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 after seasons
have taught him
that not everything grows?

Am I the photographer
who spent years
looking through a lens,
trying to capture beauty
before it disappeared?

Or perhaps, God,
I am simply
the man You have never stopped loving.

Not the perfect man.

Not the finished man.

Not the man people think they know.

Just me.

A mixture of faith and doubt,
courage and fear,
wisdom and foolishness,
strength and weakness,
yesterday and tomorrow.

A man still becoming.

And maybe that is the answer.

Maybe I am not
who people say I am.

Maybe I am not even
who I say I am.

Maybe I am
who You see
when You look at me.

A son before I am a servant.
A soul before I am a title.
A beloved before I am useful.

So, God,
before You ask me again,

“Who do you say I am?”

look at me first
and whisper my name.

Tell me who I am
when I have forgotten.

And then,
perhaps,
I will have the courage
to tell the world
who You are.