Called By Name
By Dr. Julia Zhao, Associate Pastor in Residence of First Presbyterian Church of Valparaiso
But now thus says the LORD,
he who created you, O Jacob,
he who formed you, O Israel:
Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by name, you are mine.
— Isaiah 43:1
My parents named me 趙秋葉, anglicized, it is Zhao Qiu Ye. Zhao is my family name. Qiu Ye means autumn leaf. There is a family connection as all of my paternal cousins have the 秋 (Qiu), meaning “autumn” in their given names. In our little town in southern China, where most girls’ names contain words for flower, moon, or jade, my name was unique and evocative. As a child, my nickname was 小葉子, meaning little leaf. Neighbors and relatives called me that while my parents stuck to 秋葉 (Qiu Ye). It was adorable when I was a toddler and preschooler. When I began elementary school and full names were used however, my name stood out and brought teasing and I wondered why my parents did not name me something more common. I did not yet understand the depth of meaning, beauty and family connection that my name represented.
When I arrived in Canada at the age of nine, I lost my name. My well-intentioned relatives, who had lived in Canada and the US for years, declared my name unpronounceable to English speakers and advised using an English name. In the daze and confusion of my first weeks in Canada and the rush of beginning school, my name became Julia Zhao, a name I chose because it sounded nice. 趙秋葉 remained, but only on official documents and only in the anglicized version as Qiuye Zhao. This combination of letters did indeed look unpronounceable, even to me and lacked any of the recognizable meaning or connection that my name had in China. I was relieved to leave it behind on the journey to becoming Canadian.
Since then, I had been Julia Zhao outside my family. That was who I was in school, in church and at work. It is the name on my transcripts and my baptismal certificate. No one other than government bureaucrats saw Qiuye Zhao. It seemed little more than an inconvenience when I had to spell it for official documents. My parents and relatives continued to call me 秋葉, but I didn’t think too much about it. It was just another of the numerous adjustments to living in this new world where I had one identity at home and another one in the outside world.
And yet, in the back of my mind, there was a sense of confusion. As I became a Christian and learned that God called me by name, I wondered which name it was. I never spoke of it and dismissed it as a trivial concern amidst the greater concerns of survival in a new land and navigating the Christian life. However, it represented my awareness of an identity and history, contained in my name, which I left behind.
In their book Learning our Names: Asian Americans on Identity, Relationships and Vocation, Sabrina S. Chan, Linson Daniel, E. David de Leon and La Thao reflect on the significance of claiming and living into their names as Asian American Christians. Their stories of assimilation and adaptation as children growing up in predominantly white areas of the United States involved adjusting their names to be more easily pronounced or recognized by their white peers, using English names or constantly explaining or spelling their names for others. Such experiences are characteristic of the loss of identity associated with migration and also characterize the experience of being a perpetual foreigner.1
Names represent both identity and connection. They are given by our parents and are often deeply embedded in family and cultural connections and meaning. The loss of our birth names, whether through being called something else, or simply the loss of the original language through transliteration or the loss of familiarity and security in being asked constantly to spell or pronounce our names represent, in different ways, the loss of identity and connection and often also safety. Growing up, it always felt like there was something not quite real about my name. After all, it was not given to me by my parents, had no particular meaning or family connection, and no middle name, like everyone else. I did not recognize until much later that it is the disconnection of migration and loss of identity experienced by so many other Asian Americans and Canadians. It is no wonder that, when reading Isaiah 43:1, I wondered which name God would know to call me.
And yet, with loss, there is also gain. At one point in graduate school, I became absurdly upset at an administrator who recalled a story in which she told Chinese students that their English names were not really their names and insisted on calling them by their “real names”. I knew that she meant well. However, I resented not only her presumption in telling others what their “real” names were, but also the sense of loss that I would feel if I was told that “Julia” was not my real name. This name represents much of my history. I have been Julia Zhao through the vicissitudes of elementary school where the blur of words and sentences around me finally began to make sense and I learned to speak for myself. I was Julia Zhao when I was immersed in the baptistry in the back of Islington Baptist Church and pronounced one of Christ’s own. I was Julia Zhao when I stood before the congregation in Asbury and West United Church and was confirmed and admitted as a full member. I was Julia Zhao when I spoke as valedictorian of my high school. I became Dr. Julia Zhao when I successfully defended my dissertation on Zoom in July of 2020. When I was ordained at First Presbyterian Church of Valparaiso in January of 2024, I became Rev. Dr. Julia Qiuye Zhao. And to my congregants, I am humbly, proudly, and lovingly, Pastor Julia.
