It’s Not Medieval. It’s Evil.

When One Part Suffers

Welcome to Through The Lens Of Eternity A couple of weeks ago I had surgery on my wrist, and I’ve been forced to slow right down ever since. Not fully out of action — I can still potter about and do the odd thing — but nowhere near my usual pace, and likely not for another three or four weeks yet. And I want to be honest with you about something, because I think it’s more useful than pretending I’ve sailed through it with serene, spiritual calm. The first thing that undid me wasn’t the pain. It was the small stuff. There was a morning early on when I reached for my phone the way you do without even thinking — first thing, still half asleep — and I simply couldn’t hold it. Couldn’t grip it, couldn’t scroll, couldn’t fire off the messages I’d normally have dealt with before my feet even hit the floor. And I lay there for a moment, faintly ridiculous, staring at this little slab of glass that I use to feel connected and productive and on top of everything, and I couldn’t so much as pick it up. It sounds like nothing. But if you’re the sort of person who likes to get things done — and I very much am — you’ll know that it isn’t nothing at all. Because it wasn’t really about the phone. It was about the fact that, for the first time in a long time, I couldn’t do it myself. Whatever “it” happened to be. Opening a jar. Carrying the shopping. Driving somewhere I needed to be. Suddenly I was the one asking. The one waiting. The one depending on other people to do the things my own two hands had always quietly taken care of. And I found that far harder to accept than the surgery itself. Rest has always been a struggle for me. If I’m honest, I’ve worn my busyness a little like a badge — the person who’s always doing, always reachable, always the one who helps rather than the one who needs. And God, in his kindness and his sense of humour, has taken one wrist and used it to dismantle all of that in a fortnight. I’ve been forced to stop. Forced to receive. Forced to let people carry things for me. And it’s taught me something I thought I already understood, but clearly didn’t — not really, not in my bones — about what the church is actually for. You’ll know the picture. Paul reaches for it again and again, but nowhere more fully than in 1 Corinthians 12. The church, he says, is a body. Not a collection of individuals who happen to share a car park on a Sunday, but one body with many members — hands and feet and eyes and ears — each one needed, none of them able to go it alone. “The eye cannot say to the hand, I have no need of you.” We tend to hear that as a gentle reminder to value everyone’s gifts, and it is that. But read on, because Paul says something we usually skip straight past. He says the parts of the body that seem weaker are actually indispensable. That the parts we think less honourable, we clothe with greater honour. That God has arranged the body so that there’s no division in it, but that the members should have the same care for one another. And then comes the line that stopped me this week: “If one member suffers, all suffer together.” We usually talk about the body of Christ as the place where strong people bring their gifts. Where the capable turn up and serve and get things done. But that’s not actually why it was designed. A hand doesn’t need the rest of the body when it’s working perfectly well. It needs it when it’s broken. The whole point of a body — the reason God knitted us together into one — is so that when one part is weak, the others move in around it and hold it up. Which means my wrist, out of action for a few months, isn’t some malfunction in the plan. It’s the very thing the plan was made for. I’m not a problem the body has to work around at the moment. In a strange way, I’m the reason it exists. And if that still feels like a hard word for those of us who’d rather be the ones doing the lifting, let me point you to something that helped me enormously. Because the great figures of Scripture — the leaders, the deliverers, the giants of the faith — were carried too. Think of Moses. There’s that extraordinary scene in Exodus 17, where Israel is at war and the battle turns on whether Moses can keep his arms raised. And he can’t. He’s the leader, the man who stood before Pharaoh, the one who parted a sea — and his own arms give out. He hasn’t the strength to hold them up. So Aaron and Hur come alongside him, they sit him down on a stone, and they hold his hands up for him, one on each side, until the sun goes down. The victory doesn’t come because Moses is strong enough. It comes because two others held him when he wasn’t. Or think of Paul himself, the man who wrote all this about the body. This is not a weak or dependent character by nature — but read his letters and you’ll find him constantly leaning on others. He needs Luke, his physician, at his side. He writes to Timothy from prison and asks him to bring the cloak he left behind, because even an apostle gets cold and can’t fetch his own coat. He depends on churches to send him help. The great teacher of interdependence lived it because he had to. And here’s the one that undoes any pride left standing: even Jesus received. On the road to the cross, when the weight was too much, it was Simon of Cyrene who was made to carry it. Luke tells us there were women who travelled with him and supported his ministry out of their own means — that the Son of God, in his earthly life, was funded and fed and cared for by others. If the Lord himself allowed himself to be served, to be carried, to be provided