“Arbeit macht frei” — “Work will make you free.” This was a phrase used during the Nazi era to oppress the people of Israel living in Europe. The bottom line was that Hitler and his accomplices did not seek to merely control the Jews, but to wipe the name of Israel from our collective and historical memory. One of the methods used was to force them to perform meaningless and unnecessary tasks that would slowly erode their identity and mission.
Historically, the books of the Tanakh, in Hebrew, derive their names—such as Shemot, which means Names—from their opening words, which carry meaning. By contrast, Christian theologians later renamed the book Exodus in the Septuagint, framing it around what they believed to be its primary theme. Exodus means “departure,” and emphasizes the act of leaving Egypt. In so doing, they shifted the focus from names to events. It seems that nationalism (political power) and religion sought to strip the Hebrew sense from Israel’s collective history—again, changing the focus from Names to Events.
This is a crucial issue. Throughout the book of Shemot, we encounter names rich with meaning, symbolic places, named individuals, but also people who remain unnamed, described only by their function or position. This begs the question: What’s in a name? What does a name reveal? Why does a name matter?
In Hebrew culture, naming is an act of authority inspired by the Eternal. God names people directly — as with Adam and Abraham — or through a messenger, as when the Angel renamed Jacob. Parents, father, mother, or both, also name their children, as we see with Isaac, the sons of Jacob, and Ephraim and Manasseh through Joseph. Often, a name is changed when a person’s mission changes – Abram becomes Abraham, Jacob becomes Israel.
A name reveals something. What does it reveal?
A revelation is not always explicit in the short term. The function of a name is to exercise personal and collective memory. At the beginning of the parashah, we see that it opens by naming the sons of Jacob (1:1–6). Then Shiphrah meaning “the one who beautifies” and Puah, which means “to murmur” or “to speak softly—to the baby”, are named (1:15). We see the origin of the name Moses (in Hebrew Mosheh means “the one who is drawn out”, or in Egyptian “is born of” (2:10). We see the name Midian -“place of judgment” (2:16), Reuel -“friend of God” or “God is a friend” (2:18), Zipporah -“little bird” (2:21), Gershom -“a stranger there” (2:22), Abraham–Isaac–Jacob (2:24), the “Children of Israel” (2:25), Yitro -“the one who adds” and Horeb -“arid, desolation” (2:26). In other words, the Book presents various characters whose names play important roles and are worthy of remembrance.
Moses asks the most profound question of all: “What is Your name?” And the answer he receives is: Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh — “I will be who I will be.” We hear God ask Moses, “What is in your hand?” — he replies, “A staff.” We meet Aaron, “the exalted one,” and Yeter, “the added one.” Again and again, the text introduces us to names — because names are meant to be remembered.
And yet, some figures remain deliberately unnamed. Pharaoh has no personal name. Pharaoh’s daughter is unnamed here — only later in 1 Chronicles 4:18, do we learn that she is called Bityah בִּתְיָה, “daughter of God.” Most of the midwives remain unnamed, except for two. We hear of taskmasters, magicians, slaves — all roles without names.
This reveals something profound: a name implies a relationship. You exist because someone is aware of you, and you are aware of yourself. We exist because someone speaks our name. If someone calls out to a person on the street, “Hey! You! Sir!”, we don’t know whether they mean us. But if they say, “Hey, Mauricio!” I would turn around immediately — because someone is trying to get my attention.
What was God’s first gift to humanity? The ability to name (Genesis 2:19–20, where Adam named every living creature).
In this portion, Pharaoh deliberately refuses to call those whom God named – “Israel.” He calls them slaves — to strip them of their humanity. When we remove a person’s name, it no longer matters whether they are John or Peter; they become a number. In my country, during and after the war, we constantly heard phrases like: “X number of dead,” “X number of casualties,” “X number disappeared.” For us, it was like saying, “today there were 18 dead, tomorrow there will be 50 dead, and the day after, 15 dead.” This became so common that, as a society, we are dehumanizing the victims.
This is the same woke mentality that claims that a pregnant woman is carrying a fetus instead of a human being – language is used to deny humanity. A name creates a bond. Names acknowledge another person, affirming their value, their place in society, and their dignity.
That is why a name stands in direct opposition to slavery. In slavery, there are numbers, not souls. There are slaves, not human beings with relationships and stories. Slavery produces hard labor and bricks. A name carries genealogy, collective memory, faces, and stories. That is why the first act of redemption in Shemot is remembering names.
