Joy of the Daughter

Names connecting community

Yesterday, I stood in a large open area of my friends Pam and Dave’s house as they celebrated their daughter Marin’s first birthday by giving her a Hebrew name. Jewish parents have given their children Hebrew names for thousands of years (basically, as long as Judaism has existed). It’s an ancient tradition, and the accompanying ceremony is a significant occasion. Although this wasn’t my first baby naming ceremony, this one had a significant impact on me.

a Hebrew name necklace with my Hebrew name, Laya

Jews aren’t the only ones who have naming ceremonies. Roman Catholic children receive a baptismal name at their baptism ceremony, and many African cultures, like the Akan and Yoruba, have naming ceremonies after a child’s birth, where the name, often given by elders, holds deep spiritual, cultural, or familial meaning.

While last names often tie us to our direct familial lineage, these cultural, religious, and/or ancestral naming practices bind people to a broader community. This reinforces the idea that we are part of something larger than ourselves and fosters a sense of collective responsibility and support.

Unlike traditional naming, which usually happens without fanfare and privately among parents, giving a child a Hebrew name is a shared, communal experience. Friends, family, and members of the Jewish community gather to welcome the child, celebrating with blessings, explanations of the name, and food.

That’s how I found myself standing in Pam and Dave’s house, among sixty other people, watching Marin receive her Hebrew name. Dave’s uncle Mark, who is trained to perform these ceremonies, shared some beautiful thoughts on the tradition and added an element of personal connection. Pam and Dave beamed as they held Marin and explained to us the personal significance behind her English name, Marin Pearl, and her Hebrew name, Mira Or. Then Mark wrapped the tallit, a fringed prayer shawl, that Dave wore at his Bar Mitzvah around Pam, Dave, and their three children as he said a blessing over them. I dug my thumb fingernail into the skin of my forefinger to keep from crying.

In the weeks leading up to this moment, Dave had told me how he was thinking about this Substack and the role of names as he prepared for his daughter’s baby naming ceremony. This made me reflect on the tradition, its communal experience, and why we never participated in it for our daughter, Zoe.

While I am Jewish, I am not religious, and I find it difficult to parse out the cultural aspects of Judaism from the religious ones. They are so interconnected that it’s hard to know where one ends and the other begins. This means I often don’t participate in traditions I grew up with, something I regularly think about (and sometimes question), especially as my children grow up not knowing those traditions.

My husband, Brandon, was raised Catholic and is less religious than I am, so it’s easy to forgo religious practices in our household. This generally works for us and it’s only at times like this, when I participate in someone else’s ritual, that I feel a sense of loss. It’s not the prayers or other religious practices that I miss, but because they are intertwined within the culture, I feel like I lose one without the other. Sometimes, I feel like I am standing on the edge of a circle looking in, not quite a part of the community but also not separate.

We were the first of our friends to get pregnant, so we had no prior experience with religious birth ceremonies. Because neither of us is religious, we didn’t want to participate in these traditions (which was fun to explain to our parents). When Zoe was born, we didn’t have her baptized (but that didn’t stop Brandon’s dad from sending us a christening outfit), and she didn’t have a baby naming ceremony. Three and a half years later, when our son, Jonas, was born, we didn’t have a bris, which I don’t think my mom ever got over.

Boys typically receive their Hebrew names eight days after birth during the bris, also known as a brit milah, the circumcision ceremony. This sacred ritual symbolizes the relationship between the Jewish people and God. It’s like an initiation, welcoming the baby into the Jewish community.

While I culturally feel very Jewish, the religious aspects of this ceremony didn’t feel true to me. Saying the prayers would have felt rote rather than meaningful, and at such a vulnerable time, I wanted to be nothing but intentional. Not to mention, the idea of inviting people to witness something so intimate (and which I already felt conflicted about) felt bizarre and almost circus-like. Still, I was uneasy, perhaps a little ashamed, of opting out of a tradition as old as my culture. It was the first time I felt like I was standing outside the circle.

The decision not to have a baby naming ceremony for Zoe was less uncomfortable because it barely crossed my mind. As far as Jewish rituals go, a girl's baby naming ceremony seemed less weighted than a bris. My parents never mentioned it to me, so it wasn’t considered.

Historically, girls have also been given Hebrew names shortly after birth, but, unlike boys, there was no formal ceremony marking the occasion. Some suggest that the religious roles of Jewish women have often been seen as secondary or less ritualized compared to men. For instance, despite Judaism being one of the world’s oldest religions, the first female rabbi wasn’t ordained until 1935—in Germany, no less! Jewish religious practices evolved more slowly for women than men, and in the case of a formal naming ceremony for girls, it was very slow.

It wasn’t until the late 20th century—primarily in the 1980s—that an official naming ceremony for girls was formalized, centuries after the brit milah. For context, I was born in 1980.

