There are moments in life when everything feels loud.
Not just noisy — but overwhelming. Moments when the world presses in from every side, when your senses are overloaded, when you’re moving fast because you have to, not because you want to. Moments when you’re surrounded by people, yet strangely alone.
One of those moments for our family happened years ago.
Liz, the three boys, and I were traveling to Europe. We had landed in London after a long overnight flight. We were tired in that bone-deep way that only travel can produce — that mixture of jet lag, hunger, and mental fog where you’re technically awake but not fully present.
The boys, on the other hand, were wide-eyed and buzzing with excitement.
Ryan — five years old — was already asking when he could see the Queen. Eric — four — was asking about breakfast. Cocoa Puffs, specifically. Loren was just one year old, asleep in Liz’s arms, blissfully unaware of passports, jet bridges, or customs lines.
We were moving quickly through Heathrow Airport. The terminal was packed. Announcements echoed overhead. Wheels clattered across tile floors. People rushed in every direction — business travelers, families, airport staff, carts zipping past with drivers shouting warnings as they weaved through the crowd.
Liz was carrying Loren. Ryan was staggering along, trying to be helpful, loaded down with his brother’s carry-on bags, a Game Boy tucked under his arm. Eric was doing what three-year-olds do — drifting between holding Ryan’s hand and grabbing onto mine, sometimes walking, sometimes half-running to keep up.
And then — suddenly — he wasn’t there. One moment Eric was beside us. The next moment, he was gone. Liz and I stopped dead in our tracks.
Time didn’t slow down. It sped up. My heart began pounding. We turned in circles, scanning faces, calling his name — but our voices were swallowed by the noise of the terminal. The crowd kept moving. People kept rushing past us. No one else even noticed.
If you’re a parent, you know that feeling. That instant, hollow drop in your chest. The flash of fear that comes before reason can catch up. The unspoken thought you don’t even want to finish forming.
Then — cutting through the chaos, piercing through the roar of the airport — we heard it.
“Mom! Dad!” That cry rose above everything.
We turned toward the sound, pushing through the crowd, following it desperately — and there he was. Standing there, frightened, searching, calling out with everything he had.
The relief came all at once. Laughter. Tears. Gratitude.
We scooped him up and hugged him like we were never going to let go. Then we kept moving — together again.
In that moment, Eric wasn’t thinking about toys, or breakfast, or sightseeing. He wasn’t worried about the Pop Tarts or Cocoa Puffs or what came next.
His heart was focused on one thing. To be found. And that moment reveals something profoundly true about all of us.
Beneath the noise of our lives — beneath the schedules, the expectations, the striving, the coping — every human heart has a cry. Sometimes it’s loud. Sometimes it’s buried deep. Sometimes it’s muffled by distraction or success or pain.
But it’s always there.
The cry says: “God, where are You?” “Do You see me?” “Do I belong?” “Am I known?” “Am I Yours?”
That cry — that longing — is not weakness. It is the deepest truth about us.
Scripture tells us that God has set eternity in the human heart. That means we were designed with a longing that nothing temporary can fully satisfy.
We were made with an ache that points beyond itself. We were created not just to survive — but to belong.
Today, I want you to hear this clearly: That longing you feel — the restlessness, the hunger, the quiet ache — is not evidence that something is wrong with you.
It is evidence that you were made for God.
--- Part One: Every Heart Is Searching
Whether we realize it or not, we spend much of our lives searching.
We search for meaning.
We search for peace.
We search for love.
We search for something that feels solid enough to stand on and gentle enough to rest in.
Sometimes that search is obvious. Sometimes it’s subtle. Sometimes we don’t even know what we’re looking for — only that something is missing.
Have you ever walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, and just stood there staring?
The shelves are full. Milk. Condiments. Leftovers from a meal you barely remember eating. But you don’t reach for anything. You just stand there, door open, light shining out, wondering why nothing looks right.
You’re hungry — but you can’t name what for.
That’s life for so many people. We’re restless, but we don’t know why. We’re dissatisfied, but we can’t explain it. We feel full, yet strangely empty. So we open door after door, hoping one of them will finally contain what we’re looking for.
