When I first read the line, “Honor is the presence of God in man,” I didn’t hear theology.
I heard responsibility.
Because in my life, honor hasn’t been ceremonial. It hasn’t been a title. It’s been a test.
I grew up thinking honor meant discipline. At Xavier, in uniform, it meant stand straight, take correction, represent something bigger than yourself. Later in business, it meant build the systems right, protect the people you’re responsible for, tell the truth even when it makes the room uncomfortable.
But life refines definitions.
Honor, I’ve learned, is what you do when there’s no upside except being able to live with yourself.
It’s walking away from something that looks secure because staying would cost you your integrity. It’s telling a partner what they need to hear, not what keeps the peace. It’s stepping to a microphone at a town meeting and saying what you believe — knowing some people will clap and others will quietly decide you’ve become inconvenient.
There were seasons when just holding steady was the honorable act. When surviving chaos required more strength than conquering anything. When endurance — not victory — was the measure of character.
And I’ve seen honor misused.
I’ve watched the word wrapped around power like a robe. I’ve seen titles demand reverence without earning respect. In courtrooms especially, I’ve seen “Your Honor” treated as automatic — as if position guarantees virtue. It doesn’t.
I no longer address judges as “Your Honor.” Not as a stunt. Not out of contempt for the rule of law. But because language should reflect conduct. The phrase should mean something. Respect for the court is structural. Honor is personal. When the two diverge, words matter.
I’ve spent enough time in courtrooms to understand how authority operates — the elevated bench, the seal behind it, the ritual language of deference. The symbolism is powerful. It is designed to command order and compliance.
But symbolism and the misuse of judicial authority can be a dangerous combination.
The robe doesn’t manufacture restraint.
The title doesn’t guarantee fairness.
The appointment doesn’t ensure dignity.
And I’ve seen far too many instances where the weight of the bench was used to intimidate rather than to clarify, to belittle rather than to elevate the process. When authority crosses into humiliation, something essential is lost.
In a federal courtroom before Victor A. Bolden, I was reminded how powerful the architecture of authority can be. But architecture is not character. Authority may remain intact in those moments — but honor erodes when power is exercised without discipline or humility.
Authority is structural.
Honor is behavioral.
Honor isn’t dominance.
It isn’t intimidation.
It isn’t control.
It’s steadiness under pressure.
It’s restraint when you could overpower.
It’s dignity extended even to those who disagree with you.
I’ve made mistakes in my life. I’ve stayed too long in certain fights and left too late in others. I’ve trusted institutions more than I should have at times. I’ve learned that bitterness is easy — integrity is harder.
But honor — real honor — is alignment. It’s the daily decision to live in a way that doesn’t require revision later. It’s correcting course when you drift. It’s refusing to become what disappointed you.
A title can command compliance.
Honor commands respect.
And in a world that increasingly confuses position with character, practicing honor may be the most radical act left to us.
Not the robe.
Not the title.
Not the ritual words.
The practice.
The Valley Viewpoint 