There’s a story told in the Sufi tradition about a man who spent his life searching for the Divine. He traveled far and wide—through deserts, up mountains, across oceans—sitting at the feet of every teacher he could find. He listened intently, studied diligently, practiced faithfully. And yet, he felt no closer to the truth. One day, weary and disheartened, he stopped at a well to drink. An old woman, sitting nearby, noticed the sadness in his posture and asked why he looked so defeated. “I’ve been seeking God for years,” he said. “And still, I feel so far away.” The woman looked at him with a softness that comes from deep knowing and replied, “You keep searching far away for what has always been inside you. The truth isn’t distant. It’s just hidden behind everything you think you are.”

That story moves me every time. It reminds us that the spiritual life is not about gaining something new—it’s about remembering what’s already here. We are not empty, needing to be filled. We are full, but often unaware. That brings me to a quote from Rumi that has been echoing within me this week: “Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.” And what a truth that is. Beautiful, yes—but hard. Hard because it holds up a mirror. Hard because it puts the work back in our hands.

So many of us spend our lives longing for love—for connection, for belonging, for someone to see us and stay. We search for it in relationships, in accomplishments, in faith communities, even in service. But Rumi turns that search upside down. He suggests that love is not something we go out and find, like a treasure buried in the world. Love is already present. Our work is not to chase it down, but to uncover it—to notice and dismantle the walls we’ve built within ourselves that keep love at a distance.

This, to me, is the heart of the spiritual life. Not self-improvement. Not moral superiority. Not perfect theology. But the slow, courageous, painful work of unlearning what separates us from love—from loving others, from letting ourselves be loved, and from living as love in the world. And we must be honest: the world we live in doesn’t make this easy. We are praised for being self-sufficient. We are taught to guard our time, our energy, our hearts. We’re told that vulnerability is weakness, that others are competition, that we must be careful with our trust.

Even religion—at times—has reinforced these barriers, drawing lines between the righteous and the unrighteous, between the faithful and the fallen. But if there is anything I believe about God—whatever name or language we use—it is that the Divine is always found where love is present. And that love is not narrow. It’s not safe. It’s not earned. It’s not tribal. It’s expansive, inclusive, and incredibly disruptive.

And so, the real question is: What are the barriers we’ve built within ourselves? What walls have we constructed to keep love at arm’s length? Some of us carry old wounds—moments when love failed us, and so we learned to survive without it. Some of us carry shame—deep down beliefs that we are not worthy of love, not really. Some of us carry resentment—stories we replay about those who hurt us, those who betrayed us, those we cannot forgive. And some of us carry fear—of being seen, of being vulnerable, of being known.

These are not abstract questions. They’re deeply personal. And they’re not just about our private lives. They shape how we live in the world. They shape how we show up in relationships, how we treat those we disagree with, how we respond to injustice, how we build—or avoid—community. They affect our posture toward others. Do we meet people with openness, or with defensiveness? Do we make space for complexity, or do we retreat into judgment? Do we lead with curiosity, or with control?

And love—true love—is not just about what we feel. It’s about what we choose. Every single day. It’s a discipline. A decision. A spiritual practice. To love in this world—to love honestly, actively, compassionately—is one of the most countercultural and revolutionary things we can do. It means listening when we’d rather be right. It means staying tender when cynicism feels easier. It means letting someone else’s pain interrupt our comfort. And it means confronting the inner voice that says, “Don’t bother. It won’t matter.”

But here’s what I believe with all my heart: love does matter. It always has. It always will. Love may not fix everything. It doesn’t erase injustice. It doesn’t prevent pain. But it transforms us. It softens the ground beneath our feet. It reminds us that we’re not alone. And every time we choose it—truly choose it—we become part of something larger than ourselves. We participate in the healing of a world that is breaking apart from fear and disconnection.

And so, I want to ask you, gently but directly: what barriers are still standing in you? What beliefs, what wounds, what old stories are keeping love out? Where in your life are you withholding love—from yourself, from another, from the world? And what would it mean to begin the work of taking one stone down? Just one. Not to become perfect. But to become free.

You don’t have to solve everything. You don’t have to be fully healed. But you can begin. You can make space. You can say yes to the possibility that love is already here, already in you, already waiting. And that perhaps—just perhaps—your work is not to chase it, but to clear the way.

May we have the courage to turn inward with honesty and compassion.
May we gently uncover the barriers we’ve built, and lay them down one by one.
May we choose love, not just when it’s easy, but especially when it’s hard.
May we listen more deeply, speak more kindly, and live more openly.
And may we become, in all we do, vessels of the Love that has been within us all along.

May it be so. Amen.