When God Whispers Your Name: Discover the Path to Hope in Knowing that God Cares for You

by Max Lucado

Or perhaps you’ve never seen your name honored. And you can’t remember when you heard it spoken with kindness. If so, it may be more difficult for you to believe that God knows your name. But he does. Written on his hand. Spoken by his mouth. Whispered by his lips. Your name. And not only the name you now have, but the name he has in store for you. A new name he will give you . . . but wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll tell you about your new name in the last chapter. This is just the introduction.

Where is God at a time like this?

Not a sermon. A reminder. A reminder that God knows your name.

Hasn’t God promised the same to us? We sit at the keyboard, willing to play the only song we know, only to discover a new song. A sublime song. And nobody is more surprised than we are when our meager efforts are converted into melodious moments.

But more than a true story, it’s a common story. It’s a story of a derailed dream. It’s a story of high hopes colliding with harsh realities. Happens to all dreamers. And since all have dreamed, it happens to us all.

I’m not making this up. I know you think I am. Sounds crazy. Almost irreverent. God speaking from a hot mop bucket to a janitor named Hank? Would it be believable if I said God was speaking from a burning bush to a shepherd named Moses?

Moses at forty we like. But Moses at eighty? No way. Too old. Too tired. Smells like a shepherd. Speaks like a foreigner. What impact would he have on Pharaoh? He’s the wrong man for the job.

“School’s out,” God tells him. “Now it’s time to get to work.” Poor Moses. He didn’t even know he was enrolled.

Big deal? I think so. I think it’s significant that common folk in a little town enjoyed being with Jesus. I think it’s noteworthy that the Almighty didn’t act high and mighty. The Holy One wasn’t holier-than-thou. The One who knew it all wasn’t a know-it-all. The One who made the stars didn’t keep his head in them. The One who owns all the stuff of earth never strutted it.

Couldn’t we learn to be children again? Bring out the marbles—(so what if the shoes get scuffed?). Bring out the bat and glove—(so what if the muscles ache?). Bring out the taffy—(so what if it sticks to your teeth?). Be a child again. Flirt. Giggle. Dip your cookie in your milk. Take a nap. Say you’re sorry if you hurt someone. Chase a butterfly. Be a child again.

The forerunner of the Messiah is afraid of failure. Find out if I’ve told the truth. Find out if I’ve sent people to the right Messiah. Find out if I’ve been right or if I’ve been duped.1

The miracles he prophesied, he never saw. The kingdom he announced, he never knew. And the Messiah he proclaimed, he now doubts.

Like John, Paul shaped history. And like John, Paul would die in the jail of a despot. No headlines announced his execution. No observer recorded the events. When the ax struck Paul’s neck, society’s eyes didn’t blink. To them Paul was a peculiar purveyor of an odd faith.

Peer into the prison and see him for yourself: bent and frail, shackled to the arm of a Roman guard. Behold the apostle of God. Who knows when his back last felt a bed or his mouth knew a good meal? Three decades of travel and trouble, and what’s he got to show for it?

Dead broke. No family. No property. Nearsighted and worn out.

Their peers simply had no way of knowing—and neither do we.

I know, I know. These folks don’t fit our image of a hero. They look too, too, . . . well, normal. Give us four stars, titles, and headlines. But something tells me that for every hero in the spotlight, there are dozens in the shadows. They don’t get press. They don’t draw crowds. They don’t even write books!

The boy’s name? Charles Haddon Spurgeon. England’s prince of preachers.2

May I simplify things a bit? The Holy Spirit is the presence of God in our lives, carrying on the work of Jesus. The Holy Spirit helps us in three directions—inwardly (by granting us the fruits of the Spirit, Gal. 5:22–24), upwardly (by praying for us, Rom. 8:26), and outwardly (by pouring God’s love into our hearts, Rom. 5:5).

You’ve heard the voice whispering your name, haven’t you? You’ve felt the nudge to go and sensed the urge to speak. Hasn’t it occurred to you?

We learn brevity from Jesus. His greatest sermon can be read in eight minutes (Matt. 5–7). His best-known story can be read in ninety seconds (Luke 15:11–32). He summarized prayer in five phrases (Matt. 6:9–13). He silenced accusers with one challenge (John 8:7). He rescued a soul with one sentence (Luke 23:43). He summarized the Law in three verses (Mark 12:29–31), and he reduced all his teachings to one command (John 15:12).

