WHAT'S IN A NAME?

My parents named me Wayne Alan. I know there were several other combi- nations of names they consid- ered including one version with Mark after the doctor who delivered me, Samuel J. Mark. I don’t know exactly why they settled on the name they did other than my mother thought Wayne couldn’t be turned into a nickname of any kind. She was right, although no one seems to have considered that my initials spell WAK, pronounced “wack” which has all sorts of possible perversions (like wacky) so I avoided using all three initials.

Your name is your name, unless you’re someone like C. S. Lewis who didn’t like the name “Clive,” so one day he announced to his family he was to be called “Jack” and so he was.  I’m no Jack Lewis so I have remained Wayne without variation for 60 years.

If I had chosen a name, I would have liked to have been John, after my grandfather, John Theodore Kofink. I would have liked having the family connection. My grandfather was named after his step-grandfather, Johann Theodor Steis. My Uncle got John as one of his middle names, but my father, Lawrence Howard, wound up with given names that appear nowhere in our family tree. Maybe it’s a good thing that I wasn’t called John, since the next generation in the family has a John Kofink (my second cousin once removed, I think).

For a middle name, I would have chosen Martin. That name also appears in our family. Grandpa’s youngest brother was Walter Jacob Martin Kofink. My desire to have Martin as a middle name isn’t for family reasons exactly. The Martin I had in mind was Martin Luther. There is a slight family connection there. My 11-time great-grandfather had been one of Martin Luther’s students at the University of Wittenberg, but I simply have long admired Martin Luther.

Occasionally I wonder what sort of name I would have had if my mother had remained a Catholic. As I have been told on good authority, Wayne in NOT a proper Catholic name. There was no Saint Wayne, and I am unlikely to be canonized. I was born on April 21, St. Anslem’s Day, so I might have been saddled with his name. No, no, Anselm Kofink is too much to be afflicted with, although maybe I could have gotten by with an initial. The renown Lutheran Pastor Adalbert Raphael Kretzmann was always called A. R. as his brother, Otto Paul, was always O. P.

I didn’t wind up Anselm. By the time I was born my mother had become a Lutheran. That was ironic since in the 18th century my mother’s  ancestors had been given land to move to Hungary in order to provide a bulwark against Turks and to keep the territory from becoming Protestant. Maybe it’s a double irony because yours truly is not only a Protestant Pastor, but an Oblate at a Catholic Monastery, Saint Leo’s Abbey. An oblate is a sort of associate of a Benedictine community. We don’t take vows, but we are expected to say the Daily Office, read the Rule of St. Benedict, and practice lectio divina.

When we make our oblation, we take a saint's name which appears as our middle name on the certificate of oblation. Here come’s the triple irony: my saint is Martin of Tours.  So while I never had the first name of John, I did manage to become Wayne “Martin” Kofink. (Scary thing is it could have been Wayne Anselm Kofink since Anselm was a Benedictine.)

Now here come the quadruple irony.  Martin Luther was born on November 10 and baptized the next day, which happens to be, ta-da!  St. Martin’s Day. He was named Martin after Martin of Tours.

Here’s an abbreviated version of one of the legends about Martin of Tours who lived from 315 to 397.
 

One winter’s day, more severe than usual, so much that people were dying from the extreme cold, Martin, who was wearing only a cloak and military arms, happened to meet at the gate of the city of Amiens, a half-naked beggar. The man of God recognized that a being to whom others showed no pity, was, in that respect, left to him. Yet, what should he do? He had nothing except the cloak. Taking his sword, he divided his cloak into two equal parts, and gave one part to the poor man, while he again clothed himself with the remainder. The next night, when Martin was asleep, Christ appeared to him dressed in that part of his cloak with which he had dressed the poor man. As he contemplated the Lord with the greatest attention, the saint recognized the clothes Jesus was wearing. Then he heard Him cry out loudly to the multitude of angels standing round: “Martin, a simple catechumen, clothed Me with this robe.”

Last week was St. Martin’s Day which I observed in my praying of the Office. The first antiphon for the day (a verse red before and after a psalm) was this: “What a splendid man whom neither toil or death could conquer! Martin did not fear to die nor did he refuse to live.” What a great message. Don’t be afraid to die, but don’t refuse to live either.

Martin was born in Savaria, Pannonia which is now Szombathely, Hungary. My grandmother was born in Lovrin, Hungary about 275 miles away. About the same time the Austrian Habsburgs were enticing my ancestors to move to the area (to keep it Catholic) , they were also busy suppressing the Catholic Benedictine Order. They closed the great Pannonhalma Archabbey in Hungary which was dedicated to St. Martin of Tours. I’ve lost track oh how many coincidences or connections or ironies that is for this Lutheran Benedictine not-named-Martin-but-Matin-anyway.

Even though my name is plain ol’ Wayne, there is  rich tapestry of influences in my life, Lutheran and Catholic, Martin of Tours and Martin Luther. What’s in a name? Whatever you put there. And the best name is when God calls you “my child.”

May the Lord bless you on your journey and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne






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