Looking at the bottom of this blog you’ll see my name is Mick. I was actually Christened Michael Geoffrey, but ever since I can remember, I’ve always been called Mick. Another name I’m called that has, for me, more emotional ties, is Mickey. It has been used, almost exclusively, by my family, especially my sisters and my mum.

Though my name is Michael I've never been called Mike, and it’s a name I just don’t associate with myself. I’ve found that many Americans will immediately call me Mike if I introduce myself as Michael, something that never happened to me in England. So my name is Michael, but you can call me Mick.

For most people names are very important. Most parents take a long time and many heated moments trying to choose a name for their child, even long before the birth. For many cultures the naming of a child is often determined by tradition or a family name that is passed down from generation to generation.

In the bible, in the Gospel of Luke, we are told of two who were called by name, even before they were conceived. When the angel of the Lord appeared to Zechariah he was told, “Your wife Elizabeth will bear a son and you shall call his name John.” Around the same time the angel Gabriel was sent to Mary and told her, “...you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus.” How beautiful is that. The little child developing in the womb is called by name. Is known by God.

And what a name. The name of Jesus. The name above all names, at which every knee will bow. For many of us, a name that was often no more than a swear word, comes to mean everything to us. Bringing life from death. In the same way he called Lazarus out of the tomb, so he called us from death to life, and, I have no doubt, he called us by name.

—Mick Sanderson