Who Am I If I’m Not What I Do?
A Farm Hand asked me a great question.
It wasn’t a new question for me. I've asked it of myself. I've wrestled with it. I've worked it down to a cookie cutter answer, but the truth is it’s more complicated than a quick response can do justice to.
I got his message with his question while we were on a trip visiting family in Ohio. The kids were skiing. Megan and I were sitting by a fire drinking coffee. I had time and felt like I owed him and his question my full attention, so I wrote a long response.
There are a lot of layers to what I shared with him, but I want to pull one layer back here because I think it might help you too.
The question:
“What was the scariest thing you faced when you stepped away from the music industry and became more present at home?”
My answer:
Identity.
When you quiet the pursuit of cultural success, you have to face this question head on.
Who am I if I’m not what I do?
I had always been the guy with the guitar. That is how people knew me. That is how I knew myself.
I was always defined by what I did.
Culture is more than happy to reinforce that way of thinking.
It tells us our value is tied to what we produce.
We introduce people by their job.
This is Bob, he’s a plumber.
This is Mike, he’s an accountant.
This is Jacob, he sells insurance.
We rarely introduce someone by what actually matters.
This is Tim, he’s been married to the same woman for forty years.
This is Ronald, he works two jobs and still never misses one of his son’s games.
This is Aaron, you will never meet a more loyal friend.
Our world has a scoreboard. And it is not measuring the things that keep a soul alive.
So the conversation goes like this.
Them: Hi, nice to meet you. What’s your name?
Me: Hi, my name is Warren. Nice to meet you.
Them: So, what do you do?
That question can feel like...
Are you important?
Do you have a title?
How much money do you make?
Are you valuable to me?
Most people do not mean harm. We've just all bought into the world's metrics of success.
When I quit, I didn't just step down a rung on the ladder. I got off the ladder. I was in a very competitive and loud industry and I didn't just take a break from it… I severed all ties. I deleted phone numbers. I deleted social media. I moved my family to the middle of 100 acre farm. It got real quiet. So quiet that is was uncomfortable. Even frightening.
I was on the edge of depression.
Why? Because, “what do you do?” is not just a social question. It a deeply private one.
Who am I, really?
Not to others.
To myself.
And this is where I'm so thankful for parents who buried Scripture deep in my heart. It speaks truth and pushes back at the lies.
Truth is we are not defined by our titles. Titles can be taken away.
Positions change.
Platforms come and go.
But identity, as defined by Christ, is so much deeper. I should say it's higher. Higher than any rung on the world's ladder of success.
But the struggle is real, or scripture wouldn't have to be so deliberate in its warning.
“Above all else, guard your heart: for out of it are the issues of life.” Proverbs 4:23, KJV
One of many verses that whisper truth in my heart is the Psalmist when he says in Psalm 139:13–14
You knew me when I was in my mother's womb.
I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made
Before you and I ever did anything of value, we were valuable. And it had nothing to do with us. Not the job. Not the applause. Not the paycheck. It was because of Him. We were fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of God. He alone gives us our identity.
I used to think success meant God was blessing something. That idea has holes. Some of the richest men in the world are godless. Some of the most “successful” lives are a wreck behind the curtain.
It is possible to gain notoriety and lose yourself as pointed out in Matthew 16:26
So I started asking a different question than “What do I do?”
Who do I do it for?
If my identity is tied to what I do instead of who I do it for, then I’m clinging too tightly to the temporary and losing sight of the eternal.
The hardest part about walking away from my old life was realizing “recording artist” was never a title God gave me.
He gave me a song when I was a kid. I sang it.
He kept giving me songs. I kept singing them.
A lot of good came from it, because God is faithful and He can use anything for good.
But at some point, something changed. It was gradual. It became less about obedience and more about outcomes. Less about connection and more about competition. Less about faithfulness and more about keeping the machine running.
And then there's my family. I was on the road while my wife was raising our kids. My kids were going to bed every night and waking up everyday in a house that I visited between tours. Scripture does not give a man permission to neglect his family so long as his work is consumable by Christians. I stood on stage every night singing and speaking about what it meant to be a Godly husband and father. I felt the nudge in my spirit that it would be better if I went home and lived what I was singing about.
It was not a simple decision. It cost me more than I can say, or know.
It felt like letting part of myself die.
And in a way, it did.
But another part of me came back to life. I gained more than I can say, or know in this life.
In time I rested in the peace of this understanding:
My identity was never singer, speaker, or performer.
It was never money, house, car, or circle.
It was this.
I am His.
I listen.
Where He leads, I follow.
So here is a question worth sitting with.
If the title went away, if the role shifted, if the applause faded, if the platform disappeared, who would you be?
And then ask the deeper question.
Who does God say you are?
Because culture is loud. Comparison is relentless. And fear will try to rename you.
But God spoke first.
If you want the longer version of this, with the full story and the Scripture walk-through that helped me, that lives inside Farm Hands. It is a small gathering on my site where I share more of what I’m learning as I try to live this out.
Either way, I’m glad you’re here.
God is for you and so am I.
Faithfully,
Warren