Identity and Calling

I was recently reading a story by Dr. David Jeremiah of his friend, Dr. John Hovey, a surgeon, who developed Parkinson’s disease. As he slowly lost control of his hands, he began to see how this impacted his work as a surgeon. He realized that he would eventually lose his ability to do what he did best, operate; but more than that, he realized he would lose the affirmation of those he treated. He began to ask the important question, “Is my identity as a doctor more important than my identity as His disciple?”

This story hit a chord in my heart as I recalled the impact of making the decision to leave the mission field some 12 years ago for largely medical reasons. I had dreamed of being a missionary since I was 11 years old. I had trained and prepared academically for 7 years, and threw everything I had into that one goal. During my training years, I remember watching a video of the remarkable story of how Marilyn Laszlo and her partner brought a remote tribe in Papua New Guinea to salvation through the ministry of Bible Translation. I remember aspiring to be like her. Gradually through the years other successful missionaries also became role models. I held to an ideal model of what success as a missionary would look like.

Then my actual ministry in West Africa began to unfold. It didn’t look exactly like I expected, but there were some great achievements and victories nonetheless. After 19 years, however, when we made the decision to leave the field, the project uncompleted, the people group still lost, I felt a deep sense of discord, failure, confusion, and even at times despair. I felt my entire identity was in question. My husband shared some of the same sentiment. Thankfully, we had the opportunity to debrief with a counselor who gave us wise and life-giving advise. It all had to do with identity. As I read the resources given to me, and reflected on what was happening during our time of transition, I gradually began to ask myself the question, not unlike that of Dr. John Hovey: In what did I wrap-up my identity? Had my identity as a missionary become more important than my identity in Christ? Had I measured my success by comparing myself and my ministry to others?

Parker Palmer, in his book “Let Your Life Speak” points out that trying to live someone else’s life will invariably fail, and may even do great damage. When we force ourselves into a mold that was not meant for us, we violate the true self God intended us to be, sometimes at great cost. He says that there is a great gulf between the way our egos want to be identified, with their protective masks and fictitious scenarios, and our true selves. He shares a quote from Rabbi Zusya who said as an old man, “In the coming world, they will not ask me: ‘Why were you not Moses?’ They will ask me: ‘Why were you not Zusya?’”

As young people, we are surrounded by voices and expectations that try to fit us into slots and which we inadvertently use to define our identity. Brent Curtis and John Eldredge in “The Sacred Romance” point out that we have learned from parents and peers, at school, at work, and even from our spiritual mentors that something else is wanted from us other than our heart. We feel accomplished and complete when we have degrees or titles behind our name. We are trained to conform to a norm, and often, driven by fear, betray our true selves to gain the approval of others. We often find ourselves doing the right thing for the wrong reasons. We too easily can hide ourselves in Christian service. Satan whispers to us that performance is more important. We do things, even noble things, that may look good to us for a while, but eventually we distort ourselves and our relationship with the Father. Frederick Buechner in “Telling Secrets” says that we try to make ourselves into something that we hope the world will like better than the original self, and in the process of living out that story, the “original, shimmering self gets buried so deep that most of us hardly end up living out of it at all.”

Another thing I have learned is that our Christian culture too often labels our missionary service or our vocation in any other field as our “calling”, and when this is ripped away from us, we are left feeling like a failure and an insecure identity. An honest appraisal of Scripture, however, will demonstrate that our true “calling” is to salvation in Christ, to holiness, to righteousness, and with that does comes sharing the gospel wherever we are. When our sense of “calling” is defined in this way, no change in career, no change in health status, trauma, culture stress, thwarted plans, unfulfilled dreams, disillusionment, loss, military coup, pandemic, or any other change in circumstances will shake us from fulfilling our true calling, nor shake our identity. Our “calling” and identity must not be tied to a particular place, mission field, career, title, role, or even people group, but rather to Christ alone and to faithfulness to Him, whatever that may look like for each one of us.  

