Running Hungry to God

One of the things I’ve learned over the years is that my body is constantly teaching me spiritual lessons.

As many of you know, I have to be pretty careful about what I eat. If I wander too far from the foods that keep me healthy, I pay for it. I get inflamed and my joints ache. I become more fatigued. Even anxiety and depression seem to creep in. That doesn’t mean I never enjoy a treat. An occasional indulgence isn’t the end of the world.

But I’ve also learned that just because something is in front of me doesn’t mean it’s worth eating.

Sometimes I’ll be away from home, see a grocery store cookie or some other store-bought dessert, and think, “Well…why not?” Then I have to stop myself and ask a different question: Is this really a treat? Or is it a trick? Is this actually going to nourish me? Or will I regret it tomorrow? I’ve found that if I’m going to indulge, I’d rather enjoy something truly wonderful in moderation than settle for something that only offers momentary pleasure but leaves me feeling worse afterward.

In a way, I think that’s exactly what today’s scriptures are asking us. When we’re hungry—emotionally, spiritually, relationally—where do we run? Do we simply run toward whatever is in front of us? Or do we run toward the One who can truly satisfy our hungry hearts?

Isaiah begins with one of the most beautiful invitations in all of Scripture: “Come, everyone who thirsts…come, buy and eat…without money and without price.” God doesn’t merely offer enough to survive. God offers a banquet. Then Isaiah asks a piercing question: “Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy?” It’s an ancient question, but it couldn’t be more modern.

How much of our energy goes into things that promise fulfillment but never quite deliver?

Achievement. Status. Constant entertainment. Shopping. Food. Approval. Even endless busyness. None of these things are necessarily bad. But none of them can carry the weight of our deepest hunger. Only God can do that.

I wonder sometimes if my own cravings for comfort foods point to something deeper. Perhaps underneath them is an old fear that says there isn’t enough. Not enough love. Not enough joy. Not enough rest. Not enough delight waiting for me. If that’s the story I’m telling myself, then no amount of pizza or carrot cake will ever convince me otherwise. I’ll keep reaching for more because I’m trying to satisfy a hunger that food was never meant to fill.

And if I believe there isn’t enough for me, it becomes much harder to believe there’s enough for everyone else. Scarcity has a way of shrinking the soul.

The theologian Melinda Quivik puts it beautifully. She says the zero-sum thinking that tells us, “If you get more, I get less,” simply isn’t how God’s kingdom works. The miracle of the loaves and fishes exposes that lie. Love doesn’t diminish when it’s shared. It grows. Grace doesn’t become scarce when it’s given away. It multiplies. As she later writes, “Shorn of all that does not satisfy, we are set free to find real bread.” I love that phrase: real bread.

The Gospel gives us a living picture of it. Jesus has just received devastating news. John the Baptist—his cousin, his friend, the one who prepared the way for him—has been murdered. Jesus withdraws to be alone with his grief. Who among us wouldn’t? But the crowds find him. They’re hungry—not just physically. They’ve seen something in Jesus that they haven’t found anywhere else. They know he is the real thing. They know that somehow, in his presence, their souls are fed.

Matthew tells us that when Jesus sees them, he is moved with compassion. He could have sent them away. He could have said, “Not today. I need some time.” Instead, even in his own sorrow, compassion rises within him. And I find myself wondering if that’s part of the miracle. Jesus doesn’t simply dig deep into his own reserves of strength. I don’t think he had any reserves left. He was grieving. He was exhausted. Instead, he remains open to the life of God flowing through him. He becomes a conduit for divine compassion.

The miracle isn’t that Jesus somehow manufactures abundance from his own depleted resources. The miracle is that he trusts God’s abundance enough to let it flow through him.

Then comes that surprising moment. The disciples look at the crowd and see an impossible problem. Jesus looks at the disciples and says, “You give them something to eat.” They protest. Five loaves. Two fish. That’s all they have. But Jesus never asks them to create abundance. He simply asks them to bring what they have.

Perhaps that’s our calling, too. We often imagine that God expects us to have enough wisdom, enough energy, enough faith, enough resources to meet every need around us. But maybe God simply asks us to remain open. That’s such good news for us. God doesn’t expect us to solve every problem in the world. We don’t have that kind of power. But God does invite us to bring our five loaves and two fish. Bring your kindness. Bring your listening ear. Bring your generosity. Bring your gifts. Bring your prayers. Bring your imperfect, ordinary life. Offer what you have in love, and God can do more with it than you ever imagined.

When we bring what we have and open ourselves, God’s own life begins to flow through us in ways we could never accomplish on our own.

It’s also worth noticing something beautiful about God’s abundance. Sometimes we imagine God’s blessings falling down from heaven like manna. And certainly there are moments when grace feels that way. But more often, God’s presence rises up from within us like wheat growing quietly from the earth. The life of God has already been planted within us.

Grace isn’t only something that comes to us; it’s also something that grows through us.

The Spirit is already at work beneath the surface, slowly producing the bread that will nourish others. We become part of God’s harvest.

During communion, we’ll sing, All Who Hunger, Gather Gladly. Not, “All who have it together.” Not, “All who have enough faith.” Simply, all who hunger. That’s the invitation. And in a just a few minutes, we’ll sing Bread of Life from Heaven, a hymn that points to the Eucharist. And finally, we’ll come to this table. Every week, Jesus invites us here. Not because we’ve earned a place at the banquet. Not because we’ve finally gotten everything right. But because hungry people need real bread. Here Christ gives himself again—not just to a chosen few, but as God’s covenant with all people.

Isaiah reminds us that Israel was never meant to be the final destination of God’s love. Israel was meant to become the doorway through which the whole world could enter God’s feast.

The banquet has always been for everyone. And even for all of creation.

So today, whatever hunger you’ve carried into this place, hear again God’s invitation. Come. Come thirsty. Come weary. Come grieving. Come hopeful. Come with your five loaves and two fish. Come with your questions. Come with your empty hands. For our God delights in feeding hungry hearts. And in Christ, there is always enough.