Last summer, my friend Nathan went to Nairobi, Kenya. One afternoon, he ventured into Kibera, the second largest African slum. A massive expanse of impoverished conditions, Kibera feels like a place hope forgot.

An HIV-positive single mom graciously invited Nathan into her shack. Her husband’s sexual escapades had brought HIV home; and then the virus killed him, leaving her alone and barely surviving. Her home was tiny, bare. Dirt floors. Nathan said little. He was simply present. Before he left, though, she wanted to tell him something. “Because you are here,” she said, “I know I am loved.”

Jesus had little trouble drawing a crowd. His healings and other miracles stirred rabid excitement. Jesus consistently resisted, however, the pleas from the masses to unveil yet another fantastic feat. These voyeurs merely wanted a good show, constantly prodding Jesus: “Show us a miraculous sign if You want us to believe in You. What can You do?” (v.30).

Jesus chided their shortsightedness with a pointed rebuff: “Spend your energy seeking the eternal life that the Son of Man can give you” (v.27). The crowd’s problem was not only that they were making selfish demands, but also that they were blind to the one who stood among them: Jesus, God in the flesh, longing to give them Himself, longing to give them life.

But the crowd wasn’t interested. They wanted flash and glitz.

Humanity doesn’t most need the stuff Jesus does. We need Jesus. Jesus is the true bread. Jesus is life. It is Jesus’ presence—His willingness to “come down from heaven” and become one of us—that offers hope for our deep sickness (v.33). Because Jesus was here, right in the middle of our brokenness and sin, we can surely know that God’s rich love pours out toward us.