It was the highest point—in more ways than one. 

I was in my early teens, and my family and I were enjoying a hiking trip in the beautiful Smoky Mountains of Tennessee.  We had been exploring dozens of picturesque trails with breathtaking destinations—waterfalls like silver ribbons over the rocks, views that unrolled to the edge of the world, old-growth forests where the trees murmured of memory. Yet there was one trail we hadn’t attempted—Chimney Tops. 

Chimney Tops is a famous landmark in the Smokies wilderness, a sharply triangular mountain whose cleft summit is said to resemble two smokestacks—hence the name.  We’d heard the glowing reports from other hikers, that its apex provided not only amazing views but also the exhilaration of elevation.  Yet we’d also heard how strenuous the path to this wonder was.  The trail gains 1700 feet of elevation over only two miles, rising to the summit at nearly 4800 feet, with rough terrain, steep grades, and even some sections where bare rock scrambling is required.  

Concerned that it might be too treacherous for me, my parents had always avoided this trail.  But for some reason, it rose in my imagination as the ultimate challenge.  Perhaps I was motivated by the promise of that spectacular view or (more likely) by my innate susceptibility to dares, but I begged relentlessly to hike to Chimney Tops. And thus, one afternoon of our stay, we found ourselves at the trailhead—not necessarily to hike, my parents cautiously reiterated, but merely to study the first section of trail and consider further. 

But as we contemplated the route, a man and woman preparing to begin the climb struck up a conversation with my parents. Much to my indignation, the woman studied me appraisingly and then grimly informed my parents that she felt the trail would just be too difficult for “a child.”  My parents assured her that I was an experienced hiker and had already completed many challenging trails, but she continued to insist that Chimney Tops was in a category all its own.  Fortuitously, she went on her way just as I was about to choke on all the words I wasn’t saying.

I resolved right then and there that I would hike that trail or die in the attempt.  I wouldn’t heed that woman’s words.  I’d prove myself—claiming my validation on the top of the mountain. 

And so, a few days later, we found ourselves climbing the fearsome trail to Chimney Tops.  Was it difficult?  Certainly.  But was it possible?  Absolutely.  Step by step, we worked our way to the top. And when I finally gazed across the sweeping vista, ducking my head so I wouldn’t scrape it on the sky, I felt a tingling thrill of accomplishment.  I’d proven myself now, I believed.  At last, I’d done something so monumental that it could surely be a milepost for my missing confidence.  No one could question my abilities again…not even me. 

At the time, I wasn’t able to so clearly codify my feelings.  I simply knew that I felt insecure.  I was aware that the woman’s doubts only echoed the ones that had so long resounded inside my own heart.  And the antidote, I reasoned, was accomplishment.  If I could perform a fantastic feat, one that forced me to showcase the best of my abilities, then the victory anthem would drown out the whispers of insecurity.

Except that it didn’t. 

In the years since then, I’ve hiked Chimney Tops many more times as well as conquered even more difficult trails in some of the most unforgiving wildernesses—the famously treacherous Chisos Mountains along the Texas-Mexico border, the haunting and legend-laced Catskills of Upper New York, the remote backcountry labyrinth of the Yosemite Valley.  I’ve also climbed “mountains” in other areas of my life—graduating high school, earning my bachelor’s degree, landing my first job, publishing my first book.  But with every accomplishment, I feel the residual Chimney Tops tug—the false promise that summiting this particular mountain will be the panacea to heal all the hurts, that every uncertainty or insecurity will be erased by this single triumph.  Yet no matter how glorious the view from the top of the mountain, or how exhilarating the knowledge of having overcome, I relearn the lesson of all those years ago—no accomplishment has ever been or will ever be enough to redefine me.  It may temporarily numb my doubts, but it won’t eradicate them. 

I don’t think I’m alone in this struggle.  Maybe you’ve never been belittled by a fellow hiker, but all of us hear voices that question our ability, our calling, or even our inherent worth.  Some of these words come from the people or pain around us; some come from within our own hearts.  In our search to silence them, we raise our accomplishments, brandishing them like weapons in the face of our fears.  Certainly, there’s nothing wrong with celebrating notable feats or rejoicing in the successes with which God has blessed us.  But if we’re not careful, we can end up looking to our accomplishments to define us—to crown us worthy recipients of respect, admiration, or happiness, or even love. 

It’s tempting to blame this troubling tendency on our current social structure, an airbrushed world that feeds on insecurity and is fueled by comparison.  In reality, though, this issue has plagued humans for millennia.  Just look at the book of Genesis, at a woman who must have surely struggled with a lion’s share of insecurities—Leah.

