by Chris Lorensson on 17 October 2011 with
I’ve written a lot about the topic of identity, and it’s even the topic of my first book, Mirror. If I had to guess at the main reason I’m here, I’d say it was to excavate our history in order to uncover the truth about our identities. Jesus’ teachings walked a fine line between selflessness and identity in Him. To gain our lives, we must lose them. To lose our life is to gain it. His disciples reeled at this seemingly contradictory philosophy, and I would argue we have only a few examples of a life which exemplifies this principle.
I believe our identities are a sort of lost key to the locked door of community’s progress. I believe God made us each for a specific purpose, and that purpose is written in our identities. But speaking broadly—as the Community of Christendom, do we know who we are?
Sure we do—we’re the bride of Christ, children of God, brothers and sisters of Jesus, beloved, cherished, treasured. Hang on a second—when someone asks me what do you do, I don’t reply with I’m a full-service design agency, specialising in user experiences on a digital platform because to say that would be to describe my company, not myself. I think that what we call ‘identity’ nowadays largely is a description of our company—our community. It’s what we do and who we are as a whole— rather than as individuals. When I’m asked that question I reply I design experiences, and when I’m asked who are you? I reply I’m Chris because I have a name, a purpose, a father and a community around me, wherein my functions and purpose are exercised. My point is that I am not my community— I am an individual who makes up a key part of my community, but there are two identities here, not one.
by Chris Lorensson on 10 October 2011 with
I want to talk a little bit about prioritisation. Not really in a heavy sense, but just practical little things that I’ve learned the hard way.
For the past 6 years I’ve carried a memory of a span of time in my life when I felt closest to God. The more I recall this memory, the more romanticised it becomes in my mind. Now, the reality of it is so far from me that I’m not sure it happened at all. But I’m not quite ready to let it go, yet, and this post is all in the dim light of that distant memory, which I will refer to hereon out as the good ‘ol days.
The Good ‘Ol Days were simple—God had broken through my desire for significance by simply replacing that hole inside me with Himself. The Good ‘Ol Days lasted, for me, about 3 or 4 years. I spent a lot of time walking and talking with God. I was constantly starved for the Bible. In everything I did, I thought of Him.