He watches in the dark of night as they count their money. They had just held the unsuspecting victims at gunpoint and stolen everything they had on them. He’s had enough. The silence broke into chaos as he stepped forward — no longer a shadow, but a vigilante. Staring face to face with this monster, the terrified mugger can only exclaim the question, “What are you?” The answer was calm, quiet, and direct in the tone that only Michael Keaton could’ve pulled off, “I’m Batman.” No hesitation. No apology. No backstory. He names himself before anyone else can decide who he is.

What’s your name? 

This innocent introduction used by children when they meet new friends comes with no strings attached. Who are you? The only thing I need to know is what do I call you? We’re playing. We’re having a good time. When I need to get your attention, what do I say? When kids ask this question, they’re asking for connection. 

As adults, we seldom ask this question. We introduce ourselves. We let the other person know what we want them to call us. Then we interview them. We ask for classification. 

• What do you do? 
• Where are you from? 
• What side are you on? 
• What have you accomplished? 
• What mistakes define you?

As children, our names are enough. 

As adults, our names become a résumé. 

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Buba. It’s pronounced “Bubba”, but for unknown reasons, we’ve always misspelled it. Wait. What? I thought your name is Gerald! Well, it is. At least it’s the name on my birth certificate. It’s the name I use at work. It’s the way I formally introduce myself, but it’s not who I am. 

Over the years, there have been times when I’ve tried to ditch the nickname. I’ve tried to rebrand myself. 

Buba is a clown. 

Buba is a loose cannon. 

Buba can’t be taken seriously. 

Buba doesn’t even know how to spell Bubba. 

But Gerald…

Gerald is polished.

Gerald is composed.

Gerald doesn’t let you see too much.

Gerald knows how to answer interview questions.

Gerald knows how to shake hands firmly and maintain eye contact.

Gerald built a résumé.

The problem is, Gerald gets tired. 

Because Gerald has to perform.  

Buba never had to perform. He was just called… and he answered. 

Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking what my name was. I started asking what name would work best.

Which one would earn respect?

Which one would silence critics?

Which one would hide weakness?

And every time I chose one, I had to live up to it. The moment I stopped trying to rename myself wasn’t dramatic. There was no spotlight. No alleyway confrontation.

Just a quiet realization:

I am not my rebrand.

I am not my résumé.

I am not the name I polish for public consumption.

“Sobriety” isn’t my name. 

“Locomotive engineer” isn’t my name. 

“Man who used to be 350 lbs” isn’t my name. 

“Guy in OCIA” isn’t my name. 

Those are chapters. Not my name.

Buba is who my wife says I am. 

Buba is who my siblings say I am.

Buba is who my family says I am. 

Buba is who my close friends say I am. 

Lamby is what my mom called me(don’t laugh). (You laughed. Didn’t you?)

Bub is who my dad says I am. 

Most importantly, Buba is who my Heavenly Father says I am — not because I earned it, but because I’m His. 

Before I built a résumé, I was a son. 

For years, I thought maturity meant shedding the nickname. I thought growth meant becoming Gerald.

But Christ didn’t come to improve my brand.

He came to tell me who I was before I tried to impress anyone.

So what’s your name?

The one on your driver’s license?

Or the one you perform for approval?

Or the one God whispers when the noise dies down?