Who are you? Most of us would reply with our name because, after all, that’s who we are. At the moment, an American colleague is trying to find a "Chinese name." Beijing has people from opposite hemispheres all mumbling, weeping, whispering and muttering out their lives in mutually unintelligable languages. Of course most make an effort to learnt the other’s language, but it will always cause some discomfort to force our mouths into shapes they shouldn’t be in, or place infections on syllables where they have no right to be. This is why most Chinese people working in foreign companies will adopt an English name, and why almost every foreigner willing to live here for any length of time will get their own new baptismal name. Qutie simply, our names - our identities - are too important to be mispronounced.
But, as my workmate is finding out, choosing a name is not easy. Almost every carefully chosen name he offers to others for consideration is met with either blank stares or outright laughter. Either the name is too obscure, too grandiose, or in one case, also the name of a local DVD maker. A self-chosen name can sometimes be revealing, but it is rarely truthful. Poor guy, he doesn’t want to labour for his own name; all he wants is for it to be given to him by someone else.
It is our parents, or a close relative, who names us. It a thousand or more good witnesses whose quiet voices througout our entire lives either raise up or strike down that name. We cannot name ourselves, only be named. Which, I suppose, means that we cannot truly know who we are unless we listen to the inumerable many who meet us along the way. And to those who manage to return home to our Lord, a promise is given regarding our name, and our identity:
"I shall also give a white stone upon which is inscribed a new name, which no one knows except the one who receives it"