I now see and understand that my true calling, first and foremost, is to simply love others wherever I am, and be a faithful follower through whatever life throws my way. But also, in my intimate relationship with the Father, my quest should be to discover the unique person He has made me to be, and find joy in the unique journey He is taking me on. As Parker Palmer suggest, our deepest calling is to grow into our  authentic self-hood, whether or not it conforms to some image of who we ought to be by others' standards. Finding our authentic self will require an intimacy with the Christ, rooting our identity in Him and in whose we are rather than who we are. This and this alone will give us a sense of fulfillment, joy, and a secure sense of identity, and will put us on the right path of authentic service in the world, wherever we end up.

2 Corinthians 5:17 "This means that anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone; a new life has begun!" (NLT)

Through the Tunnel

Last Fall, I took a pause from work, walking, and much of the busyness, laid up for 8 weeks after a foot surgery. What often happens when we take a pause is that we gain vision and perspective in ways that are not possible when our minds are cluttered with the busyness. It is in moments of pause that we can often hear the whispers of God with greater clarity. Unfortunately, the busyness came back as I returned to work, went back to school, and life happened.

So here once again, many of us have had a pause thrust upon us due to the Corona virus pandemic. I was furloughed from my job. My reaction was at first a bit of panic mixed with a relief. Panic out of fear of the unknowns, fear of loss of income, fear of possibly losing my job down the road. Relief in knowing that I could get done all the things that have been on my to-do list, that I would have more time with my family, and that I could once again tune in better to the whispers of God to my heart. 

When I was laid up after foot surgery, the pieces of the following story came to me. They came together in one of those moments of clarity, which I cannot explain except as a whisper of God, who so gently and compassionately brings the pieces of our lives together and gives them perspective and meaning. I recently shared this story in an article for the organization with which Jim and I served overseas for many years. Last night, pieces of this story took on new meaning in the context of the Corona virus pandemic. So here is the story:

The man was stout, strong, and covered in tattoos. He wore a leather jacket, and he sported long hair and a beard. The kind of guy your mother would have told you to avoid at all costs. He was escorted into the emergency department by policemen, clad in handcuffs, resisting their every movement. He smelled of alcohol and was shouting obscenities at everyone that crossed his path. His crime involved violence toward his wife. He was a wife-beater. You could feel the tension in the nurse’s station, comprised of all female nurses. Some were divorced from wife beaters and drunks. The hatred was palpable. The other nurses all said “not it” as the officers sat him down in one of the exam rooms and cuffed him to the bedrail. But for some reason, when I looked at this man, I felt differently. I could relate to him. I gladly volunteered. The other nurses just shook their heads at me, like I was foolish and naïve, and would soon learn how rough these types could be. The officers were afraid to let me be in the room with the man alone. But I wasn’t afraid. Usually, I would be. But not this time. I felt alive and on fire. Undaunted. I needed to talk to this man.

I approached him and spoke calmly to him as I took his blood pressure. As I assessed his arm for a site to start an IV, I noticed a tattoo. What did it signify? I asked. His tone of voice calmed, and he told me it was from Vietnam. I asked him if he had been traumatized in Vietnam. Then he looked up at me, and tears started forming in his eyes. He began to tell me what he experienced, and how no one understood him, not even his wife, and that is why they had had so many conflicts. For years he had bottled it up inside and felt so alone and misunderstood. I reassured him that what he went through was awful and that I understood. I told him briefly about how I, too, had been traumatized by events in Africa. I told him there was hope, that God loves him deeply, and that God is the God of second chances and forgiveness. There was even hope of being reconciled with his wife, I told him.

I spent a good part of 19 years living and working in West Africa. Over the years, multiple traumatic events and culture-stress had worn away at my psyche. I had bouts of depression. I developed PTSD. I can’t tell you how many times over the years I questioned God. Why me? Why him? Why her? Why did these things happen? Is there a purpose in all of this? Can I trust You, God?

When we first returned to the United States 11 years ago, I had no desire to be involved in any ministry. Ministry in Africa, after all, was where I was traumatized. Right now, we were in survival mode. I needed time for myself. Time to regroup. Time to heal. Over time, I realized God helped me to do just that. And He did even more.