Names also reflect position. Pharaoh, King – Titles without faces. How tragic that men once powerful in Egyptian society were suddenly unworthy in God’s eyes to be remembered by name. They were functions — nothing more.
Some names reveal tendencies in our nature or in our essence — Jacob depicts “heel” or “supplanter”; Laban, “white.” But these tendencies are not their final destinies. Others reveal personality traits — Miriam, “bitterness”; Ruth, “companion.” Others reveal their mission — Abram to Abraham, Sarai to Sarah, Jacob to Israel.
Another dimension is the name by which Heaven knows you—this is when your name truly takes on meaning.
Our rabbi, Ranebi, taught us to step back and observe, and as I studied this, I realized something striking: the book begins with human names, it reveals the Divine Name, and ends with a people who bear His Divine Name. The exodus, then, is not solely about leaving Egypt — it is about recovering or regaining a name.
Later, we encounter a spirit that existed both in Pharaoh and in the Third Reich: Exodus 5:9 says, “Make the work heavier, keep them busy, so they do not speak lies b’divarei sheker בְּדִבְרֵי-שָׁקֶר”. The goal was never for them to be productive, nor for the empire to prosper or to beautify its cities. Pharaoh’s goal was existential: eradicate their names so they would stop thinking, speaking, and dreaming.
Leveinim (לְבֵנִים)— bricks come from the root lavan (לָבָן) “white.” White leaves no trace, has no inscription, no writing. Each one is the same as the other; they are all uniform. In the end, you build something that does not endure, that does not express who you are. It is meaningless work.
Both Rashi and Mekhilta Rabi Ishmael interpret “b’divrei sheker” as Devarim beteilím, which does not mean gossip or lying words. These are words that do not serve Pharaoh’s system — they eliminate stories of identity and memories that remind us of God’s promises. Pharaoh instilled a mindset that, unfortunately, is still present today.
Recently, I saw a sad video explaining why leftist movements need the poor in order to sustain themselves, such as in Cuba, Ecuador, El Salvador, Mexico, Venezuela, and anywhere where they agree that it is because the poor are given false hope, an illusion that someone is fighting for them and that they need these corrupt leaders who might “redeem them one day, a day that never comes.” The day the poor stop being poor is one less leftist, and they lose power. This is exactly the meaning of the making of bricks: providing slave labor so that we feel grateful to those who give us meaningless work; never seeing ourselves fulfill the role that God designed in each of our names.
This past week, a coworker’s 24-year-old son passed away. When I heard the news, I wept for their pain and prayed for comfort. At the funeral, we spoke of his son’s life — his name, his dreams, and his achievements. I watched how speaking his name healed something in the father. The photos and memories around the casket took on meaning. To some, it might have been just a deceased young man lying in a coffin, but to his family, he was a young man whose name they will carry in their memory forever.
When Pharaoh — the system — makes us produce bricks, it is not just about working hard. It is about working without purpose. Endless meetings that lead nowhere. Bureaucracy. Metrics that tell us nothing useful. The system was built to use you, not to give you purpose. Like Pharaoh, it seeks to break the spirit, to give us anonymity, to strip us of the right to be unique in meaning and purpose. So, the question remains: will we be bricks or names?
Israel entered Egypt with seventy names. Pharaoh turned them into a mass of slaves. He called no one by name — not even God (he did not know His Name). Egypt removes names. God restores them. In fact, in Midian, God calls the Egyptian-raised man by name: “Moshe, Moshe…”
Redemption is personal before it becomes national. For Moses, his first step toward redemption was being called by name. The second was this command: “Remove your sandals from your feet…” Footwear disconnects us from the earth. They represent learned or inherited customs, identities, defense systems, social roles, or the stories we tell ourselves about who we are. In Hebrew, foot is regel רגל, and Ragil (רגיל)means “habit”; these are closely related words. Habits are not bad, but they don’t serve a higher calling. It is necessary to change how I habitually name myself so that I can hear what God names me. To hear how God names us, we must stop naming ourselves in the old way.
Shemot is not the story of leaving Egypt. It is the story of recovering the human and divine name in a world that constantly seeks to erase both. That is why Shabbat is so healing for us — because we set the bricks aside to remember our names. This is where we find meaning and purpose in our lives.
Shabbat Shalom
Mauricio Quintero