Deuteronomy 6:5

This verse is part of what Jewish people call the Shema — the central declaration of Jewish faith, still recited as a daily prayer by observant Jews to this day. Moses is speaking to the Israelite people just before they enter the Promised Land after forty years of wandering in the wilderness following their escape from slavery in Egypt. God gives them this as the foundational commandment from which all others flow: love him completely, with every dimension of who you are. In ancient Hebrew thought, the heart represented the will and the deepest center of a person, the soul represented one's inner life and very identity, and strength referred to physical energy, resources, and practical effort. Together, they mean the whole person — nothing held back, nothing compartmentalized. When a religious scholar asked Jesus centuries later which commandment was the greatest, he quoted this verse without hesitation.

God, I want to love you like this — whole heart, whole soul, whole strength — but I know how divided I actually am most days. Don't let me settle for a compartmentalized faith that fits neatly into certain hours of the week. Teach me what it feels like to give you all of me, even in the ordinary moments. Amen.

Three times. Heart, soul, strength. Moses doesn't leave you a polite exit — no "whatever feels sustainable" or "in ways that align with your current season." He asks for all of it, the whole architecture of a person. And before that sounds inspiring, it's worth being honest: it sounds exhausting. We are people of divided attention, fractured schedules, competing loyalties, and a remarkable talent for half-measures. Loving anything with our *whole* selves — not just our Sunday selves or our better-day selves — is not our default setting. This command holds up a mirror, and the reflection is uncomfortable in the best possible way. But maybe that's exactly the point. Jesus called this the greatest commandment not because it's the most achievable, but because it's the one everything else grows from. And the command itself becomes the honest question you carry with you through an ordinary week: what are you actually giving all of yourself to right now? Because something always fills that space. Something always gets your whole heart, your deepest energy, your unguarded self. The invitation here isn't to achieve perfect devotion by tomorrow. It's to start noticing what already has you — and to begin, even imperfectly and partially, turning toward the one who asks for all of it.