Romans 12:10

In a letter to Christians in Rome, Paul gives a one-sentence course in how to treat people. "Devoted" here means sticking like glue even when it costs you something. "Honor above yourselves" flips the normal pecking order: instead of climbing over others, you actively lift them higher. Paul calls it "brotherly love"—family affection, not abstract charity.

Father, teach me the awkward art of putting others first when my instinct is to guard my turf. Show me the faces I'm tempted to overlook, and give me the guts to honor them like family. Make me the kind of person who makes rooms kinder. Amen.

Picture the last group text that went sideways, or the family dinner where politics hijacked the mashed potatoes. Paul's words land right there, not in some church fantasy land. He's saying that devotion isn't about liking everyone; it's about deciding, ahead of time, that their dignity matters more than your comfort. You might not feel warm fuzzies for the coworker who steamrolls your ideas, but you can still choose to put their name forward for the promotion, because their flourishing won't diminish yours. This isn't martyrdom—it's strategy. When you practice honoring people, you start spotting the image of God in faces you'd normally overlook. Try it for a week: in every conversation, ask yourself, "What's one way I can make this person feel seen and valued?" At first it feels like wearing someone else's shoes, but after a while you notice the room changes when you walk in. Turns out lifting others is the fastest way to stop obsessing over yourself.