Having a different spirit for a different kingdom.

Matthew 24 is a challenge. There’s a lot going on in the passage – warnings, signs, the kind of language that makes you sit up – but buried in there is a challenge the church cannot afford to pass over. The challenge to be different, to read it, take it to heart, and be able to say hand on heart, “That’s not us.”

Matthew 24:12 lands with a bit of an alarm, a warning, and I wonder what the crowds thought of it, “And because lawlessness will be increased, the love of many will grow cold”. Was Jesus was slightly choked as He said that? He wasn’t speaking in double-speak or being ambiguous; He was intentional, clear, to the point.

He was speaking plainly about the spiritual climate that would mark the days ahead. Not the love of a few, not some fringe group – many. That should unsettle us. It means this cooling of the heart is not rare; it’s widespread. And the warning isn’t aimed at the world out there. It’s aimed at people who once burned with love but let it be smothered.

The danger is not that love is suddenly snatched away, but that it’s slowly starved. When lawlessness increases – when God’s ways are trampled underfoot, when justice is twisted, when truth is replaced with whatever serves the moment – it does something to the soul. We become suspicious. Self-protective. Measured in how much we give and to whom. Compassion gets weighed on the scales of “Do they deserve it?” And bit by bit, what was once the overflow of God’s love in us becomes a controlled trickle.

The motivation for us is that we are called to have the kind of “different spirit” that marked Caleb (Numbers 14:24). When the majority saw danger and shrank back, Caleb saw the same reality but clung to God’s promise. The love of many may grow cold, but we are not the many. Faith will always make you stand out in an age of fear, just as obedience will make you stand out in an age of lawlessness. Caleb’s difference was not in being braver by nature, but in trusting the Lord when others would not. And it is that same trust that will keep our hearts burning when the climate around us chills.

Here’s the challenge: not to let the climate of the age dictate the temperature of our hearts. When love grows cold around us, the easy thing is to match it. We guard ourselves, keep our circle tight, and talk about love more than we actually practise it, but Jesus didn’t call us to survive in a loveless world. He called us to stand out in one.

This is not about warm feelings toward the people we naturally like. It’s about costly love toward the people the world passes by – the poor, the lonely, the outcast, the inconvenient. Not as charity cases, but as family. Because that’s what they are if they belong to Christ, and it’s what they can become if they come to Him through our witness.

The early church didn’t just avoid letting love grow cold; they turned up the heat. In a culture that disdained and discarded the weak, they were different – they cared for the sick, fed the hungry, and welcomed the unwanted, not asking if they would be repaid or if it would be appreciated. They remembered the gospel. They remembered they were once far off, without hope, until God brought them near through the blood of Christ. And that memory kept them soft-hearted in a hard world.

If we forget who we were, we will forget how to love. But if we remember – really remember – that we were strangers made sons and daughters, enemies made friends, then love stops being a duty. It becomes a reflex.

The world’s love will keep growing cold. That’s the trajectory Jesus gave us. But that makes our calling more urgent. So we keep giving ourselves away. We care for the poor because our Father cared for us when we had nothing. We welcome the outsider because we were once outside. We bind up the broken because He bound us up. And when the story of this age is told, let it be said that in the days when the love of many grew cold, ours burned hotter than ever.

The invitation that rewrites your life.

When everyday people encounter celebrities or people of great influence or power, the ensuing awkward conversation can be amusing! Whilst at school, I was asked to deliver some tents to point B in the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award scheme. The Land Rover was driven by HRH himself. The conversation? “Yes, Sir. No, Sir!” as I answered awkwardly, looking out of the window, waiting to join my friends at point B.

Here in our Bible story, it’s a striking scene. Two disciples, fresh from hearing John the Baptist declare, “Behold, the Lamb of God,” go off like hobbits to begin to follow Jesus. The dust clings to their sandals, the sun is dipping low, and their hearts beat with a strange mix of fear and hope as they catch up with Him. He turns, looks them in the eye, and asks the question that pierces through all pretence: “What are you seeking?” (John 1:38). #panic

It is not the casual inquiry of a stranger on the road. His gaze searches them, stripping away every lesser motive. They stand there, not quite knowing how to answer. Their mouths form the only words that will come: “Rabbi… where are you staying?” Can we get an Uber? Find you on Google Maps?

On the surface, it sounds trivial, as though they were inquiring about Airbnb arrangements, yet the question carries the weight of hearts stirred, souls awakened and with a longing for more than an address, door number and postcode. They had just been pointed by the fiery wilderness prophet John to the Messiah, the One promised from ages past, and now they stand before Him. What do you ask God when you see Him face to face? These two asked where He was dwelling. It sounds like a comedy sketch!

It was not curiosity about His sleeping quarters. In that moment, “Where are you staying?” meant, “Where can we be with You?” They were not angling for a momentary exchange; they wanted proximity. To be where He was. To listen, watch, and walk with Him. The Greek word for “staying” (one of the first words anyone learns when studying Koine Greek) (μένεις) points to abiding, remaining. They wanted to know the place of His abiding, not simply so they could visit, but so they could join Him there. They are doing the right thing – it just feels awkward as we look in.

And His answer is just as profound, “Come and you will see.” No map, no description – only an invitation. You do not find the dwelling place of God through a set of GPS coordinates. You find it by following Him. Keep your eyes on Him and follow.

That first afternoon, they stayed with Him until the day faded, but it did not end there. This small step became the pattern of their lives: see where He is, follow Him there, remain. The road where they encounter him would also take them through Galilean villages, storms, signs, wonders, miracles, laughter and tears, seeing deaf ears opened, blind eyes opened, the dead raised, and ultimately arriving at the shadow of the cross. Each new step would press the question deeper – do you still want to be where I am when the cost rises? In the end, their apprenticeship was not about knowing a location, but knowing a Person, and learning that He Himself is their dwelling place.

In the gospel, this is always the way. The One who is Himself the dwelling place of God among men – “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14) – invites us to draw near. These disciples would come to learn that His “staying” was not limited to a room in Galilee, but that He abides in perfect fellowship with the Father, and through the cross and resurrection, He would open that fellowship to all who believe.

The question, “Where are you staying?” reveals a hunger that the world cannot counterfeit. Many are content with a passing word from God, a momentary thrill, or a seasonal faith with Easter eggs and Christmas presents. But those truly awakened by the Spirit will not rest until they know where He is – and will go there at any cost.

For the believer today, this question still matters. Christ is not physically walking the shores of the Jordan now, but His dwelling place is known. He abides in His people by the Spirit, He meets us in the Scriptures, and He has promised to be present when two or three gather in His name. Yet the fullness of His “staying” is seen at the cross. There, He took upon Himself our sin so that we might dwell with Him forever.

When the disciples first asked Him where He stayed, they did not yet grasp where the answer would lead – to a hill outside Jerusalem, to an empty tomb, and finally to the eternal dwelling of God with His people.

It was the true home they were seeking, even if they did not yet have the words for it.

In the end, their question is the right one, discover His Presence… go there and stay.