The Identity We Choose vs. The Identity We're Given

There's a peculiar terror that comes with filling out those "About Me" sections on social media profiles or job applications. You stare at the blank cursor, trying to compress an entire human existence into a few characters. Are you a coffee enthusiast? A dog parent? Someone who "occasionally runs"?

The truth is, these exercises always fall flat because we cannot possibly condense a life into tiny boxes. Yet this challenge reveals something profound about our current cultural moment: we've been sold the idea that identity is something we construct, curate, and optimize ourselves. We're told we're the architects of our own brand, free to choose who we are. And honestly? We're terrible at it.

The question "Who am I?" has become a high-stakes, full-time project—one we're never quite going to finish.

The Exhaustion of Self-Creation

Isaiah 49 reads like a therapy session for someone in the throes of a midlife crisis. The servant speaking has been polished and sharpened, clearly possessing potential. Yet they're deeply frustrated: "I have laboured in vain. I have spent my strength for nothing at all."

Sound familiar? They've done everything right—the degree, the internship, the hustle, the "inner work," the getting up at 5 AM. But they're still sitting in the dark, waiting for life to actually begin.

Then comes the shift: "Before I was born, the Lord called me. From my mother's womb, he spoke my name. In the shadow of his hand, he hid me. He made me a polished arrow and concealed me in his quiver."

Notice the verbs here—God called, God spoke, God hid, God made. The servant isn't constructing their own identity; they're discovering one already given.

The Scandal of Hiddenness

In our visibility-obsessed culture, hiddenness feels like failure. If you're not seen, not trending, not visible, are you really living? Yet in Isaiah, hiddenness is part of the servant's identity. The arrow remains in the quiver not because it's lost or useless, but because it belongs to the archer. It's reserved, ready to fulfill its purpose at the right moment.

Our identity isn't determined by our visibility. Even in the dark, we are polished arrows. We don't have to manifest our purpose or find our brand. Instead, our identity is found in trusting the One who shaped us.

The servant's identity isn't based on success but on relationship with the One who called them. And here's the beautiful part: "It is too small a thing for you to be my servant to restore the tribes. I will make you a light to the Gentiles."

When we choose our own identities, we inevitably make them too small, building them from our insecurities rather than from glory. But when God chooses our identity, it's always bigger than we imagined.

Behold, the Lamb

At the Jordan River, John the Baptist sees Jesus approaching. If John were following modern branding advice, he'd announce Jesus with a list of credentials: motivational speaker, disruptor, visionary leader.

Instead, John says: "Behold, the Lamb of God."

In a world of lions—where we're told to be fierce, to dominate, to crush the opposition—the Messiah is identified as a lamb. Vulnerable. Quiet. An existence defined by relationship to the shepherd. Jesus, who has the power to recreate the entire universe, chooses the identity of the lamb: willing to sacrifice himself for us.

This is where true identity lives—not in dominance, but in submission to God's purpose.

Come and See

In John 1, two of John's disciples awkwardly follow Jesus down the road. Jesus turns and asks: "What are you looking for?"

They don't have a slick answer. They don't ask for a philosophy to study or a movement to join. Instead, they ask: "Rabbi, where are you staying?"

They're looking for a place to be. A safe place. A place to belong without having to perform.

Jesus responds: "Come and see."

Identity isn't found in deciding to be a certain type of person. It's found in staying near the One who knows who we really are—the One who gave us our gifts, who loves us completely, who waits for us to run to him.

You Are Peter

The story climaxes when Andrew brings his brother Simon to Jesus. Jesus looks at him and says: "You are Simon, son of John. Now you will be Cephas"—Peter, meaning "the rock."

Imagine how jarring this must have been. Simon had lived his whole life as Simon. That's who he saw in the mirror. And this stranger looks at him and says: "That's not who you are. This is who you can be."

Simon doesn't choose to become Peter. He doesn't decide that "the rock" is a better aesthetic. Jesus declares that identity over him.

Here's the scandal: Jesus knows us better than we know ourselves. No amount of self-actualization or looking inward will get us to who we're meant to be unless we allow Jesus to tell us who we are. He sees the rock inside the impulsive fisherman. He sees the polished arrow inside the person laboring in vain. He sees the beloved child inside the person who doesn't know they're loved.

True Freedom

We often mistake freedom for the ability to be anything we want at any moment. But that kind of freedom becomes a prison of endless choice and constant anxiety.

True freedom is being told by the Creator: "I know your name. I shaped your soul. I have a purpose for you that's so much bigger than the one you'd choose for yourself."

When we live out a self-chosen identity, we're one mistake away from total collapse. If I am a successful professional, who am I when I'm made redundant? If I am the perfect parent, who am I when my children struggle? If I am the independent creative, who am I when creativity runs dry?

But when our identity is in Christ, we cannot lose it because he holds it.

Living From a Christ-Given Identity

This week, as we walk into a world that will try to drag us back into performance and self-construction, we can resist. When we feel pressure to explain ourselves, to justify our existence, to prove our worth—we can give it up. We are already known. Already named.

If life feels stagnant, maybe we're in a "quiver season"—being prepared for something we can't yet see. Instead of forcing ourselves into the spotlight, we can ask: "What are you preparing me for?"

When anxiety captures us, we can hear Jesus asking: "What are you looking for?" And instead of searching everywhere else, we can stay with him.

We can accept the name he gives us. We might feel like Simon—messy, ordinary, a bit of a disaster. But Jesus sees the rock in each of us. He sees the light to the nations.

In a world that says "choose yourself," Jesus says "I choose you."

And that makes all the difference.