This Is Above My Imaginary Medical License

There is something deeply comforting about believing I am the good guy.

I think that is why we love Disney movies so much. The lines are clean. The villains look villainous. Scar has the suspicious little goatee and lives in the shadows. Ursula literally has tentacles and collects souls. Jafar walks around dressed like a human red flag carrying a snake staff. Nobody had to pull Jasmine aside and whisper, “Girl… I don’t know. Something about him seems off.”

We know who to root for.

More importantly, we know who we want to be.

I want to be Jasmine, refusing to be controlled and discovering a whole new world. I want to be Simba, finally remembering who I am. I’ll even take Aladdin. A little dishonest in the beginning, sure, but charming, redeemable and accompanied by Robin Williams.

Nobody watches The Lion King and thinks, “You know what? Scar made some points.”

Nobody finishes The Little Mermaid identifying with Ursula.

Nobody is sitting cross-legged in front of Aladdin thinking, “Jafar is really speaking to me in this season.”

We naturally place ourselves among the heroes because there is something in me that wants to believe that if something is wrong in the story, surely somebody else is responsible for it.

That works beautifully with Disney.

It gets considerably more uncomfortable with the Bible.

Because Scripture has this incredibly disrespectful habit of refusing to let me remain the protagonist.

Monday and Tuesday, I had been studying Ahab and Jezebel. I was looking at influence, manipulation, tolerance, boundaries and what happens when unhealthy patterns are permitted to operate unchecked. There was plenty to examine. Plenty to underline. Plenty to recognize in relationships, experiences and people I have encountered.

Then somewhere in the middle of all my discernment, God essentially slid the mirror across the table.

Oh.

We’re looking at me now.

Apparently I was not studying Jezebel so I could become exceptionally skilled at finding her in everybody else.

Apparently there was going to be a practical exam.

And my name was on it.

That is when this study stopped being fascinating and started bleeding.

Because before I get too comfortable talking about the spirit influencing Jezebel, I have to be willing to ask an absolutely horrifying question:

What has been influencing me?

What happens when fear gets access to my love?

What happens when abandonment gets access to my relationships?

What happens when disappointment gets access to my prayers?

What happens when control puts on a church hat, grabs a Bible and starts calling itself discernment?

What happens when manipulation sounds so reasonable in my own head that I genuinely believe I am doing the right thing?

I mean Jezebel did not wake up every morning, stretch, drink her coffee and say, “Another beautiful day to become biblically infamous.”

When I talk about a “Jezebel spirit,” I am not talking about Jezebel herself somehow floating around possessing every strong woman somebody finds inconvenient. Jezebel was a person. What I am examining is the ungodly influence evidenced through her behavior: manipulation, control, intimidation, deception and accomplishing desired outcomes through unrighteous means.

Before I get high and mighty about Jezebel, I have to admit something that makes me incredibly uncomfortable:

There have been seasons when people could have known me for the same kinds of things I am condemning in her.

There are things I have done that could have become what people knew me for.

There are reactions that could have become my reputation.

There are decisions that could have become my identity.

There are versions of me that God covered while He cleaned me.

That one humbles me.

Because sometimes God’s covering was not confirmation that I was right.

It was mercy while I was wrong.

God corrected things privately that could have humiliated me publicly. He gave me space to repent before certain behaviors hardened into character. He loved me through versions of myself I would be horrified to have permanently attached to my name.

So I have to be careful reducing another human being to the worst thing they have ever done when God has graciously refused to do that to me.

Suddenly the question was no longer:

“God, where is Jezebel?”

It became:

“God… where is Jezebel in me?”

Whew.

And apparently the first witness God called to the stand was my own heart.

Jeremiah 17:9 says:

“The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?”

That verse has become increasingly offensive the older I get because I really would like to believe my heart is a reliable narrator.

It is not.

My heart is basically a dark alley on a freezing night beside an abandoned building with one flickering streetlight.

And I am apparently standing at the entrance saying, “Seems safe.”

No, ma’am.

My heart can feel something deeply and still be wrong.

My heart can sincerely believe something and still be deceived.

My heart can justify something because I am hurt.

My heart can turn fear into wisdom, control into concern, resentment into discernment, avoidance into boundaries and manipulation into “I’m just trying to communicate.”

That is why one of the most common Christian phrases suddenly sounds very different to me:

“God knows my heart.”

We usually say that like we just presented Exhibit A for the defense.

“Well, God knows my heart.”

Yes.

That might be the problem.

God knowing my heart does not automatically vindicate me.

Sometimes it indicts me.

He knows what I meant, absolutely.

He also knows what I refuse to admit I meant.

He knows where I genuinely love.

He also knows where love got contaminated by fear.

He knows where I wanted to help.

He also knows where “helping” became controlling.

He knows where I was wounded.

He also knows where I used my wound as permission to wound somebody else.

He knows my heart better than I do, which means “God knows my heart” should probably make me more humble, not less accountable.

