My confession: I recently watched The Chosen, and it’s done something unexpected. I thought I was sitting down to watch a show about Jesus; instead, I found myself watching a show about my own faith—about the parts of me that have been asleep, the parts that have been afraid, and the parts that have been quietly yearning for something more. Something truer. Something infinite.

Somewhere between fishermen and tax collectors, weddings and miracles, laughter around campfires and long dusty roads, I found myself asking a question I hadn’t asked in a very long time: Who is this Jesus I’ve spent my whole life thinking I knew? Not the Jesus of children’s Bible stories. Not the Jesus of theological arguments. Not the Jesus people use to win elections or culture wars. Just…Jesus. The man who looked people in the eye. The rabbi who seemed impossible to categorize. The friend who somehow knew exactly what every person needed before they did.

That question led to an ancient Jewish prayer called dayenu. In the Jewish tradition, dayenu is a Passover prayer—a litany of gratitude that says, again and again, it would have been enough if God had only brought the Israelites out of Egypt, dayenu. If God had only given them the Sabbath, dayenu. If God had only given them the Torah, dayenu. Each blessing stands on its own as sufficient, even while another blessing follows. 

The prayer isn’t about settling for less. It’s about learning to recognize divine abundance before asking for more. But for me, dayenu has become something else. A way of re-examining my relationship with Jesus. A way of tracing the thread of God’s presence through my own life, even in the moments when I couldn’t see it. A way of remembering that grace has been there all along, quietly accumulating, quietly sustaining me, quietly waiting for me to notice that gratitude isn’t the conclusion of faith but its foundation.

So I’ve started wondering what my own Dayenu might sound like. If all I had were the childhood memories of sitting in church with my parents—before loss reshaped the landscape of my life…it would have been enough. If all I had were the friendships that once felt like bedrock—before time and distance and change pulled them apart…it would have been enough. If all I had were the moments of heartbreak that left me hollow—moments I would never have chosen…it would have been enough. If all I had were the flashes—those strange, luminous instants when the veil feels thin, and the world feels infinite…it would have been enough. 

And if all I had were the quiet, ordinary days when nothing miraculous happens—when I’m just trying to get through, trying to make sense of things, trying to believe that the universe bends toward righteousness—it would have been enough. Because even in those days, God is there. I just don’t always see it. If only God had only given me a wife who keeps teaching me that love is less about being right than about choosing one another again…it would’ve been enough. If God had only trusted me with becoming a father…it would’ve been enough. If God had only let me discover that my children have become some of my greatest teachers…it would’ve been enough. If God had only taught me that creativity is more than self-expression—that it can become prayer with work boots on…it would’ve been enough. If God had only shown me, over and over again, that beauty still exists in ordinary afternoons…it would’ve been enough. The story keeps going. Dayenu doesn’t stop after the first blessing. God keeps giving. Not because the previous gift wasn’t sufficient but because love overflows. 

Watching those stories, I found myself wondering whether I’ve been trying too hard to become someone impressive instead of someone present. Whether I’ve mistaken information for transformation. Whether I’ve been collecting beliefs while neglecting relationships. I don’t think faith is getting all the answers anymore. I think it’s learning to recognize grace while it’s happening. To notice. To pause. To remember.

Maybe that’s what dayenu has always been teaching. Not that God’s work is finished. But that every gift already given is reason enough for gratitude. Every answered prayer. Every unanswered prayer that somehow became mercy. Every friendship. Every heartbreak that softened instead of hardened me. Every sunrise. Every ordinary meal around an ordinary table.

Every chance to begin again. 

Maybe that’s my prayer now. Not for bigger miracles. Not for clearer signs. Not even for stronger faith. Just the wisdom to say, over and over again: You found me. It would’ve been enough. You stayed. It would’ve been enough. You loved me before I knew how to love You back. Dayenu. And somehow…You keep giving anyway.

Watching The Chosen, I realized that the real transformation isn’t in believing that God exists. It’s in recognizing that God is everywhere and everything. That presence is not occasional but constant. That the divine is not something we visit but something we inhabit. And that the work of faith is alignment. Not intellectual assent. Not theological precision. Alignment. The kind of belief that settles into the body. The kind that feels like truth in the bones. The kind that resonates at the cellular level, as if faith is not just spiritual but biological. As if we were made, literally made, to be awake. To be attuned. To be capable of love that is not performative but elemental. I can hear Gil Scott Heron’s protest chant: We don’t have to wait for the revolution to be televised. It is already live.

I’m beginning to understand that gratitude is not a reaction; it’s a lens. It’s a way of seeing the world that reveals what was always there. It’s the practice of saying dayenu not because everything is perfect, but because everything is a gift. Because God has been present in every chapter of my life, even the ones I didn’t want, even the ones I didn’t understand, even the ones that hurt. Because every moment of love, every moment of loss, every moment of searching has been part of the same story. Because the presence of God has never depended on my ability to perceive it. And because now, finally, I’m learning to see. A love independent of outcome. Dayenu. It would have been enough.

By Ryan Allen

Lumin Therapy provides integrative health and education for the mind, body, and spirit to those who are suffering or struggling to step into and live their heartfelt mission and purpose. Through the practice of physical therapy, medical therapeutic yoga, meditation, mindfulness, and resiliency mentoring, Dr. Meghan Nelson, DPT, and Dr. Ryan Allen, PhD, bring their more than 40 years of combined knowledge and experience serving individuals, families, and organizations to learn, heal, and live without boundaries.