In Bible times, names meant a lot more than they do today. These days, we look at a book of names before a baby is born and ask whether we like the sound of this one or that. We don’t ask many questions about what the name actually means or why we should attach it to a particular child.

We’re equally casual in the designations we attach to ourselves. And we give little thought to the responsibility that comes with any collectively worn label. For example, is the picture others will have of an "American" more attractive or less so after people have interacted with me? And what about the word Christian? Would the idea of being a Christian be more appealing after people truly know me? What about the term Seventh-day Adventist?

The summer after I graduated from high school, I signed up to sell religious books—specifically Seventh-day Adventist books. In the old days, such sales people were described as "colporteurs." By the time I undertook the venture, they were more commonly called "literature evangelists." And by the time the summer was over, I had decided that "fish out of water" was a more apt description in my case. Selling wasn’t my forte. But that was all yet to be discovered.

Armed with enthusiasm and spurred on by a sense of mission and adventure, another late-teen and I drove to our assigned territory in northeastern Missouri. We knew that in the not-too-distant past an adult literature evangelist had been stationed in the area. We also knew he had faced some kind of problem and was no longer there. But no one elaborated. And we weren’t so impertinent as to ask for details.

One day, I knocked on the door of a home near the edge of town. The uniform of the man answering my knock made his profession clear: He was a postal worker. I asked if he had children, and he said he did. So I began to share with him the many merits of the ten-volume set of Bible stories I was selling.

The man took one of the books from me and thumbed through it. "I’ve seen these books before," he said. "My wife bought them about a year ago for our children. The man who sold them to her was a really great salesman. In fact"—he looked straight at me, pausing for effect and making sure that I was definitely listening—"he was such a good salesman that next month he’s going to marry her. I suppose you’re a Seventh-day Adventist, too."

What was the appropriate response? Apologize? Assure him that not all Seventh-day Adventists were like the super-salesman who’d stolen his wife? Ask if he’d like to study more deeply into our beliefs and practices?

Before I could regain my power of speech, he closed the book and handed it back. "I don’t think I’m really interested, thank you," he said. "And I’m rather in a hurry. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to what I was doing before you knocked."

So what’s in a name?

Whatever we put into it, I guess. And that’s sobering.

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