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.