We try a new job.
A new relationship.
A new purchase.
A new routine.
A new distraction.
We scroll endlessly. We binge-watch shows late into the night. We refresh news feeds. We chase the next upgrade, the next experience, the next version of ourselves that we hope will finally feel complete.
Sometimes — let’s be honest — it works for a while. There’s a rush. A sense of relief. A moment where we think, Maybe this is it. But then the feeling fades. The excitement dulls. The hunger returns. And we find ourselves standing in front of the open refrigerator again, staring, unsatisfied.
Scripture doesn’t mock that hunger. It explains it. Ecclesiastes tells us that God has set eternity in the human heart.
That means there is something in us that was never meant to be satisfied by temporary things. There is a longing in us that points beyond the moment, beyond the material, beyond ourselves.
When we try to fill that eternal longing with temporary things, it doesn’t quiet the hunger — it intensifies it.
It’s like a person lost in the desert, desperate for water, who finds the ocean and starts drinking seawater instead. The more he drinks, the thirstier he becomes. What looks like relief actually deepens the crisis.
That’s why Scripture uses such strong language in Jeremiah: “My people have forsaken me, the spring of living water, and have dug their own cisterns — broken cisterns that cannot hold water.”
Notice what God is saying.
He doesn’t accuse His people of being lazy. He doesn’t accuse them of not trying hard enough.
He says they are thirsty — and digging in the wrong places.
We are incredibly skilled at digging cisterns.
Some of us dig them in achievement — believing that if we can just prove ourselves, earn enough, accomplish enough, we’ll finally feel secure. Some of us dig them in relationships — placing the weight of our wholeness on another human being who was never meant to carry it. Some of us dig them in distraction — numbing the ache instead of naming it. And some of us dig them in religion — believing that activity can substitute for intimacy, that duty can replace desire.
All of them leak.
Think about the Samaritan woman at the well in John 4.
She had tried relationship after relationship — five husbands, and the man she was with wasn’t her husband.
Jesus doesn’t shame her. He doesn’t reduce her story to moral failure.
He recognizes her thirst. He says, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again.”
Not because relationships are bad — but because they cannot carry eternal weight.
Then He says something remarkable: “Whoever drinks the water I give will never thirst.”
Jesus isn’t offering her religion.
He’s offering her rest.
Can I ask you something — gently?
Have you ever gotten the thing you thought would finally make you happy… and it still wasn’t enough?
That moment — when the excitement fades and the hunger returns — is not evidence that you failed. It’s your soul telling you the truth. You were made for more.
Until we recognize that our searching is not a flaw but a signal, we will keep mistaking the ache for something to silence instead of something to listen to.
Every heart is searching. And the question is not whether we are thirsty. The question is where we are trying to drink.
--- Part Two: Jesus Was Lifted Up to Meet the Longing
Here is where the gospel becomes unmistakably good news.
The story of Scripture is not a story about humanity climbing its way toward God. It is a story about God moving toward us.
Jesus says it plainly: “And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to Myself.”
Notice what He does not say.
He does not say, “When I am lifted up, I will demand.”
He does not say, “When I am lifted up, I will sort.”
He does not say, “When I am lifted up, I will reward the deserving.”
He says, “I will draw.”
It assumes longing.
It assumes movement.
It assumes desire already present in the human heart.
Jesus is not creating the hunger — He is answering it.
To understand what He means by being “lifted up,” we have to hear it the way His listeners did. In John’s Gospel, being lifted up always points to the cross. Not just glory. Not just exaltation.
Crucifixion.
Jesus is saying that the moment He will most fully reveal the heart of God is not on a throne — but on a cross.
That’s unsettling for us, because we expect God to reveal Himself in strength, in certainty, in control.
But Jesus reveals God by being vulnerable.
On the cross, Jesus carries not only our sin, but our shame. Not only our guilt, but our loneliness. Not only our rebellion, but our fear of abandonment.
