Chapter 7

Owning My New Identity

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Remember at the end of high school when they announce the people who are “Most Likely to _________”? Then they fill in the blanks with things like, “Most Likely to Succeed,” “Most Likely to Stay Single,” “Most Likely to Become Famous.” You get the point here.

I never received any of those “Most Likely to . . .” awards in high school, but I can only imagine what I would have received if they’d given me one. As I told you before, my identity in high school was squeaky clean. Sure, I did things I shouldn’t have done, but nothing worse than any of my other friends were doing. It wasn’t like I was leading the tribe in sneaking out and getting drunk; I was just one of the many people doing it. The nice, church-girl, overachiever image was enough to counterbalance everything.

So my “Most Likely” would have consisted of super normal things: “Most Likely to Get Married Early,” “Most Likely to Become a Teacher,” “Most Likely to Become a Mom.” Yet on the inside my identity was in shambles. I knew I wasn’t “likely” to do any of those things. And as I worked my way through college, the predictions would only have gotten worse: “Most Likely to Get Divorced,” “Most Likely to Get a Disease,” “Most Likely to Get Pregnant.” (Well, that one actually did happen, but thankfully not the others.)

If we’re not careful, our whole identity can become wrapped up in what other people think we’re supposed to be or what we think we’re supposed to do. Perhaps today, for example, you’re basing your identity on something as fresh and recent as how you acted last night and what somebody said to you or accused you of. Or you’re finding your identity in the mom you want to be, or the mom you hate that you are. Maybe you’re finding your identity in the job you have, or the job you wish you had but can’t seem to get hired for.

Maybe you find part of your identity in what you did this summer, or what you wish you’d done this summer, compared to what everybody else was doing (and bragging about doing). Maybe you find your identity in the ministries you perform at church and how people perceive your “Christian” standing because of it. Maybe you find your identity in your passions, in your body mass index, in your checkbook balance, in your home décor choices, or whatever other kinds of indicators seem to measure your worth and success as a person. We are constantly finding our identity from everything around us, from everywhere we go, and from everything people say and think about who we are or who we should be.

But this is not who we are. And we always need to remember that.

A few years ago, one of my kids came home from school, super down about his day. He just wasn’t his chipper self when I picked him up. And when we arrived home, he went straight to his room and wanted to be alone. I feel this way myself sometimes, so I gave him his space. But when I circled back around to see him later that night, he started to unfold the story for me.

He told me how during the day, some kids at school had been talking about all those “Most Likely to . . .” categories, and his friends announced they had voted him “Most Likely to Lose at Arm Wrestling.” My first inclination was to laugh. From my vantage point as an adult, of course, being known as the best arm wrestler in third grade doesn’t mean much. But I held back my giggles because I could see this insult had been a real blow to my son’s nine-year-old heart, because his friends had made him sad . . . and “because I’m strong,” he told me.

“I know you are,” I said, pulling my sweet boy close to me, hugging him. Now, I didn’t do the “my kid’s better than your kid” thing by telling him he was stronger than everybody else. I also didn’t tell him his friends were stupid and that I’d beat them all up if he wanted me to. (Although I did think that!) I just whispered into his ear, telling him he was a child of God whose identity was already secured, and that his identity in Christ is the only identity he ever needs to be worried about. He didn’t need to be devastated or heartbroken over what his friends were saying, because that identity never matters.

And I wonder if that’s not what our Father wants to do when we come home from another day of combat, with all those false identities screaming in our head. Can’t you just hear Him coming close and saying, “My sweet daughter, those thoughts you’re thinking are not true. Remember My promises to you? My Word is true. You know this. You are a child of Mine. You are a new creation. I have made you alive with Christ, and I have chosen you to be My daughter so that I can do great things through you.”

Over and over I’ve needed Him to whisper these truths to me—through His Word, through His Spirit, through my community. And if past (and current) history are any indication, I feel pretty sure I’ll be struggling to believe it until the day I take my final breath on this earth, until I’m face-to-face with Jesus. Of the numerous things in my life that I battle nearly every single day, remembering my identity is one of them. It’s been that way from an early age, as I imagine it’s probably been for you.

