Who Am I?
“What is man that you are mindful of him, human beings that you care for them?”
~ Psalm 8:3 ~
Who am I?
I hate that question. Yet it finds me all the same. Each time I encounter it I have a different answer. Or maybe a different confidence. Or a different system of measurement.
I know it’s a question popular in today’s culture. Popular across human history, actually. Enshrined in the command at the Delphic oracle (“Know thyself”) and rehearsed by Jesus Christ himself (“Who do people say I am?”). The question haunts our common conscience, embedded, as it were, in the imago dei.
Who am I?
Unfortunately, today, I don’t know who I am. Or even who I want to be. Sure, I could offer the all-too-trivial answers. But I’m tired of all that today. Bored of that altogether.
Although, in boredom, I find my frustration boils to a point of usefulness. Lukewarm is good for nothing, but boredom is anything but. In boredom, I rage for change. Looking for something that matches meaning. Yes, at times, I fall for something masquerading as meaningful, hidden by the Shakespearean mask obscuring all the dancers at the ball. Soon enough, though, all is unveiled and my search resumes.
Who am I?
Boredom is the catalyst, but reflection is the scalpel, surgically peeling away layer by layer of mischief and meanderings. The mirror reveals me to me, taunting me with what I expected to see before actually seeing. Before reflection cast away any misgivings about who I thought I was or could be.
Reflection, though, guides me deeper than mirrors can mimic. It presses beyond the image, far past the ego, to the kernel within. The seed of God covered in garments of skin.
I know him, I think. But I don’t, I assume.
Who am I?
For a moment I catch a glimpse. Raptured by a reflection that confronts my inner critic with a contrast that is quite striking. Blubber replaced by strength; cowardice countered by confidence; doubt displaced by a smile. This is who I am. But who is this, Lord?
Prayer unveils secret places. Hidden havens with only enough room for God and the true you. The one He fashioned in the womb, the one enfleshed yet impossible to contain in a body. Prayer provides the paradox of you and the more than you present in each moment. Which can be confusing if not infuriating, because prayer as a haven is anything but safe. For its filled with the question that I can’t seem to outrun.
Who am I?
Truly. Not who I pretend to be. Not who I ought to be. Not who I want to be. Who am I?
I am selfish. Deep under the surface, believing I deserve more than I receive. Angry at the pain I endure. The injustice of it all. Regardless of privilege, I want more. Despite good gifts, I crave more. My cavernous “within” demands more of all, believing the next fix will satisfy the insatiable craving. In the end, I’m addicted to self.
Who am I?
I am worry. Concerned with what others think of me. And I hate that. But I must confess: I am. I am concerned. Each comment, each email, each criticism, real or merely perceived. I struggle with, speak back to, construct scenarios consigned to my imagination. “How will they attack me next?” I ask nervously. “Why did they attack me at all?” I inquire timidly. In the end, I’m a slave to self-protection.
Who am I?
I am self-hate. Constant criticism. Rarely constructive and hardly fair. I assault and assail without restraint. Believing, on some level, that perfection is only out of reach because I’ve not been harsh enough. “Shane, strive harder! Shane, work longer!” Not to earn anything as trivial as salvation or love. But just enough so there’s no reason for anyone to hit me or attack me. In the end, I punish myself to prevent others from doing the same.
Who am I?
I am naïve. Some say innocent, but I find that too charitable. I foolishly believe every Christian approaches life transparently. Unafraid of what others may see. Honestly seeking truth and good-will for all. My mentor rebuked me for this. “That is just not the way it works, Shane. You go into every situation and lay all of your cards on the table, but no one else in the room is doing that.” That’s stupid, I responded. Only later did I wonder if I ought to replace “That’s” with “I’m.” In the end, I’m an adult with a childish disposition.
Who am I?
I am high-maintenance. For some reason I struggle to write in the confines of my office or in small towns I’ve graced my entire life. So, I take trips seeking anonymity. Yes, at times in the edenic peace of an isolated cabin or a lake house, but especially in the anonymity offered in a large city. Boston or Chicago or New York. Wherever. Just places where you can walk for paved miles surrounded by hordes of people and yet see no one and no one truly seeing me. A passing existence where all is seen, obscuring our ability to see anything at all. In the end, I run from being seen even as I search relentlessly to belong.
Who am I?
I am spoiled. I don’t often think about how much my parents did for me. Sacrificed for me. Fought for me. Just last week my son Maddox heaved with tears, a rarity for my deep-welled son. He feels for fathoms but so far away from the surface the emotions rarely come up for air. Each syllable was choked with uncontrollable tears. Finally, he mustered enough of a cadence to say, “Dad, I see you. I know you don’t want to live here. I know how much you sacrifice for us. And I’m grateful.”
I wept.
And then I wondered: why haven’t I given my own parents this sacred gift? This precious moment of “thank you.” I’ve thought it. Resisted it. Accepted it. Just never said it. In the end, I fight more for myself than those that have loved me well.
Who am I?
I am more than I know. I think that’s the closest answer to an actual response. I am more than I know. More than I assume. More than I understand. Comprehend. Care to learn about.
I’m not made for the world I wander in, and I feel it deeply. But I don’t know where to go to find the answer to the question any more clearly. What I do know, though, is that any search for self is, at its core, a search for God. A search for the image within which we were made in the beginning.
And in the end, in the secret place that provides a heavenly haven, I meet a God who is more tender with me than I am with myself. And it’s then I wonder, “Maybe that’s who I am.”
But then again, who knows?
Love, and relate to this line, “I’m not made for the world I wander in, and I feel it deeply.”
Who am I? A question I'm familiar with. I was a small boy (now a small adult). I never really thought about it until I was a pre-teen. My image of a man was the Marlboro Man from the commercials. A tall handsome man on a horse smoking a cigarette. Not exactly a goal I could attain. With the hormones kicking in also came a mass of pimples. Needless to say, my self esteem was very low.
So, who am I, what could I possibly be. Weird is what I was as a teen. I remember sitting in the floor of a corner store with friends waiting for another friend to finish cleaning up just before the store closing. The cashier brought a friend of hers to introduce her to us. She named off the other guys and then she said "And this is a Robert Switzer". I look toward the woman. She had on high heels, A nice one piece dress, fancy glasses, and her hair was piled up on her head. She was tall, and I thought to myself, she's an Amazon, and that I wanted her. Not that I would have a chance. But I had forgot a prayer asking God to put someone in my life to love a couple of years earlier. My size, pimples, and age differences concerned her. She had been in a very abusive marriage and I was a different type of male than she had met. Five years later we were married. So for the next fifty years I knew who I was.
I'm now a widower with a daughter and her two autistic sons living with me. My who am I has changed to who am I in God? I have been leaning on God since my wife's death. A friend has led me to a wonderful men's Bible study group and their church. It has a fantastic pastor who was one of your students. I am learning a lot about myself and God. I now know that I am to be a Christian, trusting and serving God so much more than I use to.