He is lifted up — stripped, exposed, rejected — so that no human being could ever say, “God does not understand what it feels like to be alone.”
Think again about that moment in the airport. When Eric was lost, Liz and I didn’t stop and debate parenting strategy.
We didn’t say, “Well, this will be a learning experience.”
We didn’t stand still and wait for him to find his way back to us.
We moved toward the sound of his voice.
That’s the cross. The cross is not God waiting for humanity to get it together. It is God straining toward the sound of our cry.
Jesus connects this directly to an Old Testament story in John 3: “Just as Moses lifted up the snake in the wilderness, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, that everyone who believes may have eternal life in Him.”
It’s a strange story, if you think about it. The Israelites are in the desert. They complain. They rebel. Venomous snakes spread through the camp, and people begin to die.
God does not give Moses a medicine. He does not give them a checklist. He does not give them a ten-step recovery plan. He tells Moses to lift up a bronze serpent on a pole.
The instruction is shockingly simple: Look — and live.
No proving.
No earning.
No fixing.
Just looking.
Jesus says, That’s me.
Lifted up.
Look — and live.
This is where so many of us struggle. We want the cure to feel complicated enough to justify our pain. We want salvation to sound difficult enough to reward our effort.
The gospel insists that the deepest healing comes not through striving, but through trust.
That’s why the cross offends both our pride and our despair.
It tells the proud that they cannot save themselves.
It tells the despairing that they don’t have to. Even those who seem to have everything discover this hunger.
Some of the most celebrated voices in music history once admitted they were “still searching for something.”
Fame didn’t cure it. Applause didn’t quiet it. Wealth didn’t fill it.
If the world cannot satisfy those who have tasted its fullest rewards, why do we believe the next upgrade will finally do it for us?
Only the cross addresses the longing at its root. Because at the cross, God does not merely forgive sin. He restores belonging.
He says, You are seen.
You are known.
You are wanted.
You are not alone.
When Jesus is lifted up, He becomes the meeting place between God’s heart and ours. Not because we reached high enough. But because He came low enough.
--- Part Three: The Invitation to Come Home
Once we understand that Jesus was lifted up to meet our longing, the next question becomes unavoidable:
What does God ask of us in response?
The answer Scripture gives is surprisingly simple.
He says, Come.
Isaiah records God’s invitation this way:
“Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters;
and you who have no money, come, buy and eat!”
There are no prerequisites in that invitation.
No fine print.
No entrance exam.
God does not say, “Come once you’ve cleaned yourself up.”
He does not say, “Come once you’ve figured it out.”
He does not say, “Come once you’ve proven you’re serious.”
He says, Come — because you’re thirsty. That alone disqualifies self-sufficiency.
We struggle with this because we have learned to equate belonging with performance. We assume acceptance must be earned. We believe love comes after improvement.
The gospel turns that order upside down. Belonging comes first. Transformation follows.
Jesus never healed people and then welcomed them. He welcomed them — and healing followed.
One of the clearest pictures of this is found in the story Jesus tells in Luke 15.
The younger son leaves home convinced that freedom lies elsewhere. He spends everything chasing independence, pleasure, and control. Eventually, the money runs out. The relationships disappear. The illusion collapses.
And what does he do?
He comes to himself.
He doesn’t suddenly become righteous. He becomes honest.
Hungry.
Ashamed.
Empty.
So he rehearses a speech. A negotiation. A way back that might preserve a shred of dignity.
While he is still far off, the father sees him. That means the father has been watching the road.
Before the son can clean up, before he can explain himself, before he can offer his résumé of regret, the father runs.
Middle Eastern patriarchs did not run. Running meant lifting your robes. Running meant exposure. Running meant shame.
The father runs anyway. He embraces his son — dirt, smell, failure and all — and restores him publicly. Robe. Ring. Sandals. Feast.
No lecture.
No probation.
No delay.
Just belonging.
That is the heart of God.
Some of you need to hear this today, because you have mistaken your restlessness for rejection. You’ve assumed that the ache in your heart means God is disappointed in you.
