Sometimes it’s easy to feel alone. Or scared. Or weak. Or just… kind of lost.

Why are we here? What are we supposed to be doing? Are we doing the right thing? Does any of it really matter?

When we’re stressed out—
When things don’t go the way we hoped or planned-
When someone makes us feel small, or confused, or broken—
When we don’t know what to do or how to fix things—
When we lose something, or someone, that felt essential to our world—
It’s easy to start asking: What is all of this for? Why am I enduring this?

And in those moments—those raw, uncertain moments— We often turn to G-d. We reach for comfort. We ask for clarity. We pray, or cry, or sit in silence and hope something greater than us is listening.

And it makes sense— Because in those moments, we feel our need. We feel the ache. We want to know we’re not alone in this. When we’re afraid, when we’re in pain, when life gets so chaotic or empty or cruel that we don’t know what else to do—we reach up.

And that’s natural. That’s honest. That’s human.

So it’s understandable that we talk a lot about needing G-d. But there’s another side to this relationship that we don’t usually discuss: G-d needs us, too.

And I don’t mean that in just a poetic or sentimental way. I mean that in the most literal, clear, grounded way possible. G-d needs us, too. Because we are the only way G-d has to exist, to show up in the world.

Let that sink in for a second.

All that love, all that wisdom, all that truth and light and healing we say we’re looking for— It’s not going to drop out of the sky. It doesn’t just materialize into clean water, or safe homes, or second chances. It doesn’t feed the hungry or protect the innocent or mend the broken on its own.

It needs hands. It needs feet. It needs hearts. It needs us.

G-d is the light—but we are the lamps.

The light is already here. But without us, it stays abstract. Unseen. Unfelt. Untouched. Unknown.

From the beginning, the whole point was partnership. A world where free, imperfect people could choose to bring something holy into something physical.

Not because we’re perfect—none of us are. Not because we’ve fallen into some kind of cosmic waiting room or game show. But because if we are willing—willing to show up, willing to be a vessel, willing to carry something sacred into spaces that feel forgotten—then we become G-d’s partners.

The world doesn’t need more noise. It needs presence. It needs people who remember that they are the interface between what is and what could be.

We’re not here to escape the world, or just tolerate it until something better comes along. We are here to finish it. To complete it. To uncover what’s hidden, and to bring G-d’s light into the dark places.

Because yes—there is Divine light in this world. But it can be hidden by arguments. Or exhaustion. Or dishes and deadlines and despair. And when that happens, we get systems that are corrupted, tainted, dysfunctional. We get structures that are broken because they’re hollow. We end up with spaces that feel hopeless.

But you can go into those places. And G-d needs you to walk into that mess with some kind of clarity. Some kind of dignity. Some kind of presence that says: “There is light here. And it’s not time to give up.”

Remember that—and you’ll remember who you are. You’ll remember why you’re here.

Because if you’re alive right now, there’s a reason. If you’re breathing, it means your contract is still active.

But don’t worry—you don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be honest. You just have to say yes. And every time you do—again and again and again—even when it’s inconvenient, even when it’s hard, even when it doesn’t feel like enough—you prove the light is real.

You are the lamp that brings the light.

So stop waiting to be worthy. Stop waiting to be “ready.” Stop waiting for someone to hand you a sign that says, “Now you are qualified to make the world better.”

If you’re alive, you’re qualified.

So show up. Say the thing. Do the thing. Offer your presence like it matters—because it does.

The force that put breath in your lungs—also called inspiration—is asking for your help.

And I don’t know about you, but I find that sacred truth deeply comforting.

Because it means we matter. Not just as seekers. But as builders. As bearers of light. As participants in something infinite, choosing to show up in something very, very real.

We are needed.

Not once we’re fixed. Not once we’ve figured it all out. But now. As we are.

So the next time you feel lost, or small, or unsure, remember: Your presence here is not an accident. Your willingness to love, to try, to heal, to speak, to stand, to forgive— those are the ways G-d arrives in the world.

This is not a one-sided relationship. This is a partnership.

So breathe. Stand tall. Carry the light. And know—deep in your body—that you are not alone in this.

We need G-d. But G-d needs us, too. And that changes everything.

Amen.