At Home

I was reading, this morning, in Ephesians 3:17–20, about the difference between someone visiting my house and someone actually being at home there.

When people come over, I instinctively start cleaning. I straighten the cushions, hide the clutter, and quietly shut the doors to the rooms I don’t want anyone to see. I offer what feels presentable, but I keep certain spaces off-limits.

And if I’m honest, I think I’ve often treated Jesus the same way.

I let Him into the parts of my life that feel put together, the areas I’m not embarrassed by. But there are still corners I hesitate to open—places marked by fear, insecurity, or things I’d rather keep hidden. It’s like I’m saying, “You’re welcome here… just not everywhere.”

But Paul’s prayer in Ephesians 3 challenges that in a way I can’t ignore. He prays “that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith.” And the more I sit with that word dwell, the more it unsettles me—in a good way. It doesn’t mean a brief visit. It means settling in.

Staying.

Being at home.

Home is where you don’t have to ask permission to open the refrigerator. It’s where you know where everything is. It’s where you can move things around because you belong there.

That’s what Jesus wants with me.

Today, I was talking about this with a good friend of mine, Craig. I told him I realized I have this room called “Healing” that I have invited Jesus into, but really don’t want him to re-arrange the furniture. You see… I've gotten comfortable with this big couch sitting right in front of the entrance to the room I like to sit in called, “Deception”. Beside it sits two easy chairs called “Fear” and “Self-Reliance”.

• Deception… not believing God is going to heal me.

• Fear… God doesn’t have my back… literally.

• Self-Reliance... Protecting myself from really allowing myself to hope for what He has promised me

I’m thinking… Jesus doesn’t want to just re-arrange my furniture in this room. He wants to move some of the furniture out. He wants to replace them with a couch called “Faith“ and two easy chairs called “Trust“ and “Mercy”. He also whats to include a coffee table to put our feet on called “Truth”.

Craig… in his infinite wisdom… Told me it sounded like I needed to call “Two Men and a Truck“.

Jesus doesn’t just want access to a room or two, but the freedom to live in every part of my heart…. And to let Him re-arrange the furniture!

And I’m realizing how much I both long for that and resist it at the same time.

Paul goes on to describe what happens when Christ really is at home in us. He says we become rooted and grounded in love. We begin to grasp—at least in part—the vastness of Christ’s love, even though it’s beyond full understanding. And then he says something that still feels almost too big to take in: that we would be “filled with all the fullness of God.”

I don’t fully understand that. But I think I’m starting to see glimpses of what it looks like.

It looks like moments when I respond with patience instead of irritation, and I know that didn’t come from me. It looks like a quiet peace in situations that used to make me anxious. It looks like compassion growing where I used to feel indifferent. It looks like small shifts in my desires, where I begin to want what is good, even when it’s hard.

It’s not dramatic most of the time. It’s slow. Subtle. Almost hidden.

But it feels like something—or Someone—is changing the atmosphere inside me.

Maybe that’s what happens when Christ is truly at home.

He doesn’t just tidy things up; He starts to renovate.

And I’ve felt that too. The gentle way He brings things to the surface that I’ve ignored for years. The way He nudges open doors I’ve kept shut. The way He exposes things not to shame me, but to heal me. It’s uncomfortable sometimes, but it’s also strangely hopeful—like something broken is finally being made whole.

What comforts me is how Paul ends this prayer. He doesn’t leave it up to me to figure out how to make all of this happen. He turns it into worship:

“Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine…” 

Because if I’m honest, I can’t transform my own heart into a place where God feels at home. I can try to manage behavior or clean up the surface, but real change—deep, lasting change—that has to come from Him.

All I can really do is open the door a little wider. Hand over the keys again. Let Him into another room.

Maybe that’s what spiritual maturity looks like for me right now.

Not having everything together, but slowly becoming more willing to let Him into every part of my life.

Letting go of the need to hide. Trusting that He won’t turn away when He sees what’s there.

Just learning, day by day, to say, “You’re home here.”

And maybe, as He becomes more at home in me, I’ll begin to feel more at home in Him too.