What's In A Name? || Faith in Flux

Names hold power. That’s what I used to tell my students on the first day of school. I’d share this before calling attendance for the first time. Everyone has, at some point, experienced their name being mispronounced. It can range from mildly annoying to deeply dehumanizing—especially for sixth graders. I’d remind my students that they had every right to correct others who mispronounced their names. Names come from a variety of sources: family traditions, clever parental wordplay, or, in my case, a family-favorite sitcom (shoutout to The Andy Griffith Show). No matter the origin, names carry weight. And, in my opinion, the most powerful names are the ones we choose for ourselves.

I’m no stranger to choosing names. I’ve written under pen names and created art under pseudonyms (almost to the detriment of my real identity). So when the concept of choosing a Hebrew name came up, I felt confident—even excited—to take on the task. Choosing a Hebrew name has deep roots in Jewish tradition. In Genesis, Abram and Sarai receive new names—Abraham and Sarah—to mark their covenant with God and signify the transformation of their lives. Today, this tradition continues during bar/bat mitzvahs and conversions, offering an opportunity to symbolize a profound life change. I knew my Hebrew name needed to resonate with me deeply.

My search began with scouring pages of Hebrew names online. The process felt impersonal and uninspiring. But in the fall of 2023, while reading the weekly Torah portion, I thought I had found the perfect name. I connected deeply with Jacob’s story of wrestling with the Divine. His struggle felt like my own: a lifelong wrestle with faith, identity, and God. The name Jacob seemed fitting—until I realized I had misunderstood the story. After wrestling with God, Jacob’s name is changed to Yisrael, meaning “to wrestle with the Divine.” That’s the meaning I was truly after.

At the time, I was working through conversion with the Humanistic denomination (an experience I’ve detailed in an earlier post). Not only did this conversion process leave me feeling unsupported, but the sponsoring rabbi also failed to guide me away from this misstep. I ended up choosing the name Ya’akov (Jacob), not realizing it was incomplete for what I wanted to represent. When I discovered my error, I felt heartbroken.

The logical fix was to choose Yisrael, but the political associations with the State of Israel gave me pause. I worried that adopting the name Yisrael might imply alignment with the state’s actions and policies—something I felt complicated about. Ultimately, the meaning behind the name won out. Like Jacob, I had wrestled with the Divine throughout my life, and I felt confident that I could carry the name Yisrael while holding my nuanced views on the state of Israel.

Once I had settled on Yisrael as my first name, I turned to the task of finding a meaningful middle name. This proved more challenging. None of the Hebrew names I came across resonated with me as strongly as Yisrael. Then I remembered the story of Nachshon from the Midrash. Nachshon was a leader of the tribe of Judah who, during the Exodus, was the first to step into the Red Sea before it parted. His bravery and faith in the face of uncertainty inspired me. The story symbolizes one of my core Jewish values: taking action rather than waiting passively. Nachshon became my middle name, representing the courage to act even when the outcome is unclear.

But what does all of this have to do with ritual? Traditionally, bar/bat mitzvah students read from the Torah, marking their entry into Jewish adulthood. However, I do not know Hebrew and do not have a home synagogue. While I hope to one day read from the Torah in front of a community, I decided this ritual would not define my affirmation. Instead, I chose to give a drash (a teaching or speech) on the Torah portion Vayishlach, which recounts Jacob’s wrestling match and his transformation into Yisrael. This Torah portion aligned perfectly with my name’s meaning and my journey, and sharing its significance felt like the right way to mark the occasion.

On December 14, 2024, as Vayishlach was read around the world, I shared its story with my friends and family. A dear friend publicly presented me by my Hebrew name for the first time. I spoke about the meaning behind my name and why it resonated so deeply with my journey. This marked the conclusion of my Bar Mitzvah service—a culmination of rituals that were deeply meaningful, even if unconventional.

These rituals respected Jewish tradition while evolving to fit my unique journey and vision for a Judaism that is adaptable, inclusive, and deeply personal. My affirmation was a series of moments I’ll cherish forever. In the end, it wasn’t about doing things “right” by someone else’s standards. It was about honoring my story, my values, and the traditions that have guided me here—on my own terms.