When Aaron and I got married, I was still a complete mess about my identity. All those memories of guilt, all those memories of my shortcomings, all those memories of my sin—they all came back to haunt me. Even with my whole future ahead of me, even with everything God had done to chase me down and rescue me from the path I’d been following for so long, my past was still what I thought defined me. Therefore, despite my husband’s love for me, I couldn’t seem to shake those thoughts of being defiled, unlovable, unclean, and disgusting. At my lowest points, I even wondered if Aaron ever thought those words about me.

And goodness sakes, this whole “pastor’s wife” title, while a wonderful thing to be—well, you can imagine why this was problematic for me. How in the world could I be married to a pastor? I was constantly wondering what people would think of me if they truly knew what I’d been through the past few years. Would people be asking if someone like me could actually serve God? Would they trust me as a true Christian? I mean, do “real” Christians get pregnant by someone who’s not even their boyfriend when they’re supposedly committed to following Jesus?

For some reason, I felt as though being a pastor’s wife came with certain iron-clad requirements. It wasn’t just given to you; you had to earn it. Only the best Christian women in the church could marry a pastor, and I didn’t feel anywhere close to that. I was still under the skewed impression that being a leader meant you were better than others, that if you really loved God, you never messed up. And I’d messed up a lot. In fact, Satan, and the lies of my heart, had spent many years convincing me that I was worse than anyone else, that my failures were so grand that people would never be able to see past them.

So how had I ever ended up in this “pastor’s wife” camp? I felt so inadequate for it.

But let me just clear the air really quick for all of you who may be wondering. Pastor’s wives are real people. They lose their temper just like you do. They go to the bathroom just like you do. They cry in movies just like you do. They get jealous just like you do. They get promotions just like you do. They’ve probably even let a curse word slip out of their mouth a time or two, just like . . . well, maybe that’s not like you, but then again, maybe it is. Pastor’s wives are normal people, just like you. And if you’re in a church that creates a culture of putting its leaders on a pedestal, where they’re better than the rest of the church, I ask you to question how it’s affecting people who walk into your church feeling broken, in need of love and acceptance, and already not feeling good enough to receive it. For while God’s Word does say that leaders and teachers are held to a higher standard, I’m also a firm believer that leaders of churches should be vulnerable with their people. No one should be left wondering if those in positions of spiritual authority are above having any struggles. If the leaders of your church have never admitted to sin struggles from their platforms, you might need to find some new leaders. I despise the day that I ever quit admitting my own need for a Savior. My wretched heart is still so prone to wonder.

Okay, getting off soap box now. Let’s carry on.

I knew in my head that I was forgiven, that Jesus had taken on my sin, and that I was a new creation. But I struggled so much to truly believe it. I carried so much shame around for the first few years of our marriage, shame that took years for me to untangle. I told you earlier about the “pins” I felt destined to wear, and that if anyone knew of them all, I would surely be discredited. So I was determined to be such a good person that no one would suspect all these badges I continued to pin on my chest. If only I was good enough, I thought, no one would know—which, for me, meant respecting my husband as humbly as I could, going to as many Bible studies as possible, working on all the teams I served on, not drinking alcohol or doing any of the other crazy things I’d done in my past. All I needed to do was keep being good, keep trying to get everyone else to have a good opinion of me. I was always fishing for a better identity than the one I carried around in my heart and mind, based on how well I was performing as pastor’s wife Jamie—trying so hard to be good, while constantly thinking that people thought the worst of me.

But over time, God began to reveal Himself to me in ways I’d never been willing to accept. He allowed me to believe things about myself that I had not been believing before. I finally started to learn that my identity is not skewed because of all the things I’ve done or haven’t done, but is secured by all the things Jesus has done (as well as by what He hasn’t done, like condemn and reject me). My identity is only what it is today—a daughter of the King—because of Jesus. It has nothing to do with me.

