1 Samuel 3:1-20; Psalm 139:1-6, 13-18; 1 Corinthians 6:12-20; John 1:43-51.
Right—do you know the origin of name—not how you got your name—but how many of us know what our names actually mean? I’m sure we know that children are still named David after the great King of Israel three millennia ago. We know of John the Baptist and John the Beloved Disciple and often name our children after them. What about less obvious names? Here are a few from my congregation …
- Rodney = Hroda’s Island; Hroda = old germanic word for fame. Originally a surname.
- Bridget = from Brighid, pagan Irish goddess of fire, poetry, wisdom.
- Lillian = 16th century origin. Originally a diminutive of Elizabeth; related to Lily.
- Catherine = said to mean “pure” (from Greek); but actually so old that the origin can’t be determined.
- Denise = female form of Denis. St. Denis, 3rd century, credited with converting the Gauls to Christianity.
- Robert = from Hrodebert = “bright fame”. Therefore, related to Rodney.
- Michael = from ancient Hebrew. It’s a question: “who is like God?”
- Christopher = “Christ-bearer”. Medieval legend of St. Christopher tells of a man who took a stranger child across a river, and it turned out to be Christ. Patron saint of travellers.
- Rosemary = exactly what it sounds like: a combination of Rose and Mary—and, interestingly, Rose is related to Hroda and Hrodebert, so there’s a third one. (And apparently the Germanic name came before it was associated with the flower—but don’t quote me on that.)
Finally, William—from the German Wilhelm—means “forceful protector” or some such thing. And I leave it entirely to y’all, my good friends, to decide whether or not the name fits.
But—now here’s the thing: get beyond historical meaning; let me put to you a really important question: what do our names mean to us—what do they mean those who love us—and what do names mean that we have given to the people we love? I want to suggest something very important here: that our names aren’t just a combination of letters to distinguish us from the other seven billion people on the planet; they’re not just something tied to a national insurance number for the Inland Revenue’s convenience. I want to suggest that, actually, our names are deeply intimate—a crucial part of our identity—and hugely endowed with meaning.
Take a moment’s pause. Think. What does your name mean to you? No need to share with the rest of us. But—to take my own as an example—I share my name—in that American sort of way that doesn’t happen much in Britain—with both my father and grandfather. Some of y’all will know that my daddy died when I was 20 months old—so, for me, having the name William has always meant that, though I missed out on knowing my dad, still I was able to carry something of him with me. That’s a bond that meant a lot to me down the years—and, indeed, to my granddad, also. It was a bond that he shared with his son—and, in turn, a particular bond that he shared with me, too—uniquely amongst his grandchildren. He was proud of that; not, of course, at any of my cousins’ expense; he wasn’t the kind of man to play favourites. But he was proud of it, all the same. the thing about Granddad was that, actually, he wasn’t a man given to strong expressions of emotion. In fact, I can’t recall that he ever said “I love you” to me—not even once. But y’all know what he did do? Just before Granddad died at the age of 103, he gathered up every· single· item· in his possession that had his name engraved on it—including the sign from a primary school named after him(!)—so, that, when the moment came, there would be no mistaking who would inherit those particular things. And, friends—there was a sign of love. And with that kind of love, no words are even necessary. I have it all in print. As long as I live, my Granddad’s name—and, by it, his love—lives in me. This is what I mean when I say that names are deeply intimate; they’re not just what we’re called. They are integral to our story—all of our names—inseparable from the depths of who, at heart, we are. Take time to reflect on that, my friends.
And take time to reflect on the scripture, too. Because what I want to suggest is that, when we look at the stories from scripture, the names mean something—not for the sake of any definition that we can give to the words Samuel, Philip, Nathaniel—but, rather, because God, in speaking each name—even in sending others to speak and call it—what God is actually doing is opening a door into each of these people; he’s beginning to engage very deeply indeed with what actually makes them tick; and, once that name is called, and once that calling is actually received and understood, then suddenly a life is changed: the richness and depth of that calling is unmistakable and irresistible.
The child Samuel—given by his parents at a very young age to go live and serve in the temple—the child hears a voice calling his name. This would not have been unusual; he was servant to Eli, a very old priest, and no doubt he’ll have heard many times a voice calling out in the night, “Oh, Samuel—you wouldn’t mind getting an old man a drink of water would you?” or “Samuel—will you please go check the lamps are still lit before the altar.” Then, one night, the voice comes; Samuel turns up at his master’s bedside as he has done so often—only this time the old man had not called. Then a second time, the voice rings through the dark, “Oh, Samuel. Samuel.” And, again, the old man has said nothing. “I did not call you, my son; go back to bed.” A third and a fourth time the voice comes; and this time, Eli himself figures it out: “it must be the Lord, Samuel; next time, when you hear your name called, tell him ‘Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.’” So that’s what Samuel did—Samuel whose name itself means God has heard—and we find that God has indeed heard. God has been watching Samuel, and listening; he has heard who Samuel is. In speaking the boy’s name, God calls not the ear, but, rather, the spirit. Samuel went on that night to bring God’s prophecy to Eli—unfortunately a sad one—but nonetheless, from that moment on, Samuel was known as a prophet. In fact, tt was Samuel who grew up to anoint the King of Israel—first Saul, and then great David himself—whose family line gave us the Messiah. All because God spoke a name—Samuel—and Samuel heard and and answered God’s will and purpose.
