I hate labels.
On people, I mean.
Labels feel so limiting, like you’re putting that person in a box. As if all they can ever be is liberal, conservative, Republican, Democrat, white, black, Hispanic. Like all you need to know about that person is their label and there’s nothing more to them than that.
Some people use labels merely as adjectives to describe someone. Others use labels to assign value (or lack thereof). No room for nuance, exceptions, caveats or qualifiers.
And labels can mean different things to different people.
For example: Feminist. What does that word do to you? Does it make your skin crawl and muscles stiffen? Or do you nod and shrug, as if it’s an assumed thing?
To some people, it means man-hating, pro-abortion, angry women out for revenge. To other people, it means equal voting rights, equal wages, equal value to God and the world. That word has been used to describe both of those extremes and everything in between.
Brad and I come from very different political backgrounds. So in casual conversation, I use the word ‘progressive’ as a compliment. You know, moving forward. Progress. Good progress. But when Brad hears that word, he hears the moving away from biblical family values. Dangerous. Bad progress.
I remember when Caroline was little, she used to use the word ‘genius’ as an insult. She had learned a new word, but she didn’t know what it meant, so she assumed it was a bad thing. “You’re a genius,” she would say with disdain. It was pretty funny.
So not only can labels be crushingly limiting to someone’s perceived identity, they can also be unclear.
But recently, I’ve come to see the positive side of labels.
I was at a party about a month ago and was chatting with a couple of close friends of ours. The husband mentioned that he had seen me out running recently. And knowing this man’s brutal honesty, I asked him something I had been wondering about because I KNEW he would tell me the truth:
“How did I look?”
I’m fairly new to this whole running thing. I’ve seen some pretty interesting running styles on other people and I always pictured myself flopping down the sidewalk, uncoordinated and awkward.
He glanced at his wife, confused by the question. She started laughing at his bewilderment and my self-consciousness. He looked back at me and shrugged. “You looked like a runner.”
A runner. I looked like a runner.
After several months of running, I still don’t think of myself as a runner. I’m just someone who jogs a few times a week. To me, runners are people who train and run races and post pictures of themselves with numbers on their shirts holding medals, all sweaty and satisfied. THOSE are runners.
But in that moment it occurred to me maybe I looked like a runner because I WAS a runner. And maybe I was a runner simply because I run.
So I started to thinking about how differently I would approach every day decisions if I considered myself a runner.
Would a runner eat this? Or that?
Would a runner reach for another Diet Coke? Or go get another glass of water?
Would a runner commit to another activity that competed with her running time?
If I owned that label and called myself a runner, I would be a much healthier person. I would make decisions based on my identity.
I have the same hesitancy regarding the label of ‘writer.’
Now, unlike running, I have been writing for most of my life. It’s what I do. It’s my thing. I can’t NOT do it. So for heaven’s sake, why do I cringe when other people refer to me as a writer? And why in the world can’t I call MYSELF a writer?
Because to me, a writer is someone who writes for a living. They’ve been published. (I’ve been published, but it was years ago. I have yet to be published with my current last name.) They’ve written a book or regularly write for magazines. Writing is their vocation. Writing is how they support their family. Writing is their job. THOSE are writers.
I’m just someone who writes a little blog once a week. And EVERYBODY’S got a blog, so what’s so special about that? That doesn’t make me a writer, does it?
Yes, it does. I’m a writer simply because I write.
And how would that change the direction of my life, if I called myself a writer?
What would a writer do with this free time?
What kinds of books would a writer read?
What experiences would a writer chase down in order to keep the inspiration flowing?
If I owned that label and called myself a writer, I would be much more intentional and purposeful. I would make decisions based on my identity.
Soon after Brad and I got married, I remember telling him that the thing I wanted most for our kids, the one thing I could give them if I could, would be an unshakable grasp of who they are. If they could just know, even from a young age, EXACTLY who they are, they would be spared much pain and gain a lot of valuable time.
Most of us spend (read: WASTE) an unbelievable amount of time trying to figure out who we are. We try different things, go different places, make a zillion mistakes because we don’t know who we really are.
I dream of Beau, Sydney or Caroline walking into a questionable situation and thinking, “Nope, this isn’t who I am. I’m out.”
I’ve been a Christian for as long as I can remember. And the label of ‘Christian’ is just as loaded as other labels. One person can hear ‘Christian’ and think disaster relief, serving the community, loving others, food pantries, providing for those in need. Another person thinks hypocritical, closed-minded, bigoted, backward, culturally irrelevant.
The book of Acts tells us, “The disciples were called Christians first at Antioch” (11:26). Some believe that their enemies came up with it as an insult. Others think that the believers adopted it, as it means ‘belonging to Christ’ or ‘little Christ.’
Either way, I am a Christian. While that’s a label that’s easy for me to claim, it’s not always easy to make decisions based on that aspect of my identity. To quote Andrew Peterson, “I’ve carried my cross into dens of the wicked, and you know I blended in just fine.”
Back in the day a when disciples followed a rabbi, they sought to mimic their teacher in every way possible. They were with him 24 hours a day. They walked the way he walked, they ate the food he ate, they said the things he said. They set out to become exact replicas of the rabbi they were learning from.
Jesus is my Rabbi and I am His disciple. But many days you would never know. Heck, sometimes I even forget myself. Would it be easier to remember to follow Him if He were physically here and I could ACTUALLY follow Him? Maybe.
But regardless, I claim Christ. And I need to make decisions based on my identity. And my identity is a Christian, a child of God.
Would a follower of Jesus participate in this activity?
What would a child of God do in response to this crisis?
How would a representative of Christ treat this person?
If I really lived into that label, my life would be full of love, grace and truth and it would get all over anyone who was around me. I would make decisions based on my identity.
A belief that is inconsistent with reality is called a delusion. If my reality doesn’t line up with my beliefs, I’m not just a sorry Christian. I’m delusional. Yeesh.
Is there grace? Absolutely. Is there mercy? No question. Is our religion about performing to win the favor of our God? Not even a little bit.
Our religion is responding to the insane love for us demonstrated by Jesus on the cross. By claiming His sacrifice, I am redeemed, every sin has been and will be forgiven and I am His no matter what.
But the world should know. When they see me running, they know I’m a runner. When they read something I’ve written, they know I’m a writer. And when they look at my life, they should know I’m a Christian.
I was feeling particularly stuck on an old sin at one point. I kept asking for forgiveness, begging Jesus to let it be covered by the cross. And after many prayers along those lines, begging, cowering, expecting nothing except what I deserved, Jesus had enough.
It’s not that I CAN do it, or even that I’m WILLING to do it. I HAVE done it. Take it. You are a child of the King. Stop acting like a slave.
And suddenly some words in the book of John popped into my head.
He came to that which was His own, but His own did not receive Him. Yet to all who did receive Him, to those who believed in His name, He gave the right to become children of God (1:11-12).
“I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his Master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you” (15:15).
Do you know who you are? Do you really know? And if so, do you live like it?
I am a runner. I am a writer. I am a wife. I am a mother/stepmother. I am a friend. I am a sister. I am a daughter. I am an employee. And when you look at my life, there is plenty of evidence to prove all of those aspects of my identity.
Someday I will approach the throne of grace with confidence and not cover my face in His presence. Jesus died to secure my identity once and for all. And someday I will live the life that better matches the label I so easily claim.
Christian. Belonging to Christ. Child of God.
