The Sobriety Nobody Warned Me About

I wish I could tell you following Jesus has made me less emotional.

It hasn’t.

It’s made me painfully aware of just how much my emotions have been running the show.

For a long time, I thought my biggest battle was people. What they said. What they did. What they failed to do. How they hurt me.

Lately, though, God has been quietly asking me a question I didn’t want to answer.

“What if your greatest battle isn’t what happened to you…

…but what happens inside of you after it does?”

That question has been sitting on my chest for days.

Because if I’m honest, I don’t lose control all at once.

I lose it one thought at a time.

One offense at a time.

One justification at a time.

The Bible constantly tells us to be sober minded. For years, I thought that only applied to alcohol or drugs. Things that chemically impair your judgment.

Then I started wondering…

What if anger can intoxicate you?

What if fear can?

What if offense can?

What if disappointment, rejection, insecurity, ambition, bitterness, or pride can cloud your judgment so completely that you become comfortable doing things today that you’ll regret tomorrow?

Maybe emotional intoxication isn’t the absence of self control.

Maybe it’s the slow loss of sound judgment.

For legal purposes, I will neither confirm nor deny whether I’ve ever busted the windows out anybody’s car.

What I will admit…

Is that I’ve absolutely busted some people up with my mouth.

Jazmine Sullivan sang about windows.

I’ve specialized in words.

The scary part is bruises from words don’t show up on X-rays.

I’ve said things I knew would land exactly where they would hurt the most. Sharp. Calculated. Wrapped in the excuse of, “I’m just being honest.”

No.

I was emotionally intoxicated.

There’s a difference.

James writes,

“Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires.” (James 1:19–20)

I’ve read that verse more times than I can count.

The problem wasn’t understanding it.

The problem was believing my anger was somehow the exception.

That’s the thing about emotional intoxication.

Nobody thinks they’re intoxicated while they’re intoxicated.

Anger doesn’t introduce itself as destruction.

It introduces itself as justice.

Fear introduces itself as wisdom.

Offense introduces itself as discernment.

Pride introduces itself as confidence.

Bitterness introduces itself as protection.

You don’t know you’re impaired.

You just know you’re convinced.

I honestly think emotional intoxication is one of the greatest blind spots in the Church.

We know how to recognize addictions we can see.

We don’t always recognize the ones we can feel.

Yet page after page throughout Scripture, this is exactly where the enemy attacks.

Not because emotions are sinful.

God gave us emotions.

The danger is when our emotions become unbridled and begin leading instead of following.

Peter writes,

“Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion…” (1 Peter 5:8).

I’ve always read that verse thinking about temptations outside of me.

Now I wonder how often Peter was warning us about what happens inside of us.

Because the enemy doesn’t always need to destroy us through circumstances.

Sometimes he simply waits until our emotions become loud enough to convince us that sin is reasonable.

Look at Scripture.

Moses let anger cause him to strike the rock instead of speaking to it as God commanded (Numbers 20:7–12).

Absalom allowed ambition and offense to consume him until he divided a kingdom.

Cain let jealousy become murder.

Jonah became so consumed with resentment that he argued with God.

Different people.

Different stories.

Same strategy.

Then I got to Abraham.

Or rather…

Abram.

And my first reaction was…

“What in the world are you doing?”

God literally appears to you.

Promises to bless you.

Promises to make your name great.

Promises that nations will come through you.

You leave everything in obedience.

Then the first time life gets uncomfortable…

You look at your wife and say,

“So… if anybody asks… you’re actually my sister.”

Sir…

WHAT?

You asked your wife to lie because you were afraid?

You put the woman you were called to protect in danger so you could protect yourself?

That’s insane.

I actually sat there thinking,

“I can’t believe Abraham would do something like that.”

Then the Holy Spirit did what He always does.

He ruined my ability to judge the story.

“You are Abraham.”

Ouch.

Maybe not with the exact same decisions.

But absolutely with the same pattern.

God gives me a promise.

Life gets uncomfortable.

Fear gets loud.

Then I start trying to manage what God asked me to trust.

That’s Abraham.

That’s me.

Over…

and over…

and over again.

The lie wasn’t Abraham’s greatest problem.

Fear was.

The lie was simply the symptom.

That realization wrecked me.

Because my sharp tongue isn’t actually my biggest problem.

It’s whatever happens inside of me before my mouth ever opens.

My desire to isolate isn’t the problem.

It’s whatever wound keeps convincing me isolation is safer than vulnerability.

My anger isn’t the root.

It’s the fruit of something deeper that still needs God’s healing.

One of the biggest lies I’ve believed is that my greatest problem is always outside of me.

If I keep blaming people…

I’ll never grow.

If I keep blaming my circumstances…

I’ll never change.

If I keep blaming the devil…

I’ll never ask God to deal with me.

The enemy is called the deceiver for a reason.

He’s perfectly content letting me blame everything on him if it keeps me from taking responsibility.

The devil doesn’t mind me being mad at him.

In fact, I think he prefers it.

Because while I’m busy blaming him…

I’m not asking God to transform me.

The moment I stop saying,

“The devil made me do it…”

and start praying,

“Lord… why did I respond that way?”

Everything changes.

Because healing finally has somewhere to begin.

Paul writes,

“In your anger do not sin. Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry, and do not give the devil a foothold.” (Ephesians 4:26–27)

Notice Paul doesn’t say we’ll never be angry.

He warns us not to live there.

I’ve spent enough years convincing myself this is just my personality.

I’m just passionate.

I’m just blunt.

I’m just honest.

No.

Sometimes I’ve simply been emotionally intoxicated.

I’ve realized something recently.

Emotionally intoxicated people shouldn’t be driving.

Not driving conversations.

Not driving marriages.

Not driving friendships.

Not driving leadership.

Not driving parenting.

Not driving decisions.

Not driving text messages.

Definitely not driving Facebook comments.

Just because I’m feeling something doesn’t mean that feeling deserves the steering wheel.

Feelings make wonderful passengers.

Terrible drivers.

I don’t want to become someone who knows more Scripture while remaining emotionally immature.

I want the fruit of the Spirit to become more obvious than the fruit of my wounds.

That’s going to require something from me.

Not perfection.

Sobriety.

Learning my triggers.

Repenting faster.

Apologizing quicker.

Taking responsibility sooner.

Having feelings without allowing my feelings to have me.

Because here’s what I’ve learned.

All I am is a season.

Not a diagnosis.

Not a personality.

Not a permanent version of myself.

A season.

And I intend to manage it well.

Maybe that’s what emotional sobriety really is.

Not pretending we don’t feel deeply.

Not stuffing our emotions until they eventually explode.

It’s surrendering them before they ever get behind the wheel.

Because the greatest miracle God may perform in my life won’t be removing every difficult circumstance.

It might be teaching me how to remain sober in the middle of them.