Scripture: Luke 8:1-3, John 20:1-18
My name has always been an issue.
Growing up in Roxboro, NC, it was normal to say “And-rea,” like the word “and.” Then we moved to Sawmills, and even though I introduced myself as “And-rea,” they insisted on calling me “Auhn-dree-uh.” (Trying to phonetically spell all this out is its own challenge.)
“Auhn-dree-uh” stuck.
Until . . .
Several years ago, when I met Tom’s dad, he called me “Auhn-dray’-uh.” No matter how I pronounced my own name, that’s what he went with. Eventually, I gave up. Now, when someone asks my name, I give them all the options. I tell them I don’t care what they call me, as long as they call me the same thing consistently. It’s weird when someone switches—it makes me feel like they didn’t really know me after all.
Names matter.
I hate getting people’s names wrong. I try hard to remember them, but sometimes, no matter what I do, I miss. And when I do, I wonder if they feel unseen. Misnamed.
In scripture, we see the power of a name.
Take Mary Magdalene. Her story begins in the shadows. The Gospels tell us that she was tormented by seven demons, bound by forces beyond her control. The weight of that suffering, the isolation, the suffocating sense that she was beyond help—we can only imagine what that must have been like. The world had already decided who she was: broken, unworthy, untouchable.
Like names, identities stick. Whether we choose them, inherit them, or have them placed upon us, they shape how we move through the world. Mary Magdalene knew this all too well.
Then Jesus speaks her name.
“Mary.”
One word, but it holds the weight of everything. It is not a command, not a correction, not a reminder of who she used to be. It is an invitation. A re-naming. A calling back to life.
In that moment, everything shifts. The demons may have left, but something deeper happens—she sees herself through his eyes. No longer defined by her past. No longer a collection of wounds and regrets. She is seen, known, loved.
And isn’t that the moment everything changes? Not when we perform well enough, not when we finally get it all together, but when we realize we are seen—not as a sum of our failures but as beloved children of God.
It is no surprise, then, that Mary is the first to witness the risen Christ. She, who once lived in darkness, becomes the first to carry the light of resurrection.
“I have seen the Lord.”
The greatest proclamation of hope, spoken by the one who once knew only despair.
Prayer:
Jesus, you see me—not as I have been, not as the world names me, but as I truly am. Speak my name, Lord, and help me to hear it with new ears. Free me from the ways I have defined myself by my past. Let me live in the truth of who you say I am. Amen.
Daily Practice:
Find a quiet space and imagine Jesus calling your name. What would it mean to hear it spoken with love, with purpose? Write down one label you have carried that does not belong to you, and ask God to replace it with truth.