So I’m not “most likely to” anything anymore, in terms of who I am in Christ. “Most likely” has been replaced by absolute assurance that I am loved and cherished by my heavenly Father, despite all that He knows of me. And when I finally began believing this truth—that God could use a broken, messed-up person like me (yes, even a broken, messed-up pastor’s wife) for His glory—I could finally breathe a sigh of relief. That’s when things really started to change for me.

I know it can be the same for you.

You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light. Once you were not a people, but now you are God’s people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy. (1 Pet. 2:9–10)

God’s Word says some amazing things about us—that we are chosen, loved, equipped, made worthy. Once we were a bunch of nobodies, but now we are children of God. Not just children of God, but a “royal priesthood.”

This is one of my all-time favorite elements of our identity. Priests were essential throughout the Old Testament in helping people experience their relationship with Almighty God. The priests came from a certain family line, having been chosen from among the entire nation for this special office, able to petition and offer sacrifices for the atonement of the people’s sins. Nobody else could do this. Being holy and set apart was part of their identity. And today, because of what Christ, our great High Priest, has done for us in the sacrifice of Himself, everyone who’s a child of God is now a full-fledged member of His “royal priesthood”—not because of anything we’ve earned or accomplished, but simply because that’s who God declares us to be.

And notice this. Among the reasons for why He’s set us up as royal priests is so we can “proclaim [His] excellencies.” Now, if this new identity we held was based on our own efforts, if it wasn’t based solely on the broad shoulders “of him who called [us] out of darkness into his marvelous light,” the main way we would show His greatness would be through doing good things, from doing all the right things. And while His beauty does come shining through us when we trust and obey Him, we actually proclaim His excellencies the loudest when we tell people how we used to be in darkness, how He brought us into the light, and how He continues to love and pursue us even when we fail.

I didn’t get that for years. I thought I was still building my identity. I thought I was still overcoming my past, constantly playing catch-up in order to compensate for it, always needing to prove—to God, to others, and even to myself—that I was good enough to belong, especially with all my baggage. But when we are finding our identity in anything other than Jesus Christ, we are setting ourselves up for failure every single time. We are leading ourselves down the old, familiar pathway of . . .

Shame.

Ugh. Let’s talk about shame. Mind if we talk about shame?

I’m guessing you don’t mind if we do, because shame is where so many of us have walked (and continue to walk). Perhaps you’re one, in fact, who’s kind of given up hope of ever being able to walk anywhere else than in shame, without its clouds and shadows hanging over you.

I’m afraid I’m way more familiar with shame than I’d like to be. According to Webster’s dictionary, shame is “a painful emotion caused by consciousness of guilt, shortcoming, or impropriety.” Shame is what hits us when we remember things we didn’t do well, places where we fell short of measuring up. The memory of it—the “consciousness of guilt”—is what brings shame on. And let me tell you, if you don’t already know it yourself from firsthand experience, it is suffocating.

If the Enemy had his way, shame is what we’d all take on as our identity. All the things we think about ourselves, all the things we’ve done, all the things we haven’t done, all the things we worry that others are seeing and concluding about us—all of it would become blended together into what we’d naturally define as our identity.

But let me shoot a little straight with you here, because I think this is something we all need to hear, myself included. As believers and followers of God, here’s our identity: We are women who are being cleansed, changed, and “conformed to the image of his Son” (Rom. 8:29), so that we look more like Him every day. We are daughters of the living God, covered in Christ’s righteousness, set apart for His own wise and merciful purposes. “Even as he chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him” (Eph. 1:4). This is our identity. And what prideful people we are whenever we put our own shameful thoughts about ourselves above the thoughts that our loving heavenly Father has said He thinks about us.

