God, You always ask me, “Who do people say I am?” But before I answer, before I borrow the names people have given me, before I gather the titles, the robes, the years, the victories, the wounds— tell me, God, who am I? Am I the man people see standing at the altar, or the man who sometimes kneels there broken? Am I my collar, my calling, my education, my achievements, my failures, my history? Am I the voice that speaks about You, or the silence within me that still searches for You? Tell me, God, who am I when nobody is watching? Who am I when the applause is gone, when the Facebook likes disappear, when the room becomes quiet and I am left alone with my own heart? Am I the child who once looked at the sky and believed You were near? Am I the man who learned to survive by hiding certain tears, certain fears, certain memories behind a strong face? Am I the priest who gives blessings to wounded people while carrying wounds of his own? Am I the gardener who keeps planting even afte...