There is a curious phonological phenomenon in the English language: the letter “I” often serves as the gateway to our discomforts. When we speak of the irritable, the icky, or the insufferable, the vowel sits at the front of the mouth, sharp and thin. It is the sound of an interruption, a jagged edge in the flow of silence. This linguistic quirk leads one to wonder: is the “I” inherently a site of friction?
In our daily lives, the “I” is frequently the source of our greatest burdens. We are often our own harshest judges, weaponizing the first-person pronoun against our peace. “I am not enough,” “I am failing,” “I am lost.” This “I” becomes a cage of self-criticism, a place where we store our insecurities and our imperfections.
Yet, when we pivot from the mundane to the transcendent, the “I” undergoes a radical transformation. It shifts from a sound of irritation to a declaration of ultimate being.
When Moses stood before the burning bush—the ultimate interruption of a shepherd’s routine—and asked for a name to bring to the Israelites, the response was not a title, but a verb: “I AM WHO I AM.” This is the “I” in its purest form—unconditioned, eternal, and absolute.
This divine precedent continues through the life of Jesus, who reclaimed the “I” through the “I Am” statements. He did not merely point to the truth or the light; He identified with them: “I am the way,” “I am the true vine,” “I am the light of the world.” Here, the “I” is no longer a small, irritable ego. It is an expansive, inclusive reality that invites others into its warmth. The names of the patriarchs and prophets—Isaiah, Ishmael, Isaac—carry this resonance, anchoring human history in a divine identity.
If the “I” is the name of God, then our own “I” is a reflection of that sacred spark. This makes the stewardship of our identity a holy task.
The question “Who am I?” is perhaps the most difficult—and most necessary—inquiry a human being can undertake. It is a question that does not expire with age. Whether we are nineteen or ninety, the “I” is a work in progress. To ask “Who am I?” is to audit the soul, stripping away the masks we wear for the sake of convenience or social standing.
Consider the story of my friend the lawyer turned minister. His transition was not a rejection of law, but a reconciliation with his “I.” He reached a point where the friction between his external role and his internal reality became an insufferable weight. He could no longer be someone he wasn’t. While not everyone is called to leave their profession, everyone is called to be authentic.
Perhaps the next time you encounter an “I” word that feels unpleasant, let it serve as a reminder. Let the interruption be a call to prayer; let the irritation be a signal that something in your soul needs attention. By asking “Who am I?” in the presence of the “I AM,” we begin the journey of becoming the most complete version of ourselves—not just as a collection of roles and titles, but as a living reflection of God.
PS: Please forgive my wordiness lately, I’ll try to tone things down. Several of you have written if there is a way to help with getting The Hubbell Pew and is goal of continuing to not have ads, which I’ll quit before I do. One simple way is just sign one friend up to receive the meditations or send me his or her name and email and I can add them to our mailing list. Thanks for following. W.
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