However, many believed that girls didn’t need a formal ceremony because, unlike boys, they were welcomed into the Jewish covenant at birth. Dave’s uncle Mark explained yesterday that girls are often considered holier than boys because females are the only ones who can give life. Therefore, something like a circumcision ceremony or its equivalent isn’t necessary for a girl. She is already part of the covenant.

Still, as modern Jewish feminist movements sought to equalize women's role in religious life, they desired to create a parallel ritual for girls that acknowledged their entry into Judaism. That’s how the b’rit bat or simchat bat came to be.

Both a b’rit bat and a simchat bat include baby naming ceremonies, but the b’rit bat, which means “covenant of the daughter,” emphasizes the act of bringing a girl into the covenant of Judaism, while a simchat bat, which means “joy of the daughter,” is more of a celebratory experience. Although girls are immediately a part of the covenant, these ceremonies are their public initiation into the Jewish community.

Thirty days after my birth, I was given a baby naming ceremony and the Hebrew name Laya (pronounced like Princess Leia). This was in honor of my father’s great aunt, Leah, who shares the same Hebrew name. Though I hadn’t thought much about it in years, as a child, I loved my Hebrew name. It sounded prettier than Lori and, to my young mind, was forever linked to an intergalactic princess. What could be better than that?

Princess Leia, photo: Century Fox/REX/Shutterstock

But Laya always felt more like pretend than a true reflection of who I was—like the characters I became when I slipped into one of my many costumes. The only time I used it was in my weekly Hebrew school class, where we all went by our Hebrew names. It felt as fictitious as when I pretended my name was Cindy Mancini, the character from Can’t Buy Me Love whom I often pretended to be. Laya and Cindy weren’t me.

Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I never felt compelled to give my kids a Hebrew name or Zoe a simchat bat. I didn’t think they would use the name or feel connected to it. But I could easily say the same about middle names. I felt much more connected to Laya than my middle name, Meredith, yet I still chose to give my kids middle names.

Unlike boys, who receive their Hebrew names eight days after birth, girls do not receive theirs at a specific time. Some parents choose to do it eight or thirty days after birth, while others wait a few months or, like Pam and Dave, decide to do it on their first birthday. I always assumed this practice was different because boys were prioritized over girls, and the girls' ceremony was more of an afterthought, but I was wrong.

Some say the freedom to choose when the naming occurs is a blessing to both the parents and the child. There is no pressure to give her two names—English and Hebrew—so quickly after birth. Dave shared with us yesterday that he felt he got a second chance to name their daughter without the pressure of choosing something immediately. He admitted that he wished they had chosen the name Mira instead of Marin and now they could give her that name as well.

Without the pressure of choosing a name immediately, parents have time to get to know their daughter before christening her (I know, poor word choice here) with a Hebrew name. After thirty days, six months, or a year, her personality begins to take shape, which can influence the name her parents choose. This creates space for reflection and more intentionality.

The Hebrew name is not an arbitrary selection. It is a name with meaning—often one that has been passed down through generations, linking the child to a family legacy. Jewish names are imbued with historical and spiritual weight. For instance, a girl might be named after a beloved relative, like I was after my great great aunt Leah, who was incredibly close with my parents and had no children of her own. Marin was given the name Mira because it combines her two grandfathers’ names and is a derivative of Miriam, which means “wished-for child.”

It’s no secret that names feel sacred to me and that I believe they are intrinsically tied to our identity. But I never thought about that in relation to a Hebrew name. It’s not just a label, a word to call someone; it’s an inheritance. It’s a connection to ancestors and a community that spans thousands of years.

My children have Brandon’s last name, which connects them to his ancestors. Nothing ties them to mine. Even though a Hebrew name would probably carry little weight for them, as Laya did for me, I like the idea of giving them a name that links them to their history. You don’t have to use something daily for it to mean something. A name can act as an anchor, connecting them to a community.

That’s what stuck out to me most about Marin’s baby naming: community. As I stood among all these people, many of whom came in from out of town, gathered to celebrate and support Pam, Dave, and Marin, I felt part of something. It doesn’t matter that I am not religious; I am inherently tied to a culture and a history that is larger than any prayer or practice. I am part of the circle.

After the ceremony, I listened as people shared their own naming stories and asked me about mine. It was the pinnacle for someone who loves to think about and talk about names. I believe we are all interconnected and that the well-being of one person is linked to the well-being of us all. You don’t have to receive a Hebrew name to know that, but it was a reminder of what I am connected to and what I want my children to be connected to. On the way home, we talked about Hebrew names, and my children both expressed their desire for one. I love the idea of including them in the process, having them choose the name that will connect them to their past.

Receiving a Hebrew name is one way to connect a child to her ancestors and a community. It is an act of belonging, a thread that ties her to a larger story. In a society that often encourages individualism, Marin’s Hebrew naming ceremony reminded me of the power and beauty of belonging to something bigger than ourselves.