U2’s notion of names—and namelessness—continues on the I+E tour, reminding us that some things deserve to be named, while some are better left vague.
At least partial inspiration for “Where The Streets Have No Name” comes from Bono and Ali’s visit to Ethiopia in the mid ‘80s, as they witnessed an endless trail of refugees seeking relief from famine. The song is a quasi-parable, highlighting both the natural beauty of the desert, and the indignity suffered by those who trekked across a cruel, barren wilderness absent of even the most basic markers of civilization. But, while “Streets” is a reminder of violent, indiscriminate poverty, it’s also a glance forward to a time when boundaries, lines and descriptors no longer divide humanity. Perhaps an image of heaven or eternity or the kingdom coming (“a world we can’t always be”), it’s a vision that John the Revelator foretells as a place where streets will only be known for the glorious gleam of their gold-like shimmer.
Stephen Hawking reminds audiences of something similar on the current tour: “When we see the Earth from space we see ourselves as a whole. We see the unity, but not the divisions. One planet, one human race ... Our only boundaries are the way we see ourselves, the only borders the way we see each other. We must become global citizens.” Viewed from space, we realize the inadequacy of labels.
While a globe without markers and named streets may signal a coming age, U2 also know that names are important. In literature and art, naming is a powerful, creative act. Genesis tells us that the first imaginative activity of humans was to name the animals, an event parallel to God’s creative act of speaking creation into existence.
Throughout the Bible, names are frequently altered to signify a new era or a change of character. Abram becomes Abraham. Simon is rechristened Peter. Saul begins a new life as Paul. But one name was not allowed to be spoken. The ancient Hebrews would not say the name of their own Creator. Far too holy for words, their God was known as Yahweh (written YHWH, but not spoken), the great, all-encompassing, ever-present “I AM.”
One of my favorite childhood reads (okay, it’s also one of my favorite adult books) is Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle In Time quartet. Throughout the series, Meg, a quirky adolescent, is engaged in a cosmic battle of good-versus-evil. At one point the malevolent Ecthroi begin un-creating, “Xing” out and annihilating matter itself, leaving empty nothingness in its place, a reversal of God’s creative act. They un-name that which previously had a name. It’s a heinous act.
In Walking On The Water, L’Engle develops this theme further, saying,” It seems that more than ever the compulsion today is to identify, to reduce someone to what is on the label. To identify is to control, to limit. To love is to call by name and so open the wide gates of creativity. But we forget names and turn to label ... If we are pigeon-holed and labelled we are un-named.”
Genocide is the ultimate extension of un-naming, the eradication of an entire people group’s name, an attempt to remove them from history. It’s the most evil of actions.
Either by intention or intuition, U2 also know this and respond appropriately. On the I+E tour we see stark words on a huge screen, “Ireland needs truth and reconciliation. Everywhere needs truth and reconciliation. JUSTICE FOR THE FORGOTTEN.” The text accompanies cascading images of those who were killed in the terrorist bombing of May 17, 1974 in Dublin. Remembering that these people existed is itself an act of justice.
Other U2 tours have done likewise. While concluding "Sunday Bloody Sunday" at a Slane Castle concert in 2003, Bono read the names of 29 people, victims of a car bombing in Omagh (some of the names are also cited in the song “Peace On Earth”). During “Walk On” in New York City in 2001, and then again “Streets” at a Super Bowl halftime show in 2002, U2 scrolled the names of 9/11 victims across the screen. In Santiago, Chile, 1998, the “Mothers Of The Disappeared” came on stage, held up pictures and read the names of the fathers and sons they had lost to the Pinochet regime.
Still other songs signal the importance of names. “Invisible,” a key tune on the I+E tour, offers, “I finally found my real name.” “Unknown Caller” instructs, “You know your name so punch it in.” The final song on All That You Can’t Leave Behind reiterates, “Grace, it's the name for a girl.” And, of course, “Yahweh” is a prayer to that which is unnameable.
Names and namelessness are concepts heavily embedded on the current tour. It’s an appropriate consideration. And for a band with a highly ambiguous name, that’s not bad!
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