A break in the clouds made the sun shine briefly, and it filtered through the leaves of the trees that surrounded me. I’m still not well versed on the native tree species of Ireland, so I didn’t know what to call all the varieties around me. As I looked more closely at them, I thought species names wouldn’t really do them justice, anyway. Each tree was so unique, twisted and knobbed in its own peculiar ways, reaching outward and upward and marked with its own particular spots and stripes and lumpy roots. Each told its own silent story of growth over decades, with its scars to prove the challenge of survival and its buds to show the promise of life. I wanted to call each one by its own name, something fitting to itself, honouring its own unique existence. I stopped at one tree in particular and tried to find a name that would suit it. It looked stately and strong, like a weathered General in his dress uniform, but General is more of a title than a name, and probably too general. Anyway, it’s a bit silly and sentimental to be going around naming trees, isn’t it?
I don’t think it is, actually. The Bible tells us that God himself names parts of his creation. In Psalm 147:4, we’re told that,
“He determines the number of the stars
and calls them each by name.”
A star is not even alive like a tree is, although of course it is far bigger. It’s a giant burning ball of gas, and scientists estimate that there are somewhere around 200 sextillion of them in the observable universe, which is a very big number (to put it mildly). Nobody can guess how many might exist beyond our ability to see. We’ll never know how many there actually are, much less be able to name them. I have trouble remembering the names of the people in my little corner of the world. God tracks hundreds of billion trillions of individual star names. That’s impressive, but it’s not only impressive. It’s also significant, I think. Naming things is not necessary. A star would still shine anonymously. You don’t name the individual cogs of a large machine—but God names the stars, so apparently he does not view his universe as a machine.
A name speaks of significance, intimate knowledge, and care. To name something is to recognise it, appreciate it, and honour it. We name inanimate things we love, as well—like rivers, mountains, and oddly shaped rock outcroppings. We name a few stars, and we call the moon that orbits us “The Moon”—which is just as original as a toddler naming their stuffed animal “Bear” or “Tiger”, but it’s a name, just the same. If we didn’t call it anything, it would still shine anonymously. Yet somehow with a name, the pale light feels warmer, closer, and more familiar—and I think creation is supposed to feel familiar, like a work of art with a name and a signature. It is God’s work of art, and his signature is evident everywhere. It is no machine. It is personal. And just as the paint of a masterpiece becomes far more than its chemistry and pigmentation, the works of God’s creation become far more than their molecules and textures. They carry the meaning breathed into their existence by the Artist who spoke them into being. Is that not worthy of a name?
I wonder if every aspect of creation has a name as unique as it is, speaking of its identity, purpose, and significance in revealing the heart of its Creator. God names his stars. Does he also name his trees? Does The General have a stately name to honour his grand stature? If he does, I think it must be magnificent. Either way, the signature of his Maker is clear.
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