But the ache is not proof that God has abandoned you. It is proof that you were made for Him. That longing is not condemnation. It is invitation.
Augustine, one of the great thinkers in the history of the church, spent years chasing pleasure, status, and intellectual certainty. He tried everything his culture offered.
After all of it, he wrote these famous words:
“Our hearts are restless until they rest in You, O Lord.”
Notice what he doesn’t say.
He doesn’t say our hearts are wicked. He doesn’t say our hearts are foolish.
He says they are restless. Because they were made for God.
This is why so many of us feel spiritually exhausted. Not because we don’t believe — but because we’re trying to carry ourselves home instead of letting ourselves be carried.
The invitation of the gospel is not to strive harder. It is to stop running from the One who is already running toward us.
Jesus says, “Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
Not instruction.
Rest.
Coming home doesn’t mean everything instantly makes sense.
It means you finally stop pretending you don’t need to be found.
--- Conclusion: Lifted Up — And Drawn Home
There is something remarkable about the way God has designed the human heart.
No matter how far we wander…
No matter how long we resist…
No matter how many detours we take…
There remains within us a quiet orientation toward home.
Scientists tell us that homing pigeons can be taken hundreds of miles away, released into unfamiliar territory, and somehow — without maps, without landmarks, without GPS — they find their way back. Something inside them knows where they belong.
Friend, that’s not just biology.
That’s theology. God has set eternity in the human heart. And eternity has a direction. That’s why the ache never fully goes away. That’s why success doesn’t silence it. That’s why distraction only delays it. That’s why even in the middle of laughter, accomplishment, or comfort, there can be a strange sense of homesickness you can’t quite explain. It’s not that you want something else.
It’s that you want home.
That’s why Jesus says,
“When I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all people to Myself.”
He does not say He will coerce.
He does not say He will frighten.
He does not say He will pressure.
He says He will draw.
The cross is not a threat hanging over humanity.
It is a beacon.
Lifted high enough to be seen.
Close enough to be trusted.
Gentle enough to invite.
At the cross, God does not shout over the noise of the world.
He answers the deepest cry of the human heart.
“Mom! Dad!”
“I’m here.”
Some of you tonight know exactly what that cry feels like.
You may be surrounded by people and still feel unseen.
You may be active and still feel unanchored.
You may be faithful and still feel tired.
You may not even know how to name what you’re longing for — only that something in you keeps reaching.
And here is the good news:
That longing is not an enemy to defeat. It is a signal to follow.
The hunger is not proof that something is wrong with you.
It is proof that God has been drawing you all along.
Jesus was lifted up not so you could try harder — but so you could finally stop running.
Not so you could climb your way to God — but so you could let yourself be found.
That brings us back to that moment in the airport.
When Eric cried out, he didn’t know how to navigate Heathrow. He didn’t know which direction to go. He didn’t need a plan.
He just needed to be heard.
And when he cried out, we came running.
That’s what God has done in Christ.
Lifted up.
Running toward us.
Calling us home.
--- The Appeal
So, let me ask you...
Are you tired of searching?
Are you weary of digging wells that don’t hold water?
Are you done pretending the ache will go away if you ignore it long enough?
Jesus says, “When I am lifted up, I will draw all people to Myself.”
That includes you.
Not the polished version.
Not the future version.
Not the version you hope to become someday.
You.
Right now.
And if you feel that quiet pull — that nudge, that stirring, that sense that God is calling your name — I want to give you space to respond.
Not because a raised hand saves you. But because responding matters.
If you want to say, “Lord, I’m tired of running. I want to come home. I want my longing to find its rest in You,”
I invite you, right now, to raise your hand.
Just a simple act of trust.
Let’s take a moment.
--- Prayer
Lord,
You see every heart in this room. You see the longing that has no words yet.
You see the weariness behind brave faces.
You see the searching that has gone on for years.
Thank You for being lifted up — not to condemn us, but to draw us home.
We come.
Not with answers.
Not with résumés.
Just with open hands.
Receive us.
Hold us.
Teach our restless hearts how to rest in You.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.”
