Shabbat shalom! It’s good to be back after some time away.
The question I’ve gotten more than almost any other since I began and finished this journey (and, really, the journey continues) is: What is your Hebrew name and why did you pick it?
As always, there’s plenty of guides out there for how to do this with varying opinions.
Sometimes, I’m an incredibly indecisive person. What restaurant should we go to? What flavor of ice cream should I get at Crank & Boom? Should I go through with this whole process of embracing Judaism in the first place? What’s the meaning of life? Low stakes indecision. The answer is: Martine’s Pistachio Cake. For the ice cream.
My Hebrew name came to me almost immediately and very little changed throughout the nearly two years I studied with a rabbi. Here it is:
עֵלִי בָּרוּךְ בֵּן יִצְחָק ויחַנָּה
Eli Baruch ben Yitzhak v’Hannah
(remember, Hebrew is read right to left)
It’s the first three names that were with me the whole time. Eli. Baruch. Yitzhak. Hannah came last, but I’m glad it did. It’s a name that will be with me the rest of my life. If I’m ever called to the Torah, it’s the name that will be chanted. At my eventual funeral, it’s a name that will be said. If you like the mystical, it is said that ones Hebrew name reveals something about their spiritual qualities, essence, purpose in life, and so on. It’s intimately connected with the idea of “nefesh” or the human soul. Some would say it’s the name of your soul.
I like this idea if for no other reason than that names are something we just use in Western society. The meanings, lineage, connections, spirituality, and beyond are often lost. Who are we named after? What is the meaning of our names? The history and etymology? What qualities of loved ones or people throughout history with our names can we learn from? Do those qualities have anything to do with the names we were given? If so, why? How? Etc etc.
Naming is an incredibly important moment in the Hebrew Scriptures. Abram is given the name Abraham. Jacob is given the name Israel. Sarai becomes Sarah. Naomi becomes Mara. Hosea becomes Joshua. In the Christian scriptures, Saul becomes Paul.
Every time, it’s an incredibly transformative event. And so it is with converts to Judaism. Sometimes it’s the name you already have. Sometimes a rabbi picks it for you. More often than not, you get to pick.
It’s tradition for converts to pick one or two names and have it immediately followed with:
בֶּן אַבְרָהָם וְשָׂרָה
ben Avraham v’Sarah
(or ‘bat’ if you’re a woman; ‘mibeit’ for a non-gendered option)
Abraham and Sarah are seen as the first Jews and they were converts, so why not name yourself after them? It should be celebrated! Though, in some circles, the designation means someone is labeled a convert and is met with stigma. It’s unfortunate. In Judaism, sometimes converts are treated…oddly. A lot of this has to do with the whole question of “Who is a Jew?” Is it a religion? An ethnicity? A race? A tribe? An ethno-religion? It’s been all of those throughout history and even today, it is hard to pinpoint. For people that are born into Judaism, sometimes there’s baggage that comes with it. How could a convert ever understand? It goes deeper than that and could take up a lot of time. I couldn’t even imagine to solve that quandary.
Anyway, you’ll notice I didn’t choose that. For people born into Judaism, it’s often the names of their parents. My parents are not named Yitzhak or Hannah. So, why is it different? I went out of my way to find rabbinic commentary on names and found out that choosing Abraham and Sarah is just minhag (tradition). It’s not a binding requirement. And today, many people choose names of those who’ve mentored them or other biblical characters that inspire them or remind them of someone.
That’s what I did. I chose a character that inspires me and one that reminds me of my mother.
So what does it all mean?
Let’s start at the beginning. Eli. Some folks know, but not many do, since I rarely use it, but my first name is Eliot. Shortened, it is Eli. It is common to pick names that are linguistically similar to one’s birth name when you pick a Hebrew name. It turns out that Eli is one of my favorite characters in the Hebrew Scriptures.
Eli was one of the High Priests. You can find his exact history here. I’ve always been drawn to him, though. He was the leader of the priests. He was special. He was the one who could go into the “holy of holies” every year on Yom Kippur and speak the name of God. This was forbidden for anyone else and only the High Priest was given this honor. As a clergy person, his story already appeals to me. But there’s more. He was flawed.
Once, a woman named Hannah was praying in the temple and Eli judged her for praying out loud. He accused her of being drunk. Hannah did not suffer his foolishness and called him out on it. He apologized and blessed her. It’s a great and simple story. I need to remind myself in my profession every single day to not judge people for their choices, their spiritual paths and practices, and their need to connect to something bigger than themselves. As a Unitarian Universalist minister, it’s a constant learning curve and I love it. But I can truly say that most days I try not to judge people for their decisions. It’s hard. Yet it is so much more meaningful to meet people as they are without judgement. To be able to say: “This is your life today, let’s talk about that.”
