The life we are trying to manage, improve, and secure is not something to be mastered. It is something to be surrendered. And this is where everything changes. Because in Christ, the approval we are seeking has already been spoken.
In the movie Whiplash, J.K. Simmons plays an abusive and controlling jazz instructor, Terence Fletcher. There’s a moment at the end that feels like relief; it’s a moment of joy in what is an otherwise heavy film. Andrew Neiman, played by Miles Teller, returns to the stage after being blindsided and humiliated by Fletcher. He takes control of the performance, drives the tempo, and launches into a blistering solo. Fletcher, who has spent the entire film breaking him down, finally gives a subtle nod of approval. No words are spoken, but the silence says it all.
Andrew has arrived. He has proven himself to the man who has been so cruel to him, but through all the abuse he still wants his approval. It looks like triumph for Andrew, but somehow it doesn’t feel like freedom. Because what the film shows us is not just extraordinary musical skill. It illustrates what total surrender looks like, not to something good, but to something consuming. Andrew hasn’t escaped Fletcher’s control; he has simply internalized it. The voice that once stood over him now lives inside him. The standard is no longer something outside of him; it has become the driving force of his life. And that’s what makes the ending so unsettling. You’re left holding a tension: admiration for what Andrew has achieved, and discomfort at what it cost him to get there.
We tend to admire stories like that because they reflect something deep in us. We all want control not just over our circumstances, but over ourselves. Over who we are, who we become, and how we are seen. We want to believe that with enough effort, discipline, and sacrifice, we can take hold of our lives and make them into something meaningful. In that sense, Andrew isn’t strange. He’s familiar because he is all of us.
We are control freaks, addicted to the idea that we can dictate the outcome of our life. But think about what little control we have over some of the most important things in life: our gender, our parents, the environment we grow up in, certain aspects of our health, our personality, and a host of other things we don’t choose or control. They are just given to us without permission.
What the film exposes is something we rarely say out loud: we are not just people who struggle with control, we are addicted to it. We want to manage our lives, shape our identity, and secure our worth. And when we can’t, we don’t give up control, we just tighten our grip. One of the most subtle ways we try to control our lives is by seeking the approval of others. If we can earn enough admiration, affirmation, or praise, we imagine we can finally secure our worth. We may not be able to control our circumstances, but perhaps we can control how people perceive us. And if enough of the right people approve of us, maybe we can finally quiet the question that haunts us: Am I enough?
In Whiplash Andrew Neiman isn't really chasing musical excellence. He's chasing approval. He believes that if he can finally earn Fletcher's admiration, the restless question inside him will finally be settled. In that sense, his obsession isn't all that different from our own. For me, this quest started early. While I have a wonderful mother who did the absolute best she could, my biological father was completely absent, and the stepfather who raised me was distant and mostly uninvolved. There wasn’t a steady male voice of affirmation, not in the way a young boy longs for it. And so, without really realizing it, I spent much of my life looking for that voice somewhere else.
It showed up in different places over the years. A neighbor’s dad I respected. My Ag and FFA teacher in high school. My youth pastor who was the first man I truly felt loved by. Professors in college. Older pastors I worked under. Each of them, in different ways, became someone I looked to not just for guidance or mentorship, but for validation. I wanted them to see me, to affirm me, to say, in one way or another, “I’m proud of you.” Sometimes they did, but it was never enough. The acceptance, love, and approval of an older man became a drug I didn’t realize I had become addicted to. Because what I was really looking for wasn’t encouragement, it was something final. I was looking for something that would settle the question, "Am I enough?", once and for all. And that is not a question any human being can answer for us.
While I wish I had a present father who gave me affection, spoke words of affirmation, and taught me things with patience and love, the reality is that I didn’t. No amount of wishful thinking or bitterness will change that in any meaningful way. I don’t get to control it. This isn’t to minimize the importance of having a father or discount the lifelong difficulties not having one can bring. Children need fathers. They need attention, affirmation, correction, and care. Those things are good and necessary. But even the best father cannot carry the weight we often place on him. Because what we are ultimately asking for is not just guidance but justification. We are asking someone to tell us who we are and why we matter. And when we seek that from other people, we will never find what we’re looking for. Even when we get the approval we want, it’s fleeting and like any drug it always has us seeking more. When we don’t find the approval we crave, we are crushed by its absence and begin to resent everyone around us. Either way, we are still controlled by it. This is the illusion, the mirage that promises satisfaction, fulfillment, and peace but leaves us grasping at sand.
We imagine we are gaining control of our lives by seeking approval, and attempting to dictate how people perceive us. But in reality, we are becoming more anxious, more dependent, and more bound. What we thought would set us free actually imprisons us further. Because now our sense of self rises and falls based on something we cannot secure or sustain. Attempting to manage people’s thoughts about us is an exercise in futility. There is freedom in the recognition that, while we might believe people think negatively about us, the reality is that they really are not thinking of us at all.
The need for approval is not the only way our addiction to control reveals itself. Once you begin to recognize it, you start seeing it everywhere. Recently, I was riding in the car with my wife and found myself micromanaging her driving. She reminded me—rightly—that she has been driving for over 30 years and doesn’t need my help. In that moment, what seemed harmless was actually revealing something deeper. It wasn’t about driving. It was about control. And underneath that control was something even deeper. It was the need to be right, the need to be secure, and the need to feel in control of my world. Another way I see this need for control is in my constant desire to ensure that everyone around me is happy, as if I am the dispenser of happiness and people’s emotions depend upon me. It’s exhausting for me and frustrating for the people in my life.
We’re all addicted to something. For some, it’s a substance. For others, it’s a screen. But for all of us, at the root, it’s this: the need to be in control. We just manifest it differently. Addictions—whether to substances, sex, or money—often provide the illusion of control. We believe we are steering our own pleasure and happiness, when, in fact, the addiction is the one in control, slowly dictating our choices and, ultimately, our identities. And the gospel speaks directly into that. Not by giving us a better method of control but by calling us to give it up entirely. “Whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it” (Matt. 16:25).
The life we are trying to manage, improve, and secure is not something to be mastered. It is something to be surrendered. And this is where everything changes. Because in Christ, the approval we are seeking has already been spoken. Before Jesus does anything—before He teaches, heals, or performs—the voice of the Father speaks: “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased” (Matt. 3:17). The Father’s pleasure preceded Jesus’ performance. It was not earned; it was given. And in Christ, that same word is now spoken over you. Not because you have proven yourself. Not because you have achieved something. But because Christ has given Himself for you. His righteousness is yours. His standing before the Father is yours. The approval you have been chasing has already been declared, not by another person, but by God Himself.
This means the search can end. You no longer have to perform to be seen. You no longer have to strive for approval. You no longer have to look to others to tell you who you are. Because the answer has already been given. And that is what finally breaks the illusion of control. Because you are no longer trying to secure your life, you are free to lose it.
This is the Christian life. A life that begins with death. And then new life comes not from within, but from outside of you. A life you no longer have to pretend to control but one that is kept by a Father who loves you and has given His Son to do for you what you could never do for yourself. “For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God” (Col. 3:3).
