We Will Come and Make Our Home

 

Sunday, May 25, 2025

"We Will Come and Make Our Home"

“If you have judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come and stay at my home.”
— Acts 16:15

“Let the nations be glad and sing for joy,
for you judge the peoples with equity
and guide all the nations upon earth.”
— Psalm 67:4

“But the throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it.”
— Revelation 22:3

“Those who love me will keep my word, and my Father will love them,
and we will come to them and make our home with them.”
— John 14:23

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When I was a child, having company was as normal as the sunrise.

People—family, friends, neighbors—would drop in without calling. If they needed a place to sleep, we made room. Nobody asked for permission, because it didn’t need asking. And it went both ways. I spent nights in cousins' homes, on couches, in basements, in guest rooms made ready by love. The table was always stretchable. The welcome was never questioned.

That’s how I learned what home meant.

And now these verses from the Lectionary come together to remind me: that’s what God wants too.

When Lydia said, “Come stay at my home,” it wasn’t just an offer—it was a sign that her heart had made space for others, the same way God had made space for her.

Jesus says that when we love Him and keep His word, He and the Father will come and make their home with us. That line hits me hard today. God doesn’t just want to visit. He wants to live with us. Permanently. In our presence. With all of us under one roof.

Revelation points to a future where this promise is fully visible: a city where God lives among His people. No temple needed, because the Lamb is the light. No barriers, because love holds the gate open. No scarcity, because all belong.

But Psalm 67 whispers the part we sometimes overlook: equity.
That home, that table, that throne—it’s not just for the ones who look like us, vote like us, worship like us. It’s for every nation. It’s for the ones we've misunderstood. The ones we’ve judged. The ones we’ve failed to invite.

Equity means this: we all get the same welcome.
And we all learn to see each other not as projects, not as threats, but as perfectly beautiful—because Christ is in them.

I’ll admit, we have a long way to go. I do. The Church does. Society surely does. But I’m learning to measure holiness not by who has the right answers, but by who makes room. Who says, “Come stay at my home.” Who lives like eternity has already started.

Because maybe it has.

The Church Needs the Rest of the Church

The Church Needs the Rest of the Church

Start With the Word

Start with the Word

“Go at once to Nineveh, that great city, and cry out against it...”
— Jonah 1:2

“Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight,
O Lord, my strength and my redeemer.”
— Psalm 19:14

“I pray that you may have the power to comprehend...”
— Ephesians 3:18

“If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples;
and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.”
— John 8:31-32

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My walk of faith has unfolded in phases, each with its own beginning. The middle years of my life—especially the 1980s—were marked by a strong, outward commitment to Christ. I attended camps, wrote for Christian publications, and kept close to church life. I longed to be a bold disciple.

But I tried too hard to straddle two worlds.

In college and early adulthood, especially in the corporate world, I projected a pious front: I avoided alcohol (mostly), watched my language (in select company), and practiced strict abstinence. But underneath, I was masking a deeper struggle—using the trappings of faith to shield a fragile core. I had few close friendships, and often “ghosted” friends and dating partners, convincing myself I was standing on principle rather than grappling with fear.

I wasn't much of an evangelist, truth be told. I didn’t persuade others by word or deed. Looking back, I see that my journey was less about "leading others" and more about surviving my own internal storms.

Every true faith journey begins with crisis. Mine came in the spring of 1980. I’m telling that story in a separate project called Forty-Five Winters—a personal account of trauma, faith, and healing, four and a half decades in the making.

By that summer, at a point of deep fear and vulnerability, God met me. Not through thunder or spectacle, but through His Word—simple, piercing, alive. Scripture found me, carried by the voices of men and women placed in my path. Old writings, sacred texts, and ancient wisdom took root.

And that’s the thread tying today’s readings together:

Start with the Word.

That summer lit a fire in me—not just for common interpretations of Scripture, but for the wide landscape of insight it can offer. I began to see that we all bring a distinct lens to God’s unchanging truth. His Word doesn’t shift, but our view of it does. That realization made me curious. It made me open. It taught me to listen to those the Church often excludes. It broke down barriers. And in breaking, it showed me wonder.

It also brought isolation—but that’s a different story.

The point is this:

Start with the Word.

Then let it shape your world.

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