truth.

Facts matter.

They just don’t always get the final word.

Here’s one from my own life.

Fact.

I need to have a difficult conversation.

That is objectively true.

Truth.

The person I’m talking to loves me.

Those are not opposing realities.

They’re simply different kinds of reality.

The fact is that my stomach tightens every time I think about the conversation.

The truth is that love doesn’t disappear simply because a conversation becomes uncomfortable.

The fact is that I can feel nervous.

The truth is that I don’t have to let nervousness become my narrator.

The fact may be that the weapon formed.

The truth is that it shall not prosper.

Facts describe the moment.

Truth defines eternity.

And if I only meditate on facts without anchoring myself in truth, my imagination fills in every blank space with fear.

Then Paul says to think on whatever is noble.

The Greek word is semnos.

Things worthy of honor.

Things that deserve reverence.

That made me ask myself an uncomfortable question.

How often do I honor people in my mind?

Or do I assume motives before I know them?

Do I give them the benefit of the doubt?

Or do I allow my imagination to become the prosecution?

Then comes right (dikaios).

That which aligns with God’s justice and righteousness.

I started realizing that I spend an awful lot of energy trying to predict situations I can’t control instead of responding righteously to the ones I actually have.

Then pure (hagnos).

Morally clean.

Not polluted.

I usually hear “pure” and immediately think behavior.

God quietly asked me about my thought life instead.

Because thoughts can become contaminated long before actions ever do.

Then lovely (prosphilēs).

Whatever fosters love.

That one hurt.

Because there are plenty of thoughts I’ve entertained that never produced love.

Only suspicion.

Then admirable (euphēmos).

Things of good report.

The kind of report you would actually want repeated.

And finally, excellent and praiseworthy.

The kinds of things that point back to the goodness of God instead of magnifying my fears.

I realized Paul wasn’t giving us a positive thinking exercise.

He was giving us a filtration system.

Not every thought deserves residency.

Some deserve eviction.

I’ll admit something.

I like to think of myself as a spiritual gangsta.

The Denzel Washington from Training Day version… minus literally everything illegal.

Spiritually speaking, I feel pretty tough.

Until…

My husband enters the conversation.

Then suddenly I become the emotional equivalent of wet tissue paper.

One difficult conversation with the man I love, and somehow my imagination has convinced me we’re moments away from filing paperwork, changing our last names, dividing up kitchen appliances, and deciding who gets custody of the coffee mugs.

He, meanwhile, is wondering what we’re having for dinner.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s also revealing.

Because the conversation isn’t what steals my peace.

The story I attach to the conversation does.

Paul isn’t telling me to deny reality.

He’s inviting me to stop adding chapters God never wrote.

That reminded me of Elijah.

Fresh off one of the greatest victories in Scripture.

Fire falls from heaven.

Baal is defeated.

God moves powerfully.

Then one threat from Jezebel…

…and Elijah is running for his life.

Within twenty-four hours he goes from victory to asking God if he’d be better off dead.

His spiritual status didn’t exempt him from emotional exhaustion.

That encouraged me more than I expected.

Even prophets become overwhelmed.

But I also noticed something fascinating.

God doesn’t immediately give Elijah a five-point sermon.

He feeds him.

He lets him sleep.

He tells him to keep resting.

Sometimes deliverance starts with a nap.

Honestly…

Some of my anxiety probably needs theology.

Some of it probably just needs me to go somewhere and sit down.

That one offended me a little.

Because I don’t rest well.

I call it productivity.

God might call it Egypt.

I’ve spent years adding more to my plate while quietly congratulating myself for being responsible.

Meanwhile, I’m slowly becoming Pharaoh over my own life.

Demanding bricks.

Increasing quotas.

Never allowing rest.

And then wondering why peace feels so far away.

God never actually told me to live that way.

I did.

Sabbath isn’t simply about protecting one day.

It’s about refusing to let slavery define the other six.

It’s choosing rhythms that remind my soul I belong to a Father, not a taskmaster.

Colossians reminds us that Sabbath was never merely about checking a calendar.

It pointed to something greater.

To Someone greater.

Which means maybe pursuing rest isn’t laziness.

Maybe it’s worship.

There was one sentence that wouldn’t leave me.

Some deliverance is on the other side of pursuit.

Not passive wishing.

Intentional pursuit.

Pursuing Scripture until truth becomes louder than fear.

Pursuing stillness until I remember God is God and I am wonderfully relieved that I am not.

Pursuing healthy rhythms instead of applauding my own exhaustion.

Pursuing disciplined thinking instead of letting my imagination freelance.

God can’t always show me me…

…if I refuse to sit with Him long enough to listen.

So today, I’m taking inventory.

Not of my schedule.

Not of my responsibilities.

Not even of my circumstances.

I’m taking inventory of the stories I’ve been telling myself.

Because if my imagination insists on making movies…

I’d really like the Holy Spirit to have final editing rights.