The Names We Carry

What is in a name? It is a question that has been asked for thousands of years, and yet I find myself thinking about it more and more as I get older.

My name is Kelly Ann. That is the name my parents gave me. It is the name that appears on my birth certificate, my driver’s license and my passport. It is the name people have called me for most of my life. But it is not my only name. My Hebrew name is Chana, and then there are the names I have been given along the way, not names that appear on any legal document, but names that have come through relationships and through life: daughter, sister, wife, mother, aunt, friend, cantor, rabbi. Each of these names tells you something about me. But none of them tells you everything about me, and perhaps that is the beauty of names.

We spend our lives collecting them. Some are given to us at birth. Some are given to us by the people who love us. Some come from the roles we take on. Some are titles we work hard to earn. And some names are whispered by only one person, carrying a meaning that no one else could possibly understand. When someone calls me “Mom,” I am not simply hearing a word. I am hearing a child’s voice, a deep relationship. When Harry calls me “Wife,” I am reminded that my life is intertwined with another person’s and the love and responsibility that come with it. When someone calls me “daughter” or “sister” or “aunt” or “friend,” I am reminded that I exist not only as an individual, but in relationship to other people.

And when someone calls me “cantor” or “rabbi,” I hear something very different. These names carry responsibility. They speak of trust, service, learning and leadership. Of being present for people during some of the most sacred, and sometimes most painful, moments of their lives.

And then there is Chana. My Hebrew name. A name I chose for myself after a courageous young woman whom I admired. There is something about our Hebrew names that can feel different from the names we use every day. A Hebrew name connects us to something older than ourselves. It connects us to our people, to our history, to our ancestors and to generations that came before us. But it also connects us to who we are becoming. In Judaism, names matter. We see it throughout our Torah. Again and again, a name carries meaning. Sometimes a person is given a name because of what happened at the time of their birth. Sometimes a name is changed because a person’s life has changed. And sometimes a person’s name becomes inseparable from the story of who they are. Perhaps that is because Judaism understands something that we sometimes forget: we are never just one thing. I am Kelly Ann. I am Chana. I am a daughter, a mother, a wife, a sister, an aunt, a friend, a cantor and a rabbi. Yet, all these names together do not completely define me because underneath all the names and titles is simply me, the person who has spent a lifetime trying to understand who she is, what she believes, whom she loves and what she is called to do in this world.

Maybe that is the real meaning of a name: not simply what we are called, but who we become when someone calls us. And perhaps this is the question I keep coming back to: Of all the names I carry, which one is the name by which God knows me? Does God know me as Kelly Ann? As Chana? As mother, wife, daughter, sister, aunt or friend? Does God know me as cantor or rabbi? Or does God know me by a name that exists beneath all those titles? A name that I did not have to earn? A name that is not dependent upon what I accomplish, how well I serve, whether I am needed or whether I am successful? Perhaps God knows the part of me that exists before all the titles, the part of me that existed before I became a mother, before I became a wife, before I became a cantor, before I became a rabbi: the little girl who was simply Kelly, the soul who was Chana, the person who laughed and cried and wondered and questioned and hoped, the person who sometimes knew exactly who she was and sometimes had absolutely no idea.

Judaism teaches us that God knows us intimately. Psalm 139 says, “You know me.” Not simply my name. Not simply my deeds. Me. That may be one of the most comforting ideas in all of Judaism, because the names people give us can change. Our roles change. Our relationships change. Our titles change. The day has already come when I stopped being called daughter. But none of these changes can erase the person underneath them. And perhaps that is what it means to be known by God.

God knows the whole collection of names. God knows Kelly Ann. God knows Chana. God knows the daughter, mother, wife, sister, aunt, friend, cantor and rabbi. But God also knows the names I have never spoken aloud, the names I have given myself, the names others have given me that I believed, the names I carried that were never really mine, the names I am still growing into. And maybe in the end, the question is not simply, “What is my name?” Maybe the question is: Who am I when all the names are taken away? Who am I when there is no title after my name? No role to fulfill? No one to impress? No one to serve? No one to take care of? Who am I when I stand completely and honestly before God? Perhaps that is the name God has always known. And perhaps my life’s work is not to discover a new name, but to become more fully the person that God already knows me to be.

I have been given many names in this life. I have earned some. I have chosen others. Some have been spoken with love. Some with expectation. Some with pride. Some with pain. I will continue to collect names for as long as I live. But beneath them all is Chana. Beneath Chana is Kelly Ann. And beneath all of that is simply a soul standing before God, saying: Hineni. Here I am. And perhaps that is the most important name of all.

listen, not just with your ears. Push past the words, the melodies and the tangible. Find your ruach (spirit), reach out to God with it and then Sh’ma: listen.