Who am I?

Who am I? Am I a sum of my parts, or more?

My name is Jeromy Roger Johnson. Three words. Eighteen letters. Six syllables. When uttered, it is simply a collection of agreed upon sounds that form meaning. To some it has great meaning, recalling past memories, feelings and shared experiences. To others it has little meaning, but is simply a name on a page or screen. To most it is absolutely unknown and has less meaning to them then the bench they are sitting on. I am more than my name and reputation.

My face is composed of bones, muscle, flesh, two eyes, veins and a number of other parts. My eyes are blue-green. My mouth is big, as is my nose. My hair is dark and curly, and if you asked my wife, I have great skin. Sometimes I allow the little hairs on my face to grow, mostly out of laziness. Somehow the combination of bone shape and all these parts make up my visual identity, my image. And this image is set atop of a 6′-2″, 190 pound frame. Like my name, some know my face and some don’t. Some have seen it in person while others have simply seen a pixel representation. I am more than my body and image.

My brain weighs about three pounds and is a little smaller than my big head. Rarely do the synapses connect. Occasionally a feeling will surface and sometimes be expressed. As an introvert, much of my life is lived inside of my mind. Sometimes I come up for air and see how the rest of the world is doing, but quickly submerse back into my mind. My mind can be quirky, insincere, brilliant (rarely), caring, dorkish (often), loving, removed, creative, logical, angry and selfless. In fight or flight situations my mind tends to lay down for a nap. I am more than my mind and thoughts.

My roles are many: a son, a father, a husband, a friend, a lover, an employee, a citizen, a designer, a student, a writer. My labels are even more: white, male, married, christian, straight, heretic, middle-class, american, independent, introvert (INFP), ex-pastor, __________ (and the list can go on, and on, and on). I have no letters after my name. I am more than what I do or am called.

So who am I? I am human and I am loved by my Daddy.

Who am I that God would love me? Who am I that God would use me? My words are simply murmuring stutters. My voice is simply whispers of air. My hands are simply flesh, and so is my heart.

And why God chose to love me and use this eighteen letter name, this face of flesh, this three pound brain and this cacophony of identities will always remain a mystery to me. Yet I accept this mystery—and many others like it—in hopes of allowing it to shape and reshape me.