Who Am I? Listen to me, you who pursue righteousness, you who seek the LORD: look to the rock from which you were hewn, and to the quarry from which you were dug. Look to Abraham your father and to Sarah who bore you; September 2018 for he was but one when I called him, that I might bless him and multiply him. (Isaiah 51:1–2)

Dear friends,

When Moses was 80 years old he had a major identity crisis! His birth mother was Hebrew, but his adoptive mother was Egyptian. When he was with the Jews, he was considered a foreigner. When he was with the Egyptians, he was treated like an alien. To make a complicated situation even worse, he married a Midianite. After murdering an Egyptian in a failed attempt to assert his identity, he fled to the desert. When he finally met God at the burning bush, he shouted out his frustration to the One who had created him: Who am I? (Exodus 3:11).

I’m only 65, but in recent months I’ve had a minor identity crisis of my own. Like Moses, the older I get, the deeper grows the mystery of who I am. Am I what I do? Am I how I feel? Am I what I have? Is my identity determined by my family? By my ethnicity? By my gender? Am I who others say am I, or am I able to define myself? Who am I?

During my ministry travels this summer, I found myself traveling alone early one August morning through Baltimore, Maryland. On a Francis Asbury (1745–1816) whim, I decided to visit the grave of Francis Asbury. I knew he was buried somewhere in the city and it just seemed right that I should visit the resting place of the man who gave his name to the organization where I serve as president. It took some research and driving through some rough neighborhoods, but I finally found Mount Olivet Cemetery. A map at the entrance told me that he was buried in the “Bishop’s Lot.” I was shocked to learn that among the other notable figures buried in this little plot of ground was E. Stanley Jones: missionary to India, evangelist, author. The grass was wet with morning dew when I finally found the graves of these two saints—only about twenty feet apart! I began to realize that this moment was going to be more significant than I had imagined it would be. I sat down on E. Stanley’s grave to think and pray.

E. Stanley Jones (1884–1973) Looking at the bishop’s monument across from me, my mind raced as I contemplated the debt I owed to Francis Asbury. The churches, schools, ministries, and relationships that grew out of this one man’s influence that directly or indirectly impacted my life would be impossible to enumerate. I said out loud, “Thank you, Francis. I wonder if you have a clue what an influence you’ve had on my life.” Then turning my attention to the grave on which I sat, I remembered how E. Stanley Jones was my dad’s hero. In fact, he named me after him! Though I always felt free to pursue my own dreams, I knew my dad had pegged me with the name of this global evangelist with the prayer that I too would grow to be a man of God and live a life that mattered.

The Bishop’s Lot—Mount Tears came to my eyes as I sat there with Francis and E. Stanley. I didn’t Olivet Cemetery choose my heritage, my family, or my name. In fact, I didn’t even choose to be born. These matters were all settled before I even arrived on the scene. And these two men, resting in peace so close together, shaped me in ways of which I wasn’t even conscious!

By this point in the morning, my soul was on fire. A flash of inspiration prompted me to get in my car and drive five miles to Fort McHenry and a piece of American history I’d always wanted to visit. This was the site of a famous battle during the War of 1812 between the Americans and the British fleet in Baltimore Harbor. But for me, the fort had a much more personal attraction. In was here that Francis Scott Key wrote The Star Spangled Banner. We Keys have always walked a little taller and behaved a little better when we remembered that our identity was linked to the young Christian lawyer, a distant cousin, who wrote the words sung before every ball game in America! Francis Scott Key (1779–1843) Walking into the Visitor Center, I was not disappointed. As if he knew I was coming, a life-sized statue of Francis Scott, quill in hand, was standing there ready to welcome his long-lost cousin. As I walked through the museum and read about his life and the circumstances that caused him to write his famous poem—and especially as I watched the flag-raising ceremony over Fort McHenry later than morning—I had a lump in my throat. I found myself singing the lyrics of a verse from my cousin’s hymn that has been almost forgotten:

Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just; and this be our motto: ‘In God is our trust.’ Fort McHenry

