Recently, while standing with family at the graveside, one of the family members came alongside me and said, “Thank you for your calming presence and assuring words, I don’t how you do it, I find these moments to be very hard”.  I simply responded, “so do I”.  I can testify with the Apostle Paul:  The Lord stood at my side and gave me strength, so that through me the message might be fully proclaimed.  (2 Timothy 4:17)
 
Such strength, is for me a gift from God.  If you could hit rewind button, you would have heard me quietly whisper to God as I straightened my tie and prepared for that memorial gathering, “God I hate this.”  Play it back a little further you’d find in a basement room at Emmanuel Baptist Church, in Chatham, Ontario, praying as the tears fell from my face for the strength to speak words of hope and encouragement at the memorial service for my sister-in-law.  You would see me sitting in my office moments before the funeral service for a four-year old boy, listening over and over again to the words of a worship song we sometimes sing:  He is able, more than able, to accomplish what concerns you today.  You would find me on the side of the highway, tears streaming down my face, my heart in anguish because my Janice’s dad left us so suddenly.  You’d see me choking back tears as I spoke at my grandfather’s funeral.
 
To be used of God to speak truth and hope into the lives of others is an awesome privilege, but nobody sees the quiet moments when my own heart is anguish.  I understand, I understand why God says death is an enemy; I understand something of sorrow and grief. Yet in the midst of all that, I have known the presence and strength, the comfort and grace of my God.
 
The Lord stood at my side and gave me strength, so that through me the message might be fully proclaimed.  (2 Timothy 4:17)
 
The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and he helps me. My heart leaps for joy, and with my song I praise him.  (Psalm 27:8)
 
You are my strength, I watch for you; you, God, are my fortress, my God on whom I can rely.      (Psalm 59:9-10)
 
My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.        (Psalm 73:26)
 
Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid. The Lord, the Lord himself, is my strength and my defense; he has become my salvation.  (Isaiah 12:2)
 
I have always been fairly confident; too often being over-confident in my own strength.  But the older I get, the more I realize, in those times when I feel weak and vulnerable and afraid, my strength comes from the Lord. 
 
When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.  In God, whose word I praise--in God I trust and am not afraid.  (Psalm 56:3-4)

I have been thinking lately about labels; more specifically the way we label others.  At a recent conference I attended I heard about ‘palliative patients’, ‘cancer patients’, terms like ‘serious illness’, ‘life-limiting’ and ‘life threatening’; all terms used to label one dealing with a significant medical concern.  We were reminded of the need to see the person and not the disease.
 
If you think about it labels are common place in our world; even in our Christian circles.  The following is an article by my friend Benjamin Hegeman, in which he challenges us:  How do we love those who label us?

Just before chapel time, I asked a student I knew well if he would be attending that day, “Yes”, he said, sheepishly, “but I hope I won’t be labeled for being white, male and straight.” We both laughed, shook our heads and attended. Welcome to the contemporary climate on one Christian campus. 

Labels rock in Benin too. Every single day Christine and I are labeled. For example, when I am travelling I am called ‘white man’ (Bature), ‘old man’ (tɔkɔ), ‘money man’ (gobigii), ‘male-man’ (tɔn durɔ) and ‘holy man’ (mon père –thinking I’m a Catholic priest) –or, if they know my vocation, I am ‘teaching-man’ (keu koosio). To people who do not know me, I’m a label. But I’m not; I’m a person. So how do we love the Beninese who daily label us? 

To those who personally know us in Benin, we receive relational names: Papa and Mama, or Martin-Papa or Mieke-Mama, or ‘loved-one’ (kĩnasi) or a Christian title: pasteur. It is not hard to love those who love you, and for whom your labels have faded in importance.  

But who in Benin knows us to the core of our identity? Who are truly soul friends? These are those of which the Bible says, “there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.” 

According to missiologist Tim Green, each person’s identity has three aspects: one’s inner core identity, one’s relational identity, and one’s labeled identity.  Those who do not know our inner person or our relational status call us by labels. And here is the question: ‘How do we love those who label us?’ 

At Houghton College, as on campuses nationwide, labels are all the rage. It can’t be otherwise in a post-modern world where everyone’s ‘story’ or ‘narrative’ is promoted, and where, each story is then ranked according to the social status of your label. And it sounds so much like Benin: America’s labels are now also based on one’s skin, age, gender, social-status, sexuality, and at times, one’s disabilities. Again, how do we love those who label us? 

While visiting another campus this year, the academic dean told me that he needed to hire new people who were non-White, non-male, not-old and non-American. (That I was all of the things they did not want was not lost on me –nor that he himself was not 3 out of the 4.) He was ‘fresh label’ shopping and, as he saw it, not all labels are equal. Fair enough, but I must protect my heart to not label him back. Loving is going beyond the label to reach the person.  

Students both in Benin and in Houghton must learn to intentionally love in a world crazy with (often unhealthy) labels. We need to be examples of loving beyond the label and embracing folks unconditionally even if they wish to label us and dismiss us. ‘Love them that label you’ is now as close to ‘love them that hate you’ in the 21st century. Pray that we can be examples for those younger than us.