Slow MoverWhy I Identity as a Messy
I thought either Jessy or Christy could work, too, but figured they were too similar to real names. Messy is close to a really famous soccer player, but he spells it differently, and most people would probably think of the adjective first. I like Messy. It fits with so much about life. I mean, who is going to say that life isn’t messy at times? Of all the names of the One who chose to join us in our mess, it seemed Messiah provided the best frame of reference.
And so I have decided, at least for the purposes of this essay and perhaps several future awkward introductions, that I identify as a Messy.
This is not, to be clear, because I am especially athletic. Nothing could be further from the truth. If I were known for anything on a soccer field, it would probably be a profound spiritual commitment to standing in one place and reflecting on mortality, shouting “mark up!,” while other people ran past me toward a more tangible goal. No, I identify as a Messy because the word seems honest. More honest, in fact, than many of the polished labels we are encouraged to adopt.
We do seem to live in an age of frantic identity acquisition. People are forever trying on labels the way one tries on jackets in a department store, hoping one will finally make the soul look finished. Sometimes, it is political. Sometimes aesthetic. Sometimes spiritual. Very often it is wrapped up in entertainment, shows, celebrities, fandoms, and curated affiliations, as though the great question of human existence might finally be answered by announcing which universe one belongs to, which character one relates to, which public figure one mirrors, or which cultural tribe one performs allegiance to. I do not mean that cruelly. In fact, I find it more sad than ridiculous. There is something deeply poignant about watching human beings, made for glory and communion and love, fastening their deepest sense of self to temporary spectacles.
Entire personalities now seem to be assembled from entertainers, streaming shows, celebrity fragments, online discourse, and merch. A person used to say, “This is what I enjoy.” Now more and more we are tempted to say, “This is what I am.” We do not merely watch things; we inhabit them. We do not merely admire performers; we borrow them. We do not merely consume culture; we ask it to tell us who we are. Again, I do not say that with contempt so much as grief. It feels sad to watch people build a shrine out of references and call it a soul.
And Christians, of course, are not immune. We can treat Jesus as one identity option among many, one badge on the jacket, one brand beside other brands, one lifestyle accessory in the collection. But Jesus is not a vibe. He is not a fandom. He is not a stylistic choice for the spiritually inclined. He is not one more label to help us market ourselves to the world. He is the one before whom all our labels become strangely thin. He is the one in whom the self is not merely decorated but unmasked, undone, and remade.
Which brings me back to Messy.
Because if I am honest, that feels more true to the condition of my soul than most of the ready-made identities can offer. The actual self is usually much less impressive than the projected one. The actual self forgets passwords and people’s names. The actual self says the wrong thing in the wrong tone at the wrong time. And then refuses to admit it was wrong! The actual self has noble convictions and petty jealousies living under the same roof. The actual self believes in grace and still harbors resentment. The actual self can preach forgiveness and then mentally rehearse arguments in the shower. The actual self is not a brand. The actual self is a junk drawer with theological aspirations.
That is why Messy feels right.
I do not mean merely disorganized, though I have certainly been accused by piles of paper, my myriad collections, and certain closets in my house. I mean existentially cluttered. Spiritually untidy. Emotionally overstuffed. A person in whom grief and gratitude sit with each other in the same chair. A person whose faith is real and whose doubts are, yes, annoyingly real, too. A person who believes in resurrection and still sometimes smells faintly of the tomb.
Messy is not just a condition. It is almost a sacrament of honesty.
The strange thing is that our culture is full of slogans about authenticity, but only a very specific kind is allowed. You may be authentic so long as your authenticity is articulate, empowering, influencing, visually pleasing, and ideally monetizable. You may be vulnerable if you do it with good lighting, timely tears, and a clear takeaway point. But real mess has no media strategy. Real mess backslides. Real mess contradicts itself. Real mess cries at inconvenient times and can not always explain why. Real mess needs grace that is more than decorative.
And this, to me, is where Messiah becomes the frame of reference.
