In his book Sources of Strength, former President Jimmy Carter wrote about interviewing Eloy Cruz, a Cuban pastor who had gained tremendous respect among poor immigrants from Puerto Rico. Carter asked him, "What is the secret to your success?"

Pastor Cruz replied, "Señor Jimmy, we need only two loves in our lives — love for God, and love for the person who happens to be in front of us at any time."

I love that. I have a friend whose spiritual discipline is to try to see the image of God in every person she meets — cashiers, waiters, teachers, strangers. Think about how that practice would change our interactions. How we listen. How we speak.

Jesus said the greatest commandment is to love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind. And the second is like it: love your neighbor as yourself. He went on to say that these two commandments are the sum of all the law and the prophets.

What strikes me about both Pastor Cruz and my friend is that their faith had become a practice — something they actually did, moment by moment, person by person. It's easy to love humanity in the abstract. It's harder — and far more important — to love the specific, complicated, beautiful person right in front of you. That is where Jesus always seemed to be. And that is where he invites us to be as well.

Let us pray: Loving and Gracious God, help us to love you with all our heart. And help us to love whoever happens to be standing in front of us at any point in time. Today we pray for those who serve us regularly — nurses, men and women in the military, firefighters, teachers, doctors, police officers, and other public servants. We pray also for those who serve behind the scenes, and for those we most often forget. May your blessing rain down on them. We ask in Jesus' name. Amen.

Some time ago I was listening to an interview with the author, educator, and entrepreneur Adam Robinson. He spoke about a startling discovery he had made. One day he typed into Google, "How can I learn…" — just to see what would pop up, to see what people are searching for.

You've probably noticed how Google suggests queries as you type, based on the most popular searches related to your words. Robinson found that the number one suggested completion was: "How can I learn English?" That makes sense. Then Spanish. Then to sing. Then to code. But what was most astonishing was the fifth most popular search: How can I learn to love myself? Millions and millions of people have typed that query. Millions of people are quietly wondering — am I worthy of being loved?

Robinson suggested there is a loneliness epidemic in our country. And social media is not helping — it may well be making it worse.

I don't know. But I do know there is a tremendous need for human connection. A tremendous need for people willing to reach out to others with love, hope, and compassion.

I think about those millions of people typing that question into a search bar — how can I learn to love myself? — and my heart goes out to them. What they are really asking is whether they are worth loving at all. The answer, grounded in the image of God in every human soul, is an unqualified yes. And sometimes the most powerful way that answer gets delivered is through another person.

I wonder if there are people in your life who need to know that someone loves them — that you love them. I wonder how you might be a beacon of hope and light for those around you.

Prayer: God of Grace, I pray today especially for those who are struggling to love themselves. Remind each and every one of us that you have created us in your own image. May we know your deep and abiding love for us — even now. Amen.

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The theologian William Blake claimed that we become what we behold.

And Buddhist teaching says something remarkably similar — that our lives are, in essence, shaped by what we give our attention to.

What are we beholding? What do we give our attention to?

To be fair, it is rarely that simple. I don’t know about you, but if I sit still even for a few moments, there are all kinds of thoughts going on in my headspace: We’re thinking about children, maybe grandchildren, we’re worried about school or work, the test next week, the project due, the upcoming doctor's appointment, the diagnosis. Or, any number of other immediate pressing concerns. It’s all up there, constantly…

But then, of course, there are those things that may be getting an inordinate amount of our attention…

I mentioned yesterday a friend who was so overwhelmed by the news — the politics, the conflict, the relentless churn of it all — that he couldn't sleep. He decided to fast from cable news for three weeks.

It worked. His stress level dropped significantly. He could think again. He could breathe again.

What happened? He hadn't changed his circumstances. He had changed what he was beholding.

There is something in us that mistakes vigilance for action. If I stay constantly informed, constantly alert, constantly anxious — maybe I'm actually doing something. But mostly we are just absorbing. And our souls take on the shape of what we feed them.

The Apostle Paul wrote this from prison — which is worth remembering when we read it:

Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable — think about these things.