for, then who exactly do I think I am, insisting I must never need anything from anyone? Dependence isn’t a fall from spiritual maturity. It turns out to be the shape that even the strongest, godliest lives have always taken. Now I want to press into the uncomfortable part, because I suspect I’m not the only one who needs it. For those of us who like to be useful, being weak isn’t merely inconvenient. It’s identity-threatening. Because so much of our sense of worth has been built on being the one who helps, the one who copes, the one who doesn’t need. Take that away, and you find out what’s underneath. Paul knew this territory intimately. He writes in 2 Corinthians 12 about a thorn in his flesh — some weakness we’re never told the details of — that he begged God three times to remove. And God’s answer was not to take it away. God’s answer was, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” And Paul, remarkably, gets to the point where he can say he will boast in his weaknesses, that he’s content with them, because when he is weak, then he is strong. Real enforced rest, holds up a mirror. It asks you a question you can’t dodge: do you actually believe you’re loved for who you are, or only for what you produce? When the doing stops, and you’re lying there unable to hold your own phone, what’s left? Are you still you? Is God still pleased with you when you’re contributing nothing, achieving nothing, ticking nothing off? Let the weakness do you a favour. Let it show you where your worth is really anchored. Looking outward for a moment, I think it says something about the country we live in. We British have made an art form of the stiff upper lip. We prize self-sufficiency. “I don’t want to be a burden” is practically a national motto — and we say it as though it were a virtue, when so often it’s a quiet refusal to let anyone close enough to help. We have built a culture where people would rather struggle alone than admit they’re struggling at all. And look what it’s given us. An epidemic of loneliness. Neighbours who don’t know one another’s names. People carrying heavy things in complete isolation, because to ask would be to admit weakness, and admitting weakness is the one thing we’ve trained ourselves never to do. The body of Christ stands as a contradiction to all of it. It says that needing one another is not a failure of character — it’s the design. That we were never meant to carry our own weight. That “bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ” is not a nice sentiment for greetings cards but an instruction, and that the burden was always supposed to be shared. Two are better than one, says the Preacher in Ecclesiastes, because if one falls, the other will lift him up — but woe to him who is alone when he falls, for he has no one to help him up. That’s not weakness talking. That’s wisdom. And it’s a wisdom our proudly independent age has very nearly forgotten. So let me end where I’ve actually been living these last two weeks. Because for all the frustration about not being able to do things, I have been on the receiving end of an extraordinary amount of qkindness. People who’ve driven me places. People who’ve carried what I couldn’t. People who’ve done the small, unglamorous, unnoticed things — the jars opened, the meals made, the lifts given — without making me feel like a burden for needing them. They’ve been Aaron and Hur to me. They’ve held my arms up when I couldn’t hold them myself. And I’ve had to learn, slowly and not always gracefully, to simply say thank you and let them. If you’re strong right now, if everything’s working and you’re the one doing the carrying, thank God for it — and then go and find the person whose arms are tired, and hold them up. And if you’re weak right now, if you’re the one who can’t manage on your own and it’s grating against everything in you, then hear this gently: you are not a malfunction in the body. You are the very reason it exists. Let yourself be carried. That’s not you failing at faith. That’s you finally understanding it. Let’s pray Father, thank you that you made us for one another. That you never intended us to carry our own weight alone, and that you built your church to be a body, where when one part is weak the others gather round to hold it up. Forgive us for the pride that dresses itself up as strength. For the ways we’ve hidden behind our usefulness, and quietly built our worth on what we can do rather than on who you say we are. Teach us that we are loved not for our productivity but for being your children. For those of us who are weak today — in body, in spirit, in circumstance — would you send us Aarons and Hurs, and give us the humility to let ourselves be helped. And for those of us who are strong, open our eyes to the tired arms around us, and make us quick to carry what others cannot. Thank you for every quiet kindness we’ve received and often failed to notice. Make us a people who need one another without shame, and who serve one another without pride, that in our weakness your strength might be made perfect, and that a watching, lonely world might see in your church a body that truly holds together. In Jesus’ name, amen. Scripture References: * 1 Corinthians 12:12–27 * Exodus 17:12 * 2 Timothy 4:11 * Colossians 4:14 * 2 Timothy 4:13 * Luke 23:26 * Luke 8:3 * 2 Corinthians 12:7–10 * Galatians 6:2 * Ecclesiastes 4:9–12 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit benorris1977.substack.com [https://benorris1977.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

Heading for our Seventh Prime Minister in 10 years?

