Who Do I Look Like?
“For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God.” (Colossians 3:3)
At a recent meeting of our high school coaches, our athletic director asked a question that stuck in my mind. He said, “What is your team’s identity?” Concerning our high school girls’ basketball team, I could answer that halfway. Part of who we are is clear, but part of who we have been, in my opinion, resembles a life raft floating in the ocean to wherever the wind says it’s going. That might say more about my expectations after coaching basketball for thirty years than anything else.
Either way, our AD’s question got me thinking about our Christian walk. Who do I identify with? Baptists? More specifically, American Baptists? A hybrid form of Jesus and church culture thrown into the mix? Or, do I identify with Christ? And, what does that mean?
I’ve been a church participant since I was born. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was positioned in my mom’s arms within two weeks of my entry into the world. The only time I was church-negligent was in my college years when I fell to the temptation of attending Bedside Baptist on Sunday mornings with Rev. Sheets always there to comfort the weary. I promised the Lord I’d do better next week, but my prayers of repentance disappeared from memory by the next late Saturday night. Woe was me.
Otherwise, I had been as regular in my church attendance as our postal carrier’s delivery each mail day of the unimportant Metronet ads that keep flooding our box. But, even that, doesn’t answer the question of where my identity lies.
As I creep along in the early seventies, I find that the truths of my faith seem to seep deeper into my soul. The value of my walk with Jesus has increased much more than my seat in the sanctuary. Even the times I’m asked to fill the Sunday pulpit have become more meaningful as I read the text, ponder it, and discover other people’s thoughts about it.
Understand, I don’t boast or brag about my identity with Jesus. And please don’t think I’m impervious to temptation and failure. I also can’t ignore the fact that I don’t have much tread left on these tires. Jesus just seems to be closer these days. I marvel at his wisdom and consistency. I’m amazed at his gentleness and mercy. I long to look like him and, in many ways, have people be able to see him in me. Or, better yet, see me in his shadow.
I’m not exactly sure what it is, but we don’t talk much these days about our Christian identity. It’s a bit like my high school girls’ basketball team — none of us are pretty sure what it means or what it looks like, which isn’t all bad, because how Jesus is experienced through me is uniquely different from anyone else.
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