The scandal at the heart of the Christian story is not that God admired the mess from a safe distance and sent us a few inspirational remarks. It is that God entered it. It’s not the cleaned-up version. It’s not the testimony version where everything is wrapped up by the final chorus. The actual mess. Blood. Tears. Misunderstanding. Poverty. Political violence. Religious hypocrisy. Betrayal by friends. Public shame. Bodily pain. The whole tangled human catastrophe.
If I identify as a Messy, it is because I follow a Messiah who did not recoil from messiness.
He was born into the mess of empire and displacement. He grew up among ordinary people with ordinary smells and ordinary troubles. He touched lepers, which is another way of saying he touched what everybody else had agreed to remain untouched. He let weeping women make scenes in respectable settings. He told stories in which the wrong people turned out to be right, and the right people turned out to be blind. He wandered straight into the grime of human life and did not seem especially worried that it would damage his image.
He also, it should be noted, built no brand.
He did not refine a platform. He did not hire twelve consultants to tighten the messaging. He did not ask whether associating with sinners might dilute his influence. He moved steadily toward the wounded, the ashamed, the compromised, the burdened, the unclean, the inconvenient, and the ones everybody else had learned to step around.
This means, among other things, that if I am going to belong to him, I should probably stop pretending to be less messy than I am.
This is not a manifesto in favor of chaos. I am not arguing for irresponsibility, moldy coffee mugs, or unpaid parking tickets as signs of spiritual depth. Some forms of mess require repentance, discipline, therapy, apology, medicine, or a decent mop. I am not trying to canonize dysfunction. I am only suggesting that a great deal of human suffering is made worse by the exhausting effort to appear composed.
Some of us have spent years trying to become presentable instead of whole.
Presentable is useful. Presentable knows how to smile. Presentable speaks the right language. Presentable can sit in a pew, nod at the appropriate times, and still carry around enough unspoken sorrow to sink a fishing boat. Presentable can look calm while inwardly being one unanswered email or text away from emotional collapse. Presentable is often rewarded. Messy, on the other hand, has fewer illusions.
Messy knows the self is unfinished. Messy leaves room for grace. Messy knows it can not save itself by attaching one more label to the pile. Messy knows sanctification is not a makeover montage. Messy knows healing is uneven. Messy knows holiness is not sterility. Holiness is what happens when divine love enters contaminated spaces and does not become contaminated itself, but begins quietly making all things new.
That is why I do not mind identifying as a Messy. It is, in its own weirdly crooked way, a confession of hope.
Because if life were only clean lines and curated selves and properly resolved contradictions, perhaps we could save ourselves with better organization. Perhaps we could redeem our souls with the perfect planner, a ring light, a nice headshot, and a sufficiently compelling bio. Perhaps the kingdom of God could be achieved through proper branding and better emotional packaging.
But that has never been the case.
The good news is not that the mess is imaginary. The good news is that the Messiah is willing to enter it. The good news is not that I have transcended contradiction, ego, fear, desire, grief, anger, and absurdity. The good news is that none of those things have proven beyond the reach of mercy. Christ does not stand at the edge of my disorder, shouting instructions through a megaphone. Christ enters in. Christ sits down amid the clutter. Christ begins sorting what can be redeemed, what must be relinquished, and what, strangely enough, was never trash at all.
So yes, I identify as a Messy.
Not because I think confusion is noble.
Not because I think dysfunction is charming.
Not because I have mistaken woundedness for wisdom.
I identify as a Messy because perfectionism does not tell the truth.
I identify as a Messy because the human condition looks more like a mismatched sock drawer than a showroom.
I identify as a Messy because my life, like most lives, contains too many loose ends, unswept corners, contradictory impulses, and unfinished prayers to pretend otherwise.
And I identity as a Messy because I believe in a Messiah who still enters rooms full of fearful, disordered, ashamed people and says, without flinching, “Peace be with you.”
Which is really the miracle.
Not that we are tidy.
Not that we are consistent.
Not that we are easily explained.
But that the Holy One has chosen to dwell with us anyway.
To love us there.
To meet us there.
And to begin, right in the middle of the mess, making something beautiful that will never be mistaken for mere neatness.
Fred Savard
Weekend Stories
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