Welcome to Through the Lens of Eternity — a space where we slow down and think biblically about the stories, events, and questions shaping the world around us. Not reacting to headlines with outrage, not scoring political points, but asking deeper questions. How should followers of Jesus engage with the world? How do we respond when things feel uncertain? And what changes when we keep one eye on eternity? The UK is now heading to its seventh Prime Minister in ten years. Seven. In a decade. And whether you follow politics closely or barely at all, I think most of us feel the same low-level unease about it — a kind of background uncertainty. Who’s in charge? Where are we heading? Can anyone actually fix the problems we’re facing? Now I want to resist making this a conversation about parties or policies, because I think there’s a more interesting question underneath all of that. Why does leadership instability affect us so much? Why does it leave people feeling unsettled in a way that goes deeper than just politics? I think it’s because leadership genuinely matters. Good leaders bring confidence. Poor leaders create anxiety. Wise leaders help societies flourish. And Scripture is honest about that — Proverbs puts it plainly: “When the righteous prosper, the people rejoice; when the wicked rule, the people groan.” Leadership isn’t a trivial thing. It touches real lives. But here’s where it gets interesting. One of the most revealing stories in the whole Bible is in 1 Samuel, when Israel decides they want a king. And the reason they want one isn’t because God had let them down — it’s because they looked at the nations around them and wanted what they had. Someone visible, someone impressive, someone who could sort things out. God says something remarkable to Samuel at that point: “They have not rejected you, but they have rejected me as their king.” The issue was never really about leadership. It was about trust. And honestly, don’t we think the same way? If only the right person got elected. If only the right party was in charge. If only the right policies were introduced — then things would get better. We place enormous hope in leaders, and then we’re genuinely shocked when they disappoint us. Look at Saul. He was exactly what people thought they wanted — tall, impressive, popular. Everything on the outside looked right. And yet his reign unravelled into insecurity and fear and disobedience. The person the nation thought would save them couldn’t carry the weight they put on him. That’s not a unique ancient problem. It’s the story of almost every leader in history. Then after Solomon, the kingdom splits. Instability, division, a long succession of kings — some good, most not. And as you read through Kings and Chronicles, the same lesson keeps surfacing: changing leaders doesn’t automatically fix deeper problems. Because the deepest problems aren’t political. They’re spiritual. That’s a hard thing for every generation to hear, because we want to believe the next leader will finally be the one. But here’s what I keep coming back to. Underneath all our anxiety about politics, I think there’s a deeper longing. We long for someone trustworthy. Someone consistent. Someone who actually has the wisdom and the strength to lead well and won’t eventually let us down. And Isaiah speaks right into that longing — writing hundreds of years before Jesus was born — “For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders.” Every Prime Minister, every president, every leader eventually hits the limits of their strength. But Isaiah is describing a King who can actually carry the weight. A ruler whose kingdom has no end. One who will never resign, never be replaced, never lose control. That changes how I look at the news. Because keeping one eye on eternity doesn’t mean we stop caring about earthly leadership — we absolutely should pray for those in authority, support good governance, care about justice and truth, and engage responsibly in society. But it does mean we stop confusing earthly leaders with ultimate hope. Daniel understood this, living as he did under some of the most powerful empires the ancient world had ever seen. He wrote: “He changes times and seasons; he deposes kings and raises up others.” Prime Ministers come and go. Governments