“Knowledge is knowing Frankenstein is not the monster. Wisdom is knowing Frankenstein is the monster.”
It is a great irony, and one that I’m sure Mary Shelley would love, that Frankenstein usually brings to mind the monster and not the scientist. I’m going to assume most of us have the same mental image when we hear “Frankenstein:” a giant green man with bolts in his neck, a mad scientist in a lightning storm, maybe a hunchbacked assistant. However, those who were forced to read Frankenstein in high school or have a passing knowledge of the seminal gothic novel know that Frankenstein is actually the name of the scientist who created the “monster,” one who was feared by his own creator to the point that Frankenstein never gave his creation a name.
By not giving the creature a name, calling it only by “Creature,” “monster,” or even “daemon,” Frankenstein dooms the creature to a life of undefined otherness. It is neither man nor beast, and without a name, it does not belong to any family. It will always be on the outside of humanity because its only semblance of a father figure is disgusted by it. In his revulsion at his own sin (attempting to attain godhood by creating life unnaturally), Frankenstein failed in his duty as a creator. Being unnamed may not be the sole reason for the tragic story of the creature, but it contributed to his bestial behavior and gives us cause to pity the creature.
Names are significant. They are powerful enough to simultaneously give agency and claim ownership. And there is one Creator who does give his creation a name.
Throughout the book of Isaiah, the poetic conversation between God and prophet often includes a reminder that “I have called you by name, and you are mine” (see Isaiah 43:1, 45:3, and 62:2 just to point out a few). God “fulfilled his duty,” so to speak, to his creation by naming them with his own name, setting them apart and conferring on them certain blessings and rights that come with his name.
The fact that God names Israel defines and expands their relationship. They do not relate simply as king and nation or subjects, they are also father and child. A father names his child, claiming him as his own and conferring the rights of heir to the child. A name gives the child personhood. In naming Israel, God declares himself as Father to them, and with that declaration comes a promise to raise them up and teach them until the time arrives to take up the inheritance. Much to the chagrin of Israel, God as Father means that he promises to rebuke and correct them (think of the terror that strikes in your heart when a parent calls you by your full name; you don’t need a punishment to tell you just how much trouble you’re in).
Even beyond the Father/child relationship, naming another is a display of intimacy between a Lover and his Beloved. What is sweeter than the sound of a lover whispering the name of his Beloved in her ear? What is more powerful that the lover shouting his Beloved’s name as he recklessly pursues her? What is more beautiful than the turning of the Beloved toward her lover at the sound of her name? Those are promises too, promises to love unconditionally and serve faithfully.
Names matter, and it matters when Israel is not living as one named by God. In their arrogance, they try to name themselves. In their foolish desire, they take on the name of other worldly nations, forgetting the inheritance waiting for them. Only the faithful keep the name given by God, despite doubt, hardships, persecution, and exile.
So the question for us becomes: What name do you live by? Does your worldly heart desire to make a name for itself? Search your heart well, because you reject your status as a child of God and coheir with Christ if you reject the name God has given you. (Think of the Creature, who could not make a name for himself and became a monstrous brute, hopeless and unloved). Or does your heart sigh in contentment to hear your name spoken by God, the Creator and Lover of your soul? That kind of intimacy might induce fear, because when he says your name it means he knows all of you, but you can rest easy in the promise that perfect love casts out fear.
Hopeful Wanderer 