Identities: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

I’ll be honest; I want to be a grump. It’s kind of my dream to hole up somewhere with a window, a bed, and a pad of paper and basically become a cantankerous old man (my friends have been calling me an old man since I was 21). I’d write all day, drink strong tea, get acclaimed (by the right literary communities), and function on my own terms. Were this confluence of events to occur, my eccentricities would be viewed as quirks rather than antisocial tendencies; my desire for pattern and routine would be a quaint author’s note rather than symptoms of endemic pride.

We all have identities that we adopt to excuse our behaviors. Though they may be rooted in our distinct personalities, we so often use them to justify our selfish ambitions. How often do we hear someone referred to as a “driven person” when what they really want to say is that they’re inconsiderate? I know that I will over-emphasize my need for “alone” time when I don’t’ really want to bother engaging with others. I can’t begin to explain how many days I come home from work dejected or read the news and my only desire is to drive off, abandon human civilization, and begin a new life deep in the forest.

The life of the believer is to be one defined by a pattern of imitating Christ. If I am to emulate the habits and behaviors demonstrated in the life of Jesus then I must be willing to sacrifice all of my life including my personality and preferences. Of course, we are not meant to become automatons devoid of personality (we are created uniquely in Christ’s image, after all) but we must also be willing to lay everything, our habits and our preferences on the altar. In our lives we acquire many identities but none of them should trump our service to Christ.

“Do nothing from selfishness or empty conceit, but with humility of mind regard one another as more important than yourselves; do not merely look out for your own personal interests, but also for the interests of others. Have this attitude in yourselves which was also in Christ Jesus,”

“I count all things to be loss in view of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord,”

Jesus’ example is one of self-denial for the sake of the Father’s will. If we are to be His disciples, then we too, must deny ourselves to take on Christ. My desire to retreat from society must be brought in subjection to Christ’s command to go out into all the world and make disciples of all nations. My selfish desires must be abandoned in putting on that attitude of Him who made Himself nothing when He deserved to be everything.

In truth I sometimes feel like an old man. Yet in my behavior I display all the reckless conceit of a child. If I am to progress toward complete sanctification I (and all of us) must lay down everything for the sake of Him who called me: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

What Will You Remember of Me?

This evening I indulged in a pleasure that I wish were more a part of my regular existence: I finished my evening sitting in front of a crackling fire in my fireplace. With my feet warming on a stool, my eyes pass over the bookshelves lining the walls. My attention is drawn to a simple wood carving of a bald eagle. Having just seen this very animal earlier in the day I am aware of the many ways in which the carving differs from the real thing. The eye is too perfectly round. The beak too curved. One of its talons is twisted unnaturally. Its feet rest upon a of piece driftwood which has been broken and hastily reassembled.

Yet the eagle sits upon my shelf overlooking the expanse of my living room not for its perfection but for its creator. The figure was carved by my grandfather, now departed. It is for that reason that this figure is more than a sum of its parts. It remains a physical memory of his life and effort. As I ponder these things I am reminded of how few tokens of his life I possess. In fact, my memories of his life are far fewer that I would like. I can already feel my own memories of him slipping into the fog of history. What do I truly have that encapsulates this man’s life? What will be remembered of him?

My thoughts, as if bidden by an unseen oarsman are swiftly swept onto my own existence. What will be remembered of me? It is the question that plagues Man with a doggedness only equaled by the certainty of his own mortality. Our days are like a vapor. Our flesh is like grass. Here today and gone tomorrow. What will become of us? What will become of me?

Even in the limited sphere of my life I ponder what of me will remain. My daughter, now nearly two, what would she remember of me if I were to vanish from this earth? Would I be a mere carving on the mantelpiece to her? Would she remember the way I yelled at her when she poured a drink on the floor? Would she remember the times I was too occupied by some pointless news story to sit down and play with her? Would she remember my worries and anxieties; the way the weaknesses and sins of my past haunted me? What of my doubts and fear? My grumbling and complaining? What memories am I making for her? What kind of legacy am I leaving?

Paul sets a mighty example for us when he writes to “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say rejoice! Let your gentle spirit be known to all men. The Lord is near. Be anxious for nothing; but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

Will this be my legacy? Will I be known by my trust in the Lord or by my doubting? How am I building my legacy? On the presupposition of my own efforts? Or am I building it upon the character of the Lord? My own efforts will fail. I should know that by now. My own projects, as successful as they might seem, are but a passing wind, lost very quickly to the swiftness of time. What will remain? The Lord only. My only legacy is in Him and in my trust in Him. Will my daughter see that in me? Will she in my life the majesty of my Creator? Could she discern from the memory of me the character of God? As I rest my eyes this night, the question resonates: what will she remember of me?