In the beginning, God gave Adam and Eve full access to life.
“You may freely eat of every tree…”
Except one.
The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.
And that’s the one they reached for.
Not because they were lacking. They had everything. The whole garden. Every tree. Abundance.
But a voice whispered: “You’re missing something.”
“Did God really say…?”
And desire twisted that day.
Ever since, the human story has been hunger misdirected.
We’re still being pulled by that same tension.
Wisdom calls out in the streets. So does Folly.
One invites you to wholeness, truth, life.
The other offers what’s fast, what feels good, what numbs.
Desire isn’t wrong. It’s holy.
But it’s shapeable.
And what you feed on—whether ego, escape, lust, distraction—trains your appetite.
You become what you consume.
Into this chaos, Jesus doesn’t just speak.
He offers Himself.
Not another philosophy. Not another self-help plan.
A table.
A body broken. Blood poured out.
“This is My body. This is My blood. Take and eat.”
He knows you’re starving.
And He doesn’t shame the hunger. He answers it.
The cross becomes a feast for the soul. A place where hunger meets healing.
Not cheap sugar. Real substance.
So the question isn’t: Are you hungry?
You are.
The question is: Whose table are you sitting at?
And what is it making you crave?