Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross was doing research for her groundbreaking book, On Death and Dying, interviewing patients in a hospital who were nearing the end of their lives. She went from room to room, listening, taking notes.

And after a while, she noticed something she hadn't expected.

Some of the dying patients were remarkably calm. At peace. Settled in a way that surprised her. And when she looked for what these patients had in common, she kept finding the same thing. Their rooms had been cleaned by the same hospital orderly.

Kübler-Ross tracked her down in the corridor one day.

What are you doing with my patients?

The orderly thought she was in trouble. I'm not doing anything with your patients.

No — it's a good thing, Kübler-Ross said. After you visit them, they seem at peace. What are you doing?

The orderly was quiet for a moment. Then she said:

I just talk to them. I've had two babies of my own die on my lap. But God never abandoned me. I tell them that. I tell them they aren't alone. That God is with them. That they don't have to be afraid.

She wasn't a doctor. She wasn't a chaplain. She had no credentials for this work — except the one that mattered most. She had been through the darkness herself. And she had found something there that she could not keep to herself.

There is a kind of comfort that can only be offered by someone who has known the thing they are speaking about. Not advice. Not answers. Just — I have been in that place. And I was not abandoned there. And neither will you be.

The Apostle Paul wrote that God comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort others with the same comfort we ourselves have received. That's not a theory. That's what the orderly was doing, room by room, on her hands and knees, in a hospital corridor.

Ministry doesn't always look the way we expect it to.

Think about what you have come through. The losses, the fears, the seasons when you weren't sure you were going to make it. You may not think of those experiences as gifts. But somewhere, there is a person sitting in a room who needs to hear exactly what you learned in your own darkness.

You are not alone. God has not abandoned you. You don't have to be afraid.

Who in your life needs to hear that today?

Prayer: Gracious God, we are grateful for the people who have spoken hope into our darkest moments. We remember today that our own wounds can become a source of comfort for others — that out of the ashes of our hardest seasons, something redemptive can grow. Give us the courage to show up for the people around us who are struggling. And remind us, when we feel we have nothing to offer, that sometimes all it takes is the willingness to say: I have been there too. And God was faithful. In Jesus' name. Amen.

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I have a friend named Charley Landreth. He's a retired pastor — a longtime friend of our family. About ten years ago, Charley had a stroke and lost his ability to speak. Today he lives in a skilled nursing facility.

And yet he is one of the most joyful people I know. He is deeply loved — not just by family and friends, but by all the staff. He has this inner light that is unmistakable.

How did he get there? I can tell you it didn't just happen. It was cultivated. Over the course of a lifetime, Charley was nourished on something deeper than circumstance. Something that held when everything else was stripped away.

Later in John chapter 6, after Jesus has been teaching some hard things, a number of his followers walk away. They say: this is too difficult. Who can accept it?

And Jesus turns to his closest disciples and asks: Do you want to leave too?

Peter answers for the group. He says: Lord, to whom would we go?

It's not a triumphant declaration. It's almost a shrug. But it might be one of the most honest statements of faith in the entire New Testament.

We've looked around. We've considered the alternatives. And if you don't have the words of deep, lasting life — please, someone, give us something better.

So here’s the invitation. Look around. Test the alternatives. Is it technology? Social media? Politics? The Republican Party? The Democratic Party? Is it a bigger house, a more successful career, more money in the account?

These things aren't nothing. But they will not fill this hunger. They were never made to.

Lord, to whom would we go?

Only you have what we most deeply need.

Prayer: God, we come to you again today. Not because we have it all figured out. But because we have looked around, and we keep coming back to you. Feed us. Nourish something deep in us that circumstances cannot touch. May we cultivate, over the course of our lives, the kind of joy that holds — no matter what, the kind of faith that holds - no matter what. We ask in Jesus’ name. Amen.

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Jesus said: Whoever comes to me will never be hungry. Whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.

I want to spend a moment on that word — believes. Because in our culture, belief usually means intellectual agreement. I believe it's going to rain. I believe the earth is round. But that's not what Jesus means here.