Because according to Jeremiah, I cannot even fully trust my own assessment of myself.

That means I need God to tell me what is happening inside me.

And when I started looking, I realized some Jezebel-like tendencies show up first in the relationship I consider most sacred.

My relationship with God.

I negotiate with Him.

A lot.

I have negotiated with God so many times that if Heaven operated on commission, I would have earned somebody a quarterly bonus.

“God, if You do this, I’ll…”

“God, if You give me this, then I promise…”

“God, if You get me out of this, I will NEVER _____ again.”

Ma’am.

How many emergency-room prayers have I prayed from situations I voluntarily walked into?

“If You get me out of this relationship…”

“If You fix this situation…”

“If You make this consequence disappear…”

“If You let this work out…”

“I swear I’ll never do it again.”

Then God gets me through it and suddenly my contractual obligations become remarkably fuzzy.

Because apparently I thought prayer was a hostage negotiation.

It is not.

God is not negotiating His sovereignty with me.

Obedience does not come with a counteroffer.

I cannot tell God, “I will obey You if You produce the outcome I prefer.”

That is not obedience.

That is a transaction.

Even partial obedience is still disobedience when God gave the whole instruction.

I have prayed, “Your will be done,” while silently hoping His will had read my proposal first.

I have surrendered with terms and conditions.

I have tried to manipulate the One who already knows what I am going to say before I say it.

Which is honestly embarrassing when I think about it.

Imagine trying to out-negotiate omniscience.

Yet it goes deeper than my relationship with God.

Because whatever lives in my heart eventually leaks into how I love people.

Especially family.

Sometimes control looks loud.

Sometimes it is completely silent.

Silence can become punishment.

Affection can become currency.

Distance can become leverage.

Guilt can become a tool.

I can withhold something emotionally because I want another person to feel what I felt.

I can know exactly where somebody is weak and press there because I know what response it will produce.

I can convince myself I am simply “making my point.”

Meanwhile I am exploiting vulnerability.

That is manipulation.

Sometimes I can be so convinced that I know what is best for somebody I love that I stop loving them and start managing them.

I can try to control choices because I am afraid of what will happen if I do not.

I can call that protection.

God may call it fear.

I can try to prevent people from making mistakes because watching them fall terrifies me, forgetting that God somehow managed to let me make plenty of mine and still remained God.

I am not the Holy Spirit.

That position has been filled.

Then there are friendships.

Friendship should be built on love, truth and mutual support, yet hurt can make me emotionally withdraw without communicating why.

I can go quiet.

Become distant.

Pull affection.

Then internally decide, “If they cared, they would know.”

Know HOW?

Did Gabriel deliver a memo?

Because apparently everyone I love was issued prophetic discernment and I missed orientation.

Sometimes what I call protecting myself is actually me punishing somebody without giving them the dignity of knowing they are on trial.

That bleeds.

Because I have been hurt.

Deeply.

I know abandonment.

I know grief.

I know what it feels like when somebody you thought would stay does not.

I know what loss can teach a person about gripping things tightly.

And sometimes the behaviors that once helped me survive can become the behaviors that damage the people I am trying to love.

Fear of abandonment can make me controlling.

Fear of rejection can make me withdraw first.

Fear of being powerless can make me manipulate outcomes.

Fear of being hurt can make me withhold vulnerability.

None of that means my pain was imaginary.

It means pain can explain behavior without excusing it.

That may be the bloodiest part for me.

I can understand why I became something and still have to repent for becoming it.

Because Jezebel genuinely appears to have cared about Ahab.

In 1 Kings 21, Ahab comes home upset because Naboth will not give him his vineyard. He is sulking, lying on his bed, refusing to eat because another grown man told the king no.

Then here comes Jezebel.

And honestly?

She is giving very much:

“My man, my man, my man.”

Her man wants a vineyard?

Well, her man is getting a vineyard.

“Is this how you act as king over Israel? Get up and eat! Cheer up. I’ll get you the vineyard of Naboth the Jezreelite.”

Baby said, “Not MY man upset over some grapes. Move. I got it.”

Except Naboth’s vineyard was not hers to get.

And what looks on the surface like a woman riding for her husband becomes manipulation, abuse of authority, false witnesses and ultimately the murder of an innocent man.

That is what makes it so uncomfortable.

Jezebel may have believed she was helping Ahab.

She saw the man she loved hurting and decided she would fix it.

“My man, my man, my man.”

Except love does not sanctify the method.

Loyalty does not make wickedness righteous.

Riding for somebody does not mean I get to run everybody else over.

Sometimes what I call supporting somebody is actually enabling them.

Sometimes what I call defending somebody is helping them avoid accountability.

Sometimes “my man, my man, my man” needs to become:

“Baby, you were wrong.”

Because Ahab did not need a vineyard.

Ahab needed accountability.

And Jezebel loved him in a way that gave him what he wanted instead of confronting what was wrong.

