Proving Who I Am
If I am ever incapacitated in some way–say, for example, I’m hit by a bus and unable to speak–the emergency personnel would only have to open my wallet to know who I am and where I belong. They would also know what I declare to be my height, weight, hair color, and eye color. They would know that I am an organ donor. All of this vital information can be found on a small plastic rectangle, artfully encoded with snazzy security features, that I carry everywhere.
I have to renew my driver’s license this year, and our state is upgrading to the REAL ID system. Instead of simply sliding my license across the desk and taking an eye test, I have to make an appointment and arrive with documentation. Not just one or two pieces, oh no. A stack of documentation including, but not limited to, the following: birth certificate, passport, marriage certificate, social security card, and tax forms that include both my address and my social security number. None of the above will also prove that I live at my current address, so I must have not one, but two documents that list my current address, which can include utility bills or property tax statements, but only if they are the most recent bills or tax statements.
I have put off this chore for as long as possible, and now my birthday is in less than a week.
All of the effort entailed in gathering this paperwork that I have to bring along to prove that I am who my about-to-expire driver’s license has said that I am for the past thirty years frustrates me. When I sat with my frustration, talked to it, found out why it was there, I realized it was based on the feeling of not being known. When I walk into the Department of Transportation office at my appointed time, I have to bring a stack of documents just to prove that I belong. To me. At my address.
Now, I love my address. I have lived in this house for twenty-six of my forty-four years, but does the stack of paperwork I have to gather prove that I live here? Or, is my residence better proven by the fact that I know where the extra key is hidden? Is it enough that I know which toilet handle requires a jiggle? Can I explain which window I used to break into my own house when the hidden key was lost? Or is a stack of paperwork superior to these things?
Likewise, what do I have to do to prove that I am a Jesus follower?
Do we have documents to prove that we are who we say we are? A secret handshake? One might think that perhaps we all wear cross necklaces or have fish bumper stickers on our cars. Is there a minimum number of Bible verses we have to have memorized? Do we have to be able to recite the Lord’s Prayer?
I can imagine the disciples sitting with Jesus, and Peter asking him (because of course it was Peter!), “Jesus, how will everyone else know that we are your disciples? How will they know that we who have been with you this whole time are special? Can we have team cloaks?” Before you discard that statement, keep in mind that the disciples had also argued about who would sit where when Jesus came to the throne of Israel. Like us, these first-century followers were eager to prove their identity in Christ.
Jesus knows his time is short, and he speaks plainly to those gathered around him. “I give you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, so you also must love each other. This is how everyone will know that you are my disciples, when you love each other” (John 13:34-35 CEB).
Not team cloaks, not matching rings, not gold stars on a Sunday-school chart. Not how much you give, how often you attend church, how much you can recite.
Your love. Just your love. Only your love.
And not just loving people we like.
I almost think I’d rather lug a stack of documents to the Department of Transportation office.
Almost.
I need that stack of documents so that no one else can impersonate me. I need Christ’s love so that I can impersonate him. Because on my own, I don’t love. On my own, I am selfish and prideful, not loving.
A friend recently sent me a T-shirt that says, “Empowered Women Empower Women.”. I would like to expand that statement: “Forgiven People Forgive People,” “Loved People Love People,” “Graced People Give Grace.” The world knows who we are, whose we are, because of how we love others. And we love them because Jesus first loved us.
Thanks be to God, he loved us first.
is rooted like a turnip to the plains of North Dakota where she raises great food, large numbers of farm animals, and three free-range kids with her husband. You can find her with either a book or knitting needles in her hands as she dreams up her next adventure.
Photograph © Emmanuel Phaeton, used with permission
