Alexa is my friend — at least for the basics that help me get through the day. She tells me the weather forecast, the time and temperature, plays my favorite songs, and handles all kinds of random questions: “What’s the driving distance between Lebanon, Kentucky, and Destin, Florida?” “How many days until Christmas?” She is endlessly patient and never once rolls her eyes.
A few days ago, Alexa asked if I wanted to update my voice recognition. She already knew Lori’s voice, but not mine. So I went through the prompts, and voilà — Alexa learned my voice. I promptly forgot all about it.
Then, the other day, I asked her for the forecast. She gave it to me, and as I turned to walk away, I said, “Thank you, Alexa.”
She replied, “You’re welcome, David.”
I stopped mid-step and turned around. She had called me by name. I’d forgotten I had set that up. And yet, for just a moment, something in me felt — known. Seen. Like I was somehow special. I smiled to myself, surprised by my own satisfaction from a device-controlled voice.
That’s because I’m aware that Alexa doesn’t know me. She is a virtual assistant, a sophisticated app that processes voice commands, retrieves information, and controls devices in your home. There is no recognition, no relationship, no regard. She would call a stranger “David” just as warmly if I programmed her to.
And yet — the feeling was real. There is something deep in us that responds to our own name. Something that leans in when we hear it spoken.
There is power in a name. Dale Carnegie, in his landmark book, How to Win Friends and Influence People, wrote that a person’s name is, to that person, the sweetest and most important sound in any language. Carnegie understood that remembering and using someone’s name is not mere courtesy — it is one of the most powerful ways to make another person feel valued, seen, and respected. Salespeople know it. Politicians, too. And apparently, so does Alexa.
Moses, thousands of years ago, felt the pull of it—the call of his name. When he stood before the burning bush, he was overwhelmed enough to ask God’s name — as if knowing it might give him some footing in an otherwise unimaginable moment. What came back was almost untranslatable: I AM WHO I AM — or perhaps, I will be who I will be. Not a name so much as a declaration of eternal, self-sustaining presence. God is not defined by what we call Him. He simply is.
But here is the wonder that humbles me: while Moses was asking for God’s name, God already knew his. “Moses! Moses!” God called to Moses from within the burning bush.
The prophet Isaiah carries a word that stops me every time I read it: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are mine” (Isaiah 43:1). Not “I know your type.” Not “I recognize your category.” He calls us by name. Personally. Specifically. As if there is no one else in the room.
And then there is Saul (also known as Paul) — breathing threats, hot-footing it toward Damascus, absolutely certain of his purpose — when a light from heaven knocked him flat, and a voice said, “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?” (Acts 9:4). Not “Hey, you.” Not “Whoever is in charge down there.” His name. Twice. The God of the universe knew exactly who was on that road, and He called him by name. That encounter turned the ancient world upside down.
Alexa saying “David” gave me a little jolt of something warm and made me turn around. Imagine what it means that the Creator of heaven and earth — the great I AM — turns toward you, knows your voice, and calls you by name. Not because you set up the right account. Not because you went through the right prompts.
Simply because you are His, and He has always known your name.