Likewise, too, we find Philip and Nathaniel seeking and searching at the outset of Christ’s ministry. Suddenly, Christ flags them up by name—and when that happens, we have a life-changing experience. “Nathaniel!”, cries Philip. “I have found the Messiah! Listen, bubba; you’ve gotta see this!” I love Nathaniel’s response: “Oh, get real: can anything good come out of Nazareth?” You could hear him in South Wales today: ‘What kind of Messiah d’you reckon’s gonna come out of Newport?” Turns out, it was the kind of Messiah who, just by speaking a name, could put paid to that petty little act of prejudice in two seconds flat. In other words: the kind of Messiah who knew what Nathaniel needed to hear and responded accordingly. I love Christ’s response; I can just see the sly grin: “Welllll,” he says, “hey, I’m honoured; now here is a true Israelite! I hardly feel worthy, Nazarene that I am.” “How did you know who I am?”, says Nathaniel. Christ responds: “Saw you under the fig tree, my man—I know you, Nathaniel—and if you think that’s a fancy trick, boy, howdy, you ain’t seen nothing yet.” And, again, we’re talking about a moment when God speaks not just a word; he speaks into a person—he pierces through the window of name to the soul and spirit beneath. Confronted by that reality, Nathaniel finally had no choice, but to turn from what he’d said before—indeed to blurt out with, apparently, no self-consciousness whatsoever—“Now I have seen you for myself; I have been looking so long for the likes of you; and you are the Son of God.” The story doesn’t end there, though; as with Samuel, Nathaniel and his eleven friends were all called not just to God’s side, and not even simply into community—but, crucially, they were called to discipleship: they were called, by name, to take upon themselves faithfully—and deeply—and richly—and visibly—God’s saving presence in the world. My brothers and sisters: so, too, are we.
I have a final story about names—and y’all listen up: there was once a man born in Atlanta, this very day in 1929—a man named Michael King—who, just like me, had a daddy who carried the same name—and, unlike me, was the son of an ordained Christian minister. When Michael was five, he and his daddy travelled to Germany to see the birthplace of the Protestant Reformation—and, so inspired was Michael Senior by what he found—the honesty and the integrity of the great reformer Martin Luther—his bravery in proclaiming his faith, whatever the cost—that Michael Senior changed not only his own name, but that of his little boy, too, to Martin. And, as I say, it’s our names, just as much as our eyes that are windows to our soul; how powerful of Martin Luther King, Senior, to take upon himself a name pregnant with such a sense of calling to action, and calling to devotion to making God’s great holiness present in a world so desperate. It says a lot, too, for what that man wished for his son. And, of course—as we know—the son rose to the task. Today is a day that—in Churches all across the United States—men and women, both black and white—will remember the name of the Rev’d Dr. Martin Luther King, Junior, and how, from his deep awareness of God’s justice and God’s utter grace—an awareness shared so fully with his great namesake—Dr. King, Jr., served as a voice for millions and set the United States on a path out of its deep, deep prejudice and hatred to a point where they now have, in Barack Hussein Obama—a Christian man with a Muslim name—as the first black president of the United States. And at about the timescale that Martin Luther King predicted—without any sign or evidence that it might ever be true. Thanks be to God.
So there we go, y’all: when God calls us by name, it’s a calling that goes to the core of our being: and today I stand here and proclaim to y’all that, indeed, God himself has spoken our name. To us. And we, right now—you and I—are left with only two choices in the end: flat-out rejection … or else or running headlong into Nathaniel’s and Samuel’s—and Martin Luther King’s—proclamation of faith. We all have names, my friends, and, make no mistake: God knows them. I am not just preaching this morning to a congregation in general—to y’all, the plural you. Who I’m preaching to is you—and you, John—and you, Cath—and you, Russ—and you, Pat—and in fact, to me, William. You have been named, not only by your parents—but by God; like he knows Nathaniel, he knows you. What he may be calling you to, of course, only you and he can say. But I can say this: as in the days of Samuel, as in the days of Philip and Nathaniel, as in the days of Martin Luther, as in the days of Martin Luther King, Jr., God will have holiness—he is here—in this place—this morning—and it is we, his Church, whose names he speaks. And it is we, who must then go on and speak the name of others—those around us—gathering them, and speaking God’s holiness and freedom and grace into their names—so that, one by one, they too may hear the Lord calling their soul. And it is thus—and it was only ever thus—that the Kingdom of God will be built.