Something I’ve thought more about in recent years is the beauty of handing down a family name—to be named after a father or grandfather, or grandmother, or beloved aunt or uncle. Simply saying the name must invoke memories… And I’ve often wondered if being named after someone doesn’t draw out something of that person’s character in them.

There is power in a name. And also power in a nickname, which can be good or bad.

When I taught high school, some of my students, instead of calling me Mr. Albright, would call me Mr. Not-so-Bright! Which I guess I took a lot better than when I was a kid and wore glasses. Other kids would call me “four-eyes,” or “geek.” Those kinds of names can hurt.

Sometimes the names we are called, the labels we are given, can stick with us like glue: clumsy, stupid, hardheaded, fat, ugly. Other names can be defining and put us in a box: conservative, liberal; Republican, Yankee, Southerner; gay, straight; Black, white—or any negative derivative of those. And we might have other names we call ourselves, some good, some not so good.

Sometimes it is important to remember that those labels are not our primary name. They are not at the root of our identity. They don’t fully sum up who we are. And they don’t fully sum up who others are either.

I’m reminded that if we take the wrong name, or if we put the wrong name first, it changes everything. Those names influence and shape not only what we believe about ourselves and others, but they also can shape our worldviews.

And I’m reminded of our primary name, our primary calling.

Whenever I baptize a child, I carry the child through the sanctuary, and I quote 1 John, chapter 3, verse 1: “See what love the Father has for us, that we would be called children of God. And that is what we are.”

Let us pray: God of Grace, today we remember again the words spoken over the waters of baptism: “You are my son, my daughter, the beloved. With you, I am well pleased.” Help us never forget, O God, that before anything else, we are your child. We pray in Jesus’ name. Amen.

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“Be still, and know that I am God.”
—Psalm 46:10

We spend a lot of energy trying to stay near the surface of life. We manage schedules, curate impressions, and distract ourselves from what feels too heavy or frightening. Beneath the surface are the things we fear most: anxiety, grief, anger, uncertainty, and the awareness that the world can be violent and fragile.

In her beautiful book of essays, Teaching a Stone to Talk, Annie Dillard gets at this. She writes that “in the deep are the violence and terror of which psychology has warned us.” The deep, she says, is real—and it is dangerous. And yet, she refuses to stop there. She dares us not to flee. If we “ride these monsters down,” she suggests, we discover something beneath them—something science cannot measure or name. Beneath the chaos is a kind of sustaining reality.

The 13th-century mystic Meister Eckhart gets at this from another direction. He writes of a “spark within us that knows God,” a light beyond thinking or feeling. When we become attentive to this spark, Eckhart says, we enter a “still desert where all is one.” This desert is not empty or lonely. It is a place where false divisions fall away, where fear loosens its grip, and where we discover that God is closer than our own breath.

Put together, Dillard and Eckhart are pointing us toward the same truth: when we stop running from the depths—whether the depths of the world or the depths of our own hearts—we discover that God has been there all along. Beneath our fear is faithfulness. Beneath our chaos is communion. Beneath all our effort is grace.

This does not mean the monsters disappear. The waters may still roar. But we are no longer alone in them. The stillness God offers is not the absence of trouble; it is the presence of trust. It is the deep knowing that our lives, and our life together, are being held by something stronger than fear.

What if stillness is not withdrawal, but courage? What if the deepest truth of our lives is not what we fear, but what carries us?

Psalm 46 promises, “God is in the midst of the city; it shall not be moved.”

When we find time in stillness, we find neither, finally, shall we.

Let us pray: Holy God, you meet us not only in calm and clarity, but in the depths where fear and uncertainty dwell. When the waters roar and the ground beneath us shakes, help us to be still—not in escape, but in trust. We ask in Jesus’ name. Amen.

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One of my favorite baseball stories is about three umpires who were discussing how they did their jobs, especially when they were working behind the plate, calling balls and strikes. The first umpire said, "Some of 'em are balls; some of 'em are strikes. But I calls 'em as I sees 'em." The second one said, "Some of 'em are balls; some of 'em are strikes. But I calls 'em as they are." The third one said, "Some of 'em are balls; some of 'em are strikes. But they ain't nothin' until I calls 'em." 