Whew.

That terrifies me a little because it means I cannot use “I love them” as evidence that everything I do to them or for them is loving.

My intentions do not sanctify my methods.

I can love somebody and still control them.

I can love somebody and still manipulate them.

I can love somebody and still enable them.

I can love somebody and still punish them emotionally.

I can love somebody and still be unhealthy toward them.

I can love somebody and need to repent for the way I have loved them.

Which leaves me with a prayer I do not particularly enjoy praying:

“Lord, show me my heart.”

Not their heart.

Mine.

Show me where I am the villain.

Show me where fear has become control.

Show me where pain has become punishment.

Show me where concern has become manipulation.

Show me where boundaries have become walls.

Show me where silence has become a weapon.

Show me where loyalty has become enabling.

Show me where “my man, my man, my man” has made me defend something You were trying to correct.

Show me where I am asking You to change somebody else because looking at myself would require more surrender.

Show me where I have been wrong even when I had a very convincing explanation for why I was right.

Because I cannot grade myself.

I cannot take the exam, write the answer key, grade the paper and then congratulate myself for passing.

I need God.

I need self-examination.

I need repentance when He shows me something.

I need accountability when my “yes” develops fine print.

I need proximity to Him because I cannot perform heart surgery on myself.

Ezekiel 36:26 says:

“I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you.”

Notice who is performing the operation.

God.

Which is slightly disappointing because I have watched Grey’s Anatomy for approximately 21 years and personally believe I should have received some continuing education credits by now.

I know what a crash cart is.

I know when somebody needs one of epi.

I know somebody should probably page cardio.

And we ALL know that if Derek Shepherd would have gotten that CT scan, he would still be alive.

I am not accepting questions at this time.

Twenty-one years of medical television education notwithstanding, spiritually speaking, I am still not the cardiothoracic surgeon.

God is.

I am merely the scrub nurse.

And honestly, some days I probably should not even be touching the instruments.

God is the Surgeon.

My responsibility is surrender.

I cannot climb onto the operating table, crack open my own chest and start rearranging ventricles because I watched Cristina Yang do it.

I have to hand Him the heart.

The actual one.

Not the church heart.

Not the Instagram heart.

Not the cleaned-up heart.

Not the “God knows my heart” heart I present when I want Him to cosign my behavior.

This one.

The deceptive one.

The frightened one.

The controlling one.

The grieving one.

The loving one.

The angry one.

The one still terrified of abandonment.

The one that sometimes grips people because losing them feels unbearable.

The one that sometimes withdraws because leaving first feels safer than being left.

The one that negotiates because surrender means relinquishing control.

The one that has loved deeply and still loved incorrectly.

Here.

Take it.

Cut wherever You need to cut.

Because maybe repentance is not God humiliating me by showing me Jezebel-like tendencies.

Maybe repentance is God loving me enough not to let those tendencies become my identity.

There are things people could have known me for that God covered while He corrected me.

There are versions of me that received mercy before they became permanent.

There are patterns He exposed privately before they destroyed something publicly.

There are things He let bleed so they could finally heal correctly.

That means I cannot spend all my time identifying Jezebel across the table while God is trying to remove Jezebel-like patterns from the woman sitting in my chair.

I cannot keep praying, “God, deal with them,” while dodging the scalpel when He says, “Baby, I need to deal with you too.”

So maybe the prayer is no longer:

“God, remove Jezebel from my life.”

Maybe it is:

“God, remove Jezebel from me.”

Remove every place where love became control.

Every place where fear became manipulation.

Every place where hurt became punishment.

Every place where silence became leverage.

Every place where loyalty became enabling.

Every place where prayer became negotiation.

Every place where obedience became conditional.

Every place where “God knows my heart” became an excuse protecting the very thing You were trying to heal.

Because He does know my heart.

And somehow, that is no longer my defense.

It is my hope.

The Surgeon knows exactly where the damage is.

He knows what happened to me.

He knows what I did because of what happened to me.

He knows which parts need comfort.

He knows which parts need correction.

He knows where I need grace.

He knows where I need accountability.

He knows where I was the victim.

He knows where I became the villain.

And the Gospel is big enough to meet me in every character.

So today I am not asking God to show me everybody else’s pathology.

I am climbing onto the table.

I am handing Him the chart.

I am relinquishing my imaginary medical license despite 21 years of Grey’s Anatomy training.

And I am saying:

“Create in me a clean heart, O God.”

Because sometimes I am Ahab.

Sometimes I am Jezebel.

Sometimes I am the wounded one.

Sometimes I am the one doing the wounding.

Sometimes I need someone to understand what happened to me.

Sometimes I need someone to hold me accountable for what I did with what happened to me.

I am learning that both can be true.

Thank God the Gospel has room for every version of me.

Thank God grace covered me while He cleaned me.

And thank God He loves me far too much to leave my heart the way He found it.