He Knows My Name

The power of being fully seen and fully known by a good Father.

Since our first awkward visit in January, the repetition and liturgy of Anglican worship have begun to form me. There are very few surprises, resulting in a communal experience that feels safe, a welcome change given the upheaval in American Christianity these days.

Photo by JP Pau on Unsplash

I no longer have to read every word of the printed service. There are songs we sing each week that I have begun to know by heart, melodies that sometimes surface during the week when I least expect it. The order of service outlined in the Book of Common Prayer is beginning to feel natural, the transitions from one section to the next less jumpy.

I love the quiet, the hushed whispers among the people as we await the bells that signal the processional. I love the cross held high, the off-key singing and halting harmonies of hymns full of scripture and history. I love the sight of the baby on the front row, how she fusses and manages to climb over her Daddy’s shoulder to smile at us who sit behind her. Then there are the shy grins of little girls who hold hands as they follow the cross to children’s church before the sermon, then skip back to their parents’ side in time for Communion.

Communion. I did not realize how much I would need the weekly Bread and Wine in this season of my life. I spent too many decades in churches where communion was an occasional fast-food, get-it-over-quick experience that you would miss if you blinked. Now The Table awaits every week, laden with chalices and bread and wine, lovingly prepared and gently given as we kneel before the Cross.

“The body of Christ, broken for you.”

The blood of Christ, poured out for you.”

The voices of the priests and deacons are gentle and sincere. Their eyes smile with joy as they repeat these phrases over and over to every single congregant. Grace poured out. Mercy overflowing. For me.

For us.

With time has come a little familiarity and friendships budding with a few in our new church family. I have been careful in this process, slow and deliberate. Joining a new church is risky, making me feel vulnerable and exposed. Trust came more quickly than I thought it would, though, and the sincerity of those who serve in various roles helped foster it in our hearts. Joy permeates the liturgy, jovial smiles and conversations over steaming cups of coffee and breakfast treats shared between services fosters connection and a sense of belonging.

As I said, there are very few surprises on Sunday mornings, but recently there was one. I was at the altar, flanked by my daughters, hands open to receive the host. Father Wesley made his way down the row, placing the round wafer in waiting hands and I heard him say, “Jeanine, the body of Christ, broken for you,” then felt the wafer rest in my palm.

Jeanine.

Immediately a lump rose in my throat and tears filled my eyes. I slipped the wafer between my lips, noticing the loud crunch as I chewed.

Jeanine.

My heart beat a little faster.

Jeanine.

I slowly walked back to my seat after receiving the bread and wine, my head spinning over how the simple act of Father Wesley saying my name caused me to be nearly undone. What just happened?

Through that very small thing, God spoke. He reminded me that He sees me. I matter. The pain I carry matters. I am beloved.

Maybe you need that reminder, too.

We have all felt it, those months and years when pain and grief bind our hearts like barbed wire. Loss, fear, disappointment, and shame are all terribly isolating and alienating emotions. Too often, we walk in the darkness of these emotions alone. Out of fear, we let no one in.

But what no one knows, no one can help.

What we keep secret, keeps us silent.

What we think no one would understand, the ugly we bury under too-busy days and happy faces slapped on like masks, grows to proportions bigger than we can handle alone.

And we convince ourselves even God must not be aware of what is lurking in there, in here, in our broken and bleeding hearts. In fact, maybe it is best to keep it that way. He is awfully busy, after all.

There are surely more important things for the Creator of the Universe to deal with than my problems.

But I was reminded that day by Father Wesley, and have been every Sunday since, that God knows my name. On the cross, my name was the sweat trickling down Jesus’ brow. On the cross, my name was in His breath as He cried, “It is finished.” And when He harrowed Hell, conquering death once and for all, it was my name He carried out of there with great tenderness and love, determined to make me His no matter what it would take.

Then He rose and brought me up out of the grave with Him.

Me.

Jeanine.

The body of Christ was broken for me. The blood of Christ was shed for me.

Before I even knew I would need Him, Jesus saw me, fought for me, and won.

No matter the darkness, no matter how far we run or how deep a hole we dig in our feeble attempts to escape the watchful gaze of God, we will never be less than fully seen and fully known by our good Father.

He knows my name, and He knows yours.

Beloved, there is no darkness so deep He cannot enter. There is no sin so great He will not forgive. He knows your name and, as His child, you can freely call on His.

The body of Christ was broken for you. The blood of Christ was shed for you.

Live loved, Beloved, for that is what you are.

He knows your name.