So that you can be satisfied
I read the Beatitudes recently. It’s easy to become over-familiar with them but they are Jesus’ Kingdom manifesto, and they are going to be with us forever. There’s a proverbs-like assertion in there that doesn’t land gently. It doesn’t warm you up. It doesn’t leave you with any ambiguity. Wriggle room. It’s an arrow that pierces that off-limits part of the heart unexpectedly. Like standing on a garden rake hidden in the long grass – it comes up with a shock.
“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.” (Matthew 5:6)
It commands our attention, but what’s important or relevant about it? Before it, Jesus names those who lack. The poor in spirit. The ones who mourn. The meek. People who’ve stopped pretending they’re fine. He isn’t commending them for their posture. He’s putting his finger on something; naming their condition. Then, He sharpens the edge. Hunger. Thirst. Not curiosity, preference or mild interest. Need.
And need is never abstract.
You have experienced hunger. It’s not a metaphor when your stomach is empty, grumbling, rumbling, growling. Thirst isn’t something to be ignored when your mouth is parched, dry. Jesus reaches for the most primal human realities to describe what it feels like to long for righteousness. Not just admire it. Not talk about it. Long for it. From the depth of your being. It’s that overwhelming longing that unsettles you – leaves you calling, “Oh God!” It’s intentional. And it’s disruptive.
This January, Emmanuel Sheffield is joining churches from across the UK and Ireland 21st to 23rd, for three days of prayer and fasting. Different voices, contexts and life challenges, but one shared ache. Make no mistake, this isn’t a gesture or a performance. It’s a confession.
We need God. Desperately.
Not in a general, Sunday-morning way. Far more. We need Him more than we need our comforts or our routines and certainly, more than we need to appear fine.
Fasting is one way we say that with our bodies to God. It doesn’t start with clarity. It starts with disruption. The appetite fights back like an army under seige. Vineyard leader David Parker talked to me once about his experience of fasting saying, with his usual honesty, “When I fast, I just feel irritable, cold, and hungry.” But he does it regardless. That’s not a failure. That’s the point. Fasting tears off the filters. It interrupts the gloss. It shows us what’s been hiding beneath the surface. And if you stay with it, that discomfort starts to do its work.
Not just around you. In you. Personally, some of the most precious encounters I have had with God have come after a period of fasting.
Fasting won’t make you righteous. It can’t. But it will expose the ways you’ve tried to substitute activity for hunger. Remember Ezekiel’s dry bones initially rattling around? Don’t mistake noise for life. Jesus wasn’t reaching for metaphor when He said hunger. He meant it, because hunger tells the truth. It says you’re not full. It says you’re not okay. And it brings your body into agreement with the prayer of your heart.
Very well then, you say no to a good thing so you can say yes to a better one. Not because food is the problem, but because our loves and values are disordered. And sometimes, to remember what matters most, you have to feel the absence of what you’ve come to rely on.
Right here is where our theology stands next to us, and taps us on the shoulder. It reminds us of a few things we often forget.
First, the cross. This hunger is not for clarity or momentum or influence. It’s hunger to be shaped by a crucified King. Fasting without the cross drifts toward self-improvement. Warning buzzers begin to sound! Fasting with the cross leads to surrender. Satisfaction doesn’t come through addition. It comes through death, and then through life. That’s not an add-on. That’s the shape of the gospel. Everything in our lives as followers of Christ moves us forward by first looking backwards to the Cross.
Second, love. If your hunger never bends toward your neighbour, it’s gone off-course. And who is your neighbour? You know. The righteousness Jesus speaks of overflows. It moves outward. It acts. It serves. If your fast makes you more focused but less kind, more disciplined but less patient, then the hunger is no longer holy. I have met a few grizzly bears who have emerged from a fast, sometimes they looked like me. We have to watch our heart.
Third, weakness. The Beatitudes never bless the powerful, charismatic and totally awesome dudes. They bless the dependent. Fasting does not impress God. It doesn’t elevate you. It humbles you. It peels back the lie that ministry is about strength. The Kingdom moves through jars of clay, not polished performers. Hunger keeps us low enough to receive grace. You can’t earn grace, but here’s an interesting conundrum – God give grace to the humble. (James 4:6)
Fourth, joy. Not hype. Not noise. Joy rooted in promise. “They shall be satisfied.” That line shuts the door on despair. Hunger is not the final word. Resurrection is. Fasting isn’t a rejection of pleasure. It’s a training in expectation. The feast is coming. Satisfied. Satisfied in God, in His presence, His kindness and His favour.
And finally, the Spirit. Hunger for righteousness is not task-driven sweat of the brow, sheer will-power. It is a gift. It is stirred, sustained, and satisfied by the Spirit of God, who takes what belongs to Christ and makes it live in us. Without Him, fasting becomes a grind, but with Him, it becomes a piano tuning fork. He teaches us how to wait, when to move, what to want.
This line in the Beatitudes still stands. Still challenges. Still calls.
It doesn’t flatter. It won’t let you off the hook, but it comes with a promise.
You will be satisfied. So don’t dismiss the ache. Don’t deaden it. Go with it. Hunger on purpose. Hunger with hope.
Jesus isn’t asking something of you that you cannot do. And He gives you His Spirit to help you do it.