Identity

“Your hands have made me and fashioned me” Job 10:8

Do you know who you really are?

One day, a very long time ago, my parish priest (and mentor) sent me to a gathering of church women being held in nearby Mount Vernon (Washington State). I was a seminarian, and Fr. John thought it would help me to understand ordained ministry a little better and improve my educational portfolio if I were to experience that aspect of the larger church in person.

Although we didn’t use the term “networking” back in the day, it could have been a wonderful opportunity to engage in what we referred to as schmoozing, hobnobbing, or any number of other catch-phrases that don’t quite make the cut for a family oriented newspaper.

I will confess that it wasn’t quite my cup of tea, mixing with those wonderful church-ladies. It wasn’t the conversations, as such, but feeling out of place, being only one of two men present in a hall with a hundred or so women – of whom I knew not one. I don’t do well around strangers – even wonderfully kind, courteous, and gracious strangers such as these. I’m not xenophobic, but I tend to isolate myself in noisy, crowded spaces – an introvert seeking safe harbor from a terrifying storm of good cheer.

We took our seats for the luncheon, and as fate would have it, I found myself in the company of the only other male person present, the local bishop. He sat across from me and was engaged in conversation with our table-companions – which is a good thing, as my mind had pretty much gone to Oz on holiday.

Throughout the luncheon, I noticed the good bishop glancing across the table in my direction with a quizzical look and, finally, coming to a full stop in mid-sentence, he looked me square in the eye and asked, “Who ARE you?”

I was not a woman, nor was I a priest. Although I was a seminarian, I wasn’t one of his seminarians, so he had no idea who I was and what I was doing there (and frankly, I was wondering exactly the same thing myself). He had every right to be confused, and he asked an excellent question: Who are you?

Have you ever asked that of yourself? Just who, exactly, am I?

Each of us has a notion of who we are. We use words like son/daughter, husband/wife, mother/father, friend, neighbor, or stranger – words that describe relationships (or a certain lack). We also look to our job titles for a sense of who we are: butcher, baker, or candle-stick maker.

We are not our labels, however. We are not our job descriptions, nor are we, strictly speaking, the sum of our relationships.

Sometimes people obtain their identities in terms of how others see them. Children grow up being told they are stupid, clumsy, incompetent, or ugly. Employees are told they are expendable: “You can be replaced, you know!” Even presidents are told by the opposition what they ought to do, and when they do it, they are told they’re doing it wrong.

Such craziness!

People become so wounded throughout the course of their lives that they give up on ever knowing who they really are deep down inside. They stop asking questions. They are who they are, and so they sally forth aimlessly, neither seeking nor peeking, neither dreaming nor hoping; just going through the motions and doing.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. At the risk of using an over-used and hackneyed phrase, life is a journey – a voyage of discovery. No one has to “settle.”

I will admit I am a destination junkie. When I take a trip, I have absolutely no interest in anything between start and end (except for filling stations and restrooms). I wonder what sights and experiences I’ve missed due to that particular twist of character. In my rush to get places, I may have lost my place – I may well have lost me.

I cannot retrace my steps, but I can start my journey fresh each day, and so can you. It isn’t a matter of will power, but of reflection. Do you want more of life? Look for it. Slow down and look; seeking, you may just find your place – your identity – in this, our world.