Hunger and thirst are desires we all feel from time to time — and that can be a good thing. I know what it's like to hunger for a slice of my grandmother's fudge pie or to thirst for a cold Diet Coke on a hot summer day. But in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus wasn't talking about craving food or drink — He was metaphorically referring to a deep and lasting desire for righteousness.

In Jesus’ day—as in many religious circles today—it was assumed that a person’s circumstances reflected their standing with God. Poverty, illness, and hardship were seen as signs of divine disfavor, while prosperity was viewed as evidence of God’s blessing. Yet, in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus overturns this assumption. In the Kingdom, the poor, the grieving, the meek, and the marginalized are not abandoned or rejected—they are uniquely blessed by God. 

The world says the road to the blessed life looks one way, but Jesus redefines what the blessed life looks like and it looks nothing like the picture the world has painted for us! And if we’re using Jesus’ ways to gain a happy life according to the standards of our world, we’ll come up short every time because the Sermon on the Mount isn’t a to-do list for prosperity and popularity. It’s a picture of Jesus and how His kingdom operates. 

There's a question most of us have been asking our whole lives, even if we've never put it into words: What will actually make me happy? Culture has plenty of answers — success, comfort, security, status, the right relationships, the right zip code. We chase these things with everything we have. And yet, something keeps feeling off. Jesus knew this. And in one of the most famous moments in all of Scripture, He sat down on a hillside and began to reframe everything. Matthew 5 opens with a crowd gathered around Jesus — ordinary people, many of them hurting, confused, and searching. What He says next stops everyone in their tracks. 

Two verses. That's all we get before the most famous sermon ever preached begins. But these two verses are worth sitting with, because they're a threshold — the quiet moment between everything that's happened so far and everything Jesus is about to say. The crowds around Him are enormous at this point, people pressing in from every direction. And Jesus does something unhurried and intentional: He goes up on a mountainside, He sits down, and His disciples come to gather around Him. Before we hear a single word of the Sermon on the Mount, there's something meaningful in this moment of preparation — in the way Jesus settles in before He speaks. 

It's one thing to announce that the Kingdom of heaven has arrived. It's another thing entirely to demonstrate it. In just three verses, Matthew gives us a sweeping picture of what Jesus's early ministry actually looked like on the ground in Galilee — and it's remarkable in its scope. Teaching. Preaching. Healing every kind of disease and sickness, with no one turned away. The crowds following Him grow until they stretch across regions. Something is clearly spreading far beyond what anyone might have anticipated when a carpenter from Nazareth first opened His mouth by the sea. 

Most of us have a sense that following Jesus matters. But there's something about the way He actually called His first disciples that cuts through the familiar and lands with fresh force every time. No application. No theological exam. No trial period to see if they were ready. Just a man walking along a lakeshore, finding a few fishermen in the middle of an ordinary workday, and saying two words that would redirect the rest of their lives: Follow me. And they did — immediately, without hesitation, leaving behind more than you might initially realize. 

Every movement has a moment when it officially begins — a before and after that everything eventually points back to. For Jesus, this is it. After John the Baptist was arrested, Jesus left Nazareth and made His home in Capernaum, a city on the northern shore of the Sea of Galilee, in a region the prophet Isaiah had centuries earlier described as a land sitting in deep darkness. And it's there, in that unlikely corner of the world, that Jesus opens His mouth and says something that changes everything: "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near." Simple words. But the world would never be quite the same after them. 

Before Jesus ever preached a sermon, He survived a desert. Right after His baptism — right after the skies opened and the Father spoke words of love over Him — the Spirit led Jesus into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. No crowds, no miracles, no momentum. Just forty days of hunger, isolation, and relentless pressure. It's tempting to rush past this moment on the way to the good stuff, but this isn't a detour from Jesus's ministry. It's the beginning of it. The wilderness is where we see what Jesus is actually made of — and in turn, where we start to understand what a life fully devoted to God can look like, even when that life is hard.

