“And Jesus said to them, “I am the bread of life. He who comes to Me shall never hunger, and he who believes in Me shall never thirst.”
— John 6:35, NKJV
I was sitting in Burger King eating lunch last Friday when I decided to read the entire chapter surrounding the verse of the day. Then verse 26 stopped me.
“You seek me, not because you saw the miracles, but because you are of the loaves, and were filled.”
Jesus had fed a multitude. Now, some of those people had crossed the sea looking for Him. They’d made an effort to find Him. They called Him Rabbi.
But Jesus knew what had brought them back.
They’d eaten. They’d been filled. And they wanted more.
Their hunger had mattered to Jesus. He’d already demonstrated that by feeding them. But the miracle revealed something about Him that their appetite had caused them to overlook.
They were looking for another meal. Jesus was inviting them to receive the Bread of Life.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
We can become so absorbed in what God can provide that we lose sight of our need for Him. We pray for provision, relief, an opportunity, a better circumstance. And there’s nothing wrong with bringing those needs before Him.
But what happens when receiving becomes the center of our relationship with God?
We may remember to thank Him for the blessing and still build our contentment around what we received. Like the rich fool in Luke 12, we can accumulate more, build bigger, and settle comfortably into plans that give little consideration to eternity.
Yet beneath all that activity, a deeper hunger can remain.
Lanny Wolfe wrote a song years ago titled “Only Jesus Can Satisfy Your Soul.” That title speaks to something many people experience but struggle to explain.
They know something’s missing. They feel an ache, a longing, an emptiness. They just don’t know what will satisfy it.
So they seek.
Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Money. Relationships. Possessions.
Some of those pursuits destroy lives. Others have a rightful place in life, but cannot bear the weight of becoming our reason for living.
There may be pleasure for a while. There may be relief. But when the longing returns, we reach again, hoping that more will finally be enough.
I can’t write about that search as though I’ve never understood it. I know something about reaching for what promises relief and discovering that the deeper need remains.
That’s why we need to be honest about what coming to Jesus means.
Being a Christian doesn’t mean we never feel lonely. It doesn’t mean grief disappears, temptation stops, addiction becomes effortless to overcome, or mental illness can’t touch our lives.
A person can love Jesus and still struggle daily.
Read through First and Second Corinthians. Paul wrote to believers who needed correction, repentance, comfort, and growth. He also spoke openly about his own affliction and weakness.
There was work to be done in their lives. There is work to be done in ours.
Some struggles require repentance. Others call for care, treatment, support, and patient endurance. We should be careful never to treat every wound as evidence of wrongdoing or every struggle as an absence of faith.
We’ve learned upon whom we can lean.
We can bring our deepest hunger to Jesus without expecting another person, possession, or experience to carry the weight of being our savior. And we can receive help through the people equipped to walk beside us.
Satisfaction in Christ can coexist with tears. We can belong to Him while healing is still underway.
Perhaps that’s what someone needs to hear today.
You don’t have to hide your hurt to come to Jesus. You don’t have to pretend you have everything together. You don’t have to resolve every struggle before you come.
Come honestly. Bring the hunger you can’t explain, the grief you still carry, and the struggle you’re tired of hiding.
Jesus knew why that crowd had come looking for Him.
He knows why we come, too.
And His invitation still stands:
“He that cometh to me shall never hunger.”
What are we really hungry for?