rise and fall. But God remains sovereign through all of it. That’s not a reason to disengage or become indifferent — it’s actually what makes it possible to engage without panic. And then there’s this line from Hebrews that I find quietly extraordinary: “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” Everything around us is in flux. Leaders change, policies change, economies change. But Christ doesn’t. That’s not just a comfort — it’s a foundation. It’s why Christians throughout history have been able to endure political uncertainty without being undone by it. Not because they ignored it, but because they understood it wasn’t ultimate. So what does seven Prime Ministers in ten years tell us? Maybe it just reminds us how fragile human systems are. Maybe it reminds us that no leader can satisfy the deepest hopes we carry. But most of all, I think it points us back to what Scripture has always been saying — the world isn’t ultimately looking for a better politician. It’s longing for a perfect King. And Christians believe His name is Jesus. Prayer Lord Jesus, we thank you that while earthly leaders come and go, you remain constant. Give wisdom to those who lead our nation. Help us to pray for them faithfully, to engage in society responsibly, and to resist placing our ultimate hope in human hands. And when we feel uncertain about the future, remind us that your Kingdom cannot be shaken. Help us to live with confidence, wisdom, and peace — keeping one eye on eternity. Amen. Scripture References Proverbs 29:21 Samuel 8:7Proverbs 11:14Isaiah 9:6Daniel 2:21Hebrews 13:8 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit benorris1977.substack.com [https://benorris1977.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

It’s Not Medieval. It’s Evil.

Welcome to Through the Lens of Eternity, a space where we slow down and think biblically about the stories, events, and questions shaping the world around us. This isn’t about reacting to headlines with outrage. It’s not about politics. It’s not about fear. It’s about asking deeper questions. How should followers of Jesus think about the world around them? How should we respond to difficult events? And what changes when we keep one eye on eternity? Many of us will have seen the news regarding the horrific attack in Belfast this week. In response, one politician described the attack as “medieval”. Whilst I understand what he meant, I found myself thinking something different. It’s not medieval. It’s evil. Because the word medieval almost makes it sound like this kind of thing belongs to another age. A darker age. A less civilised age. A less educated age. As though violence is a problem humanity has left behind. But the reality is very different. We haven’t left violence behind. We’ve brought it with us. The Bible tells us the first murder happened almost immediately after humanity fell into sin. Cain murdered Abel. Brother killed brother. Not because society was undeveloped. Not because technology was lacking. Not because education had failed. But because sin had entered the human heart. Thousands of years later we still read the same headlines. The methods may change. The technology may change. The world may change. But the human heart remains remarkably similar. And that’s why I think the word evil is important. Because evil reminds us that the problem is not merely social. It’s spiritual. One of the challenges of modern life is that we often assume progress can solve everything. If we become more educated, more connected, more informed, and more advanced, then surely humanity will improve. And yet every week the news reminds us that something deeper is wrong. We have smartphones, artificial intelligence, instant communication, and medical breakthroughs. Yet violence remains. Hatred remains. Racism remains. Abuse remains. War remains. Technology has advanced enormously, but the human heart still needs redemption. Perhaps that is what stories like this expose. Not simply that bad things happen, but that humanity’s deepest problem cannot be solved by human effort alone. What’s also striking is how we experience these events today. Previous generations might have read about a violent incident in a newspaper the next day. Today we often see it immediately. Videos. Images. Commentary. Reactions. All