Keeping the New Self On

While no day in my life is completely predictable, one element remains inevitable: At some point during the day, one or both of our toddlers will suddenly be unclothed. It always seems to happen in a matter of seconds. One minute I’m watching, and in the time it takes to turn to something else and back around, a complete wardrobe change—or rather, disrobing—has occurred. By the time I catch the adorable escape artist and wrestle pants back on the offender, the other sibling, thinking it’s a game, usually joins in, and the process of taming their uncovered flying limbs turns into a whirlwind of fabric and skin. It doesn’t stop there, either. Throughout the day I find trails of tiny clothes scattered across the house, and the outfit changes in a given day can be countless.

It’s a daily struggle, and I’m told it’s a phase.

When the Old Self Clings and the New Self Slips

I often wish my “old self” could shed layers as effortlessly as my toddlers do. Somehow it clings stubbornly, refusing to budge the more effort is applied. While my toddlers can peel off their clothes in three seconds flat, my “old self” clings and sticks. My irritation, impatience, and lack of empathy fit too snuggly, and it takes a miracle of grace to strip them all away. I suppose that is why Paul calls us to set our minds “on things above” “[for] Christ . . . is our life” (Col. 3:2, 4).

Interestingly enough, I find that it’s just as easy for me to shed a layer of the “new self” when I’m not paying attention. In a moment of exhaustion, frustration, or overwhelm, the patience, kindness, and humility meant to be worn are suddenly dropped to the floor, leaving a mess. My human nature, with its desire for freedom, comfort, and control, struggles to put on the appropriate coverings. Sometimes, at the end of a particularly long day, I’ll look down and realize that those virtues were stripped at some point without me even noticing.

I suppose at times I resist putting on humility or forgiveness as much as my toddlers resist putting on pants.

I am a spiritual toddler.

The garments in Colossians 3 are not natural to wear, and putting on the elements of the “new man” is impossible with my own effort. My underdeveloped spiritual brain tantrums and fights refinement. It would rather run around “free” and “naked.”

Why Spiritual Clothing Matters

But why would I even need to put on these garments? Without a physical covering, things can be quite uncomfortable (unless you’re a toddler who, I’m convinced, must be immune to the elements). Feeling the cold or feeling shame is natural when uncovered. Christ’s covering clothes us not only with warmth but also with safety, identity, and peace. He dresses the parts of me that are embarrassed, anxious, or tired. He covers the places where I am thin, reactive, or easily bruised.

The Daily Resurrection

Colossians 3 played a big part in my days as a new Christian. I longed to put aside the “old man” and put on the “new man” (see Eph. 4:22-24). The character traits I wanted were all listed in one neat chapter, and it was my absolute aspiration. While I looked like the same person I always was on the outside, on the inside, I knew my old self had “died,” and I was now “raised.”

When my true identity is hidden with Christ, my flaws aren’t the final word about who I am.

What I didn’t quite grasp then, and what I struggle with now, is the fact that this is an almost daily occurrence. Putting on the new self is not a onetime dressing. It is a daily choice, a continual returning to Christ, a surrender of old habits and instincts.

This daily scuffle of flying limbs I have with my kids is not completely dissimilar to the one I have with God. My spiritual self sometimes runs past Jesus wearing nothing but a grin. It’s the spiritual clothing battle I live every day.

Hidden in Christ

Paul writes that “your life is hidden with Christ in God” (Col. 3:3).

At first read this phrase feels mysterious and abstract. Does it mean that no one ever sees me? What does it mean to be hidden with Christ? I now believe it means that my truest identity is not determined by what I feel in a moment. It’s not defined by my failures, or my temper, or my exhaustion. My life is tucked safely inside His. I am anchored in Someone steadier than my emotions, stronger than my weaknesses, and more faithful than my best intentions.

My uncovered self is vulnerable, reactive, ruled by emotion, and led by self rather than the Spirit. And it’s a mess. In contrast, when my true identity is hidden with Christ, my flaws aren’t the final word about who I am. My spiritual nakedness doesn’t scandalize God. My identity is no longer exposed to the cold winds of shame or fear.

Christ Himself becomes my shelter, my warmth, and my covering.

When God looks at me, He sees Christ. And when Christ clothes me, He covers everything I cannot fix on my own. Hidden in Him, I am safe to learn, to grow, and yes, to be a toddler in grace.

Growing Into the New Identity

Our oldest is only now starting to figure out that clothing is tied to identity. She loves wearing items and colors that make her feel like a princess and show off her personality. As we “rise with Christ” (see Col. 2:12), He reshapes our identity. It may be a slow process, but it’s just that—a process.

Identity and clothing have always been linked. Spiritually, it is no different. As Christ shapes our new identity, He shows us exactly what it means to be “clothed with Him” (see Gal. 3:27, NIV) in lived-out character. Paul describes this wardrobe in Colossians 3. The list he gives is quite sizable: “Tender mercies, kindness, humility, meekness, longsuffering; bearing with one another, and forgiving one another,” and “above all . . . love” (Col. 3:12-14).

A superficial read of this list makes me feel happy and hopeful, but when I sit and reflect on whether I’m clothed in these qualities, my spiritual nakedness becomes evident, and it’s easy to fall into discouragement.

The good news is that Christ is the one who covers us. As much as we fight and insist on doing things ourselves, we are not capable. Only Christ can clothe us. When our hearts are finally bound with His, these qualities can finally spring forth.

Once love fastens everything into place, the new life becomes something lived—not just imagined.

When I imagine wearing the garments Paul describes, I picture layers of beautiful fabrics: kindness over humility, patience over compassion, forgiveness stitched into meekness. But layered clothing can shift, bunch, and fall, unless something secures it.

Paul doesn’t leave us without that anchor. He ends his list with the one virtue that fastens every other part of the Christian life together, the clasp that keeps the whole outfit from coming undone.

Love: What Holds It All Together

Paul names love as that virtue that completes our ensemble. Love is the binding force that keeps compassion, kindness, humility, and patience in place. Love holds us together on days when everything feels undone.

Love gathers every virtue and holds them in place, not just for our sake but for the sake of those who watch our lives. Ellen White puts it plainly: “No other influence that can surround the human soul has such power as the influence of an unselfish life. The strongest argument in favor of the gospel is a loving and lovable Christian.”[*]

Getting Dressed With Christ

Once love fastens everything into place, the new life becomes something lived—not just imagined. It shows up in the way we talk to our children, the way we handle interruptions, the way we respond when the day unravels. Paul captures this all-encompassing way of living in his closing words:

“And whatever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through Him” (Col. 3:17).

If that’s the case, I suppose that means even the daily toddler clothing struggle becomes an invitation to grace. Perhaps every moment of chasing down a half-dressed child, every trail of tiny clothing across the floor, every exhausting attempt to redress a determined toddler, is a reminder that Christ is dressing me, too—patiently, daily, lovingly.

And maybe that means that in these fleeting, chaotic years ahead, as I’m gathering clothes and gathering my own composure, Christ will be gathering me, to wrap me, again and again, in the garments I can’t put on myself.

And maybe, by His grace, I can learn to let Him help me keep these garments on.

[*] Ellen G. White, The Ministry of Healing (Mountain View, Calif.: Pacific Press Pub. Assn., 1905), p. 470.