Confessing Sin: Diminishing His Name
If you Confess, He will Forgive
Nicknames
Don’t you wish you had a name that was also a title?! I envy all my military friends with their cool call signs: Bonzo, Corn Dog, Maverick, Goose. (Okay, maybe the last two are from Top Gun, but you get the idea.) I learned that every military call sign comes with a story, and that alone makes me want to join the military—just to find out what my name would be.
Growing up, I had a few nicknames. One family called me “Boo,” which makes sense—just add another “o” to Bo, and there you have it. Then, there were the variations of my name. I was called Bo Diddley, Bo Jack, and my favorite, Bo Jackson. What a man, Bo Knows! I loved hearing that one. But the name that truly stuck, the one that came with a story, was “Dog Boy.”
I earned the nickname Dog Boy from my neighborhood friends in Ardoin Cove (pronounced Ar-dwan). Being the youngest of three boys had its perks—mostly minimal parental oversight. Maybe my parents assumed my two older brothers would look after me. Or maybe, by the time you get to Boy #3, you give him a longer leash—or let him roam the neighborhood without a collar altogether.
I grew up on a working farm, where, at times, hundreds of cattle roamed the pastures. On the days of cattle drives, rugged men from all over Ardoin Cove would gather to lend a hand. Horse trailers and beat-up trucks filled our yard, their ice chests brimming with Milwaukee’s Best. These cowboys brought their horses, 4-wheelers, and—best of all—their dogs. And while the dogs actually helped, the kids (myself included) had the pleasure of getting in the way. It was glorious staying underfoot.
When I was old enough to ride 4-wheelers and help move cows, I was utterly convinced I was one with the dogs. I didn’t just love dogs; I wanted to be one of the pack. I took that old adage, “Eat, sleep, and breathe _____,” literally. I’ve eaten dog food—more than once. I thought maybe it was an acquired taste, but in case you’re wondering… it’s not.
I once spent the night sleeping with the dogs. You’re probably picturing me letting the dog into my bed, right? Oh no. On farms, dogs are strictly forbidden from coming inside. They’d lose a limb if they were ever caught in a mother’s house. No, I slept outside on their mats. And by “mats,” I don’t mean a plush dog bed from Petco. These were old horse blankets or saddle pads—the mice-eaten rejects unfit for anything but, well, a dog. I curled up in the tack room all night to keep warm with my canine companions.
Most importantly, I attempted to speak their language. I mastered the alert, territorial, and demand bark. I perfected the fearful, aggressive, or playful tones. I knew their growls, howls, and whines. I thought myself fluent in their verbal and body language. My childhood neighbor, whom I could call Mr. Paul, but his peers would call “Chrome Dome,” took notice of my odd behavior. And one fateful day, after a baptism by the sprinkling of American light beer, he dubbed me “Dog Boy.” I couldn’t have been more proud.
Fast forward ten years. I’m now a senior in high school. It’s 90 degrees outside, but I’m still wearing my Welsh High letterman jacket as I head to Mrs. LaDonna’s house for Sunday lunch—a beloved tradition in Ardoin Cove.
Walking through the carport door, I’m greeted with a chorus of “Dog Boy!” from a room full of family and friends. Mrs. LaDonna follows with an offer of her famous pecan pie (pronounced puh-kahn), topped with vanilla ice cream and paired with an ice-cold Coke.
That day felt sentimental. It was my senior year, and I knew my days in the Cove were numbered. As stories were shared, Chrome Dome revealed an unknown truth behind my childhood nickname—one he kept to himself—or kept from me—for a decade.
“Bo, do you know why I called you Dog Boy?” he asked.
“Well,” I said, “I guess it’s because I was always barking like a dog.”
Rosy cheeks revealed a mischievous grin. Mr. Paul, with his resounding voice, replied, “Nope!”
Now, I was confused in a now silent room. “Why then?” I asked.
“Boy, it’s because you smelled like a dog!”
The room erupted in laughter. And as much as I laughed with them, I couldn’t argue. I ate, slept, and often smelled like a dog.
Jesus Christ, His Only Son, Our Lord
As funny as it is to reflect on how I earned my nickname, it shows how names carry stories and meaning. Dog Boy revealed my aversion to soap and water as much as it did my love for dogs. Nicknames often poke fun, but some names—like Jesus’—carry honor and divine purpose.
One thousand six hundred and seventy-six years ago, the early church wrote the Apostles’ Creed. In the creed, we first confess our belief in God as our all-powerful creator and loving Father; I discussed that in last week’s confession. But then the creed turns its focus to Jesus.
Jesus receives, by far, the most attention in the Apostles’ Creed, described in 14 unique and progressive ways. The Latin creed begins, “Credo in Iesum Christum”—“I believe in Jesus Christ.” So, we start by confessing the name of Jesus Christ. The name Jesus was given by God through the angel Gabriel to Joseph, the son of David, in a miraculous dream. So, we can assume it is bursting with meaning. Translated literally, Jesus means God saves or delivers. It declares not only who He is but what He came to do.
Following Jesus’ name is one of His many titles: Christ. As a kid, didn’t you think it was his last name? No, never? Okay… just me then. Well, it’s not His last name, but it often feels like one. Christ is a theophoric title full of profound significance. Think of Mother Teresa— Mother is her honorific title as a mother superior, and her epithet defining her character. Now consider Jesus, who is defined by His title, Christ. Christ means “anointed,” signifying the sacred act of being set apart by God. In Scripture, anointing involves pouring oil, symbolizing consecration and empowerment by God for a divine mission.
So, when we say, “I believe in Jesus Christ,” in the Apostles’ Creed, it is an act of repentance and faith. What you’re really saying is, “I believe in my deliverer, Jesus, who was set apart by God to save me from my sin.” Rightly speaking the name of Jesus is both a confession of sin and faith!
What does the name Jesus Christ mean to you? His name isn’t a nickname, last name, or label—it’s a declaration of His identity and mission. Jesus’ name is an invitation. All who need a Savior are invited to call on His name. I hope you do so by praying the confession of sin found below!
As is our custom, I invite you to join the other readers in a corporate confession of sin. Let’s pray:
Gracious Father, we confess that we often speak Your Son’s name without fully grasping its weight or meaning. Forgive us for treating it lightly, forgetting that Jesus Christ is our deliverer, set apart by You to save us from our sin. Teach us to call on His name with reverence and faith, trusting in His mission and resting in His grace. In Jesus’ name, we pray, Amen!
Thanks for praying; God Bless You! I hope you’ll read and pray with us next Saturday at 10 a.m.
You were a most important part of the daily ranch operations! It was tough when you left. Paul still speaks of his “Dog Boy.”