When Jesus says believe, he means something closer to trust. If I say I believe in a close friend, I don't mean I believe she exists. I mean I trust her. I'd follow her. I have confidence in her.

And here's something I find really freeing. In the original Greek, both verbs — comes and believes — imply ongoing, continuous action. A more faithful translation might be: The one keeping coming to me will never be hungry. The one keep trusting in me will never be thirsty.

Not the one who came once. The one who keeps coming back.

A few years ago, our daughter was going through a really hard time. I lost a lot of sleep. I would pray and hand it over to God — and feel genuine peace. And then, sometimes within hours, I'd realize I was holding it all again. I’d wake up at two in the morning… Anxious. Worried. 

Someone once told me: you're the pastor. You're supposed to turn it over once and be done with it.

But I don't think that's what faith actually looks like. Not for most of us. Not most of the time. Jesus is saying: keep coming. Keep trusting. When you drift — and you will — turn back. And then turn back again.

I will meet you. I will feed you.

And I've found that to be true. Maybe you have too.

Where have you drifted lately? What would it look like, today, to turn back?

Prayer: Jesus, we keep picking it back up. We keep trying to carry what we've already handed to you. Help us to turn back. Again. And again. And to trust that you will meet us there. Amen.

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Jesus had just fed five thousand people. Five loaves, two fish. One of the most stunning miracles in the Gospels.

And the crowd's response? They wanted more. They were so impressed they tried to make him king on the spot. Jesus slipped away — crossed the lake. And the crowd got in boats and chased him.

When they found him on the other side, Jesus said something that stopped them: You're not here because you saw something meaningful. You're here because you ate the bread and you want more.

Someone in my Thursday Bible study put it perfectly. She said: that's the ancient equivalent of — what have you done for me lately?

It's a little funny. And it's also very human. We want the gift. We want the problem solved, the hunger satisfied. And we will chase those things across a lake if we have to.

But Jesus says: I want to give you something more than that.

Deeper than the gift, is the giver.

New Testament scholar Dale Brunner points out that Jesus doesn't just claim to be bread here — he claims to be the bread. Not one option among many. The thing that human beings most deeply long for. The hunger beneath all our other hungers.

Augustine said it this way: Our hearts are restless until they rest in God.

I think most of us know that restlessness. We just don't always know what to do with it.

Where do you find yourself chasing the gift rather than the giver? And what might it look like today to turn toward the source itself?

Prayer: Lord, forgive us for chasing the gift and missing the giver. You are what we are really looking for — beneath all our longing, beneath all our reaching. Draw us to yourself today.  In Jesus’ name. Amen.

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Augustine said it centuries ago, and it still rings true: Our hearts are restless until they rest in God.

I think about that line a lot these days. Because for all of our abundance — all the information, entertainment, and connection available to us at any moment — something still feels missing. Studies tell us that loneliness in America has reached epidemic levels. The number of people we truly trust, the ones we can share our deepest concerns with, has dropped sharply over the last twenty years. A quarter of Americans say they have no one.

I remember sitting in a restaurant about ten years ago, watching a table full of teenagers. Completely silent. Every single one of them on their own phone. I remember thinking, that's kind of sad. But today you see the same thing at tables full of adults.

We are more connected than ever. And lonelier than ever.

Underneath all of it — the scrolling, the busyness, the noise — there is a hunger. Not for food. For something harder to name. For meaning. For real connection. For a sense that our lives matter and that we are not alone.

Jesus knew about this hunger. He said: I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry. Whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.

Not a bread. The bread. The thing that human beings most deeply long for.

That's a remarkable claim. And it raises a very personal question.

What are you hungry for today? Not on the surface — but underneath. What is the longing beneath the longing?

Sit with that for a moment. And then bring it to the One who promises to fill it.

Prayer: Lord, you know our hunger better than we do. You know what we are really reaching for beneath all the noise and distraction. Meet us there. Feed us. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

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