Sermons from the Pulpit

Preached to the Congregational Church in Exeter, U. C. C., on the first Sunday after Epiphany, January 7, 2001, by Michael L. C. Henderson, pastor.

Isaiah 42:1-7; Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

I have called you by name, you are mine.
    -Isaiah 43:1

     We all have names, but a name is not one of the things you are born having, like skin or fingernails or a nose. Somebody gave you a name - somebody chose a name for you and declared to all the world that it was yours, and the world accepted it, and eventually so did you. Somebody named you. And in the time since then you have done some naming too. At the very least you have taken some kind of ownership of the name that someone else once stuck on you, or some variant version of it, and you have no doubt had a hand in giving names to others: if not formal names, then nicknames, pet names, labels, or barnyard epithets.

     Whenever we baptize a baby here in church, there is a point in the service where the minister says to the parents and sponsors, "Name this child." We don't have to do that. They've already named the baby, and they've already told us what his or her name is, and we've already got it written on the baptismal certificate that we're about to give them. But the baptismal ritual is in part a naming ritual, and we can sense that when we do that naming right out loud here in front of God and everybody, it matters. It underlines the fact that until this person, this parent, these parents, your parents, gave you a name, you didn't have one. Without their act of naming you, you would be nameless.

     And here in Luke's account of the baptism of Jesus, the naming part is so prominent that it overshadows the baptism itself, doesn't it? The baptism is relegated to a subordinate clause in the passive voice - "When Jesus also had been baptized" - Luke doesn't even mention that it was John the Baptizer who did it! - whereas the naming is literally a matter of the heavens opening and the voice of God speaking, the voice that thunders over mighty waters, the voice that flashes forth flames of fire, the voice that shakes the wilderness, and it says, "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."

     The weightiness of the business of naming came home to me here two weeks ago, on Christmas Eve, when we baptized little Tanner Alexis Slosberg. Beforehand her parents, Erin and Mark, told me that a rabbi had already conducted a naming ceremony for her, because her father is Jewish. But it was important for her to have both a Jewish name and a Christian name. Even if both names were the same, the naming would not be the same, you can see that. We Christians use the term "Christian name" as a synonym for given name as opposed to family name, but that wouldn't work for a Jew, would it? It's a Christian name because it's given to you at baptism, and it claims you for the family of Christ, just as your last name, your family name, claims you for a particular human tribe.

     But it does more than that. It says that your tribe takes delight in you. With you I am well pleased. As a father myself, I have taken huge delight in my part in the naming of all three of my daughters, Rachel, Mary, and Abigail. For the rest of my life I will take huge delight in saying their names out loud. I have likewise taken huge delight in my parents' naming of me, particularly in the way they changed their minds after the deed was done and changed my name too, so they got to be delighted twice with one kid, which is a neat trick, and I certainly did nothing to deserve it. I was a nasty little brat.

     But deserving has nothing to do with this anyway. With you I am well pleased. That's not praise for a job well done; Jesus hadn't even begun his ministry when God said it. For all he'd accomplished, he might as well have been one of the babies we baptize here. The pleasure, the delight, has nothing to do with performance past or future.

     Naming is in itself a delightful activity: It says, You are my mine, my son, my daughter; I am yours, we are yours; your life is a miracle and a gift from God to God, to you, and to us. And when we exercise our privilege of naming you we are as lucky as Adam was in the second chapter of Genesis, when out of the ground God formed every living creature and brought them to Adam to see what he would call them, and whatever Adam called each critter, that was its name. What power! What a kick! What a connection.

     The act of naming bonds the one giving the name and the one receiving it to each other for keeps. Even when bonds are broken and names are cast off, the memory of the naming persists, and with it the memory of delight, and the added memory of rupture and loss.

     We all have multiple names, imparted to us by multiple namegivers. My wife and my brother and my daughters all call me by different names, but all the names that they name me are names in which I take delight, and in owning that delight I acknowledge and allow each namer's claim on me. I also put myself into their hands: I trust them to name me in a way that respects and honors both me and them. Sometimes that trust is well placed and sometimes it is not, but it is a necessity always. If I did not allow others to name me, I would have no possibility of connection with them.

     When we baptize a child we baptize her into the congregation, which is why they call us Congregationalists. When Congregationalists witness the parents' naming of their child, we are naming both parents and children as ours and ourselves as theirs. In the opening words to every funeral and memorial service we describe the person who has died as "one of us." It's not self-evident that any of these claims of belonging are true or real. To believe in our connections is an act of faith. We take them to be gifts of God. That calls for a lot of nerve.

     If you believe, as I do, that naming is a divine activity, then you already know it takes nerve. But naming is consecration: To consecrate a thing is to make it sacred. Not perfect, not magic, just dedicated to God. We consecrate, or God consecrates, the ordinary food and drink that we bring to this table, and the children we bring to this font, and the words and silences of our prayers, and the names that we give to and receive from each other. I have called you by name, you are mine. Amen.