As I sat there in that emergency room with this leather-clad drunk, I realized at that moment that my trauma had meaning and purpose. It was as if I was suddenly pulled backward to see a larger view of my life – seeing the entire forest rather than just the trees – and what God was doing all along. Perspective is everything. And I had no regrets. This was my purpose: I was the one for the job. My journey through fear all those years in Africa was on-the-job training. I finally got it. 

As I left the room, the man thanked me. He was cooperative with all the staff after that. The officers looked at me in disbelief. The other nurses asked, “What did you do?” I said that I simply listened and let him tell his side of the story. In no way was I excusing his abusive behavior. I just knew there was a human in there somewhere, one that had been wounded and didn’t know any other way to respond. 

A year or so later, I had the opportunity to meet this man again. He was sober and cheerful. And the best part was that he was walking hand-in-hand with his wife. She was all smiles. He recognized me and, in a very gentle voice, he thanked me again. He said he would never have believed it, but what I told him was true, and it was the one thing that made everything start turning around for him. 

I cannot tell you how many other suicidal, overdosed, depressed, and hurting people I have encountered in my role as a nurse here in the U.S. over the past 11 years. The number of occasions is staggering. God has given me divine appointments with so many of them. He gave me an opportunity to start and lead a local support group over the past four years. My perspective about ministry has broadened. The truth is, every person we encounter is a mission field. Life’s struggles are real for everyone, and I understand that better now. God had changed me. And He has changed my perspective. As Christians, we are called to incarnational ministry to people who suffer greatly in ways we are often unable to understand. As we have the privilege to walk in their world, sometimes we get a taste of that world and its cruelty in harsh ways. Experiencing those hardships gives us empathy and a deeper understanding of their pain, and insights into how God can use us to walk alongside them in their suffering, and ultimately give them hope.

As I look back at what God has done in my life, through all those traumas, it reminds me of a tunnel in Switzerland that I traveled through some thirty years ago while visiting colleagues in Italy. In order to get from Switzerland to Italy by train, you have to travel through several tunnels. One of those tunnels is exceptionally long. The first time I went through the tunnel I had no idea it was coming or how long it was. Inside the tunnel, there is total darkness. As the train enters the heart of the mountain, the train begins to slow down for what seems like an eternity. When this first happened, I became anxious. Why was the train going so slow? Were we going to get stuck in here? How long would this last? I turned and asked another passenger who explained the train would take about 30 minutes to get through the tunnel. In this tunnel, you could feel the weight of the air get heavier and more difficult to breathe as your lungs were deprived of oxygen. Eventually, the train came out on the other side of the mountain into the bright sunlight, fresh air, and rolling hills of northern Italy. This tunnel is the only way to get to the other side of that mountain. The tunnel is long, dark, difficult, and sometimes frightening. But there's no way to get it to the other side without going through the tunnel. Having been in the tunnel, the light of day seems so much brighter, the air so much fresher, and the rolling hills were a sight for sore eyes. Everything was more inviting, and so much more appreciated.

This tunnel is much like my journey. Your journey. Maybe the journey you are experiencing now as you sit at home in quarantine with no end in sight. Let me remind you that there’s no way to get to the bright light, the fresh air, and the rolling hills on the other side except to go through the tunnel. The journey through the tunnel is necessary. Once in the tunnel, there's no turning back. You can only move forward. And the tunnel can give us perspective. But once you are on the other side of the tunnel, you realize how wonderful the brightness of the sun is, the freshness of the air, and the beauty of the hills. You can see that the journey was worth it as it changes you, shapes you, makes you better, gives you a different view of things. Can you see that the tunnel is part of your journey? Do you know there is light, and warmth, and sunshine, and rolling hills at the end of that tunnel? Don’t get distracted by the darkness all around. Don’t get discouraged by the length of the journey. Don’t give in to despair as you struggle to breathe. And know that the journey is necessary to get to the other side, to become the person God is shaping you to be.