Julia is and has been a part of my identity and history as much as the name that my parents gave me. This too is a part of migration. The place to which one migrates and makes a home leaves a mark on one’s identity. One may not belong entirely to the new place, but the place where one came from also cannot contain all that one has become.
This can and does result in fragmentation, adding further to alienation and displacement. As Aixa Perez-Prado describes, it is the experience of many immigrants that they can never go home because the home they left no longer exists. This can create a kind of “psychic nowhere” as described by David L. Eng and Shinhee Han.2 However, I would venture to suggest that there can also be a more positive identification.
A few years ago, I began to write out my name as Julia Qiuye Zhao. A few months ago, I began adding 趙秋葉 to my signature on emails. It is a subtle acknowledgement of the name that my parents gave me, but also of the multiple layers of identity and history summed up in my name. Linguists and educators have identified additive bilingualism, in which the second language develops simultaneously with a student’s first language, rather than in its place, as in subtractive bilingualism. Perhaps something like that can happen with names and by extension, identity in immigration. Perhaps the country of arrival can become an additional home and the new name, or variation/s on one’s name, can become an additional aspect of one’s identity. Where immigration contains trauma and discrimination, it is difficult and can seem impossible. My proposal is not meant to downplay the trauma and difficulty but rather to offer the possibility of hope. For this hope I look towards the God who calls the people God created and redeemed by name. By what name does God call us?
Names are important in the Bible. God names Adam after the earth from which he was created and Adam names Eve as the mother of all the living. When God covenants with Abram and Sarai, God changes their names to Abraham and Sarah as a sign of the covenant which has begun in their names. Jacob is named Israel by the angel with whom he wrestles and he is marked as the one who wrestles with God and prevails.
But there are many more name changes and variations that are less intentional. Esther’s Hebrew name is Hadassah. Esther is a Persian name, probably related to the goddess Itster.3 Daniel’s friends Hananiah, Mischael and Azraiah, are better known by their Persian names Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. In times of exile, migration and domination by others, God’s people, like many migrants today, also used names to facilitate assimilation, and God knew them by those names as well as their Hebrew names.
In the New Testament, at a time of colonization in first century Palestine, nearly everyone in our stories have Greek names, or Greek versions of their names. Simon, John and James, for example, were the Greek versions of Simeon, Jonah and Jacob. Through the centuries of translations and transliterations, even more versions of these and other names have appeared. Even the name by which we know our Lord, Jesus Christ, is a transliteration of a Greek translation of a Hebrew name. God knew all of them, by all of their names and all the circumstances through which they acquired their various names became situations in which God had been intimately involved and which had facilitated the transmission of the Word of God to us.
The acknowledgment of their, or our many names does not imply approval of the circumstances of oppression or discrimination which necessitated them. Rather, the acknowledgment is that God knows those circumstances and also the ways in which these circumstances shaped and formed them. The very fact of God knowing our names is a statement about God’s knowing of us and acknowledgment of our individuality and identity. The acknowledgment that God knows all of our names is an extension of that. It is a statement about God’s intimate knowing of us and solidarity with us in the midst of all that we go through and also the possibility of hope in redemption by a God who knows us all by name.
Julia Zhao was born in China, grew up in Toronto and completed a PhD at the University of Notre Dame before following God’s call into ministry. She completed an MDiv at Princeton Theological Seminary and a certificate in spiritual direction with Oasis Ministries for Spiritual Development in May of 2023. An ordained minister in the PCUSA, she is the Associate Pastor in Residence at First Presbyterian Church in Valparaiso, Indiana. A childhood convert to Christianity, Julia is fascinated by the Holy Spirit’s movement in the lives of individuals and communities, especially through the ministries of preaching, pastoral care and spiritual direction. She is also passionate about serving the Asian American community through the ministry of spiritual direction. When not engaged in ministry, she enjoys long walks, cooking, audiobooks, spending time with friends and family and exploring new places.
Sabrina S. Chan, Linson Daniel, E. David de Leon and La Thao, Learning our Names: Asian Americans on Identity, Relationships and Vocation (Downers Grove, IL: InterVaristy Press, 2022).
David L. Eng and Shinhee Han, Racial Melancholia, Racial Disassociation: On the Social and Psychic Lives of Asian Americans (Durham: Duke University Press, 2019).
Jean-Daniel Macchi, Esther (Stuttgart, Germany: Kohlhammer Verlag, 2019).