The death of shame in our lives is tied to believing that His view of us is greater than the world’s view of us, and especially greater than our own view of ourselves and of our sin. We must stop creating our own identity based on our past or other people’s perceptions, and start walking out the identity that Christ has given us. You are not defined by your marital status, your mothering status, your online status, or any other status, but only by your eternally secure status as a CHILD OF GOD.

Edward Welch, author of Shame Interrupted, says, “To be human is to experience shame, but to be human is also to hope. The ashamed person doesn’t want to remain unclean forever, and he or she doesn’t have to.”6

Because Jesus has given us a whole new identity.

Each week at the jail with the women we serve there, our time begins with someone sharing from God’s Word. Our love for them is so deep that we crave for them to trust Him with their lives. Whether while gathered there in the room with us or in the stillness of their bunk after hours, we pray they’ll decide to follow Him with all their hearts. It’s our biggest desire for them.

Recently we were circled up in the group discussing boundaries, and—as is almost always the case, no matter what we’re talking about—the subject drifted to these girls’ aspirations of being loved and wanted. It’s amazing to watch these needs surface during every single conversation we share with them. To say I don’t understand why this happens would be a lie. Don’t we all understand this deep desire of theirs?

So, as we were supposed to be discussing healthy boundaries, a woman named Rachel began describing all the ways she was identified by the people around her, using words not suitable for this book or probably any other piece of adult material. As I listened, my heart broke for her and continued to break further with every word she uttered.

Rachel had lived the life of a prostitute for many years, and—well, let me just say, I know how easy it can be to stereotype someone who’s resorted to this lifestyle, but I refuse for you to judge her, because you don’t know her world. Neither do I, but I’ve learned a lot about it from my time spent with these women in the jail. We can’t judge someone for the shoes they walk in, when we’ve never had to put those shoes on our own feet. We just can’t.

Anyway, tears began to slowly fill her eyes, soon spilling over and rushing down her cheeks as she talked. She felt so worthless. She believed every single identifying word she’d been told by those around her, all the verbal pins she’d laid out there for the rest of us to see.

I’ll be honest, I have no idea if Rachel is a follower of Jesus. I know she heard about Him for the weeks she was in our class, and I continue to pray she is letting Him reach her in the deep places of her heart. But in that emotional moment, I connected eyes with Rachel, as tears began trickling down my own cheeks as well. And I spoke truth to her. People had ascribed a lot of “Most Likely” badges to her future, and I wanted her to know those shameful predictions were not hers to carry around for the rest of her life.

I told her that no matter what she thought of herself, and no matter what anyone else said about her, she was not any of those things. They didn’t define her. I told her that God loved her no matter what she had done. I told her that these things from her past were not her identity, whether she lived the rest of her days behind bars or whether she created a new life for herself outside those walls. I told her that Jesus said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life” (John 8:12), that He can change her identity, same as He’d changed ours, and could call her His own.

There’s only one reason why I was able to proclaim the excellencies of Christ in that dark place of haunting memories and crippling shame: because I knew from personal experience where He’d brought me from, to place me in His marvelous light. These weren’t just spiritual ideas I was sharing with her about her identity; they were truths I’d seen take root in my life, tugging up big, ugly clumps of fear and shame that had buried their claws in my heart for as long as I could remember.

My story, like your story, is not the story that others have written about us, nor is it the thick autobiography we’ve felt the need to write about ourselves. Our stories are redemption stories—the stories of redeemed identities. We were lost, but now we are found. We were orphaned, but now we are adopted. We were unloved, but now we are loved. Unacceptable, now unconditionally accepted. Disgraceful, but now showered in grace. And when we operate from that true identity in Christ, who knows how many Rachels could catch their first glimpse of something greater about themselves than the story they’ve felt doomed to live out.

Your identity is not a bunch of wishful thinking, pasted into the Bible in hopes of making you feel better. It is the solid ground of who you really are, now that Jesus has shined His forgiving light on your situation. Cling to it. Believe it. Claim it as your own.

You and I don’t have to walk in shame or in others’ shadows anymore.

All our “Most Likely” losses have been redeemed by the Most High.