At some point, most of us have done the math on faith. Maybe it happened early — sitting in a church pew as a kid, listening to a list of things you were supposed to stop doing. Maybe it happened later, after a season of life that left you quietly disillusioned, wondering if the whole thing was worth the effort you'd put into it. Or maybe it's happening right now, somewhere in the back of your mind, as you weigh what it would actually cost you to go all in — to be the kind of person who brings their whole self, not just their Sunday morning self, to God and to the people around them.

Just days after the Holy Spirit arrived at Pentecost and the early church was born, two of Jesus's closest followers — Peter and John — were making their way to the temple in Jerusalem for the afternoon hour of prayer. It was a routine moment. An ordinary Thursday, more or less. But what happened next was anything but ordinary.

Fifty days after the resurrection of Jesus, Jerusalem was packed. People had traveled from all over the known world to celebrate Pentecost, a major Jewish festival, and the city was alive with the noise and energy of thousands of people from dozens of different nations, cultures, and languages all crowded into the same space. It would have felt a little like an ancient version of an international airport — familiar chaos, everyone passing through, everyone keeping mostly to their own.

There's a moment most of us can point to — a meal that ruined every mediocre meal that came after it, a conversation that made us realize what real friendship could feel like, a sunrise that made us genuinely stop and catch our breath. Something that reached into our ordinary experience and quietly rewrote our expectations. Once you've tasted something that good, you can't un-taste it. And you find yourself willing to go to surprising lengths to experience it again.

Like many people in the modern world, I struggle to sit with discomfort. I often go to extreme lengths to avoid the unease that comes with slowing down and paying attention to what is truly happening in my heart. In silence, distressing thoughts and difficult emotions often rise to the surface—and in response, I rush to numb or distract myself. 

At the very beginning of the book of Acts, we're given an account of Jesus' final moments on earth before He ascended into heaven. After spending forty days with His disciples following His death and resurrection, Jesus left His people with these parting words:

I don't know about you, but the Holy Spirit can be a little difficult for me to comprehend. I've grown up around Christian teaching my whole life, and it still baffles me. So I can only imagine how confused the Corinthian Christians must have been — some of the earliest followers of Jesus who ever existed. Think about how hard it would have been to start following the ways of Jesus before the New Testament had been written, before online devotionals existed, and before podcasts, preachers, and books were readily available. That's why Paul often speaks to the Corinthians like children, patiently explaining the most basic principles of faith over and over again.

We live in a world that has more access to information than any generation in human history. At any moment, we can search for answers, stream expert opinions, access entire libraries from a device in our pocket. And yet, for all of that access, most of us are not experiencing a corresponding increase in wisdom, clarity, or the deep sense of knowing how to actually live well. We have more data than ever and are no less confused about what to do with our lives, our relationships, our futures, and our faith. Information, it turns out, is not the same thing as truth. And knowing facts is not the same thing as being guided.

There are moments when prayer feels impossible. There are seasons in life when grief, anger, confusion, and despair overwhelm us, and we cannot find the words to speak. In these desperate moments, talking with God can feel like the last thing we want to do. Even when we long to cry out to our Father, summoning the energy and emotional bandwidth to pray can feel beyond our ability.

We live in a world that is remarkably short on guarantees. Relationships that seemed unshakeable come apart. Plans that were carefully laid get dismantled by circumstances nobody saw coming. Institutions we trusted turn out to be more fragile than we thought. And over time, if we are honest, the accumulated experience of living in an uncertain world begins to shape the way we relate to even the most important things in our lives — including God. We believe His promises in theory, but we hold them a little loosely, because we have learned, often the hard way, that the things we count on have a tendency to shift.

One of the quieter tragedies of the Christian life is living in poverty amid abundance. Not material poverty — but the kind that comes from simply not seeing what you already have. It is entirely possible to be the recipient of extraordinary grace and still move through your days feeling vaguely empty, vaguely anxious, vaguely like something essential is missing — not because it is missing, but because no one has turned on the light long enough for you to see what is already in the room.