Christmas is nearly upon us and hordes of relatives are caravanning down the highways in cars packed with re-gifted sweaters and reindeer headbands. As I consider my own kin, a list of titles and labels stream through my mind. I have the uncle who sends terrible chain emails to the whole family, the cousin that demands Freebird at every family wedding, the cousin who looks like Forest Gump, and his daughter that was born a deep shade of orange. I can literally rattle off an alias for everyone in the family.

As a college student I am pretty quick to divvy out titles to the people around campus as well. Boom-box Guy, Unicycle Girl, The Late Night Runner, David the Sudanese Refugee, Tommy the Homeless guy- I label all of them, compartmentalizing their identities into neat mental boxes. Unicycle Girl is the girl who unicycles to class, end of story. David the Sudanese Refugee is the Sudanese refugee. He also has a name, the end. This system of titles and labels may help me describe these individuals to another person, but ultimately, it robs the individual of their humanity. Unicycle Girl is no longer a real person. She is a cartoon, a caricature with certain qualities grossly inflated and others entirely discarded. My title for her neglects the breadth of her personality and spirit, stripping her of any dignity. Do I know anything about her? No, not at all.

The same goes for my family. By reducing certain relatives to distracting mannerisms, fashion sense, or political stances, I effectively keep them at a distance. But my relatives are real people. More than that, they are creatures in the image of the Almighty, and therefore my labels misidentify them. Labels can alienate one person from another, even when they may be brothers or sisters in Christ. Unicycle Girl and the Forest Gump Cousin are so much more than their labels- they are beloved children of God.

Jesus had no use for titles. “Who are My mother and My brothers?” He asked (Mark 3:35). Jesus made no special distinction between the prostitute, the tax collector, the noble, and the cripple. A friend of mine is an artist and paints huge, wall-sized portraits of men he meets on the street. Many of the men are familiar faces from the streets around the university, but you will rarely hear this friend describe his subjects as homeless. He would prefer to see them as friends, men, and teachers.

This idea of titles also applies to yourself. We construct certain limited identities, through which we would like the world to perceive us. For example, I have accumulated all the gear in the world and rugged facial hair. Boom! I am the Outdoorsman. Others might be the musical girl, the funny guy, the “cool” mom, the brain, or any number of others and their combinations (i.e. the brainy “cool” mom).

As Christians, our true identities are entirely bound up in Christ and His work on the cross. He chose to identify Himself with us, meeting us in our brokenness. Gear and facial hair and unicycles pale in comparison to the glory of being called His beloved. Why do we seek these alternative identities? Why are we so quick to label the people around us? I think we find it safer and more convenient to describe others and ourselves according to external things. And yet it is the heart that Jesus sees, and it is the heart that Jesus graciously restores. In our mutual humanity and our mutual brokenness, Unicycle Girl and I have much more in common than my label presupposes. I need Christ to intervene in my relationships so that I can cast off the labels and begin to learn Unicycle Girl’s heart.