When’s the last time rumination on the past fixed anything imminent in one’s life? Sure, sure, learn from the lessons of the past. But I’m talking about soul-crushing rumination and guilt. It’s useless for everyday people. Hannah did not just take Eli’s judgement and she threw it back at him. So he learned from his mistake. He apologized and blessed her.
Eli’s story takes a tragic turn later in his life. I won’t get into all of the details, but upon learning the Hebrew people lost the Ark of the Covenant during battle, he fell out of his chair and broke his neck. Thus ended the priesthood of Eli. What on earth do we learn from that?
It’s pretty simple, really. Life will knock us out of our chairs. Are we going to fall and break our necks time and time again or are we going to pick ourselves up and get back to living? If we take the story literally, Eli didn’t have a choice. But take it as a Hebrew “koan” and it opens up for us. Especially now. Amidst the rise of totalitarianism and all of the work we are called to do, is it worth breaking our necks over? No. It isn’t. We need to keep living as best as we can.
Moving on to the second name, Baruch. He was the faithful scribe of the prophet Jeremiah. Choosing this name was easy. His was a life that reminds me that sometimes the most important work in this world is behind the scenes. He dutifully bore witness to great pain and suffering and documented it so it wouldn’t be forgotten. There came a time, though, when Jeremiah was incapacitated and Baruch had to muster the courage to share difficult truths to the assembled people. So, his story is twofold. Yes, so much of this world is not about being front and center and gaining praise or laurel leaves — but we still do it. It matters. And, the work of this world will call us to speak and act with courage. While Eli showed me the ways of imperfection, reconciliation, and not letting life knock me over; Baruch shows me how to deftly handle the roles I am called to with courage and humility.
Yitzhak, or Isaac, is my spiritual father in this name. I don’t have much to say about my biological father, though many know it’s a tale of heartbreak and abuse. I’m good, though. I’ve healed from that. Though, a Freudian or Jungian would see that I chose a character that was nearly sacrificed on an altar by his father and raise an eyebrow. That story, the Binding of Isaac, is one reason I chose it. It’s a haunting story and if you read between the lines, everything points to Isaac actually being sacrificed. That story also has deep implications when you start to look at queer theology. That’s a post for another time. But wrestle with this: What if the very act of committing to the sacrifice of Isaac was the sacrifice itself? How might that challenge notions of the divine and expectations for one’s life? More on that another time.
When Sarah found out she was pregnant with Isaac, she laughed. So, Isaac/Yitzhak means ‘He who laughs.’ Laughter in spirituality and religion is so important to me. I have to be able to laugh at it. I have to be able to laugh at life itself. Without laughter, I don’t know if I could do what I do or move through this tragic world with hope. In laughter, we acknowledge the absurdity of life or whatever is happening. In laughter, the Hebrew Bible shines with parable and wisdom instead of brutalism as the fundamentalists would have you believe. In laughter, the meaning of life is just that — to find joy amidst pain and sorrow. Let laughter be my spiritual father.
And let Hannah/Chanah, grace, be my spiritual mother. I already mentioned the character of Hannah and how she wouldn’t suffer the foolishness of the priest Eli. My actual mother does not suffer fools…and she has found incredible grace in a difficult life. So it’s both after Hannah and in honor of my mother. Grace is one of those lofty ideals that springs up in religious language. It’s fluffy, often with wings, bright, shining, and happy. If there’s anything I believe, it’s the great words of the poet Henry Vaughan: “There is in God, some say / A deep but dazzling darkness…” A Zen koan would put it like this: “In the darkness, darken further.”
Grace and hope and fill-in-the-assumed-happy-religious-concept-here — they can be in the darkness, too. My mother, her life and my life are a testament to this. So many lives show us this. It’s important to wrestle with. I know people who have wrestled with this at the darkest moments of their lives and found something radiant in the pitch black of whatever they faced. I, too, have done so. But I also, like so many, have resisted it and rejected it, too.
When I peel back the layers of apologetics, mostly Christian, from biblical characters, I see people wrestling with life. Hannah had deep and dark moments. So she prayed. She persisted. She rejoiced when life showed her a way through. And she did not suffer the foolishness of those who would demean her resilience.
There’s more I can say about these names. They mean a lot! Their literal meanings mean something, too.
Eli: Ascend.
Baruch: Blessed.
Yitzhak: He who laughs.
Hannah: Grace.
I could add a poetic spin to it and say my Hebrew name means:
“Arise and be blessed, one who laughs and remembers grace.”
That’s a very Zen thing to do with names, so, I like that. I’m a language nerd and also kept some linguistic compatibility, but you might just close the window if you haven’t already at that. I’ll see if you can piece that one together.
Every Hebrew name, for a convert, is a very personal decision. It’s a name you will be known by in ritual settings and upon your death. If anything, it’s a name I think about often. It enriches my Western names. It gives me ideals and characteristics to aim for in life. And, like a ‘koan’ in Zen or a mantra elsewhere, I find characters to journey with and an ever deepening engagement with them and their stories.
Until next time.