There’s No Place Like Home

Sixth Sunday of Easter
John 14:23-29

“If anyone loves me,” Jesus says in John 14, “they will keep my word, and my Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them.”

There’s something kinda domestic about that line. And honestly, I can’t decide if I find it comforting or confronting.

Because I know my house. And if God’s moving in, I should probably warn Him.

The porch needs painting. The baseboards need dusting. The bathtub faucet drips. The toilet doesn’t flush properly unless you hold the handle down. The blanket on the armchair in the living room is 80% polyester, 20% dog hair. There’s laundry piled on top of the dryer, the kitchen counter is cluttered, and [full disclosure] my Christmas lights are still up.

And let’s call a spade a spade: it’s not just my physical house that looks like this. My spiritual life feels about the same: lived in, mostly functional, full of good intentions and unfinished work, and rarely guest-ready.

If this is the house God wants to make a home in… I mean, He’s welcome, but also — really?

Which brings me to vocation, and the mild existential crisis this occasionally triggers. I’ve often regarded the notion of my vocation as something that should be like a divine showhome: polished, intentional, curated. Something you walk into and immediately know it’s the right place. Big windows. Fresh paint. A calling so clear and compelling that you could live in it comfortably, Instagram it occasionally, and show it off proudly when you host people at parties and they ask what you do.

But really, my own experience of vocation tends to feel more like the Holy Spirit dropped off a couple of pieces of particle board and some random socket wrenches and said, “Here. Build something.” It’s full of half-finished discernment, squeaky floorboards, and the kind of spiritual clutter that I keep meaning to sort through “when things calm down,” which — spoiler alert — they never do.

And into that, Jesus says: “We will come and make our home with you.”

Not, “We’ll meet you when you’ve figured it out.”
Not, “We’ll wait until the calling is crystal clear and your inner life is a candlelit chapel.”
Not even, “We’ll help you tidy up first.”

No. Just: We’ll come. We’ll stay.

Apparently he doesn’t need me to be impressive. Just available.

It’s probably fair to say that Jesus is far less interested in whether my vocation looks shiny from the outside, and more interested in whether it’s the kind of space where he can put his feet up on the coffee table. A home with all the mess and the quiet hospitality of a life that is simply open.

Which, frankly, I find both deeply humbling and deeply inconvenient.

I wanted vocation to feel more like a grand mission and less like doing dishes again. I wanted to feel like I was “the hostess with this most-est.” I wanted Jesus to look around and be impressed with my impeccable class. Instead, I’m praying he just doesn’t try to open the closet.

But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe vocation is not the moment you step into your greatness — but the long, slow work of learning how to live in a house that isn’t perfect, leaving the porch light on and the front door unlocked. Making the tea. Inviting others in. Believing, somehow, that God has settled in and wants to stay.

And maybe the presence of God is less like a divine guest of honour, and more like someone standing barefoot in your kitchen, content to be there even if the dishes aren’t done.

Perhaps that’s the kind of peace Jesus offers in this passage. Not the peace of everything being pristine, but the peace of knowing God is quite comfortable here. “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you,” He says — and then reminds us: “Do not let your hearts be troubled.”

Honestly, my heart is troubled as often as it isn’t. I don’t wake up every morning beaming with vocational clarity. But I do know this: God’s not holding out for the best version of me to show off. He’s already quite at home here with me. In the middle of it. Drips, dents, dog hair, dirty dishes, and all.

And somehow, that makes this house — this life, this calling, this very imperfect attempt at being faithful — holy.

Even if it’s held together by grace and duct tape.

By Darcie Lich