What Do You Do?

Audacious Claims About Our Identity in Retirement

I attended a small conference recently where the organizers asked everyone to stand up and introduce themselves. Specifically, they asked us to identify what we do.

I was still contemplating how to respond when it was my turn to stand up. I was still weighing my options when I blurted out, “I’m a writer.”

Immediately, the room burst out in derisive laughter. The cries were mean and accusatory.

“A writer?! What have you ever written?”

“What an imposter! You’re no Hemingway!”

“Writers dress better than that!” (That one really hurt.)

Of course, that didn’t really happen. I would never have the courage to identify myself as a writer.

No, no, that didn’t happen, either. I did identify myself as a writer, and no one shouted mean things. Probably because it was a Christian ministry conference. (Although their non-verbals clearly communicated their low opinions of my apparel.)

Being What We Do

When I was working, and someone asked what I did, I generally said something like “I’m a utility PR guy.” Most people didn’t know what that was, but they knew it didn’t sound very interesting. So, they redirected the conversation, relieved that they didn’t have to hear any more about that.

Given my snarky spirit, I was always tempted to tell people I did something that would inspire them to anger. “What do I do? I determine how much we can charge cell phone customers before they’re motivated to change plans.”

Suddenly “utility PR guy” sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?

New Identity

As anyone who has retired knows, it gets tricky when we’re asked what we do in retirement. We can talk about volunteering, or caregiving, or leisure activities, but you can feel people’s subtle sympathy when you describe your life in those terms. Their locked-in smile indicates a bit of sadness for you, that those things don’t sound very interesting. Or fulfilling. Or lucrative. Especially lucrative.

So, I feel drawn to make bold claims about what I do in retirement. But saying I am a writer is fraught with danger.

Writing on a Pedestal

I feel like claiming to be a writer implies something grand, something important. Writers infuse ordinary life experiences with deeper meaning and life lessons. Writers interpret the world to help people make sense of their lives.

In my mind, claiming to be a writer also implies success. Writers have bookshelves of national bestsellers. Writers get invited to packed-auditorium readings where fans hang on their every mundane story.

Of course, every writing conference I ever attended stresses that the only requirement for being a writer is – get this – to write.

By that rudimentary standard, I qualify. As utility PR guy, I spent a lot of time writing. In retirement, I write devotions for two ministries. I have written a book, which has an ISBN number, Amazon reviews, and its own wing in the Library of Congress (I presume). I write Substack posts at least once an equinox!

Granted, my writing has limited reach. Maybe seven people will read this, for instance. (Thanks for being one of them!) My book failed to be a bestseller. But the fact that I documented my failure by – get this – writing about it, should be a clue to me that I am, in fact, a writer.

Same Thing, Different Stakes

I share all of this because my reluctance to embrace my identity as a writer has an uncomfortable parallel in my reluctance to embrace my identity in God.

Just like claiming to be a writer feels presumptuous, I am surprised how difficult it has been to accept that I am a beloved and cherished child of the creator and sustainer of the universe. Some days that feels like a real stretch.

Intellectually and theologically, I know what my relationship is with God. Paul spent a lot of time telling the early churches that they – and we – are chosen children of God.

Galatians 4:7 says, “So you are no longer a slave, but God’s child; and since you are his child, God has made you also an heir.” Ephesians 1:5 says, “he predestined us for adoption to sonship through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will—” Colossians 2:10 says, “and in Christ you have been brought to fullness. He is the head over every power and authority.”

That should be enough to give me confidence that my identity is securely in God.

Performance Expectation

Yet just like I think there is some greater performance standard to claim to be a writer, I keep shying away from my mantle as God’s child. I keep acting like I need to do more or be more.

But here’s the deal: Our identities are the foundations on which we build our lives and determine how we engage with the world. When we build our identities on what we do or what people think, we view the world through an unstable and capricious lens. When our identity is built on God, we aren’t threatened by the whims of others.

Author Robert S. McGee describes this so well in his book, “The Search for Significance,” when he wrote,

“If we base our worth solidly on the truths of God’s Word, then our behavior will often reflect His love, grace, and power. But if we base our worth on our abilities or the fickle approval of others, then our behavior will reflect the insecurity, fear, and anger that come from such instability.” (p. 20)

Getting our identity right feels like a pretty big factor in defining how we live, act, and love.

Recognizing the Truth

One amazing benefit of retirement is the time and space to consider our relationships to God, to other people, and to what we do. I’m making progress stripping away a sense of performance or temporary status to define my identity. As Paul said, I am God’s child. Period. I pray you can find the space to ponder that, too. I apparently haven’t yet fully accepted my identity in Christ, but I am grateful for the Spirit, experiences, readings, and people that are helping me get there.

Because accepting that I am a child of God is even more impressive than saying I’m responsible for determining where traffic jams will spontaneously occur.

And it’s more truthful, come to think of it.