The Old Voice Came Back

Last week I went to an F3 workout to honor my friend, "Paterno."

(For those unfamiliar with F3, we all have nicknames. He's a Penn State guy, so the name fits.)

It was his final workout as site leader at our Sugar Hill location, and nearly 40 men showed up when we normally have 12-15.

At 64 years old, I'm not really there for the workout.

I'm there for the brotherhood.

I have plantar fasciitis in my left foot and a lower back that occasionally reminds me I'm not 24 anymore, so I modify a lot. That's actually encouraged in F3. The goal is that nobody gets left behind.

But on this particular morning, my foot and back were both barking.

While 39 men were sweating, grunting, sprinting, and pushing themselves through the workout, I spent most of 45 minutes simply walking around the perimeter.

As the guys ran by, many would shout: "SHAKE AND BAKE!"

(My F3 name.) I'd smile, wave, and shout back. But inside?

Inside was a different story. I started feeling less than.

The encouragement from the other men somehow got translated into pity.

And an old voice I haven't heard in a while began whispering:

"You're not enough, Steve." 
"Look at you."
"You're weak."
"You're not a REAL man."
"Everyone else is out here grinding and you're just walking around."
 

I wish I could tell you I immediately recognized the lie and shut it down.

I didn't. I started spiraling.

I managed to hold it together through our Circle of Trust afterward and even through the breakfast cookout that followed.

But something in me felt fragile.

After breakfast, I climbed into my truck and headed to the Social Security Administration office.

Revenue for Bringing Kingdom is growing, but slowly. At this season of life, it was time to begin receiving the Social Security benefits I've been paying into for nearly 50 years.

Honestly, I see it as provision from the Father.

But what I didn't expect was how vulnerable I still felt when I walked into that office.

I saw the line.  People from every walk of life.  Not the people I connect with on LinkedIn.

Not ministry leaders.

Not executives.

Not podcast hosts.

Just ordinary people trying to make it through life.

And suddenly my heart sank.  Part of it was compassion.

Ironically, the podcast episode I had released that morning was called:

"Jesus Felt It: The Compassion Most Men Don't Understand."

The Greek word was:  σπλαγχνίζομαι (splagchnizomai)

The deep gut-level compassion Jesus felt when He saw people who were hurting, weary, lost, and struggling.

Standing in that Social Security office, I felt it.

These weren't statistics.  These were people.

Stories.

Heartaches.

Dreams.

Losses.

And then something else hit me.

When I stepped up to the window, the SSA worker took my paperwork and walked away to make copies.

I stood there alone.

And unexpectedly, my eyes started filling with tears.

One thought hit me hard:

"How did I get here?"

And right behind it came another:  "I'm one of those old farts on Social Security now."

It sounds funny as I write it.  It didn't feel funny in the moment.

I came home, sat on the porch, and tried to make sense of what was going on inside me.

And eventually I realized that the workout, the Social Security office, and the tears weren't really about any of those things.

They were exposing a deeper question:

Who am I when I can't perform?

Because that's what the old voice was really asking.

At 25, I might have answered that question with strength.

At 45, maybe with career success.

At 55, with achievement.

At 64, perhaps with productivity.

But eventually life takes something away from all of us.

Our speed.

Our strength.

Our position.

Our health.

Our youth.

And when that happens, we're forced to answer a deeper question:

Was my identity ever supposed to be built on those things in the first place?

That afternoon I picked up a prayer from Brennan Manning that I've been trying to memorize.

These words met me exactly where I was:

"Abba, I surrender my will and my life to you today, without reservation and with humble confidence for you are my loving Father.

Set me free from self-consciousness, from anxiety about tomorrow, and from the tyranny of the approval and disapproval of others, that I may find joy and delight simply and solely in your presence.

May my inner freedom be a compelling sign of your presence, your peace, your power and your love. Let your plan for my life and the lives of all your children gracefully unfold one day at a time.

I love you with all of my heart, and I place all of my confidence in you, for you are my Abba. Amen."

As I sat there reading that prayer, something settled in my spirit.

The Father has never once loved me because I could run faster, earn more, accomplish more, or prove more.

Not at 25.

Not at 45.

Not at 55.

And not at 64.

His affection has never been based on my performance.

I am still His beloved son.

And so are you.

Maybe that's the invitation for both of us this week.

To stop measuring ourselves by what we can do and remember who we already are.

If an old voice has gotten louder lately, don't fight it alone.

Call a trusted brother.

Bring it into the light.

And then listen carefully for the voice of your Abba.

Because His voice is always kinder, truer, and more life-giving than the one in your head.