Part three of our ongoing series on the anatomy of the ancient Egyptian soul. Previously: the Ba and the Ka. Next up: the Akh, the Ib, the Shut, and the Khat. In turbulent times, let Egyptology be your resistance. That’s the spirit in which we (Kara and Amber) sat down for this episode — and if that sounds like an unusual rallying cry, well, you’ve come to the right place. Today’s topic is the Ren: the name. And before you go, I know what a name is, you don’t. Because the ancient Egyptians understood something about names that we’ve spent the last several thousand years forgetting (and that the modern American government is actively exploiting right now; yes, I know, we make everything political and history is now and all that…). What Is the Ren? In Faulkner’s Concise Dictionary of Middle Egyptian, the entry for rn (ren as we would say it in an Egyptian reading class) is almost insultingly short. Two phonetic characters, the mouth hieroglyph (r) and a single water sign (n). No dramatic determinative. No elaborate sign to illustrate it. Compare this to the Ba — the human-headed bird that flutters, moves and exists visually in the world — or the Ka, with its famous outstretched arms, intimate and embodied, ready to embrace. The Ren just sits there with no explanatory symbolism whatsoever. The writing of the word betrays the secrecy surrounding the name itself. But that spareness is the point. The Ren’s power is its abstraction. It is not a thing you can see or touch. It is a sound, an utterance, a vibration shaped by lips and tongue and the specific quality of a human mind. And this is where things get interesting: the hieroglyphic word rn begins with the mouth sign, because of course it does. The name lives in speech. It is born from the human body in the most literal sense possible. The name is utterance incarnate, which takes us to the Egyptian understanding of creation. In the Beginning Was the Name The Memphite Theology is an inscription said to be copied from an ancient, worm-eaten papyrus, even though this particular version comes to us as the so-called Shabaka Stone of the 25th Dynasty Kushite kings, and it describes the god Ptah creating the world through utterance. Ptah conceives (sia, abstract thought) of things with his heart (ib) and then brings them into material existence through his mouth (r) using the force of heka (magic). He speaks the name of something, and it becomes real by passing through the lips, tongue, and teeth. In the beginning was the word, as we know from the Bible. The idea that spoken language is a creative force, that naming something is a form of making it, runs through ancient Egyptian creation theology, including the Memphite Theology, through the Hebrew Bible, through Neoplatonic philosophy, and straight into the digital age, where the naming of things (brands, identities) still confers power. The ancient Egyptians were not doing something primitive or naive when they enshrined this idea. They were identifying something true. A name captures the essence of something. And crucially, in this theology, the name is not just descriptive. It doesn’t label something that already exists. It creates the thing. Which means that whoever speaks the name first, whoever utters it properly, with the right cadence and pronunciation, has a claim on the essence of the thing named. They hold a piece of it. And this is where the Ren gets genuinely dangerous. Isis and the Secret Name of the Sun God The most famous story about the power of the Ren comes from Papyrus Turin 1993, a 20th Dynasty text currently in the Egyptian Museum in Turin. It tells the story of Isis and Re. Re, the sun god, is old. He is aging and drooling—both poignant and humanizing for the head of the Egyptian pantheon—and Isis, the Mistress of Magic, decides to use the moment to her advantage. She collects his spittle and uses it to fashion a clay snake, which she places in his path. Re is bitten by this snake made from his own essence. He cannot heal himself: you cannot cure a wound that comes from within your own body, apparently. And so he has to call upon Isis. She shows up, calm and helpful, and says: I can heal you. But first, I need to know your secret name. She doesn’t want the name that priests chant in temples, or the name carved onto obelisks. She wants his other name, the real name, the one that encapsulates his true essence, the name that, if you knew it, would give you power over the sun god himself. Re, who is dying, tells it to her. She heals him. And the text informs us he passes the name to her with the stipulation that she share it only with her son Horus, who can use it only for healing. There is so much to unpack here. Isis is conniving—she engineers the crisis herself, lest we forget—and yet she is also the indispensable linchpin of the entire solar cycle, the one who heals the sun and ensures that he can rise again. She is the mother of god. She