A sermon is in that story because it's a parable about life. Each of those umpires tells us something about our relationship to the truth. (Read Matthew 16:13-16, 21-25; John 8:32). The third umpire is my favorite. Here is a man who creates truth by his word. When we create truth or meaning or relationships, we are sharing in God's creative activity. Made in God's image and likeness, we are all artists and creators. The Bible uses the metaphor or speech to describe God's creation: "God said, 'Let there be light;’ and there was light." (Genesis 1:3) The parable of the umpires teaches us to never be afraid to call life as we see it, to express our love for God and our fellow human beings.

Let us pray: How great thou art, O God, without whose spirit nothing grows, without 

whose love, we wither and fall away. We thank you for Jesus of Nazareth who leads us 

in this way...  where to be great, one has to be humble,  where to be exalted, one has to serve,  and where to find life, one has to lose it.  Teach us that great truths are great simplicities. Awaken us today that we hear the singing of trees and watch morning and night changing guard. Through the grace of Jesus. Amen. 

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Back in the late 1800s, Julia Gilbert, a single woman crippled by a childhood disease, challenged a common communion practice. In those days, in what was then a very patriarchal church, the German Baptist Brethren would only allow men to break bread with each other while insisting sisters have the bread broken for them by an elder. Time and again she tried to get her church to appeal to the annual denominational meeting. But for 50 years she was ignored. Finally, in 1910, she spoke on the floor of their annual meeting and explained why she wanted the practice changed. She said: “We women want to be in touch with Jesus.” Of course, Julia won the day.

We’ve come a long way in our culture and in our churches. Most of us have come to realize that we all have this in common—men and women, young and old, people of different backgrounds and races—we all have a deep desire to be in touch with the Holy. We long for the same healing, the same grace.

Nearly 2000 years ago, in his letter to the church in Galatia, the apostle Paul made this claim: “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”

Today, where there are still divisions, where there is still inequality, where there is still prejudice, let us pray for God’s healing. And may our prayers become our actions, as we each do our part to work towards that wholeness.

Let us pray: All-Loving, Merciful God, we join countless women and men from across this globe over the millennia who have sought your peace, your presence. We long for the day when you will heal all brokenness; all broken relationships, all broken promises, all broken people. We surrender ourselves to your grace again this day—wash over us with your love, mercy, and hope. Now use us, we humbly ask, to be instruments of your reconciliation; through Jesus Christ. Amen.

A friend reminded me recently that even more important than “going to church” is “being the church.” After all, Jesus said we are to be the “salt and light” of the world.

Theologian George McCleod once wrote: “I am for recovering the claim that Jesus was not crucified in a cathedral between two candles, but on a cross between two thieves, on the town garbage heap, at a place so cosmopolitan they had to write his title in Hebrew, Latin, and Greek; at the kind of place where cynics talk smut, soldiers gamble, and thieves curse; because that is where Christ died, and that is what Christ died about, and that is where church people ought to be, and what church people should be about.”

Salt and light not just in the church, but in the world.

As I read that, I thought about a group from our Presbytery that for a while offered a theology discussion class that met in a bar. They called it “Theology on Tap.”

I also thought about my friend Robert McCary. Robert was the full-time youth director at Community Presbyterian Church out in Atlantic Beach. He now does much of their pastoral care. He still spends at least a portion of his time each week out surfing at the break behind the church. He claims it is in his job description.

Years ago, when I worked there, I learned pretty quickly that he knows every lifeguard. He knows most of the surfers in the water—young and old—many of whom do not go to his church or any church. And I have seen that often he’ll have people want to talk to him, to share their problems with him, even ask him for advice—not only because he is a leader in their community—but also because Robert has a reputation for being a good father, a good husband, and a man of deep faith. It is clear that he truly loves and cares for people.

I also thought about some in my congregation who have been mentoring high school students in need. And others who go out in the elementary schools to pack backpacks full of food; others still who visit the elderly, or who sing or play bells in nursing homes at Christmas. I could go on.

Today, I pray that you would reflect for just a few moments on the ways in which you are the salt and light—not just in the church but out in the world.

Let us pray: Draw us closer to you, O God, that we would commit our very lives to walk in your ways; that our actions and our very lives would make a difference— that they would indeed bring light and hope; in Jesus’ name. Amen.