On Second Thought
There is a kind of hunger that food cannot touch and a thirst no cup can satisfy. Most believers recognize it not at the beginning of faith, but somewhere along the way—often after they have learned enough Scripture to realize how much they do not yet embody it. Jesus speaks directly to this condition in John 7:37–39, standing in the midst of a religious festival crowded with ritual and repetition, and crying out, “If anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink.” The invitation is striking not only for its urgency, but for its assumption: thirst is not a flaw; it is a signal. Spiritual hunger is not evidence of failure, but of awakening.
Scripture consistently presents righteousness not as a static possession but as a relational pursuit. “For the Lord is righteous, He loves righteousness; His countenance beholds the upright” (Psalm 11:7). The Hebrew word for “beholds” carries the sense of attentive regard, not distant observation. God looks toward the upright with delight, not suspicion. Yet that uprightness does not begin with moral confidence; it begins with holy dissatisfaction. The more clearly we see God’s righteousness, the more clearly we see our need for it. This is not shame-driven awareness, but truth-driven longing.
Kay Arthur spoke of this dynamic with pastoral clarity when she wrote that righteousness begins with dissatisfaction—a yearning awakened by the realization of sin’s presence and God’s holiness. That longing is not meant to be resolved through self-correction or spiritual exertion. In fact, attempts to satisfy it through effort alone often intensify frustration. Scripture does not tell us to manufacture righteousness but to receive it. The hunger itself is the gift that drives us toward the only source capable of filling it.
Jesus names Himself that source. In John 7, He does not point to law, discipline, or improved devotion as the answer to thirst. He points to Himself as the fountainhead of living water and then explains that this water is the Holy Spirit, given to dwell within the believer. This matters deeply for how we understand growth. Righteousness is not something we chase until we finally catch it; it is something that flows into us as we remain near Christ. The Spirit does not merely inform us about righteousness; He forms it within us by leading us into truth.
There is a subtle but critical shift that occurs when believers grasp this. Hunger stops being something to silence and becomes something to steward. We begin to understand that the ache for more of God is not an indictment of our faith but an invitation deeper into it. Augustine famously prayed, “You have made us for Yourself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You.” That restlessness is not resolved by lesser substitutes. It is answered only by deeper dependence.
Spiritual hunger grows, not diminishes, with genuine fellowship. The more we taste the goodness of the Lord, the more we desire Him. This runs counter to many modern instincts, which assume satisfaction should reduce desire. In the life of faith, satisfaction increases appetite. The upright are not those who feel full and finished, but those who keep returning to the source, knowing that righteousness is sustained, not stockpiled.
This perspective reframes spiritual practices. Prayer becomes less about achieving closeness and more about responding to it. Scripture reading becomes less about mastery and more about nourishment. Dependence ceases to feel like weakness and begins to feel like wisdom. We discover that we can indeed be “as righteous as we want to be,” not by striving harder, but by depending more fully—by yielding again and again to the Spirit who alone can satisfy the hunger God Himself awakens.
On Second Thought
Here is the paradox worth lingering over: spiritual hunger is not meant to be cured. We instinctively assume that maturity should lessen longing, that holiness should quiet desire. Yet Scripture suggests the opposite. The closer one draws to God, the more acute the hunger becomes—not because God withholds, but because the soul becomes capable of desiring rightly. The problem is not that we want too much of God, but that we are too easily satisfied with too little. Hunger is dangerous only when it is misdirected.
On second thought, perhaps the goal of the Christian life is not spiritual fullness in the sense of completion, but fullness in the sense of continual inflow. A river is full not because it stops moving, but because it keeps receiving and releasing. When believers grow anxious about their hunger—interpreting it as spiritual deficiency—they may cut themselves off from the very dependence that sustains righteousness. Yet Jesus never rebuked hunger; He fed it. He never shamed thirst; He invited it closer.
This reframing challenges how we pray. Instead of asking God to remove our longing, we might ask Him to refine it. Instead of seeking relief from dissatisfaction, we might seek clarity about its source. Spiritual hunger, rightly understood, is evidence that God is at work, drawing the heart beyond complacency and into deeper truth. It is the Spirit’s way of keeping us responsive rather than settled, attentive rather than self-assured.
On second thought, righteousness is not the absence of hunger but the direction of it. The upright are those whose longing is aimed toward God Himself. When that longing remains alive, faith remains alive. And perhaps that is why Scripture never promises that thirst will end—only that it will always be met by living water.
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