appearing on our phones within minutes. Whilst there can be value in knowing what’s happening around the world, there is also a danger. We become desensitised. What would once have shocked us barely causes a reaction now. We scroll, pause briefly, and move on to the next thing. A violent attack. A celebrity story. A funny video. A sporting result. All appearing in the same feed. Something about that should concern us. Human suffering was never meant to become entertainment. The prophet Ezekiel records God’s promise: “I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” What a beautiful image. A soft heart. A responsive heart. A heart that still grieves when people suffer. A heart that still mourns when violence occurs. A heart that refuses to become indifferent. As Christians, I think we need to guard our hearts carefully. Because it is possible to become so accustomed to evil that we stop being shocked by it. When that happens, something precious is lost. The Bible never treats evil casually. Jesus certainly didn’t. In Matthew 5, Jesus speaks about murder. Once again, He takes us deeper than the act itself. He points us towards the heart. Towards anger. Towards contempt. Towards the attitudes that eventually lead to destructive actions. Jesus understood something that modern society often forgets. The greatest problem facing humanity is not ultimately outside us. It’s inside us. That can be an uncomfortable truth because we prefer to believe evil belongs to other people. The violent people. The dangerous people. The criminals. But Jesus reminds us that every human heart needs transformation. Every human heart needs grace. Every human heart needs redemption. That doesn’t mean all sins are equal. It doesn’t mean anger and murder are identical. They are not. But it does mean that humanity’s deepest issues are spiritual. And that brings us to the hope of the gospel. Because Christianity does not simply diagnose the problem. It offers a solution. The Christian story is not that humanity will eventually fix itself. The Christian story is that Christ came to save a broken world. A world filled with violence. A world filled with hatred. A world filled with grief. A world very much like our own. And that’s why the promise of eternity matters so much. Every violent headline reminds us that this world is not yet what it should be. Every act of violence reminds us why Jesus taught us to pray, “Your Kingdom come.” Every tragedy reminds us why we long for something greater. A world where evil no longer has the final word. A world where death no longer has the final word. A world where fear no longer has the final word. The Bible describes that future beautifully. In Isaiah 65, God says: “See, I will create new heavens and a new earth.” Think about that. Not merely improved circumstances. Not merely better governments. Not merely better technology. A completely renewed creation. Then Revelation gives us one of the most beautiful promises in all of Scripture: “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain.” No more stabbings. No more violence. No more grieving families. No more evil. Sometimes people ask why Christians talk so much about eternity. This is why. Because the headlines remind us every day that the world is not as it should be. And every headline should deepen our longing for Christ’s return. Not because we are escaping the world, but because we believe God will one day renew it. So how should we respond to stories like this? We should pray for those affected. We should refuse to become desensitised. We should guard our hearts against indifference. We should continue to call evil what it is. And we should remember that evil does not get the final word. One day Christ will return. One day justice will be complete. One day creation will be restored. And one day every trace of evil will be removed forever. Until then, we grieve, we pray, we stay soft-hearted, and we keep one eye on eternity. Amen Scripture References * Genesis 4:1-12 * Ezekiel 36:26 * Matthew 5:21-22 * Matthew 6:10 * Isaiah 65:17 * Revelation 21:4 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit benorris1977.substack.com [https://benorris1977.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

Why Does Football Matter So Much?