has to be duplicitous to get what she needs, because that’s what women in patriarchal systems have to do: they work around the system, not through it. And her workaround gives her—and by extension Horus—genuine, permanent power over the most important force in the cosmos. (Just note that she has to use her son as the formal mechanism to take that power. She can’t wield that power herself within patriarchy.) It’s also worth noting that this story has a very familiar ring. Isis creates a crisis so that a god can be healed and reborn, and that power is then passed to her son. The pattern is ancient. Judas. Jesus. Mary knowing her son was doomed to die for the sins of all humankind. It did not begin in Galilee. The Name Is a Tool of Power (And Someone Else Usually Wields It) Here’s what the ancient Egyptians knew, and what we mostly pretend not to know: we do not name ourselves. We are named by others. By parents, by institutions, by the state. And when someone in society decides to choose their own name—through transition, through divorce, through reclaiming ancestry—it is, as I put it, “rather an F you to society at large, and people don’t take it well.” Enslaved people in America were stripped of their names and given the names of their enslavers. This is not a metaphor. It was a deliberate act of erasure—an understanding, conscious or not, that to take someone’s name is to take their identity, their lineage, their claim on their own essence, to make them legible in the system of power. Formerly enslaved people who took new names after emancipation were not just making an administrative change. They were performing an act of profound self-creation. Women who change their names at marriage, and then change them back, sometimes can’t produce the right documents to satisfy a bureaucracy. This is also not a metaphor. The SAVE Act (Safeguard American Voter Eligibility Act), just recently killed by Congress, would have required voters to produce documentary proof of citizenship that matches their current legal name. Since approximately 69 million American women have changed their surnames at marriage—with their birth certificates unchanged, of course—this provision creates an enormous paperwork burden that falls almost entirely on women. The name you were given, the name you choose, the name on your passport, the name on your birth certificate: suddenly, these mismatches become mechanisms of legal disenfranchisement. The ancient Egyptians would have recognized this—the name as a tool of ownership—immediately. My own name is a good illustration of the principle: my formal given name is Kathlyn Mary Cooney. That’s on my passport and driver’s license. My mother preemptively nicknamed me Kara to prevent anyone from calling me Kathy (!), and it’s been Kara ever since — appearing on no official document anywhere. When someone calls and asks for Kathleen (because who knows how to pronounce the Anglican Irish Kathlyn?), I know immediately: they don’t know me. They don’t have my secret name. (My publisher, American University Press, later asked me to use Kara Cooney on my Recycling for Death book cover — which crossed the streams rather dramatically and left my actual secret name thoroughly scrambled. Very Isis. Very Re.) Names in the Pyramid Texts: 45 Ways to Protect, Weaponize, and Transform For this podcast, I did a search of the Pyramid Texts of Unas—the oldest religious corpus in the world, inscribed on the walls of his burial chamber at Saqqara—and found 45 mentions of rn, for “name.” And, of course, a quick glance at the text shows Unas’ name in cartouche visible everywhere on the walls. The magical spells had to name him repeatedly to have any effect. In Utterance 137, there is a curse against anyone who “shall speak evil against the name of Unas.” Slander. Gossip. Misusing a name in speech. The ancient Egyptians understood that once a name is out in the world—written on a wall, spoken aloud—it can be turned against you. You can be libeled. You can be slandered. You can have your reputation destroyed through the same medium that keeps you alive. The name is vulnerability as much as it is power. Utterance 143 is wild. Unas takes on the name of Horus: “You are born, O Horus, as the one whose name is he before whom the earth quakes,“ and then we read Seth’s epithet: he before whom the sky shakes. These are primeval names, Ur-names, that predate even the physical world. By speaking them, by claiming them, Unas is not just identifying himself as divine. He is reshaping the form of that divinity. The name does that: it transforms. It is not merely descriptive. It is constitutive. Utterance 147 goes further still: lift yourself up, so said they, in your name: God. The king is given a new name in the afterlife. He is addressed as God—netjer—and this address is not flattery. It is installation. The name confers the identity it declares. A Brief Taxonomy: Name vs. T
