You Are Not Your Theology

how having firm beliefs is different from making them your identity.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

I stared out the front window looking down at our dormant garden bed and pointed out the emerging tulip tip to my husband. He touched the small of my back and stood beside me to look.

“Tulip. I don’t even know if I can remember all the points of TULIP,” he said as he walked away. Together we went through each one—both of us a tad rusty. They didn’t spring out of my mouth like a lightning bolt: “Irresistible grace!” I still whole-heartily believe in every single point, but these beliefs have sunk deeper into my heart rather than simply hanging out as nuggets of knowledge in my head. My doctrines have not changed, but my heart has.

Was I just in an ongoing “cage-stage” in my 20s? I don’t think so. No, I had a misplaced identity. I had placed my worth in my theology. It makes sense, then, why I felt personally attacked when the differing views of others rubbed against my own. It felt like they were questioning my value as a person. (And some probably were, honestly.) When your worth is in your theology and someone says that theology is wrong, of course you will feel threatened. Of course it will anger you. You’ll feel rejected and hurt.

What we believe matters. It’s essential that we align our beliefs with Scripture. We should seek to know God through his Word. But the goal is for that knowledge to work in our hearts, leading to a deeper love for God that bears the fruit of godly living (Eph. 3:17–4:3). It’s not to gain more knowledge in order that we might lift up ourselves—beckon others to, “look at me! Look at all this knowledge I have!” Oh God, help us, we are so drawn to self-exalting.

And hasn’t it been true from the beginning? Adam and Eve grasped for knowledge, unsatisfied with their portion. God placed them in perfection and they reached for more. Jesus laid down his life for his sheep, clothed us in his righteousness, and gave us a new identity in him. Yet we cling to our theology rather than Christ.

And I wonder if, particularly among Reformed saints, we so easily place our identity in our doctrine because we are scared to bask in the love of Christ? For so long, I was fearful of putting on all that my identity in Christ held. I leaned into the fact that I was a, “depraved wretch” more than I allowed myself to relish in the truth that I am a child of God—that though I sin, no longer am I called sinner. I am a saint, beloved by God (Col. 3:12). I thought that if I spent too much time pondering this I was sure to wander from God’s paths. Deep down, I believed it would be arrogant to take on these titles for myself. I lived as though focusing on my sinfulness was the key to sanctification, rather than gazing upon the goodness of my Savior.

But growth in Christlikeness doesn’t come from looking at ourselves—it is found in fixing our eyes on Christ (Col. 3:1–3). It is good to have good doctrine; it is better when good doctrine leads us to worship Jesus. Our theology didn’t save us, Jesus did. Our theology didn’t free us from sin, Jesus did. Our theology is not our identity, Jesus is.

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