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“Whatever Happened to ‘Your Excellency’?” (Or: Why Everyone’s Suddenly on a First-Name Basis with Father Flanagan)

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 I’m not embarrassed to admit when I don’t understand the meaning or the purpose of something. Titles, for instance. Once upon a time, they meant something. They marked distinction, accomplishment, and reverence. Now, they feel like relics of a bygone era, dusted off only for graduation ceremonies and courtroom dramas.
Take the Catholic Church. Once, priests were addressed as “Father Flanagan,” bishops as “Your Excellency,” and a ring kiss was the height of holy reverence. Now, we’ve somehow decided that calling someone Father Aaron feels warmer and more personal. To me, it sounds more like nails on a chalkboard. I don’t want my clergy to sound like they’re hosting a podcast.
It’s not just religion that’s gone casual; it’s everywhere. I still believe in addressing people according to their earned stations. Doctors, judges, and detectives, they’ve logged the hours, paid the dues, and deserve a nod of respect. When I speak to parents with advanced degrees, I make it a point to say Doctor. I refer to our officer parents as 'Detective' or 'Constable'. Judges? Always, Your Honor. These aren’t empty formalities; they are acknowledgments of effort and discipline in a culture increasingly allergic to deference.
And yet, here comes the hypocrisy: I hate being called Principal Sturgill. I can’t even type it without wincing. Maybe it’s because I don’t think I’ve earned that kind of reverence. I completed my master’s in educational leadership, but I never pursued a doctoral degree. Or maybe, deep down, I don’t want to be that guy, the one perched on a pedestal, ruling the faculty lounge with a stapler scepter.
Meanwhile, across the pond, the Brits still seem to get it. Titles are a national pastime there. Case in point: former Prince Andrew—yes, that Andrew. The one whose scandals make American reality TV look like Sunday School. After being stripped of his royal titles, military honors, and property, he was reduced to the very unroyal name Andrew Albert Christian Edward Mountbatten-Windsor. His ex-wife, once “Her Royal Highness,” is now just Fergie again, a commoner with a book deal. But his daughters? Still Princesses. Scandal or not, the Brits cling to their titles like we cling to Netflix passwords. Maybe, in their own way, they’ve preserved something we’ve lost: the idea that respect, even flawed respect, still matters.
So where does that leave us? Maybe titles themselves aren’t the issue; it’s what they symbolize. I don’t need to be called “Principal” to feel validated, but I do want my students to recognize the value of effort, discipline, and the weight of earned distinction. Respect doesn’t have to come with genuflection or a kiss on the ring finger. But it should come with intention.
In the end, I guess I’m arguing for balance: reverence without rigidity, humility without erasure. Because while equality is beautiful, a little old-fashioned respect never hurt anyone. Maybe the title isn’t what makes the person worthy of respect. But the respect we show might just make the title worthy again.'

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