Getting to know God by His names is more than simply learning a

Host:
The chapel was empty, save for the dim flicker of candlelight and the faint echo of the rain against the stained-glass windows. The air smelled of old wood, wax, and quiet prayer — the kind that lingers even after the faithful have left. Shadows stretched long across the aisle, each one moving like a memory across the ancient stone.

Jack sat alone in the front pew, his hands clasped, elbows resting on his knees. His grey eyes, usually so sharp and defiant, were softer now — drawn inward, toward something unseen. He wasn’t the kind of man often found in places like this. But tonight, he looked like someone trying to hold a conversation with silence.

Jeeny entered quietly, the door creaking behind her. She didn’t speak at first; she simply walked down the aisle and sat beside him. The faint sound of her footsteps disappeared beneath the rain.

For a while, neither of them said anything. The candles flickered, throwing small halos of light that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of their breath. Then Jeeny spoke, her voice low, reverent — the kind of voice that doesn’t want to disturb the sacred stillness around it.

Jeeny:
“Tony Evans once said, ‘Getting to know God by His names is more than simply learning a new word or discovering a new title He goes by. Learning to know God by His names opens up the door to knowing His character more fully and experiencing His power more deeply.’”

She paused, letting the words breathe. “It’s strange, isn’t it, how names can hold so much — how they can reveal who someone truly is?”

Jack:
He looked up, eyes tracing the candles on the altar. “Names,” he said slowly. “You mean the labels people use for meaning. Elohim, Adonai, Yahweh…” He gave a faint, tired smile. “I’ve read them. All of them. But I’ve never felt them.”

Host:
The rain intensified, its rhythm echoing against the high ceiling, mingling with the soft hum of the flickering light. Jeeny turned slightly, studying him with gentle understanding.

Jeeny:
“That’s because they’re not just words, Jack. They’re facets. Each one shows a different face of the same mystery. Elohim — the Creator. Jehovah Jireh — the Provider. El Roi — the God who sees. When you speak them, you’re not just naming Him — you’re knowing Him.”

Jack:
He exhaled slowly, his hands tightening together. “Knowing Him,” he repeated, quietly. “Or trying to.”

Jeeny:
She smiled softly. “Trying counts.”

Host:
A single drop of rain slipped through a crack in the roof, landing with a faint echo in the baptismal font. Jack’s gaze followed it — from the ceiling, through the candlelight, to the still pool below.

Jack:
“When I was younger,” he said, “I thought religion was about rules. Say the right words, follow the right path, avoid the wrong ones. But knowing God by name — that sounds... intimate. Like He’s not a system to follow, but a person to meet.”

Jeeny:
“That’s exactly what Evans meant,” she said. “Each name is an invitation — not to understand Him completely, but to approach Him differently. To meet Him where you are.”

Host:
A soft thunder rolled in the distance. The stained-glass windows trembled with its voice, painting the floor in shifting patterns of red and blue. Jack’s eyes lingered on the colors — the flickering mosaic of light that seemed to move with something living.

Jack:
“So if names show His character,” he said slowly, “then what do they say about us? That we need Him to be different things at different times?”

Jeeny:
“Yes,” she said gently. “And that He can be.”

Host:
The simplicity of that truth landed in the stillness like a note of music — pure, resonant, undeniable.

Jack:
“I envy that kind of faith,” he said after a while. “The kind that believes God changes shape just to meet us. I’ve spent most of my life thinking He was silent — or absent.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe He was just speaking a name you didn’t yet recognize,” she said. “Sometimes God whispers in languages we haven’t learned to hear.”

Host:
Her words fell into the space between them like light. Jack stared ahead — not in disbelief, but in thought.

Jack:
“You think knowing His names changes us?”

Jeeny:
“I don’t think it changes who we are,” she said softly. “I think it reminds us who He is. When you call Him by name — Jehovah Shalom, the Lord of Peace — you remember He is peace. When you say El Shaddai — the Almighty — you remember you’re not. And that’s where humility begins.”

Host:
The candles wavered, casting twin halos across their faces. Jack’s jaw tightened slightly, but his expression had softened — the quiet resistance of a man beginning to listen with more than his mind.

Jack:
“I’ve always thought power was about control,” he said. “But the way you say it — knowing God’s power sounds like surrender.”

Jeeny:
“It is,” she said. “But not defeat. Surrender in love is just trust wearing another name.”

Host:
The clock struck seven. Its sound was slow, resonant — each toll rolling through the chapel like a benediction. Jack looked up at the altar, at the carved wood and flickering flame, then at Jeeny.

Jack:
“You ever think faith is less about believing in God, and more about remembering that He’s already here — that He’s been calling us by name all along?”

Jeeny:
Her voice was soft, almost trembling. “Yes. And every time we learn one of His names, it’s like we’re finally answering.”

Host:
Outside, the rain began to slow, the storm easing into quiet drizzle. A shaft of pale moonlight slipped through the stained glass, landing perfectly on the altar — illuminating a single phrase carved into the stone: Be still, and know that I am God.

Jack stared at it, the words reflected faintly in his eyes. Then, almost to himself, he whispered:

Jack:
“Knowing Him by His names... maybe that’s not about definition. Maybe it’s about relationship.”

Jeeny:
She smiled. “Exactly. You can’t love what you don’t know. And you can’t know what you won’t name.”

Host:
The camera pulled back slowly — the two of them still seated in the golden light of the candles, surrounded by the silence of something larger than words. The air shimmered faintly with warmth — not just from the flame, but from the quiet awakening of belief.

And as the scene faded to darkness, Tony Evans’ words seemed to echo softly through the empty chapel:

That learning God’s names is not about language,
but about relationship —
each name a door to His character,
each door an opening to His presence.

To know Him by name
is to know His heart —
to find in every title
a reflection of His power,
His mercy,
and His endless love.