Honor and respect are twin-born concepts—I use the terms interchangeably, though I know they carry subtle differences. In my day-to-day speech, I don’t overthink my words; they spill out naturally, unpolished. But when I sit down to write, I’m more deliberate, mulling over ideas and discovering thoughts, opinions, and ideas I have been carrying without realizing it. So, what is honor? And how do we live it out?

To understand honor, I have been researching its relationship to respect. Honor, at its root, ties itself to dignity. I am reminded of Mulan’s story and how she struggled to bring honor to her family but then risked everything to protect her father. She risked bringing great dishonor to her family to protect him, not for pride but for something deeper, a recognition of worth. She risked the dishonor of her community to honor her father and his life, and her actions ultimately brought great honor to their family name. Respect, though, has this sense of “looking back”—its Latin origin, respicere, means to regard or consider. Respect is acknowledging another’s Imago Dei and recognizing their inherent value and an image bearer. Both require humility and a willingness to embrace humility and connect with people where they are.

In the marketplace of life—whether it’s the literal bustle of business or the messy interactions of daily existence—honor shows up in how we treat others. I think it shines brightest when people are at their worst. That’s why I love Chick-fil-A’s motto: “My pleasure.” It’s not just politeness; it’s a choice to treat every person with dignity, to see the whole human behind the order, no matter how curt or rude or stressed they might be. To relate and respond with dignity is to honor the entirety of a person—flaws and all.

As a Christian, I see this as a unique calling. We’re positioned to treat people with humanity because we believe everyone bears God’s image, cracked though it may be by sin. In this light, Honor isn’t just about being nice—it’s about calling others higher. It’s saying, “I see who you could be, not just who you are right now.” That’s where humility meets courage: you don’t excuse the mess, but you don’t dismiss the potential.

And yet, this is tricky. I want to learn more about honor—specifically, practicing it without slipping into permissiveness. I’ve watched Christians fall into this trap, prioritizing honor over truth. Take those who bend over backward to “honor” LGBTQ identities, sidestepping biblical clarity in the name of kindness. Or Christians who try to honor pro-choice advocates, muffling their conviction to avoid offense. Even with authority—pastors or leaders—some honor the position so much they ignore corruption or abuse. Honor shouldn’t mean abandoning discernment; it’s not a free pass to consent without conviction. I want to understand how to hold both dignity for the person and fidelity to what’s true.

So, where do I need to grow? I need to call others “higher than myself” more actively. Too often, I fixate on depravity—mine and everyone else’s. It’s easy to see the brokenness and shrug, “That’s just how it is.” I get passive when I should step up, probably because I’ve convinced myself I can’t change people. And honestly, I can’t. My job isn’t to fix hearts—that’s the Holy Spirit’s territory. My job is obedience: to speak, to act, to point upward, and to trust God to do the heavy lifting. But I’ve leaned too hard on that, using it as an excuse to stay quiet when I should be bold.

As I close this reflection, I feel God aiding my aim. Growth is happening—slowly, messily—but it’s there. I’m learning, too, and it’s a tricky balance. I’ve been reading Civil Disobedience and pondering the “way of the exile”—how do you honor people while standing apart from a world that often rejects truth? It means remembering dignity and calling it forth, even when buried under layers of hostility or apathy. At its core, honor is a remembrance of humanity and divinity: we’re all dust, yet we’re all made for more.

What does honor look like? It’s Mulan putting on her father’s armor, Chick-fil-A’s quiet “my pleasure,” a Christian refusing to write off the jerk next door. It’s seeing the image of God in the unlovely and saying, “Rise.” I’m not there yet, but I aim for it—one clumsy, obedient step at a time.