All that day as I made the long trip back to Kentucky alone in my car, my thoughts remained fixed on the mystery of my identity. Who am I? I thought about Poplar Springs Cemetery in central Georgia where perhaps our most legendary and colorful ancestor is buried: Alexander Chestnut Flanders. Wearing gray in the Civil War, Captain Flanders was with Lee’s army during the surrender at Appomattox Court House. He took pleasure in letting his grandchildren put their fingers in the crease in his skull caused by a Yankee mini ball during the battle of Spotsylvania (1864). After the war, he became a lay preacher and a “shouting Methodist.” Old family photos picture him as an Abrahamic figure with silky white hair and a long flowing beard. Those who knew him in his old age, told of how he would fervently pray that God would raise up ministers of the gospel from his children and grandchildren. It is estimated that more than sixty of his direct descendants have answered the call into some form of full-time Christian Alexander Chestnut Flanders ministry—including me. (1828–1919) Who am I? I find that if I stand in front of a mirror to ask this question, the answer remains ambiguous and elusive. But if, like Moses, I stand before the bush that burns and ask my Creator and Redeemer to reveal the truth, the answer comes with power and truth!

First, my identity is given to me. I cannot—I dare not!—define myself. My race, gender, family, nationality, and eye color were all predetermined. The discovery of my true identity begins only when I Great-great-great-great grandchildren humbly acknowledge that God was at work in my life long before I (future pastors?) visiting Grandpa Chess even arrived on the scene! Before I was formed in my mother’s womb, God had mapped out a plan for who I would be and what I would do (see Jeremiah 1:5). As Jesus told his disciples, “You did not choose me, but I chose you” (John 15:16).

Second, though much was predetermined, I still have a major role to play in defining who I am. When asked about his family identity, Jesus said, “Whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother” (Matthew 12:50). Even Jesus recognized that his identity involved more than the circumstances of his birth. Our identity in Christ trumps every other possible point of reference. “If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple” (Luke 14:26).

Finally, I now realize more than ever before that I’ll never find myself by looking for myself. Visits to cemeteries only get the process started. They can never answer the real question. I discover my identity only when I lose myself in God and in his purposes for my life (cf. Mark 8:35). “Who am I?” Moses asked. “I will be with you,” came back God’s reply (Exodus 3:12). That’s not the answer Moses expected and yet it responded to every question he ever had about his truest and deepest identity.

It all boils down to a single reality that is profoundly simple and simply profound: Who am I? I am His!

I am a flower quickly fading, Here today and gone tomorrow, A wave tossed in the ocean, A vapor in the wind. Still you hear me when I'm calling, Lord, you catch me when I'm falling, And you've told me who I am; I am yours.1

Katy and I are so thankful for each of you and the many ways you love and encourage us as we journey through life together.

We are His,

Stan and Katy—September 2018

Stan Key

The Past Three Months The Next Three Months

• June 28–29, 2018: Illuminate Conference (One • September 24–26, 2018: Sammy Tippit Board Meeting Mission Society, IN) (MI) • July 20–29, 2018: Eaton Rapids Camp Meeting (MI) • October 3–5, 2018: FAS Young Speakers gathering • August 5–10, 2018: Malaga Camp Meeting (NJ) (KY) • August 21–25, 2018: FAS Hemlock Inn Retreats • October 7–10, 2018: Special services at Winder UM (Bryson City, NC) Church (Georgia) • September 1–2, 2018: Deeper Life retreat for Hmong • October 19–20, 2018: FAS Board Meeting (KY) churches (MI) • November 16–18, 2018: Retreat for surgical residents • September 5–7, 2018: Medical Missions Summit (Tanzania) (Charlotte, NC) • December 5–6, 2018: FAS Speakers Summit (KY) • December 7–8, 2018: FAS gathering of Camp Meeting

1 Song written by Mark Hall and recorded by the Christian rock band Casting Crowns (2004).

OUR INFORMATION Home: Work: 140 Lowry Lane Francis Asbury Society Wilmore, KY 40390 1580 Lexington Rd 859-858-0851 PO Box 7 [email protected] Wilmore, KY 40390 Anna’s blog: www.annasadventuresingermany.blogspot.com [email protected] Katy’s blog: journeywithkaty.wordpress.com www.francisasburysociety.com Donate at: www.francisasburysociety.com/stan-key