What's in a name?

Let's care more about Jesus than our brand's market share | Andrée Seu

Illustration by Krieg Barrie

I knew a woman who was allergic to dust—and just about everything else. Elaine was a veritable canary in a coal mine: Put her in a house with any spore count that registers and you could skip the take-home test kits.

I have developed a hypersensitivity of a different kind. I sense when Jesus is slipping away from a place. I know that sounds prideful, but the only reason for my acuteness is that I slipped away for decades.

My condition manifested not long ago at a formal seminary dinner. Conversations around the table broached every subject under the sun but Jesus. The after-dinner speaker waxed of venerable "traditions." Something wasn't sharp somehow.

I don't think I'm imagining this. At a banquet of truckers for Christ, I knew right off the bat that it was all about Jesus and not about the organization; the excitement for Him was palpable. You don't know off-white until you see white next to it.