How Do You Stay True to Yourself?

Wrestling with the Question

How do you stay true to yourself?

That question appeared in my journal app as I passed my seventy-sixth birthday.

I thought back to who I was fifty years ago. I remembered that young man’s hands typing on the keys of his green second-hand IBM electric typewriter. Every cell in the skin, muscles, and bones of that guy’s hands has been replaced with the cells that make up the old, wrinkled hands now typing on the keyboard of my MacBook Pro. I wondered, “Who is this ‘self’ to which I am to stay true?”

Back then, I was the son and grandson of some special people. Today, I am the father and grandfather of some extraordinary people. (Plus, I am the father-in-law of two of the most remarkable women I know.) Back then, I stood in the front of the church as a preacher. Now, I stand in the back as an usher. Back then, I had a systematic theology to rival Karl Barth’s. Today, I cling to the few beliefs Life hasn’t shaken apart.

Yes, the name of the woman who shares my life is on a 1969 marriage certificate. But don’t get me started on how many surprising transformations she has undergone!

Again, who is this “self” to which I am to remain true?

Acquiring a “Self”

My earliest memory is of a little boy pulling himself up to stand on two feet to look out a window. That is the “self” that still seems to exist after all these years. My “I” is an eye that observes — that witnesses — my life with the openness and curiosity of that little boy.

But even that has changed. I could idealize that little boy’s openness and curiosity. But that same openness and curiosity also wanted to stick my little fingers into a light socket or pull the tail of a gray, ill-tempered cat named “Topper.” My parents, my religion, and my education did their jobs. They helped me see through filters that divided safety from danger, right from wrong, and good from evil the way my sunglasses divide visible light from UVs.

The other thing the little boy had to learn was his name. My first name was my identity as an individual. My last name was my identity as part of a larger group. These were the first building blocks of my ego. My ego is a container for everything I call my “self..” By my mid-20s, it was the size of Jay Leno’s garage. I stored my diplomas, certificates, successes, and failures in it. I sorted some of these things into a drawer called “Pride” and others into a drawer called “Shame” because I scanned everything I thought, said, or did with my filters.

No wonder I confused this filtered eye with the Eye of God.

Letting Go of the File Cabinet

When I retired in 2016, I donated my professional books to a library. I threw out all my old sermons. I admit it was hard. What if I needed one someday?

I consoled myself that I could borrow the book back from the library and admitted that I had never in my whole life ever repreached an old sermon.

Two years later, Jacquie and I sold our three-story, five-bedroom house in Cleveland Heights and moved to a two-bedroom apartment in New York City. We got rid of about 95% of our stuff. Again, we debated each thing we sold, threw out, or gave away. What if we needed it again?

We decided that we could always buy a replacement. You can count on one hand the number of things we have had to replace.

However, I kept those two files, “Pride” and “Shame.” They only took up space in my head. I resolved to go through them in what gerontologists call a “life review.” But under the Eye that I confused with God’s Eye, I kept transferring stuff from the Pride file to the Shame file. After all, I did a lot of good things for selfish motives.

At the same time, I also began practicing contemplation and meditation. I had help from some gifted teachers, including Jacquie, who admits she would have labeled these practices “WooWoo” a few years ago. Fleetingly, at first, and then more consistently, I began meeting Someone who reminded me of that little boy looking out the window with curiosity and openness — and something else born of all the years I have lived — compassion.

I don’t believe I was wrong when I identified the eye that sees all that I think, say, and do with the Eye of God. I was wrong to think it was the eye of judgment waiting for me to slip up. Instead, God’s eye sees us with compassion. When I reread my Bible, especially the Gospels, I see how often Jesus looked at people compassionately. I have come to see that Jesus is not Godlike; God is like Jesus (John 1: 20; 2 Corinthians 5:19). So, the Eye of God sees us as Jesus does.

Looking through those two file drawers with a compassionate eye, I don’t find excuses for what I did wrong. I see a man who, like everyone else in this world, spent a lot of time wrestling with his demons. I also see him projecting what he didn’t want to see in himself onto others. I see myself stumbling around in the dark like a tourist who decided to wear his sunglasses when he entered a cathedral. (John 3:19).

So, how do I stay true to myself in this Third Half of Life?

By continuing to throw things out. I won’t leave this world pulling a U-Haul. I can go through those last two file cabinets not with the filters of judgment but with the eye of openness, curiosity, and compassion. Doing so allows me to exchange pride and shame for wisdom and understanding. And I suspect that if anything gets through the needle’s eye we call death, it will be the Eye that has seen it all and loves me anyway.