The rabbi in the synagogue where I grew up did not know my name. A brilliant man and a mesmerizing orator, he did not have much time for the children of the congregation. I remember seeing him towering ominously from the bima during the megillah reading on Purim or when I would accompany my father for the last hour of Yom Kippur services before the shofar blew marking the end of the fast.

I know he spoke about me when I became bat mitzvah, though I am not sure how. Perhaps his skill at weaving words compensated for the paucity of real knowledge he had about my life, or the life of my family at the time.

When I was 14 years old, I joined a Reform congregation after having fallen in love with the music and the warmth that surrounded me when a friend dragged me to a youth group event. At my first service at Temple Emanuel on Lake Michigan in Chicago, the elder rabbi, a short, but commanding man with piercing blue eyes and a German accent, greeted me by name. He knew my name! To this day, I'm not sure how he knew who I was; maybe the assistant rabbi or youth group adviser whispered it in his ear as I approached. Doesn't matter. I was 14 years old and the few words we exchanged that night changed my life's course.

A few years later when I made the decision to pursue the rabbinate--a decision which had its origins in that greeting--I thought: I'm going to be the type of rabbi who knows everybody's name. So far, I'm not. But I would certainly like to be. And I'm working on it. Every week, I learn two or three new names.

At this rate, I will reach my goal sometime between 2011 and 2014.

So why am I writing this now? Over the past week, a number of people have said something along the lines of, "I didn't think you knew who I was." It's a horrible feeling not to be known. It is especially difficult to have this feeling inside a synagogue, the very place people come to find community and a sense of belonging.

In Jewish tradition, names have valences. Some biblical names, for instance, tell us about the events surrounding a child's birth. Isaac, or Yitzhak in Hebrew, was given his name because his mother laughed (tzahak) on hearing she was to give birth; Jacob, or Ya'akov in Hebrew, was named that because he was born hanging on to his brother's heel (ekev). Others tell us about critical changes in a person's life. Abram is changed to Abraham--the additional "heh" signifying that he will be the father of a great nation (hamon goyim). Jacob gains the name Israel, signifying that as he matured, he became someone who struggled with God. To know someone's name is to know who they are.

In this same week, a number of people have extended their hands and told me their names. If you have not yet done so, please do. If you have, please do so again.

After eight months at Temple Micah, I've learned many things. I've mastered the pivot maneuver that is essential in taking the Torah out of the Ark. I know where we keep the stamps. I can load the copier. If I have not yet learned your name, please help me to do so. I want to know who you are.