My name or My title

A few days ago, I found myself within earshot of conversation that left a lingering impression on me. A colleague of mine, visibly perturbed, was grumbling over an awkward interaction she’d had with her best friend—someone she had known since childhood. Apparently, during their most recent conversation, she called her by her given name, just as she had done for years. But this time, it did not land well. Her friend, now with a new professional title, took offense. The absence of “Dr.” or “Rev.” before her name was perceived as disrespect. My colleague wasn’t just upset; she was bewildered. “I’ve known her since we were little,” she said, “How can calling her by her name suddenly become an insult?”

As I listened, I felt a familiar tension rising within me—one I have often confronted in my own heart. This small incident opened a window to a larger conversation about identity, recognition, and the weight we place on titles. What are titles, really? How do they shape the way we see ourselves and how others see us? And as someone striving to live faithfully in the way of Jesus, I couldn’t help but ask: What would Jesus have done?

Titles are not new to us. Throughout history, people have been identified by markers that set them apart—titles of nobility, offices of leadership, religious roles, academic achievements. In our contemporary society, titles are everywhere: doctor, professor, bishop, engineer, honorable, director, reverend. They signify accomplishment, position, status. In many ways, they serve a valuable function: they organize social interactions, communicate respect, and acknowledge effort. Yet, they also have a shadow side. Titles can distance us from the heart of who we are, especially when they begin to define our entire sense of worth or when they become tools of exclusion.

In my own life, I have worn a few titles. I have been called Reverend, Pastor, Chaplain, Lecturer, and even simply “Madam.” At first, I resisted them. Coming from a background where leadership was often associated with power and where women in ministry were few, I was uncomfortable with the weight these titles carried. But over time, I came to accept that titles, when rightly held, can be instruments of stewardship. They can honor the journey, the discipline, the sacrifice behind them. After all, I didn’t stumble into my roles—I studied, prayed, cried, and persevered. So yes, when someone uses a title to recognize that, it can be affirming.

And yet, I am also wary. Because I know the temptation to become the title. I know the subtle pride that whispers, “You deserve to be treated differently now.” I know the ache of feeling unseen when someone forgets or misuses it. I’ve had moments, embarrassingly, when I introduced myself with a title not because it was helpful, but because I needed affirmation. I’ve also had moments when I felt small because someone refused to acknowledge the path I had walked.

But here is where the Gospel interrupts my ego.

Jesus, the Son of God, the Teacher of teachers, the Messiah, carried many divine and human titles. Yet, when we look closely at His life, He rarely insisted on them. He never demanded that others address Him as “Rabbi” or “Lord.” In fact, He often deflected those titles, choosing instead to identify Himself with the least and the lowly. He washed feet. He sat with children. He welcomed sinners. When His disciples argued about who among them was the greatest—essentially a debate about titles and rank—He brought a child before them and said, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all” (Mark 9:35).

That image convicts me. Jesus’ understanding of identity was not grounded in external titles but in an unshakeable relationship with the Father. “This is my beloved Son,” God declared at His baptism, before Jesus had performed any miracle, preached any sermon, or attracted any crowd. That identity—beloved of God—was the foundation of everything He did. What would Jesus have done if His best friend had called Him by His first name instead of “Messiah”? I imagine He would have smiled, perhaps even laughed, and continued in love. Because His ego didn’t need to be stroked; He knew who He was.

So what does that mean for me—and for us—when we’re caught in those awkward moments of feeling overlooked, unrecognized, or underappreciated?

First, it reminds me that it’s okay to appreciate titles. They can honor hard work. They can create clarity. They can even open doors. When used with humility, they can lift others, especially those from marginalized communities who have fought hard to be seen. For instance, I think of the women in my own community who were once told that leadership belonged to men. For us, being called “Reverend” is not just a personal triumph—it’s a communal one. It tells the younger girls watching that their dreams are valid.

But the problem comes when the title becomes the source of our identity, rather than a reflection of it. When we believe we are only worthy when we are “Doctor So-and-so,” we’ve lost something sacred. Identity rooted in titles is fragile. What happens when the position changes? When the degree no longer matters? When a newer, shinier title comes along and we’re forgotten? Anchoring our worth in these external markers is like building a house on sand.

I’ve seen both sides of this coin. I once visited a rural congregation where I was introduced with all my academic and ecclesial credentials. The people were respectful, yes—but they seemed intimidated. They struggled to speak freely, unsure of how to relate to me. Later, on another visit, I told the leader to simply introduce me as “Marble.” That day, the people laughed with me, prayed openly, and shared deeply. I realized that sometimes, my title was a bridge—but other times, it was a wall.

There’s also the danger of comparison. Titles can become a subtle form of competition, even among friends. Who has more letters behind their name? Who has been invited to speak at the most prestigious conference? Who commands the room? We start to rank ourselves and others not by the fruit of the Spirit, but by the badges we wear. In the process, friendships can sour, and community can fracture.

And yet, titles can also be redemptive. I recall a time when a young woman came to me after a talk. She said, “I didn’t know women could be theologians. Seeing you stand there as Reverend Dr. made me believe I could be one too.” In that moment, I saw the power of representation. The title wasn’t about ego—it was about legacy. It was about being a signpost, pointing others toward what is possible when God’s call is followed with courage.

So where do we go from here?

Perhaps we begin by holding titles lightly. By receiving them with gratitude, but not clutching them in fear. By using them to serve, not to dominate. By remembering that whether we are called “Doctor,” “Sister,” “Auntie,” or just by our name, our truest identity is found in Christ. We are beloved, chosen, called. No title can add to that, and no oversight can take it away.

When I think of my colleague and her childhood friend, I feel for both of them. For one, it must have felt like a betrayal, a failure to acknowledge her new journey. For the other, it felt like an unnecessary complication of what should have been a simple, loving interaction. Both responses are human. Both reflect deeper longings—to be seen, respected, and understood.

But perhaps there is a way to move forward that honors both the history and the present. Maybe it’s about remembering that behind every title is a person—complex, evolving, and beloved. Maybe it’s about learning when to use titles as a way of lifting others and when to lay them aside in the name of love. Maybe the question is not whether to use the title, but how to do so in a way that brings us closer rather than pushing us apart.

Jesus never rejected titles given to Him—Son of Man, Rabbi, Lord—but neither did He cling to them. He knew that identity is more than what people call you; it’s who you are when no one’s looking. It’s who you are when you serve in hidden places, when you pray in solitude, when you love without needing applause.

So what would Jesus have done?

He would have called His friend by name—with affection, without pretense, and with a heart so secure in the Father’s love that titles faded into the background. And maybe, just maybe, He would have invited her to the table, broken bread, and reminded her: “You are known. You are loved. And that is enough.”

As for me, I continue to wrestle, reflect, and relearn. I pray for the grace to carry my titles with humility, to receive correction without offense, and to be known not just by what I’ve achieved, but by how I’ve loved. After all, at the end of the journey, when the titles fall away and we stand before God, I imagine the only words that will matter are these: Well done, good and faithful servant.