Not: pretend the darkness isn't real. Not: look away from suffering. But — be intentional about what you dwell on. Because you will become, slowly and surely, what you behold.

Here is my invitation today. Write that verse out. Put it somewhere you will actually see it — the refrigerator, the bathroom mirror, your bedside table. Let it be a gentle, daily redirect.

Not away from the world. Toward what is true, and good, and worthy of your attention.

Prayer: God of hope, in the midst of all the noise and coarseness of modern life, help us to be mindful of what our souls are absorbing. Give us eyes to see beauty and blessing. Give us the courage to look away from what diminishes us, and toward what restores us. And grant us hearts quick to give you praise. In Christ's name. Amen.

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There is an old spiritual practice that most of us have quietly set aside.

Fasting.

It can sound remote, even a little severe. But here is what it actually is: an act of honesty.

When you set something down — food, news, social media, your phone, whatever has a quiet grip on you — something interesting happens. You feel the pull. The restlessness. The anxiety. And that feeling is information. It tells you something true about what you've been leaning on, what you've been using to manage your fear or fill your loneliness or avoid something you'd rather not feel.

A friend of mine was completely undone — overwhelmed by everything happening in the world, unable to sleep. He decided to fast from cable news for three weeks. And it totally worked. He began to feel better. He slept better. Not because the problems went away. But because he stopped feeding the anxiety. He created some space. And in that space, he could think. He could pray. He could breathe.

That's what fasting does. It doesn't solve our problems. It loosens the grip of the things that have quietly gotten a grip on us. It clears some room. And in that room, something else becomes possible.

Augustine said: God is always trying to give good things to us. But our hands are too full to receive them.

So here is an invitation. Just one day. Pick one thing that has a hold on you and set it down. And when you feel the pull — and you will — don't white-knuckle through it. Get curious instead. Ask yourself:

What am I actually hungry for right now?

Meaning? Connection? Peace? A sense that things are going to be okay?

And then bring that hunger to God. That's what Jesus did in the wilderness. He didn't turn the stones to bread. He brought his hunger to his Father. And he came out of that wilderness with clarity, with purpose, with power.

That's available to us too. Not just as a concept. As an experience.

Prayer: Lord, in the emptying, may we discover what we most deeply long for. And may we find — maybe for the first time in a while — that you have been there all along, waiting for our hands to be empty enough to receive you. Amen.

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Rabbi Hugo Gryn survived Auschwitz as a young teenager. He spoke often about those years — the scarcity, the fear, the desperate effort to preserve every scrap of food.

When Hanukkah arrived that first year, Hugo's father did something shocking. He took a small lump of margarine — precious, hoarded — and used it as fuel to light the Hanukkah candle.

Hugo was stunned. Why did you waste it?

His father looked at him and said: We know that humans can live for three weeks without food. But without hope, we cannot live properly for three days.

That has stayed with me for years.

Because Jesus said the same thing in the wilderness, in his own way. One does not live by bread alone. There is more to life than the material, the surface, the immediate. There is a deeper hunger — for meaning, for connection, for wholeness. A hunger, really, for God himself.

And here is what I know to be true: that hunger can be misdirected. We can look to the wrong things for comfort, for connection, for relief. Not bad things necessarily. Even good things — work, exercise, relationships — can become the wrong source if we are leaning on them to fill a hunger they were never meant to fill.

I think about a serious back injury I had a few years ago. For three weeks I couldn't walk. Couldn't run, couldn't surf — all the things I love, all my outlets for managing stress and anxiety, gone. And I found myself asking a question I hadn't expected: What is my life without this?

When we find ourselves in those wilderness moments, when everything we know to be true and real is stripped from us, have we learned to rely on the true source? Have we been in touch with the hunger beyond the hunger?  To know that no matter how beautiful the gift, (surfing, running) it is not the deeper source… It is not the well…

All of this raises the questions: What are you standing on today? And is it deep enough to hold you?

Prayer: God of hope, you alone are the well that does not run dry. In our wilderness moments, when the things we lean on are stripped away, may we discover that you have been there all along — deeper than our fear, stronger than our need. Amen.

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