Naming Names

I’m not sure I’ve ever bought into the whole “made in the image of God” thing.  For one, it seems a bit insulting to the divine, given our propensity towards appalling behavior. Besides that, it’s incredibly self-centered of humans to assume that we are god-like.   Give us a God complex and suddenly we start bellowing “Dominion this!  Dominion that!” like we own the place.   It’s all a little too much Old-Testament testosterone for my tastes

But I do like the idea of naming things.  And there’s no question that naming things is a godly activity.  

Names are often the first intelligible words we utter, which suggests that we are born with a need to name.  Mama.  Dada.  Rasta (yeah, Eric’s first word was the dog’s name.  Either that, or he was declaring his religious preferences).  Name something and then, in some mystical way, that thing somehow comes into being.  Which begs the question, without the word for something, does that thing actually exist?

Philologists--folks who study words and meaning--have found some compelling evidence that names and existence are closely tied.

The Egyptians were the first culture to name the color blue.  Prior to that, there is no mention in historical texts of that color.  And, even today, in the Himba tribe in Namibia, where there is no name for ‘blue,’ its members are unable to distinguish a blue square from a collection of green ones.  Hence, there is no blue there.  But the Himba also have far more words for ‘green’ than we have, which means they can discern types of green that we can't even see.  I like knowing that there are colors of green out there that I do not even recognize because I have no name for them.

Most of us have heard about Eskimos and how they have 50 distinct words for ‘snow.’  One could argue, I suppose, that when you are trapped inside while yet another raging blizzard roars on, what else is there to do but to come up with new words for the same old, same old?  A more accurate explanation, though, is that Eskimos have a keener eye, when it comes to snow.

Perhaps the key to our godly evolutions, then, is the acquisition of additional names for something that only has one name to us.  Beetles, for instance.  And then,  we dig in, sit back, listen and observe.  Intently.  Until one day when that one name explodes into 350,000 names.  

Tiger beetle.  Stag beetle.  Rhinoceros beetle.  Ladybird, firefly, predacious, soldier.  Blister, click and weevil.  

Oh, my.  

Naming names may not make me a god, but it does leave me breathless and amazed, suddenly aware of all the stardust and magic swirling around me.  And, in the naming,  I realize that I cannot unsee this wild space, where even 350,000 names are not enough for this thing I’d once simply called “beetle.”