I live within an identity crisis.
Most of the time—honestly, about 99 percent of the time—I experience life as an average person. I’m married with two grown and married children. I work, take care of my yard, and serve in my church. My life, in so many ways, looks ordinary.
But then there’s the other 1 percent.
That 1 percent shows up almost every day in a simple, familiar occurrence: meeting someone for the first time. In those moments, my world becomes unordinary.
It’s obvious why this happens: I talk funny. When I was born, one of my vocal cords and part of my tongue were paralyzed, along with other smaller impairments. By God’s grace, I learned to talk, to function in the world in a way that, for the most part, allows me to blend in as just another ordinary person.
So my life has been lived in this tension.
Almost all the time, I’m just another guy. Then, in brief but recurring moments, I’m the guy who talks funny, who’s different, who’s disabled.
So, who am I?
Three Narratives That Call Me
My identity crisis tends to revolve around three competing narratives—identities that the world, and often my own heart, continually offers me.
Almost all the time, I’m just another guy. Then, in brief but recurring moments, I’m the guy who talks funny, who’s different, who’s disabled.
The first is deeply appealing: the overcomer, the guy with an inspirational story. I get to be the man who wasn’t supposed to walk, talk, or live normally, but somehow did anyway. If I’m honest, that identity is attractive. Who wouldn’t want to be seen that way?
The second identity is one I don’t go looking for: the victim. This is the version of me that emerges when someone doesn’t understand what I’ve said, or looks at me with discomfort. Suddenly, I’m not normal anymore. In those moments, I feel like I’m a person who gets marginalized because of my disability.
The third identity is newer and, in many ways, more culturally celebrated: the one whose disability is a source of pride. In this narrative, my disability becomes something to center or elevate, something to root my identity in. There’s something compelling about that view of myself. It sounds affirming. It sounds meaningful.
Two Worldviews, One Shared Belief
Through her book and other writings, Stephanie O. Hubach has helped me see that these three narratives are anchored in two competing worldviews.
The first, which Hubach labels “the modern view,” says disability is abnormal in an otherwise normal world, that it’s a problem to be fixed or overcome. The second, “postmodern” view swings the other direction entirely, treating disability as little more than a social construct, insisting those with disabilities aren’t different and have no lack at all. The postmodern view either names us victims or tells us our disability should be a source of pride. It says disability should be seen as a “normal part of a normal world.”
The three narratives (and two worldviews) are deeply embedded in our culture. On the surface, they compete, but they have a shared belief. Each ties a person’s identity, value, and story to his or her capacity. Reduced capacity—of any kind—usually means reduced value; or if your disability is a source of pride, it could mean increased value.
Capacity, Identity, and Meaninglessness
If there’s a group in our society that consistently bears the weight of being evaluated through the lens of capacity, it’s people with disabilities. They’re significantly more likely to live in poverty and twice as likely to be unemployed. While 28 percent of U.S. families include a person with a disability, only 15 percent to 20 percent of U.S. evangelical churches have a disability ministry. Beneath these patterns lies a subtle but harmful equation: less capacity means less necessity.
People with disabilities can and do internalize the implications of this philosophy. We inherit the idea that identity must be grounded, at least in part, in something intrinsic to our abilities, experiences, or differences. So we feel pressure to reject our difference, to celebrate it, or somehow to do both at the same time. We encounter an identity crisis.
But this doesn’t help at all. If I root my identity in being an overcomer, it won’t hold because there are still moments when I don’t overcome. Neither am I just a victim, as though God hasn’t been exceedingly gracious to me. And if I root my identity in a form of pride about my disability, that only captures part of who I am.
These narratives aren’t enough. No achievement, experience, choice, or label can bear the weight of my identity. But if that’s the case, what, or who, can?
Rooted Always and Only in Him
Here’s where Hubach offers hopeful truth. Pointing to the biblical storyline, she says that disability is “a normal part of an abnormal world.” Disability is normal in that it should be an expected part of the human experience.
After all, we live in a world under the effects of the fall. Disability is a noticeable form of the hardship and difficulty common to humanity. In a fallen world, its difficulty arises from both the impairment and the sinful ways people can behave toward others they judge as different from themselves.
But the biblical storyline tells us more. Because of who Christ is and what he’s done in his work of redemption, I can also anchor my sense of self in what Jesus says is true about me in union with him:
- First Corinthians 12:22 arrests me with a seemingly illogical claim, that the parts of the body that I think are weaker—that possess less “capacity”— are actually “necessary” and “indispensable.” Because of this truth, I don’t need to root my identity in my capacity, or lack thereof, but I can instead believe that God created me to be an essential part of the body.
- Ephesians 4:24 goes further, attaching my identity to my image-bearing status. Because Christ restores the moral dimensions of the imago Dei, I now bear God’s image in “true righteousness and holiness.”
- And in Colossians 3:3, Christ provides me even more assurance: I’m “hidden with Christ,” meaning my identity and life are intertwined with his. My future is protected by his work, his grace, and his Spirit.
This isn’t just true for me. It’s true for every believer. Whether you have a disability or not, you aren’t relegated to a temporary identity or one that depends on your context. You get to ground your identity—forever and for good—in him. Why wouldn’t we accept Christ as our identity when he is offered so freely and wipes away the tears, pain, and frustrations that accompany our identity confusion?
Whether you have a disability or not, you aren’t relegated to a temporary identity or one that depends on your context.
When I root my identity in Christ, I resolve the battle that wages within me. When I rest in his finished work, and what he says about me, I’m not 1 percent disabled and 99 percent normal. I’m not an overcomer or a victim. None of that matters at all.
What Christ says about me is the most true and loving thing that will or could ever be said about you or me. When we choose to accept this gift with a believing heart, the crisis is over. I belong to him, and that’s all the identity I’ll ever need.
