Sermon given December 27, 2025

In Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare famously points out to us that that which we call a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet. 

If you’ll indulge the playful linguist in me for a second, on the one hand, Shakespeare had it right. A “ro-se” is just a set of sounds we have assigned to a specific flower. We could have just as easily called it a bloopty-bloop or a foghorn, right? Names, at the end of the day, are just words, which are just sounds we make, and sounds have their limits in utility and specificity. 

Shakespeare loved playing with words and names, loved using them to point out patterns and jokes and hypocrisy, reflecting the futility and the fun of language back at the audience, making us think about the sounds we assign to each other and to objects and feelings in this world. 

This is how we get tongue twisters-- like, “there’s an enemy anemone in the olive oil aisle”-- and this is how we get nonsense words like humbug and balderdash. 

Another fun thing we humans do with sounds is assign specific sounds to the other humans around us, sounds like Bob and Rabbi and Jaqueline and Rufus and spouse and Jew and Gentile and Tabitha. 

And that’s just the ENGLISH words and sounds and names that we know. When, as American Jews, we add in the significance of our Hebrew names and titles and liturgy to the discussion, everything becomes even MORE complex and interesting. It’s not just that we Jews love words-- though we do.  It’s that so much of who we are, so much of our identity, is bound up in these words and in the sanctity and power of their many layers of meaning. 

The kabbalists developed the concept of PARDES, interpreting each word of Torah as having multiple potential levels, the Pshat, Remez, Drash, and Sod-- that is, as its basic meaning, its hint, its midrashic meaning, and finally its secret, esoteric, mysterious meaning. Through this lens of Pardes, every word in the Torah has been given to us with great intent and significance. There’s literally no chance of any given word being “just” a word for us. Similarly, there’s no chance of a name being “just” a name. Yosef is an “Additional” son. “Yitzchak” brought laughter. “Adam” is red like the Earth. Names, for us, aren’t just sounds-- they offer layers of meaning. 

It’s a beautiful thing, when I sit with Jewish parents who are trying to find just the right Hebrew name to bestow upon their new child, and they say things like “we’d like a name that embodies joy, and bravery, and hope-- things we want her to bring to the world”, or “they’re being named after their uncle, who was so curious and loved to learn-- what name captures that feeling?”       

And this power behind Jewish names is clear from the beginning of the sacred story told in the Torah. Adam HaRishon, the first human, is invited into this sacred word-process and given an important task at the very beginning of Genesis-- naming each animal on Earth, assigning titles to the life God has created. This power of naming is also symbolic because it cements humanity’s role as God’s partners in ruling over the rest of life. 

That’s because bestowing a name also includes within it a sense of a responsibility and knowledge of the individual receiving the name. As we just mentioned, this naming power is also mirrored in every parent’s job of gifting a name to their children, and for us Jews, building into that name the names of ancestors who have passed away-- a unique and beautiful tradition that means that that when Jews are called to the Torah, we go up accompanied by and carrying the sacred names of our ancestors. Many converts symbolically take the names Avraham v’Sarah for this precise reason-- words and names have power and bind us to others in our tradition and signify belonging. 

But all of these examples are also starting to dance around the limits of names, and the challenge of names, and the gray area between the names we are given, the names we choose, and what it means to navigate the different parts of our own identities. There are limits to how well a new parent can know their brand-new child, for example. We also can’t know ahead of time what’s going to happen to us in our lives, and what new names or titles might come our way.

Romeo and Juliet were challenged by their names, because the names assigned to them by their families also represented two warring factions. But they loved each other, and so their names, mired in conflict, did not suit them. And they rejected those names for that reason, though they could not reject who they were or where they came from. 

But there are many other situations in real life where we may, indeed, choose to change our names, whether our English names or our Hebrew names. Perhaps we realize as we grow that the identity given to us by our family and society isn’t an accurate representation of who we are. Perhaps we marry someone and want to build a new family with them, and want to share their name or choose a new one together. Perhaps we go through an illness that changes our outlook so intensely that we add a name to how we are called to the Torah, or perhaps we go to rabbinical school or cantorial school and our name is similarly augmented, permanently. 

No matter the reason, chosen names matter too, just like given names matter. And because both kinds of names matter, we each have the power to commit to affirming and embracing each others’ names, because to do so is to honor all of the aspects of that person as they see them: the entire pardes-- the basic meaning, the suggested meaning, the more complex and interpretative meaning, and then the deepest, secretive meaning, the one we are not all privy to. 

Not respecting, and not honoring, a person’s chosen name, or a movement’s chosen name, or a community’s chosen name, is tantamount to rejecting that person, or that community’s, sense of self. 

Which brings us back to our Torah, and to the role of names in our Torah. We know that as humans, we already give each other names with lots of meanings and complexity. So what are we supposed to do when an Angel, or when God, God’s self, swoops in and informs us that our name has suddenly changed-- or that we suddenly have an additional name or title? What does our Torah teach us about reconciling the different parts and names we carry?   

For our ancestors, this isn’t a theoretical question-- it happens several times in our Torah. Famously, God changes Abram and Sarai’s names to Abraham and Sarah, transforming them into the patriarch and matriarch of our people. This name shift isn’t one they discover or choose themselves, but it is indeed one that they embrace in the new chapter of their lives as they leave behind both the home they have always known and the names they have always carried. 

A few weeks ago in parashat Lech Lecha, in Genesis 17:4, God explains that the establishment of the Covenant and the changing of Abram and Sarai’s names go hand in hand, quote, “This is my covenant with you: I will make you the father of a multitude of nations! What’s more, I am changing your name. It will no longer be Abram. Instead, you will be called Abraham, for you will be the father of many nations.”  There we go. Pretty straightforward. Abraham’s role in our people’s history is bound into the name he is given. 

