Steven Furtick — Call It What You Want
What if great strength is always born out of great sorrow? Perhaps, perhaps real strength is only ever born out of real sorrow. Perhaps the strongest people you will ever meet have also experienced the greatest sorrow. Perhaps the greatest trials that you've ever gone through in your life are the very things that God used to fortify the greatest strength in your life; strength and sorrow and sorrow and strength.
And if I need to bring an example forth for consideration, then I would suggest to you that Jesus, Jesus, who had all power and all authority and still does, there's nobody stronger, nobody greater than Him, nobody who got up from the grave and folded His own linens before He left because He had a little extra time, because He had the presence of mind to tidy up the place where He'd been lying for three days.
Nobody but Jesus has that kind of strength. Nobody but Jesus has the kind of strength to hang there on a cross and you could call forth legions of angels to protect you and get you down, but instead you utter with your last breath, "Father, forgive them for they know not what they do."
Nobody but Jesus has that kind of strength; Jesus who is coming again to judge the living and the dead, Jesus who is coming again on a white horse with a white robe dipped in blood, Jesus who is coming again to establish a kingdom that can never be shaken. Nobody has power like Jesus. Nobody is strong like Jesus. Nobody.
But when Isaiah describes Him, he says that He was a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief. See, it was the sorrow of His crucifixion that produced the power and strength of His resurrection. What if strength always comes from sorrow?
I'm going to tell you, if you ever see somebody who's really strong, I guarantee you they've been through a lot of stuff, a lot of sadness. I guarantee you, if you see somebody who's really strong in this life, I don't care what they do, I don't care what their profession is, I don't care how easy they make it look, I don't care how seamless they've treated the transitions, if you ever see somebody with great strength, bet on it, somewhere, somehow, from somebody, something caused them great sorrow.
Tozer said, "It's doubtful whether God can greatly use a man until He has greatly hurt a man." Sorrow produces strength. And I hope that helps you because some of you are facing a situation today that is full of great sorrow. I wanted to let you know however that if you want to rename your sorrow, you can. And your sorrow today can become your strength for tomorrow.
The tears you're crying today might water the seed that's going to come forth in your life and bring forth something great tomorrow. I have a sad situation, but I have a great God. I have a lot of sorrow, but it's producing even more strength.
"And as she breathed her last, for she was dying, she named her son Ben-oni. But Jacob named him Benjamin." That's kind of rude. Her dying request is, "Call my son Ben-oni," and Jacob says, "Nope. No." I mean, you know he was hurting. You know he was more sorrowful than she was because now he has to live without her and she's the only thing that he ever loved.
The Bible never even says that Jacob loved God, but it says that He loved Rachel so much that he worked 14 years to get her. I don't know if any of us love somebody that much. Obviously, I love Holly to that degree, but most of you husbands probably couldn't say the same. I'd work 41 years for you, girl. And although he's sorrowful, we know he was sorrowful because at the end of his life, in Genesis 49:6, he says when she died it was great sorrow to us.
It wasn't that he didn't feel the sorrow, it's just that he refused to name the child that was born out of sorrow according to the sorrow that gave the child birth. He refused to name this child's destiny according to a moment in the child's history. He wouldn't do it.
And so they come to him and they say, "Jacob, we did all we could do. We could not save Rachel. She's gone, Jacob. She's gone. She lost too much blood. We couldn't recover her. She's gone." And the midwife comes up at some point and says, "Excuse me. I know I'm not supposed to speak unless spoken to, but there was one thing Ms. Rachel said before she died. She wanted to make sure that you named him Ben-oni." And Jacob says, 'I don't think so."
It does not say how much time passed between when she died and when Jacob renamed him. Perhaps it took him days. Perhaps it only took him moments. But at some point, his father named him Benjamin. In antiquity, fathers, not mothers, have naming rights ultimately.
I know that doesn't seem fair that the women do all the work and the dads pick the name, but that's the way it worked. And so Rachel is recommending a name, but Jacob has to ultimately sign off on it. I only point that out because I wanted you to know that people in life may recommend a certain name for you, but only your Heavenly Father gets to sign off on it and approve it, because fathers have naming rights.
I'll just stay here for a minute. See, because there's somebody in the room who's been labeled by somebody and called something based on something that you went through and so they said you're hopeless and they said you're worthless. They might not have said it in those words, but they implied it in their tone and with the things that they think about you.
But unless you make something, you don't get to name it. Only the maker has naming rights. Anyway, I was just praying that somebody would peel off a label that somebody has given you because of a moment in your life and say, "I don't think so."
Only the Father has naming rights. Only my daddy gets to tell me who I really am; and if what you say about me doesn't line up with what He sees in me, I don't want your label. I don't need your label. I don't respond to your name, 'cause fathers have naming rights.
So Jacob goes, "I appreciate that. I understand why she named him son of my sorrow. I'm sad, too. I'm hurting, too. I'll miss her forever. I'll honor her forever. But I refuse to call him Ben-oni. I'm not going to name him based on what happened in that moment. I'm not going to look at this child the rest of my life and see him only through the lens of what I lost when he was born. Call him Benjamin."