What’s in a name? You’ve heard that before, right? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. But would it really? I mean, yes, the scent would be lovely either way. But would we have the same sentimental attachment to it if it were named something like, I don’t know, “platypus”?
Names are important, they carry weight and meaning.
Theodora. That was the name I was planning to give my first daughter. I loved the Victorian feel of it, and I thought it likely that no one else would have it. I also considered Temperance. I’m not kidding! I loved them both as names. Still, I made lists, I kept thinking. I knew I had to meet her before I could name her.
Of course, if we’ve ever talked about family or you’ve met my girls, you know that none of them are named Theodora or Temperance or any of the other names on my list.
When I held my first beautiful girl for the first time, I knew. I chose Annabel, my late maternal grandmother’s name. It was still old-fashioned and not terribly common at the time, and it held meaning in our family where the others did not.
Names are important.
Judaism teaches that each of us has a name that captures and reflects our souls, our very essence. Which names do we keep and which do we discard? Which names do we pass down and which do we abandon? How do we hold on to who we are despite ages of exile and return?
This week we begin Parshat Shemot, which literally means, “Names.” The first verse of Exodus states, “These are the names of the sons of Israel who are coming to Egypt with Jacob, each coming with his household..” and proceeds to list eleven of Jacob’s sons, Joseph already being in Egypt. From this first verse we learn a very important lesson about how to sustain ourselves in golus — in exile. Our sages teach that every exile the Jewish people have faced in our long history was formed from our initial exile in Egypt. It shapes us and guides us. It helps us understand how we can survive today. How can we overcome the challenges that exile brings forth?
Let’s start at the beginning. Why does it say the sons of Israel, “are coming to Egypt” in the present tense and not “came to Egypt.” That would make grammatical sense, wouldn’t it? This already occurred. It’s over. Or is it?
Rabbi Efraim Mintz brings the teaching from our sages that although the Children of Israel were in Mitzrayim for many, many generations, they never acclimated to exile. They never accepted this as their fate. They never believed that this was where they belonged. The reason the text is written in the present tense is because every day was a descent into Egypt for the first time. Every day, the pain of exile was fresh. They never made peace with the belief that this was their home.
When immigrants arrive in a new country, they may continue their old customs at first, but as the years go on, they tend to acclimate and adapt to the ways of their new home. Jewish Americans today are not the same as our great-grandparents fresh off the boat. Immigrants learn new languages, celebrate new holidays, and sometimes even change their names to fit the wider culture. Greenblatt becomes Green. Karoulchuk becomes Carroll.
But this didn’t happen to B’nei Yisrael. Even after hundreds of years, they believed that every day was their first day in Mitzrayim. They knew this wasn’t their true home. Even over centuries, the Israelites refused to assimilate to the Egyptian way of life.
In the Talmud, there is a story about a Jew far from home who is traveling with non-Jews who seem…let’s say a little shady. They might even be bandits! The Jewish traveler gets the sense that these fellows may waylay him or do him harm if he reveals to them his true final destination. They ask him point blank, “Where are you going?” He tells them a city far past his stop. Now why would he do that?
The halacha is that in this particular situation you are allowed to “extend” your journey to a location farther than your true destination. Tell them you’re headed to Raleigh when you’re actually going to stop in Greensboro. This gives the robbers the idea that they have more time for their plans. When you reach your actual destination, you can vanish, leaving them wondering where their victim went. It is one of the few times in halacha that deception is permitted.
The Lubavitcher Rebbe takes this one step further. When individually as Jews and collectively as a people we are asked, “Where are you going?” we too need to lengthen our stated journey and look beyond. He teaches that we need the nations of the world to understand that what they see today is not who we are. There is a far greater story for our people. All of us, Klal Yisrael, should widen our lens, extend our vision, and, like the endangered traveller, lengthen our journey. We are a people with a distinct beginning and a prophesied end. Where we are now is not who we are nor who we will be. We are not here to stay. The here and now is not the end of the Jewish story.
Our end will culminate in a time of ultimate geulah, the true, final redemption. The time of Mashiach. That is the identity of a Jew. Our exile does not determine our destiny. Like the sons of Jacob who entered the first exile, we in the fourth and final exile must remember that our journey extends far past where we stand today. Yes, we — you and I — are here in Boone today. But there is a larger story to our existence.
When we believe in our destiny, when we hold fast to who we are, others will begin to see us as we truly are. We are here to inspire and improve the world around us. We are here to share Torah. We are on a path to a future of wholeness and peace. Every day, through words and deeds, we take another step toward our ultimate destination.
Finally, a Chassidic teaching from Rabbi Mintz. An important part of Chassidic life is something called the Farbrengen. At a Farbrengen, Chassidic men get together to inspire each other in their holy service of Hashem. To no one’s surprise, they also drink. A lot. One of the customs is to make a “l’chayim” with small glasses of hard liquor like whiskey or vodka, called in Yiddish, mashke.
The question was asked to a Chassidic mashpia, a mentor, “Why is it we make a l’chayim on vodka, on whiskey?” And his answer was this, “We know there are many different kinds of beverages. And when these beverages are put into the freezer, they too will freeze. The only beverage that will not freeze is mashke, hard liquor.”
Most beverages acclimate to their cold surroundings. They replicate their environment. They become similar. But mashke is the only beverage that, environment notwithstanding, maintains its essential nature. So when the Chassidim drink a l’chayim with mashke, they are saying, “We want to be like you, vodka!” We do not want to be impacted by our surroundings. We want to maintain ourselves. We want to be us.
For the scientists out there, yes, most vodka is 40% alcohol, so it doesn’t freeze solid. But the water in vodka can freeze in a home freezer, leaving a thicker, more concentrated — and thus more potent — liquid. And vodka can freeze solid in the right conditions, lower then ten below zero Fahrenheit. But the point stands, in most cases, the vodka doesn’t lose its essence — if anything, it becomes more potent. That might be why they liked it so much!
Although we have been in this latest exile for two thousand years, exile is not the natural state of the Jew. We are meant to be in a world of redemption. Know that this exile is temporary. Every day, like our ancestors, we need to believe we have just arrived. Every day in golus is our first day in golus. It’s not where we belong, and it shouldn’t define our identity.
What does define us? Our names.
Rabbi Moshe Weinberger points out that the Children of Israel entered Egypt with Hebrew names and 210 years later they left with Hebrew names. We didn’t hear about an Exodus of Jews with Egyptian names. We didn’t hear about an Exodus of Jennifer or Grayson, nothing against those names!
Our ancestors held on. They kept their essence amid the chill of exile. They became more potent. They endured. We use these Hebrew names still today. Scholars believe these names recorded in Exodus can be dated back to 1728 BCE. That’s 3,753 years. And we’re still using the same names. We’re here.
Never forget who you are. Never forget where you came from. And never forget where all of us, the entire Jewish people, are going.
May it be speedily and in our day. Amen.