Welcome to Through the Lens of Eternity, a space where we slow down and think biblically about the stories, emotions, and conversations shaping the world around us. It’s about asking deeper questions. How should followers of Jesus think?How should we live?And what changes when we keep one eye on eternity? This week the Premier League season has come to an end. After a long wait, Arsenal are champions. But we see managers move on. Some clubs celebrate success. Others face disappointment. And then there’s relegation. One team survives and celebrates wildly, almost like they’ve won the league itself. Another club drops down and supporters are devastated. And if we’re honest, every season this happens. People become genuinely anxious. People lose sleep. People feel depressed. People’s moods rise and fall with results. And from the outside, it can seem strange. Because at one level we could say: It’s twenty two people kicking a ball around a field. Why does it matter so much? But perhaps that question misses something deeper. Because football has never really just been about football. It’s about belonging. It’s about identity. It’s about community. It’s about being part of something bigger than yourself. Think about it. People wear the colours. Pass it on through generations. Travel long distances. Celebrate together. Cry together. Suffer together. When you hear people say things like: “We did it.” “We survived.” “We’re going down.” Even though they never kicked the ball. Because something much deeper is happening. People are attaching themselves to a story bigger than themselves. And I think the Bible helps explain why. Ecclesiastes says: “He has set eternity in the human heart.” That’s fascinating, because perhaps the reason people long to belong to something bigger is because God built us that way. Human beings were never designed to live isolated lives. We were made for: relationship, community, purpose, meaning We were made to belong. So, football itself isn’t the problem. Community isn’t the problem. Celebration isn’t the problem. Joy isn’t the problem. These things can be beautiful gifts. There is something wonderful about standing shoulder to shoulder with people from different backgrounds, different ages, different stories, all united around something they love. The church can learn from some of that. But there is also something we need to be careful about. Because good things can sometimes begin carrying a weight they were never designed to carry. Football can become more than entertainment. Success can become more than enjoyment. A club can become more than community. And suddenly identity becomes attached to something temporary. My joy rises with results. My peace rises with results. My emotional health rises with results. And that becomes a heavy burden for something temporary to carry. Because football seasons end. Managers leave. Players retire. Trophies gather dust. Relegation happens. Records get broken. None of it lasts forever. Hebrews says: “For here we do not have an enduring city.” Everything around us eventually changes, even the things we love. And perhaps this explains why disappointment in football can hurt so deeply. Because when something carries part of our identity, its loss feels personal. And we all do this in different ways. For some people it’s football. For others it’s work. Success. Relationships. Money. Status. We all attach ourselves to things hoping they will give us lasting meaning. But the Bible gently points us toward something deeper. In Isaiah God says: “I have called you by name, you are mine.” That’s powerful. Because our deepest identity was never meant to come from what we support, what we achieve, or what we belong to. It comes from God. And perhaps that’s why even the greatest sporting moments eventually fade. Because they were never meant to satisfy the deepest longings of the human heart. They point towards something bigger. Maybe what people are really searching for through football is something football only gives in glimpses. Belonging. Joy. Shared purpose. Hope. Community. And those things ultimately point beyond sport itself. They point towards the Kingdom of God. Because in Christ we are invited into the greatest story of all. A family. A purpose. A community. A Kingdom that does not end. Living with one eye on eternity doesn’t mean we stop enjoying football. Enjoy it. Celebrate. Feel the joy of victory. Feel the disappointment of defeat. But remember where your deepest identity rests. Because no club can carry the weight of your soul. No trophy can satisfy eternity. No result can define your worth. Only Christ can do that. So maybe the question this week isn’t: “Why do people care so much about football?” Maybe the deeper question is: “What does football reveal about what we’ve all been looking for?” Let’s pray Lord God, Thank You for the gifts of joy, community, and belonging. Thank You for the things we enjoy and celebrate together. Help us to enjoy them without making them ultimate. Teach us to find our deepest identity and security in You. And remind us that the things of this world may come and go, but Your Kingdom lasts forever. Help us to keep one eye on the present and one eye on eternity. Amen. Scripture References Ecclesiastes 3:11Hebrews 13:14Isaiah 43:1 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit benorris1977.substack.com [https://benorris1977.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

Working Hard, But Still Feeling Behind

