Our family of five, with Dash (left), Keiko (foreground), and Flambeau.
In the spring of 2004, Andrew and I acquired our first dog together. We picked her up that June. I remember telling the person from whom we adopted her, “We’d like to call her Stella.” “Oh that’s nice,” the person said. It was nice, but it was much more than merely nice. Stella: our star, rising brightly in our hearts, was our first dog as a family. She was followed in 2006 by Hoshi—a Japanese word for “star”—but sadly, Hoshi’s heart condition caused his star to set all too early, on Holy Monday 2009. We quickly acquired Hoku ala—Hawaiian for “star rising”—and we were heartened by this bright star that gave off abundant, dazzling, yet warm light.
After Hoku died in 2021, we took a year off and slowly recovered from the loss. Then this past fall we acquired two rescues, a four-year-old Korean Village Dog named Keiko (“Keiko” is a Japanese name that means “happy child” or “blessed youth”) and a yearling mixed breed, also from Korea, to whom we gave the name Dash, after Dash the mischievous young kid in the Pixar film “The Incredibles” who runs extremely fast. But Dash has many nicknames: Dashiell Hammett, Dashboard, Daschle … I sometimes go to the trouble of calling him Former U.S. Senator Tom Daschle.
Names are important, even for dogs. Andrew and I give our dogs names with deep meaning, with the possible exception of Dash, a creature who seemed to demand a lighter moniker. But even his name carries weight: it perfectly describes him, evoking how he really does exist as a kind of long hyphen in our lives, an Em Dash that stabs the future, pointing ahead to more, always more, delight and love and adventure, just over the horizon.
Well. Just yesterday someone came over that horizon: an eight-week-old Corgi puppy, to whom we gave another name that evokes light: this is Flambeau (you can call him Beau if you like), a French word that means “torch,” and perfect for a bright light who arrived in Christmastide, when one of our favorite carols is sung: “Un Flambeau, Jeanette, Isabelle,” or “Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella.” Flambeau is still adjusting to everything, and he is still extremely young, but so far he appears to have a kind, caring, close-to-the-heart personality. As a male Corgi, he may download breed software that sharpens him up a bit, and I still wonder if he will clash with Dash, given that neither of these two will likely be chill, as Keiko reliably is. But—so far so good.
We give names to dogs, beings that live just a decade and a half, give or take, and have no need for names, unless the name is part of an essential training regimen, and therefore a pathway to treats. How much more, then, do we all give names to humans, who are sentient and sensitive moral agents in the world, conscious of our own selves, eager to make our mark, called to live for many long decades on this planet, and to live well. Names matter to us. There is so much in a name. I bear the names of two ancestors, and the name of the first martyr in Christian tradition. My first name means “victory wreath” or “crown”—not the crown of a sovereign, but the crown of an athlete who runs the race, metaphorically or otherwise. What does your name mean? If you don’t know, you should look it up! Or ask the person who gave it to you, if they’re still living, or simply ascribe to your own name whatever you think it means. You can do that. It’s allowed.
Today we affirm that one name rises above all others, far above the three stars of my household that set some time ago now; far above grand and evocative names in our culture, like Cher or Madonna or Prince; far above even the most central names of our faith: Moses, Elijah, Mary, Mary Magdalene, Paul.
(But speaking of Paul: our church was given the name St. Paul, and no matter what the person or people intended when they chose that name—which incidentally is the most popular name for an Episcopal church—we can ascribe our own meaning to our parish name. Here’s my take: we are named St. Paul because he went into the city to do the work of ministry; and because he was dauntless and restless, an exemplar of endurance; and because he thought theologically, all the time: everything he experienced was grist for his theological mill. This can be who we are. In many ways this already is who we are.)
(And not to bounce off the topic, but I personally like that St. Paul is always pictured as a bald man, and I like the image of a bald guy filled with energy and passion, helping build churches in cities. But I readily concede that this is a trivial point.)
But back to the name above all other names: Mary and Joseph complied with God’s messenger Gabriel’s instruction that they name their child Jesus. Jesus: an English translation of the Greek Ἰησοῦς (Eeyay-soos), which in turn is a Greek take on a shorter form of the Hebrew name Yehoshua, which means “The Lord Saves.”
Let me take you down a little rabbit hole on this name. Don’t worry—I’ll make it worth it! Yehoshua means “The Lord Saves,” but “The Lord” is only a cover term for God’s name, the name that in the Temple era could not be pronounced by observant Jews except once a year, by one person, in one place (on Yom Kippur, by the high priest, in the Holy of Holies). So this means that the name Jesus carries within itself an even more awesome name, a name so sacred that it can almost never be spoken aloud. This is God’s name revealed to Moses at the burning thornbush, a name whose meaning can never be fully grasped by mortal humans, the name of the One God.
And if we like, we could give a different, more intriguing cover term for the unspeakable name of God, one that’s more on the nose than “The Lord.” Sometimes our Jewish siblings in the faith call God “Ha Shem,” meaning “The Name.” Rather than avoiding speaking God’s name by calling God “the Lord,” or in Hebrew “Adonai,” they simply (yet reverently) call God “Ha Shem,” The Name. So the name of Jesus, finally, could be a kind of nesting doll, a name that means “The Name Saves.”
So, yeah, that’s a lot. Jesus is a powerfully meaningful name, which explains why many of us here make a simple bow when it is sung or spoken.
Still, as high as their son rises—and in his ascension upon the cross, Jesus rises high enough to embrace all of the cosmos, all times and places—and as much as his parents may have simply been doing as they were told when they gave him his name, they did, finally, do this crucial thing: God did not do it; and God in Jesus did not do it to himself. The parents gave their child the name Jesus, the name that means “The Lord Saves,” the name that means “The Name Saves.”
Mary and Joseph did that. They were given the honor of naming our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.
What great power we humans have, in our invitation from God to give names to animals, names to other human beings, and even a name to Jesus himself! In Genesis God empowers Adam to name the creatures (Adam’s name means “The human one”). When Adam names the animals, he becomes a caregiver—a steward—of all creation. Parents in turn give names to their children, forming them in a unique identity, and sometimes also forming them in faith, or in vocation. Transgender and nonbinary persons sometimes choose a new name, giving themselves grace and power to define and reveal their truest identities. And even in our little townhouse in Seattle, Andrew and I give names to the dogs who pass so quickly in and out of our lives, names that are as important as food and shelter for those dogs, because these names establish them forever in our hearts as members of our family. Their names are a blessing for these dogs, particularly the rescue dogs, who were so very nearly thrown away.
The Name Saves: this is our faith; this is our creed. Jesus—The Name Saves—is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. The power of God’s own unspeakable name, given by two humans to their son, raises him up on the cross as the Savior of all. In Holy Baptism you are named, and the sign of The Name Saves is traced in oil on your forehead: you too are raised up, to serve and to save.
What is your name? What does it mean? God has given you the power to answer these questions, for the life and the health of everyone you meet, named as God’s own, each and every one of them.
May your name be remembered with honor and gratitude for many long years.
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Preached on the Feast of the Holy Name of Our Lord Jesus Christ, January 1, 2023, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington.
Numbers 6:22-27
Psalm 8
Philippians 2:5-11
Luke 2:15-21