Matt Chandler - Identity

As we progress through life, it is natural for us to search for who we really are. Our wounds and failures tend to speak the loudest as we grasp for strands of an identity. But the same God who spoke all of creation into existence declares that we are His forgiven children—redeemed, perfectly loved, and wonderfully made. Therefore, our human identity is not something to be compiled by our experiences, but something given to us by our Father. Note for this week’s sermon: Our stage is prepped for VBS.

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Well, good morning! How are we doing? Well, great! Before we dive into this epic passage, I wanted to highlight a significant milestone in the lives of some of our members. In fact, Jim Beckett was, if you’ve got Baptist roots, the chairman of the Personnel Committee when I was hired at The Village Church. This means he was the one I sat down with, and he said, «This is what it means to be the pastor. Here’s what we can pay you.» Jim and Jane actually became, in some ways, father figures to me. We had multiple sandwiches together; he didn’t like to go out to eat—he preferred to eat in my office. He would bring sandwiches and olives, and we would eat sandwiches and olives while he read Gordon Fee. We would talk about Gordon Fee, theology, and marriage.

This past Tuesday, I got to hang out with Jim and Jane, who are both now 97 years old and just last week celebrated 75 years of marriage. Here’s what blew my mind: my father-in-law is 70, which means Jim and Jane have been married five years longer than my father-in-law has been alive. I thought, how rare is that? Who gets that? Well, the Becketts do. They deeply love Jesus and have shaped this church in ways that remain unseen to most of us here now. They were fasting, praying, pleading, and serving long before any of us arrived, myself included.

So, please pray for Jane. I know Jim is not doing well; I don’t think he’s gotten out of bed for about seven or eight days now. Jane is as feisty as ever, and she will see a hundred! We’re going to throw an epic party—I don’t quite know what that will entail, but we’re going to do it. Just be praying for the Becketts this week, as it looks like Jim is quickly going to receive his reward, and there’s a reward waiting for him. He has faithfully loved his wife through the highs and lows, and I always try to point you to this great couple. That’s how we want to finish. That’s what we want to fight for. That’s what we want to commit ourselves to. So please keep them in your thoughts this week.

Of course, if Jim heads on home to glory, I’ll loop you guys in on that. It’s a strange season for me; having been here 20 years, the people who were 60 and 70 when I arrived are now 80 and 90, and they’re starting to transition home. There’s a sense of loss in that for me, yet it serves as a reminder of all that has been granted to me through their faithfulness to the kingdom and love for me as a 28-year-old who thought he knew everything. They endured quite a bit.

When I was six or seven, my parents took me to counseling. Keep in mind that this was the late 70s or early 80s. Today, if you think about 2023: «Who’s your counselor? Oh, I used to see someone; now I have a new counselor.» That was not the environment in which we lived our lives. We didn’t have counselors, but I was being taken to one. I figured it was because I was a lot to handle. My parents got to know my teachers very well; in fact, I think some became lifelong friends. If there were ever a poster child for «this kid needs a more active learning experience,» it would be me—both then and now. You can ask our executive team; it’s just not a good thing to put me in a chair for eight hours. I need to move; I require motion to function. You could probably see that I even have to talk with my hands. If you tie them up, my guess is I would just black out.

While I was in counseling, I don’t remember much. I recall we played some games, colored some pictures, and answered some questions. Yet even as a six or seven-year-old, my takeaway from that experience was, «I’m hard to love.» That was my takeaway: I’m hard to love. The enemy of our souls—yours and mine—began to leverage that idea so that it became the lens through which I interpreted almost everything in my life. If I didn’t make the All-Star team in baseball, it was because I was difficult to love. If I didn’t fit in with this friend group, it was because I was difficult to love. If a girl rejected me, I knew it was hard to imagine, but it was because I was difficult to love. I could keep going. My parents were late picking me up…