Say My Name

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine enthusiastically approached me at church. She smiled and opened her mouth to speak when, all of a sudden, her demeanor changed. An almost panicked look washed over her face. The funny thing is that I recognized the look and didn’t let her suffer for long, rescuing her with, “Andria. My name is Andria.”

Legend has it that my mom named me after my brother’s first girlfriend who was French. I’d like to think that this somehow makes me extra European-chic. Plus, even the Biblical meaning has some swag to it, meaning courageous or womanly. Regardless of how cool I think my name is, people don’t use it very often (hence the forgetting). Who knows why—maybe because of its three syllable nature…. Which is why it almost seems odd when it happens. “Sweetheart”, “darlin’”, “love” and “lady” are fantastic substitutes, but sometimes I do find myself longing to just hear my name.

I think it’s just human nature—biological, even.

In 2006, the Institute for the Study of Child Development conducted an interesting study regarding the brain’s response to hearing one’s own name. In it, they found that a unique activation occurred within the brain whenever subjects heard their name. They concluded that the practice of hearing your name typically causes “the brain to react as if you’re engaging in the behaviors and thought patterns that serve as some of your core identity and personality markers. In fact, this reaction is so powerful that similar patterns were observed in patients in persistent vegetative state. (name-coach.com)”

I believe it.

When someone does say my name, I’m mentally all there. It’s a visceral response. My senses are heightened with a sense that something is about to go down. Sometimes it’s just someone pulling me into a conversation, passing on directions or even offering a kind reassurance–but sometimes it’s bigger than that.

When my mother was clearly close to transitioning to her forever home, my Uncle Tabs (visiting from England) would find a quiet time while my Mom was sleeping, or while we were out amongst the wildlife shooting pictures, and he would speak to me about the realities of my Mom’s current state and what I needed to be prepared for next. Each conversation started with, “Now, Ahndreeaaah…” Every time, I felt both the weight and the love of his voice as he said my name. I belonged to his family. He cared for me. I wouldn’t be alone in this. At the same time, I knew that somehow my life was going to be changed by what he was about to say.

I think, as humans, we all long to have our name spoken like that, even if what was to follow made your heart sad.

This has been something on my mind lately. And the other day, while I was questioning myself why I even care if people say my name, I came across John 20.

This chapter describes the days just after Jesus’ death. His followers—the ones who had walked, camped, ate, laughed, cried and had the best days of their lives with him—were devastated. None of them had seen this coming. And counted among them was Mary Magdalene.

Mary was a woman acutely aware of her failures. She had experienced her name said many times, but always with accusation and shame. Mocked and scourged by both contemporaries and the religious elite, she was found by Jesus as an outcast, totally alone and totally guilty. Invited to be “in it” with him she witnessed miracles and experienced his love for people. Shocked and moved by all this, she became a friend and follower, often found at his side.

And at his death, she saw the disassembling of all that she loved. Her friends, way of life and the one person that always saw her, were gone within a day—dead or scattered. Oh, how she longed for things to go back how they used to be or to even have just one more conversation with him around the fire. But instead, she had to face her new reality in the dark of the morning on the third day after his death. Confusion, disappointment and anxiety hung heavy in the air. This escalated as she approached the tomb and saw it empty.

He was gone.

This was her limit. The disciples left the tomb, but she remained there sobbing—shipwrecked. Her life lay like flotsam on the shore, dashed to bits and she didn’t know how to recover. Then, she heard a voice by her say, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She answered, but continued in her lamenting.

He, then said her name… Mary. (Verse 16)

And something in her name woke up.

There is only one person that could say her name like that— that way that made every corner of fear, confusion and loneliness dissolve. He spoke to her core identity with that name, reminding her to whom and what she belonged.

He lived. He was there. And something big was about to happen.
I believe that many of you may be desiring that kind of relationship with Jesus. One where you hear Him say your name and you instantly know His voice. Where you feel His love and not shame. The kind of intimacy where He sees into you.

He knows your name. And he’s calling it. But, there is a weight behind it. There is a cost to that kind of intimacy. A dying to yourself. But like Mary, you will find that there is life in death.

It is on you whether you say His name back.

Romans 10:13

Everyone who calls on the name of Jesus will be saved.