Before my daughter was born, I had really only thought about the process of giving a name in the abstract. As the time grew closer, we spent a lot of time thinking about nicknames, alternatives, family connections, bullies, and the intimate names close relationships share.
Though my name is Jeremy, I've gone by a few names over the years.
In the sixth grade, for God knows what reason, I decided to go by "Jer" for the year. I don't remember my reasoning at the time, but I can put myself in the shoes of younger Jeremy (or Jer). As many of us were doing in the sixth grade, we were exploring our identities, asking the challenging question: who am I?
After one year, I decided that "Jer" wasn't who I wanted to be to most people, and went back to "Jeremy." I don't remember anyone giving me any grief over the name changes, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen.
I know for me, I feel like Jeremy.
Or rather, all of the Jeremy's I have been. I'm not the person I was five, ten, or fifteen years ago.
I'm a different person now, for better and for worse. I believe that we still ask ourselves that foundational question of “who we are” over and over again throughout our lives, we just talk about it less.
Today, there are a handful of people, at most, who call me "Jer" along with a number of other nicknames.
There was a period of time when my friends in rabbinical school called me "the Rosh." I imagine they were mostly referring to the meaning "the head" rather than the brilliant Spanish halakhist Rabbi Asher ben Yechiel from the 13th century. I presume I earned this nickname by being a bit overbearing and by acting like a nudnik, but I know it was given with love and affection.
Names are an expression of our identities, a manifestation of who we are and who we are always becoming.
At the same time, there can be tremendous tension over names as something chosen for us and chosen by us. Names are both specific and concrete while also being fluid and malleable.
Throughout our lives, our names change too. I've got a new set of names like Abba or Dad. This name is not as a result of my identity, yet at least, but rather an expression of the role I play in my life now.
When I became a rabbi, that title also became overlapped with my name and my role. There is a certain subset of people who call their rabbis "Rabbi" as if it was their name.
I remember, when I worked in a synagogue, that some folks people would say, "Rabbi says..." or "We'll wait to see what Rabbi thinks."The power of the missing "the" in that sentence means everything. They weren't referring to "the rabbi" the role, they were referring to "rabbi" the so-named individual. And yet, they were the same thing.
Our names convey meaning, not just to those who gave them to us or to the names we've chosen for ourselves.
Names contain layers, often hidden away from the outside.
They are complex constellations of history, heritage, and human ancestors. They are intimate in that they refer to ourselves, yet predominately spoken by others.
Names matter.
In Lech Lecha, this week's Torah portion, we get a major name change. Both Abram and Sarai, the progenitors of the Jewish people, have their names changed into Abraham and Sarah.
וְלֹא־יִקָּרֵ֥א ע֛וֹד אֶת־שִׁמְךָ֖ אַבְרָ֑ם וְהָיָ֤ה שִׁמְךָ֙ אַבְרָהָ֔ם כִּ֛י אַב־הֲמ֥וֹן גּוֹיִ֖ם נְתַתִּֽיךָ׃
And you shall no longer be called Abram, but your name shall be Abraham, for I make you the father of a multitude of nations. (Bereshit 17:5)
וַיֹּ֤אמֶר אֱלֹהִים֙ אֶל־אַבְרָהָ֔ם שָׂרַ֣י אִשְׁתְּךָ֔ לֹא־תִקְרָ֥א אֶת־שְׁמָ֖הּ שָׂרָ֑י כִּ֥י שָׂרָ֖ה שְׁמָֽהּ׃
And God said to Abraham, “As for your wife Sarai, you shall not call her Sarai, but her name shall be Sarah. (Bereshit 17:15)
I'm struck, in particular, by how Sforno, the Italian rabbi from the late 15th and early 16the centuries, understands Abram's name change:
For I make you the father many nations - For the significance of this name change will commence as of this day. The word נתתיך [translated as make you, but literally gave you] in the past tense means that this process has already commenced. This is why "your name from now on will now longer be Abram," ever.
This was a different name change from when Yaakov was accorded the name Israel. That name was an additional name which did not replace his original name Yaakov.
Yaakov's name, as a result of his wrestling with the angel, becomes changed to Israel. However, as Sforno explains, this was not a name changed so much as an additional name that he gained. This is an important distinction.
Abraham's name, as well as Sarah's, is fundamentally different. In both cases, their old name is shed and they are taking on a new identity. Within the narrative, this is when they become a parent. They are no longer who they were. More than that, Sforno specifies, "this process has already commenced," meaning that the name change is a reflection of something that had already begun beforehand.
So, now, I'm a parent and I have a new name: Abba. Does this mean I'm no longer Jeremy?
The answer is: I don't know. Maybe not. Sort of. Yes.
On one hand, I don't feel like this replaces the name or identity I had before.
I am still me. This new role, title, and name are in addition! It is more like Yaakov and Israel, two parts of the same person. I still like science fiction, a strong cup of coffee, and a quick walk around the neighborhood. That stuff hasn't gone away.
On the other hand, I'm definitely not the same person I was before.
I use the words "my daughter" and "sweet pea" now. I'm thinking more about leaving a legacy. I'm thinking about the best ways to introduce her to my favorite science fiction and sitting outside with a hot beverage. I'm fairly certain giving a child coffee isn't a great idea. I'm thinking about college savings and tummy time. I'm thinking about the best strategies to bathe a small child and how fun it will be to play in the park.
My entire framework is different.