I always hated roll call on the first day of school because I never knew which name the teacher was going to spout out.

I came into this world with one last name, which quickly split into two the day my mother remarried the man who would ultimately raise me. So, I’d sit in those freshly adorned classrooms every autumn with my lips pursed, eager to shout here! the moment the teacher recited whichever name was written on that newly printed roster.

My name for the year was determined by that little piece of paper. It determined my identity, my yearbook page, my order in the alphabetized system. It was what people called me, how people knew me, and what I answered to. And I still have a stutter when I mention my maiden name to those who ask, still a hesitation when filling out legal paperwork or citing my identity to old classmates.

So much is wrapped up in a name, so much of who we are that is woven into it. And maybe you don’t have two last names like I did. Maybe your name has been consistent for your entire life. But we often answer to other names. Names like stupid or fat or ugly graft themselves to our susceptible minds and cloud out the rich identity God has uniquely given to each one of us.

In today’s Gospel (Luke 1:57-66), Zechariah wrote the name God had given to his son. He allowed the Spirit to speak through him and let the Father dictate his identity when custom said otherwise.

Sister, God is trying to speak something into you, something He is specifically calling you while the world screams its lies into your heart.

Listen closely. He is speaking life to your heart.

[bctt tweet="He is speaking life to your heart. // @IamBritCal" username="blessedisshe__"]

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