Similarly- but not identically, several weeks ago in Parashat Vayishlach, our patriarch Jacob wrestled with an angel on the way to meet his brother Esau. For his struggles, Jacob demands a blessing, and is given the name Israel. In Genesis 32: 28, we read that, quote, ““Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with God and with humans and have overcome.”

Israel-- the one who struggles with God--has become a word synonymous with our people, with the Jewish love for learning, for growing, for pushing each other to become ever-better versions of ourselves. Our identity has become bound into the name our patriarch was given. 

However, while both of these name changes--- Abram to Abraham, and Jacob to Israel-- were significant for our people’s story, they meant widely different things for the two men they most affected. Our commentator Sforno points out that in regards to the change from Abram to Abraham, the shift was complete, permanent, and instant, quote ““the significance of this name change will commence as of this day.” From then on, in our Scripture, Abram is only referred to as Abraham, and we see no evidence that this shift poses a hardship for him.    However, in contrast, Sforno points out that when Jacob was accorded the name Israel,, quote, “That name (Israel) was an additional name which did not replace his original name, Jacob.”

This dual identity is borne out in the subsequent verses and chapters, where we see our text utilizing in some moments the name Yaakov to refer to Jacob, and in others the word Yisrael- sometimes going back and forth within the same narrative structure. Unlike Abraham, who sheds his Abram identity completely to move forward, Jacob-- no, Yaakov-- no, Yisrael-- embodies the conflict of the multiple identities within him. He does indeed move forward, but he does so as a divided person, as a person in the throes of ongoing self-reflection.

We then approach this week’s Torah portion, Vayigash. Vayigash brings us the moment, finally, where we see Jacob’s multiple identities crash together as the story arc of his son, Joseph, nears its conclusion. In parashat Vayigash, Jacob is older, broken, and uncertain. He barely resembles the man who bravely wrestled an angel. Instead, he clings to his youngest son, Benjamin, with a love that has grown unhealthy and fearful. In the face of years of pain at the loss of his beloved son Joseph, Jacob has dug his heels in and is too scared to part from Benjamin at any cost. In Genesis 44:30, the Torah explains that “Jacob’s soul was bound to Benjamin’s soul”, but it is clear that this connection had reached an injurious level.  Jacob keeps Benjamin close to him, refusing to let the young man live his own life for fear of losing him. The Jacob we see in the beginning of Vayigash struggles with inner demons, unable to fulfill his role as father, family leader, or man of God. And throughout this chapter of life, he bears the name “Jacob”, as he had before wrestling with God. He bears the name of a brother who stole a birthright, of a young man who could not communicate effectively or own up to his own actions. 

But suddenly, in this week’s torah portion, a momentous shift takes place both in Jacob’s mental state and in his identity. Quote, “And they, Joseph’s brothers, told him (Jacob) all the words of Joseph, which he had said unto them: and when he saw the wagons which Joseph had sent to carry him, the spirit of Jacob their father revived. And Israel said, It is enough; Joseph my son is yet alive: I will go and see him before I die.” 

Did you hear that? In the space of a sentence, Jacob’s name changed. The spirit of Jacob their father revived. And Israel said: it is enough. 

In a matter of a moment, Jacob’s name changes once again. The Israel identity, which was hidden deep within Jacob, was brought forth in that moment, replacing someone who felt helpless with someone who saw a path forward. Jacob saw hope again, and became Israel, again. And by wrestling with that part of himself, Jacob finds peace.       

Interestingly, this time, no angel was needed to bequeath a new name upon Israel; he simply needed to choose to embrace who he was, and choose a path forward, instead of remaining stuck in a cycle of despair. Along the way, he listened to his children, listened to the world around him, and listened to his own heart. He looked within himself and he found, again, the part of his identity that he needed to embrace in the next chapter, and in doing so, he modeled for us both the importance, and the limits, of names. Jacob was Israel throughout our entire parashah, but he did not embrace it until that one moment, when he looked at his sons and said: It is enough.

So. What’s in a name? Our tradition offers us several different models here of how to approach facing the arrival of a new identity: that of Abraham, who attempts to move forward fully embracing his new self, and that of Jacob, whose discontent seems to supersede any name he is given. We also should not forget Sarah’s example--- Sarah, whose personal experience of name change our tradition leaves largely unexamined. Like most women throughout history, her own name was subsumed into the dreams and stories of the men around her-- but the fact that her name had to change, too, from Sarai to Sarah, means she is far more than just a supporting character in Abraham’s story. Her identity mattered, too. And therefore, her identity had to change, too.   

But it is Jacob’s conflicted identity, torn between Yisrael and Ya’akov, that I want to leave us with today, as a seed to consider as we move about our own lives and examine the different parts of our ownselves. 

As Jews and Americans, as Mainers and from-away-ers, as human beings, we also carry multiple identities. 

Each of us, as we sit here in this room today, as we watch online, as we are called to the Torah, as we chat on the internet using different aliases and nicknames, as we navigate personal and professional titles-- each of us, as we navigate the names we are given and the names we choose, the names we run from and the names we embrace-- each of us has the opportunity to take note of Jacob’s example, of Yaakov’s example, and of Yisrael’s example, at the same time. 

Wrestling with our identity does not mean we do not know who we are-- to the contrary. Like we see with our patriarch Jacob, there can be a deep holiness in the discernment process of figuring out who we really are, in our own time. A name is a gift, a hope, a label- but Jacob’s story reminds us that nobody-- no parent, not even an angel-- can dictate which names will speak most clearly to each human heart. That is something we each get to do, individually, and we get to support each other on that journey of discovery.

So. What’s in a name?

A whole lot. The good news is that we can commit, together, to making this the sort of sacred space where our entire selves are welcome and celebrated.

Shabbat shalom.