Lacking her sister’s charms and ranking second-place in her world, Leah became the helpless pawn in her father’s schemes.  Soon she found herself as the unwanted prize for Jacob, who had been duped into marrying her rather than her sister, Rachel.  It’s difficult to imagine the insecurities that would surely arise from such an inauspicious situation.  But Leah’s circumstances grew even worse when Jacob married Rachel as well.  Now Leah was constantly competing for her husband’s affection and attention, matched in a rivalry with her own much more beautiful—and beloved—sister. 

And so when Leah’s first son, Reuben, is born, we hear the desperation in her voice.  Leah has summitted her own personal Chimney Tops, and she makes this heartbreaking statement: “Now my husband will love me” (v. 32b). 

Yet just as I did, Leah learns that a single summit isn’t enough to cancel insecurities.  And so the pattern continues.  When her second son is born, she exults, “Because the LORD has heard that I am hated, he has given me this son also” (v. 33b).  Yet when her third son is born, she’s still trying to reassure herself: “Now this time my husband will be attached to me, because I have borne him three sons” (v. 34b).

Can’t you hear the pain in Leah’s story?  The pain that mimics our own.  It’s hidden in the tragic turn of speech: now this time.  Now this time it will be different.  Now this time he will love me—and I will love myself.  Now this time it will be enough.  Now this time I’ll finally feel worthy.  

And don’t miss the second wrenching word:  because.  Now this time my husband will be attached to me—because.  This word signals Leah’s search for an atonement for her own perceived unworthiness.  Now this time I am strong because I have climbed Chimney Tops.  Now this time I am good enough because I excelled.  Now this time I am worthy because I received the promotion.  Now this time I will be accepted because I have succeeded.  Now this time I can face myself because I have overcome.  Now this time… because…

But the sad spiral has no resolution; when we begin looking to our accomplishments to compensate for our supposed deficiencies, we’ll discover the same tragic truth Leah did:  it’s not enough.  Her seven children notwithstanding, the biblical account is painfully blunt—“So Jacob…loved Rachel more than Leah” (Genesis 29:30 ESV).  The next verse even describes her as “hated” (v. 31).  Her accomplishments weren’t enough to win Jacob’s favor, and I doubt they were adequate to appease her own insecurities either.  Our deepest fears demand more and more and more to drown out their voices, and soon we’re left in despair, unable to offer any sufficient sacrifice on the altar of our insecurity. 

So when we’re tempted to hang our worth on our works—when it seems that who we are has no value until it’s coupled with what we do—what’s the answer for us?  If we can’t squelch insecurity by trying harder, offering more, doing better, then wherein lies the hope for us shaky souls?  The process of learning to walk in the light, to tune out the lilting lies that replay in our hearts, is a hard but holy one.  It takes patience and prayer, time and trust, woe and worship.  I don’t know the terrain of your heart, so I can’t draw you a map for the journey.  But what I can do is offer some starting points. 

First, we surround ourselves with people who value us.  I’m reminded again of an important aspect of my Chimney Tops experience.  Yes, I faced doubts—both from my own uncertainties and from the gloomy predictions of a stranger.  But I also heard stronger voices—those of my parents, who valued me, loved me, and respected my character.  In the face of uncertainty, they guided me up Chimney Tops—because they knew my heart even when it was forgotten by others or even myself.  Does this mean every voice in your life must be positive and uplifting?  No, and it’s unrealistic to expect so.  However, it’s important that the loudest voices belong not to those who constantly assess if you’re measuring up but to those who assure you with loving embraces that you are already enough just as you are. 

Next, we disentangle who we are from what we do.  I looked to Chimney Tops to designate me a “real” hiker—as if I had to work for the right to be in the woods at all.  But my love for the wilderness isn’t something that’s achieved; it’s already woven into my DNA.  Hiking isn’t how I earn my status; it’s how I express it.  The same is true for us.  You don’t need to apologize for your existence or search for your soul on the summit.  Your accomplishments must not be conjured from without but overflowing from within. 

Lastly and most beautifully, we remember the price that was placed on us.  It’s been said that something’s worth is determined by the price a buyer is willing to pay.  And what does that mean for us?  That our worth is infinite—indeed, Scripture describes us as “a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for [God’s] own possession” (1 Peter 2:9 ESV). The appraisal of our value was completed once and for all when the Lamb without spot, the Holy One, spilled His priceless blood and purchased our pardon.  You were claimed at the cost of the very lifeblood of God Almighty.  And even more amazingly, you were ransomed before you had the ability or even the inclination to offer anything in exchange.  What could any achievement, however magnificent, add to that worth?  

So today, don’t search your successes for your value.  Rejoice when you climb Chimney Tops in your life, but don’t depend on it to provide your peace.  Take pride in performing great feats, but don’t hold them up as validation for your presence in this life.  You have a worth far greater than any accomplishment could ever measure—the worth that comes not from climbing mountains, but from being the beloved child of the One Who created them.