Not all of my prey make their way into chapters. So what becomes of them? I save them. But I can’t keep them to myself. So, may I invite you to see my trophy case? What follows are cuts from this book and a couple of others. Keep the ones you like. Forgive the ones you don’t. Share them when you can. But if you do, keep it brief.

No one is useless to God. No one.

When Jesus went home, he left the front door open.

God’s judgment has never been a problem for me. In fact, it’s always seemed right. Lightning bolts on Sodom. Fire on Gomorrah. Good job, God. Egyptians swallowed in the Red Sea. They had it coming. Forty years of wandering to loosen the stiff necks of the Israelites? Would’ve done it myself. Ananias and Sapphira? You bet.

If money is the gauge of the heart, then this study revealed that money is on the heart of most Americans. In exchange for ten million dollars: 25 percent would abandon their family. 25 percent would abandon their church. 23 percent would become a prostitute for a week. 16 percent would give up their American citizenship. 16 percent would leave their spouse. 13 percent would put their children up for adoption.2 Even more revealing than what Americans would do for ten million dollars is that most would do something. Two-thirds of those polled would agree to at least one—some to several—of the options. The majority, in other words, would not leave the stage empty-handed. They would pay the price to own the wheelbarrow.

Greedy? I wanted to say. You’re building a hut in a swamp and you call it greed? But I didn’t say anything because he was right. Greed is relative. Greed is not defined by what something costs; it is measured by what it costs you.

To forgive someone is to admit our limitations. We’ve been given only one piece of life’s jigsaw puzzle. Only God has the cover of the box. To forgive someone is to display reverence. Forgiveness is not saying the one who hurt you was right. Forgiveness is stating that God is fair and he will do what is right.

I have my faith. It’s all I have. But it’s all I need. I have kept the faith.

Which, in turn, takes us to one of the kindest verses in the Bible, “Come to me, all of you who are tired and have heavy loads, and I will give you rest. Accept my teachings and learn from me, because I am gentle and humble in spirit, and you will find rest for your lives. The teaching I ask you to accept is easy; the load I give you to carry is light” (Matt. 11:28–29).

It’s easy to go to the wrong place.

He will help after they demonstrate their worthiness.

abuse. You have alarms in your life. When they go off, how do you respond?

On the way to bed, I step into the rooms of my three sleeping daughters. At the bedside of each I pause and ponder the plight of their future. “What in the world awaits you?” I whisper as I brush back hair and straighten blankets.

Imagine God making us a similar offer: I will give you anything you desire. Anything. Perfect love. Eternal peace. You will never be afraid or alone. No confusion will enter your mind. No anxiety or boredom will enter your heart. You will never lack for anything. There will be no sin. No guilt. No rules. No expectations. No failure. You will never be lonely. You will never hurt. You will never die. Only you will never see my face.1

He will do what he promised he would do. I will make all things new, he promised. I will restore what was taken. I will restore your years drooped on crutches and trapped in wheelchairs. I will restore the smiles faded by hurt. I will replay the symphonies unheard by deaf ears and the sunsets unseen by blind eyes. The mute will sing. The poor will feast. The wounds will heal. I will make all things new. I will restore all things. The child snatched by disease will run to your arms. The freedom lost to oppression will dance in your heart. The peace of a pure heart will be my gift to you. I will make all things new. New hope. New faith. And most of all new Love. The Love of which all other loves speak. The Love before which all other loves pale. The Love you have sought in a thousand ports in a thousand nights . . . this Love of mine, will be yours.1

“I will give some of the hidden manna to everyone who wins the victory. I will also give to each one who wins the victory a white stone with a new name written on it. No one knows this new name except the one who receives it” (Rev. 2:17). Makes sense. Fathers are fond of giving their children special names. Princess. Tiger. Sweetheart. Bubba. Angel. I have a friend whose father calls her Willy. Her name is Priscilla. Growing up, he teased her by saying Priscilly. That became Silly-willy. Today he calls her Willy. No one else does. Even if they did, no one else could say it the way her dad does.

Or maybe you have received special names. Names you never sought. Names of derision and hurt. Names like “loser” or “cheat,” “cripple,” “infected,” or “divorced.” If so, I’m sorry. You know how a name can hurt. But you can also imagine how a name can heal.