Name Games
Nowadays, couples often go public with both the gender and the name of their as yet unborn child. Not us. Why take all the adventure out if it?
“It’s a boy,” the doctor says, and they say, “Yeah, we know. You told us six months ago. We’ve already picked out his name and furnished his bedroom and bought his toys and signed him up for Pop Warner.”
My goodness! Where’s the fun in that? We specifically told our doctor: do not tell us if it’s a boy or a girl. Consequently, we had to search for both kinds of names.
Kyle and Kurt were easy choices for boy’s names. And if we had a girl? I’d heard a name as a teenager and always kind of liked it: “Kyan” (pronounced like Diane). But it was such an unusual name. Dare we risk giving our child a name she might not like? And what would other people think?
Right up to the end, we were undecided. But moments after our daughter was born, Donna looked at me and said, “Kyan?” “Kyan,” I said through the mist in my eyes.
That was twenty-two years ago, and we can’t imagine our daughter with any other name than Kyan. Better yet, she can’t imagine it either.
A similar thing happened to us when naming our new church. This time, however, I had a little outside help.
In the middle of the night I awoke with a start: “Sanctuary. Call it Sanctuary.” I got up quickly, rubbed my eyes, looked around, and began to write feverishly in my journal.
“What an unusual name for a church!” I thought. “Won’t people think it too strange, or too churchy?” (Isn’t it ironic that a name used for a popular spa, a nearby golf course, and a former night club might be considered odd for a church?) The impression was powerful, however, and that evening I wrote down many ideas for a new church called Sanctuary.
I began to wonder: in this day of heightened spiritual sensitivity, shouldn’t the church be a safe place to explore historic Christianity without pressure or condemnation? Shouldn’t the church be a safe place for seekers, skeptics, strugglers – and saints – to grow in their relationship with God?
The words of a song describing that sentiment flowed from my pen that evening: Welcome to his sanctuary/you are safe inside this place/we, your sisters and your brothers/offer you God’s mercy and grace.
Despite all this inspiration, I continued to hesitate. Naming a church is like naming a child: you don’t want to make a mistake. I decided to talk to my daughter about it: "How do you feel about your name?" I asked.
"I like it. It's a pain to repeat it all the time to people, but the good thing is they never forget it. And it's kind of neat to be unique."
That was all I needed. I took the plunge and gave our church its unusual name. And now I can't imagine going to church anywhere but Sanctuary.
“It’s a boy,” the doctor says, and they say, “Yeah, we know. You told us six months ago. We’ve already picked out his name and furnished his bedroom and bought his toys and signed him up for Pop Warner.”
My goodness! Where’s the fun in that? We specifically told our doctor: do not tell us if it’s a boy or a girl. Consequently, we had to search for both kinds of names.
Kyle and Kurt were easy choices for boy’s names. And if we had a girl? I’d heard a name as a teenager and always kind of liked it: “Kyan” (pronounced like Diane). But it was such an unusual name. Dare we risk giving our child a name she might not like? And what would other people think?
Right up to the end, we were undecided. But moments after our daughter was born, Donna looked at me and said, “Kyan?” “Kyan,” I said through the mist in my eyes.
That was twenty-two years ago, and we can’t imagine our daughter with any other name than Kyan. Better yet, she can’t imagine it either.
A similar thing happened to us when naming our new church. This time, however, I had a little outside help.
In the middle of the night I awoke with a start: “Sanctuary. Call it Sanctuary.” I got up quickly, rubbed my eyes, looked around, and began to write feverishly in my journal.
“What an unusual name for a church!” I thought. “Won’t people think it too strange, or too churchy?” (Isn’t it ironic that a name used for a popular spa, a nearby golf course, and a former night club might be considered odd for a church?) The impression was powerful, however, and that evening I wrote down many ideas for a new church called Sanctuary.
I began to wonder: in this day of heightened spiritual sensitivity, shouldn’t the church be a safe place to explore historic Christianity without pressure or condemnation? Shouldn’t the church be a safe place for seekers, skeptics, strugglers – and saints – to grow in their relationship with God?
The words of a song describing that sentiment flowed from my pen that evening: Welcome to his sanctuary/you are safe inside this place/we, your sisters and your brothers/offer you God’s mercy and grace.
Despite all this inspiration, I continued to hesitate. Naming a church is like naming a child: you don’t want to make a mistake. I decided to talk to my daughter about it: "How do you feel about your name?" I asked.
"I like it. It's a pain to repeat it all the time to people, but the good thing is they never forget it. And it's kind of neat to be unique."
That was all I needed. I took the plunge and gave our church its unusual name. And now I can't imagine going to church anywhere but Sanctuary.