“A good name is better than fine perfume…” states Koheles 7:1. A good name is easy to compare to perfume because perfume leaves its residue in the form of a scent. Many people wear a signature perfume that identifies them even before they walk into a room. Sometimes it is a wonderful scent, but sometimes it can be overbearing. Remember the old commercial? Everyone in the office was schmoozing and ignoring their workloads. Suddenly, they smelled the boss coming before he even entered the room because of his terrible cologne, so they immediately started working to give the appearance of being busy.
The message of the verse is clear. A reputation—the name we bear—is a lot like perfume. It announces our presence, introduces us to a space, and accompanies us as we encounter others. It even leaves a little after-effect for impact. Just like nice-smelling perfume, we hope that our impact is positive and perhaps even beautiful, long after we leave.
We are about to read the story of Ruth, a book filled with names that invite interpretation. Scholars believe that these names were transposed onto the text by the book’s editor to reflect the feelings that readers should have upon reading this story. This sentiment originates in a Midrash where Ruth’s name is related to the word for friendship—a grammatical stretch, but true to her character. She was totally committed to her mother-in-law and her mother-in-law’s people, G-d, homeland, and future. She had the opportunity to stay and rebuild her life in Moab but chose instead the spiritual adventure of a lifetime. Her devotion ends in the true redemption of her life and the lives of the people she adopts through the legacy of the Davidic line of leadership that follows.
And then there are Naomi’s sons: Machlon and Chilyon, loosely translated as “sickness and destruction.” I’m glad I wasn’t at that baby-naming. Maimonides helps fill in the gap by suggesting that Naomi’s sons were leaders of the generation who, during a time of famine and political unrest, turned away from those in need. They moved to Moab to seek their fortunes and evade the cries of petitioners. We appreciate their predicament; it is hard to have resources while being surrounded by have-nots. But that is precisely where the work of leadership must take place. Those are the times when, instead of moving away, we need leaders to lean into the struggle and solve the most pressing problems.
Orpah’s name, according to one Midrash, means “neck” because in leaving Naomi, she turned her neck from the life she could have had, had she made different choices. She disappears from Naomi’s life and the narrative with her dramatic turn at a crossroads. Similarly, Ploni Almoni, a name associated with anonymity, drops from our story because he was a redeemer who failed to redeem and was, therefore, not considered worthy. In the book, all these figures are named and dismissed. We are not made aware of their circumstances, only that they did not contribute kindness or distinction to the story. Their disappearance is its own teaching: if you want to leave a legacy for all time, make sure your name is associated with love, loyalty, and virtue.
Naomi is the only person in the story to undergo a name change. She does not want to be called “sweet” because her life was deeply embittered by loss: “Do not call me Naomi,” she replied. “Call me Mara, for G-d has made my lot very bitter” (Ruth 1:20). Her given name did not capture her circumstances. After moving away from her people and suffering the loss of her husband and sons, she could not lay claim to a name that was the exact opposite of what she felt. Even G-d, she felt, had soured on her.
When the women of Bethlehem came to the city gate to greet her, they confirmed this bitterness and alienated her further from her former pleasantness, asking, “Is this Naomi?” (Ruth 1:19). She, however, quickly disabused them of that notion: “I have suffered so much loss that I cannot be called by the same name. I am no longer that person.” As she says this, it serves as a chastisement to these women who dismiss her with their question. G-d has punished me enough, she reminded them; I do not need you to punish me further. Perhaps if you call me by a different name, you will treat me differently and find compassion that you do not currently have.
In contrast, Boaz, whose name is rooted in strength, is called a gibbor chayil (Ruth 2:1). This may refer superficially to his wealth, but as the story unravels, we see that his might is measured by his generosity and his compassionate treatment of his workers, of Ruth, and of Naomi. He seems to embody, as a male, qualities similar to the woman of valor, the eshes chayil, described in Proverbs 31. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, in The Power of Ideas, wrote that in Ruth’s story we find “unforced, unlegislated kindness that makes us reach out to the lonely and vulnerable, even if we are lonely and vulnerable ourselves. Then and now, society needs the kindness of strangers.” Boaz, in extending his kindness to a stranger, eventually makes that stranger his wife.
Ethics of the Fathers, the other book that prepares us for Shavuos as we review its lessons between Passover and Shavuot, identifies four crowns, three of which appear in the Book of Ruth: “Rabbi Shimon would say: ‘There are three crowns: the crown of Torah, the crown of priesthood, and the crown of kingship. But the crown of a good name transcends them all’” (4:13). Ruth contains the crown of kingship in presenting the ancestry of King David. It contains the crown of Torah because, in addition to its special narrative qualities, it demonstrates the Jewish values of charity and the importance of levirate marriage in protecting women and the family name. And it contains the crown of a good name because each of the characters who remain on the book’s pages earned that reputational crown.
The Book of Ruth bears out the truth of Koheles’ wise words that a reputation is never fragrance-free. A name is the perfume we wear out in the world.
