1 Corinthians 16:14

Paul is wrapping up a letter to a church riddled with conflict—spiritual gifts causing division, lawsuits between believers, chaotic worship services. After pages of addressing specific problems, he lands here with three words in Greek that translate to "do everything in love." It's not a sentimental afterthought. In context, it's Paul's mic-drop solution to every church fight, every ego trip, every selfish decision. Love isn't the decoration; it's the engine.

God, I keep treating love like decoration when it's the whole house. Show me the places where I'm doing good things without you. Help me infuse ordinary moments—the rushed, the annoyed, the overlooked—with your kind of love. Make me less efficient and more kind. Amen.

The Corinthians were probably hoping for more rules. Something like: "When speaking in tongues, limit yourself to two minutes, raise your hand first, and make sure there's interpretation." Instead Paul gives them something harder—infuse every single action with the kind of love that empties itself. The kind that washes feet when it would rather be served. You know how this goes. You can nail the presentation, crush the meeting, perfectly execute the volunteer schedule—and still leave people feeling small. Or you can do the thing imperfectly but with such genuine care that someone leaves knowing they matter. That's the everything Paul means: the email you almost send in anger, the way you talk about someone not present, how you treat the barista who messed up your order. It's exhausting work, this love business. But it's the only thing that lasts.