Welcome to Through the Lens of Eternity, a space where we slow down and think biblically about the stories, tensions, and pressures shaping the world around us. This isn’t about reacting to headlines with fear or outrage. It’s about asking deeper questions. How should followers of Jesus think?How should we live?And what changes when we keep one eye on eternity? This week I was reading reports about wages in the UK. Pay is still increasing, but more slowly than before, and many economists are warning that financial pressure is continuing for households across the country. And I think many ordinary people already know that without needing economists to tell them. Because even when people are working hard, many still feel stretched. Bills feel high.Food costs more.Housing feels expensive.And for some people, there never seems to be much left at the end of the month. And perhaps one of the most exhausting feelings in modern life is this: Working hard, but still feeling behind. You do the right things. You work, you budget, you try to be responsible. And yet anxiety still creeps in. Pressure still builds. And rest can feel difficult to find. In Haggai 1, the prophet says: “You earn wages, only to put them in a purse with holes in it.” That image feels incredibly relevant. Money comes in. And somehow it disappears just as quickly. Now of course, work itself is not a bad thing. Work has dignity. From the very beginning of creation, human beings were created to cultivate, build, create, and contribute. Colossians says: “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord.” Work matters, faithfulness matters, responsibility matters. But the Bible also warns us about something else. The danger of believing that work alone will finally give us peace. Because modern culture says. If you work harder, earn more, achieve more, then eventually you’ll feel secure. Eventually you’ll feel settled and you’ll feel like you have enough. But many people are discovering that doesn’t always happen. Even with more income, anxiety can remain. Even with more success, pressure can remain. Even with constant striving, contentment can still feel distant. Ecclesiastes says: “Whoever loves money never has enough.” That’s not simply talking about greed. It’s talking about the endless human tendency to believe that just a little bit more will finally satisfy us. And perhaps that’s why so many people feel tired. Not just physically but also spiritually and emotionally. Because striving can become exhausting. Psalm 127 says: “In vain you rise early and stay up late, toiling for food to eat.” That doesn’t mean work is meaningless. It means anxious striving is not where peace is found. And this is where Jesus speaks so powerfully into modern life. In Matthew 11 He says: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” That verse hits differently when people feel pressured. Because Jesus recognises something about humanity. People carry heavy burdens. Financial burdens.Emotional burdens.The burden of trying to keep up.The burden of constantly worrying about the future. And Jesus offers something deeper than temporary relief. He offers rest for the soul. Now that doesn’t mean Christians never struggle financially. It doesn’t mean bills disappear or pressure suddenly vanishes. But it does mean our identity is no longer tied completely to productivity, income, or financial success. And that changes how we carry pressure. Because if our worth comes from work alone, we will never fully rest. There will always be more to achieve, more to earn, more to prove. But Scripture reminds us that our value comes first from being loved by God. Not from our salary, not from our status, not from how successful we appear to others. And living with one eye on eternity reshapes all of this. Because eternity reminds us that life is bigger than accumulation, bigger than income, bigger than constant striving. Jesus says: “What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul?” That’s a sobering question. Because it reminds us that it’s possible to succeed outwardly while becoming exhausted inwardly. So how should we respond in a time where many people feel financial pressure? First, we work faithfully. Scripture values diligence, responsibility, and hard work. Second, we guard our hearts. We don’t allow money, pressure, or comparison to become our identity. Third, we learn contentment. Not pretending everything is easy. But learning to trust God in every season. And finally, we remember eternity. Because this world constantly tells us to chase more. But the Kingdom of God invites us to something different. Peace.Rest.Trust.Perspective. And perhaps that’s the real challenge in modern life. Not simply learning how to earn more. But learning how to live with peace while the world constantly tells us we never have enough. So this week, if you feel tired… If you feel stretched… If you feel like you’re working hard but still carrying pressure… Remember this. Your value is not measured by your income. Your worth is not determined by your productivity. And your peace does not have to rise and fall with your circumstances. Because Christ offers rest in a restless world. And that changes everything. Let’s pray Lord God, You see the pressures people carry every day. You see the anxiety, exhaustion, and striving that so many feel. Help us to work faithfully without losing peace. Teach us to find our identity in You rather than in success or financial security. Give rest to weary hearts. And help us to live with wisdom, gratitude, and trust, as we keep one eye on the present and one eye on eternity. Amen. Scripture References Haggai 1:6Colossians 3:23Ecclesiastes 5:10Psalm 127:2Matthew 11:28Matthew 16:26 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit benorris1977.substack.com [https://benorris1977.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]