Grace, peace, and the boundless love of God be with you all. As I sit to write to you today, my heart turns to a moment in the Gospel that feels both timeless and timely—a moment when Jesus, weary and hungry in the wilderness, speaks a truth that echoes through the ages: “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God” (Matthew 4:4). These aren’t just words to ponder; they’re an invitation to live differently, to see beyond the surface of our days, and to root ourselves in something unshakable.
Picture the scene for a moment. Jesus had been fasting for forty days, his body frail, his spirit tested. The tempter came, dangling the promise of bread—something so simple, so necessary. Who could blame anyone for reaching for it? Bread is life, after all; it’s the warmth of a meal shared with loved ones, the reward of a day’s labor, the comfort that quiets an empty stomach. In our own lives, bread takes many forms: the paycheck that keeps the lights on, the routines that give us structure, the little joys that get us through. These things are good, and they matter. God knows we need them.
But Jesus looks beyond the bread in his hands—or the lack of it—and points us to a deeper truth. We weren’t made to merely survive, to scrape by on crumbs of fleeting satisfaction. We were created for abundance—not the kind that fills pantries or bank accounts, but the kind that fills the heart and soul. “Every word that comes from the mouth of God” is the sustenance we so often overlook, yet it’s the very thing that keeps us alive in the truest sense.
What does that mean for us, here and now? It means that while we knead dough and tend to our daily tasks, there’s a call to listen—to pause and let God’s voice break through the noise. That voice might come as a still, small whisper in the quiet of dawn, when the world is hushed and our minds are open. It might rustle through the leaves of a tree, reminding us of a Creator who delights in beauty. It might hum in the laughter of a child, or stir in the words of an old hymn that suddenly feels new. And yes, it speaks through Scripture, where promises of hope, mercy, and strength wait for us like treasures buried in a field.
This isn’t always easy. Life presses in, doesn’t it? There are bills to pay, worries to wrestle, and wounds that ache. Sometimes the idea of living by God’s word feels distant, like a luxury we can’t afford when the pantry is bare or the days are long. But here’s the wonder of it: God’s word isn’t a reward we earn after we’ve sorted everything else out. It’s the gift that meets us right where we are—in the wilderness, in the struggle, in the ordinary. It’s the bread that doesn’t run out, the water that never stops flowing.
So, my friends, I invite you to join me in this. Let’s not settle for a life half-lived, chasing only what we can hold in our hands or measure in our days. Let’s lean in and listen. Open your Bible and let a verse linger in your thoughts. Step outside and let the vastness of the sky remind you of God’s nearness. Share a moment with someone—a kind word, a prayer—and watch how God’s voice weaves through it. This is how we feast, not just on bread alone, but on the life-giving word that flows from the heart of God.
And let’s do this together. We’re not meant to walk this road alone. When one of us grows faint, another can share the bread of encouragement. When one of us hears God’s voice clearly, they can help the rest of us tune our ears. As a family of faith, we can hold each other up, pointing always to the One who sustains us all.
May you find, in the days ahead, that this divine nourishment is closer than you think—steadying your steps, lifting your spirit, and filling you with a peace that nothing else can give. You are loved beyond measure, and you are never beyond the reach of God’s voice.