When I was young, my parents gave me a name chop—a small, weighty seal carved with Chinese characters. Made of jade, square, and cold to the touch, yet it felt alive in my hands. It carried an authority beyond its size, for with one press into cinnabar ink, it imprinted my name in red script older than my understanding. 

That name chop meant more to me than just an elegant flourish on letters or artwork. It was a link to something deeper. Our family name had been lost when my grandfather arrived in the U.K. in 1918. Like many Chinese immigrants, he introduced himself in the traditional way: surname first, given name last. The British immigration officers, unfamiliar with the custom, mistook his given name for his family name. And so, by a clerical accident, our lineage was rewritten. Ever since, we have been known as the Nams—carrying a name that was never meant to be ours. 

But the name chop whispered a different truth. It reminded me that our history was not erased, only misfiled. It stamped in blood-red ink the reality of who I was, even when the records said otherwise. 

Names matter in Scripture. Time and again, God renames His people to reflect their true identity: Abram becomes Abraham, Sarai becomes Sarah, Simon becomes Peter, Saul becomes Paul. A name is not just a label; it is a calling, a belonging, a covenant. And yet, names can also be lost, stolen, or rewritten by forces beyond our control. The Israelites wept by the rivers of Babylon, called by foreign names, their heritage seemingly erased. And yet, God never forgot them. 

The name chop my parents gave me is a small sacrament of that truth. Even when human hands miswrite our stories, God remembers who we are. He knows our real names. In Christ, we are given a name that cannot be taken away: Beloved.