Called By No Other Name
celebrating the Nativity of St. John the Baptist
“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” said Juliet about her beloved Romeo. I’m not so certain myself.
This month, I’ve been examining recent movie and television stories which examine the modern loneliness crisis. But the church calendar comes above all else, so I’m interrupting the series to think a little bit, not so much about roses or smells, but about baby names.
We’ve probably all thought about baby names at some point - picked out the perfect ones for our imaginary children (or, for my mom-readers, not so imaginary). It’s as innate and primal as playing with dolls or pretending to cook in a play kitchen. Unlike many girls, I never imagined my perfect wedding day, but I do know the names I want to give my daughters.
Something about the name makes the child real to us, even if they don’t exist. There’s some part of us that knows a name is mystically tied to a person. Why is that? It’s as if knowing their name brings them alive to us even long before we know them.
My mom had my name picked out in high school. “Jillian Grace” had a ring to it, she thought, and she would give the name to her daughter when she had one. When she became pregnant with my older sister, by rights the name should have gone to her.
As my mom tells the story, she awoke in the middle of the night while she was pregnant with my sister and knew in her spirit that “This child is not Jillian.” So she gave my sister another name and the name “Jillian Grace” waited for me to come around.
The prophet Isaiah knew the feeling. “The Lord called me from birth, from my mother’s womb He gave me my name.” (Isaiah 49:1) No wonder the psalmist says that we are fearfully and wonderfully made. We are made so completely - known so thoroughly - that He knows the name which belongs to us.
There’s plenty of reasons why the name suited me and not my sister. My sister’s name means strength - which she has in abundance. It means mastery - something I’ve seen her achieve all our lives - and lordliness - the weight of responsibility she’s always taken as the eldest child. “Jillian” means none of those things. “Jillian” means youthful (that or “downy-bearded,” which I less prefer) - perfect for this little girl who, like Peter Pan, never wanted to grow up.
I’ve always felt the truth of my name. It captures the part of my soul that will never stop being a child - in the good ways and probably in some bad. Like a youth, I’ve always been possessed with a spirit of play that never leaves me. Like a youth, I am often blindsided by my own naivete. Like with all children, any maturity I’ve achieved has been hard won.
Names mean something. I think that’s part of why we take a name when we are confirmed into the Catholic church. As we take our redeemed identity within the arms of the church, that “new man” has a name to it. Our name.
Maybe this is why the reading yesterday resonated so profoundly with me. Old Zechariah and his wife Elizabeth have passed the age of child-bearing. They are holy and just before God - they follow his commandments - but still Elizabeth is barren. It’s a cross the two have born, faithfully, not yet knowing the purpose.
I can imagine, in a way, it was a profound kind of loneliness they felt.
But one day at sacrifice in the temple, Zechariah is visited by an angel of the Lord.
The angel said to him: Fear not, Zachary, for thy prayer is heard; and thy wife Elizabeth shall bear thee a son, and thou shalt call his name John: And thou shalt have joy and gladness, and many shall rejoice in his nativity. And he shall convert many of the children of Israel to the Lord their God. And he shall go before him in the spirit and power of Elias; that he may turn the hearts of the fathers unto the children, and the incredulous to the wisdom of the just, to prepare unto the Lord a perfect people. (Luke 1:13-17, Douay Rheims)
But Zechariah doubts. How could such a miracle occur? John - the promised heir - is an impossibility against their human aging. Zechariah does not even speak the name of the promised child - as if speaking the word would make real a child he is certain he will never have. Unable to speak the name of his son, Zechariah’s ability to speak is taken from him entirely.
Which brings us to yesterday’s reading. The promised child has been born. He has already begun to live out his vocation in utero. Arriving before his Lord as he will do, John has already leapt to attention in Elizabeth’s belly at the presence of Jesus in Mary’s womb. After his birth, in obedience to the angel’s words, Elizabeth says that their child is to be named John. But, say those who are assembled, it is not a family name. He should be named after his father, Zechariah - “God remembers.”
Then Zechariah gestures for a tablet and writes that the child’s name is John: “God is gracious.” The Lord remembered Zechariah and his wife - but the existence of their son means more than that. John’s existence means that God has mercy on every form of human suffering. It’s the promise of grace which St. John the Baptist will devote his life to preaching.
In the Catholic church we celebrate only three births with a dedicated feast day. One is Christmas - the Nativity of our Lord. One is the Nativity of our Lady Mary, Christ’s mother. And the last is John, fulfilling the promise that the whole world will rejoice in the nativity of Zechariah and Elizabeth’s son.
John, whom the Lord knew in his mother’s womb.
John, whose name could not be anything but what the angel said, for it was the name to which he was made.
In honor of St. John the Baptist, Reader, I encourage you to think of your own name. What meaning there is in it. For your name is a word that speaks to this incredible truth: you are fearfully and wonderfully made.