Last night, I did something that Jesus never did. After thirty-one days on the road, I slept in a home that I own. I kind of like it. It’s not that I’m complaining about travel, which I do enjoy. Thirty-one days in hotels, friends’ basements, and relatives’ couches does have a certain appeal. My wife and I enjoyed wonderful hospitality, gained knowledge, heard stories, and told some of our own. However, living in a home that you own does have advantages. In my home, my clothes are on hangers and drawers rather than in a suitcase. In my home, I don’t have to ask for the wi-fi password. In my home, I can move the furniture. In my home, I choose the TV channel. In my home, I don’t ask permission, I just do.
After thirty-one days, I am reminded that I like owning a home. But now that I’m home, I’ve been wondering, when I asked Jesus to move into my place, did I invite him as a guest, or did I hand him the key?
If Jesus is my guest, I will make space for him. If he is my guest, I will listen, with interest, to his stories. If he is my guest, I will consider his ideas as suggestions. If, however, Jesus is the owner, he will redecorate. If he is the owner, he will choose the channel, set the menu, and plan the recreation. Oh, and there is one more thing: when the pipes burst, or the air-conditioning fails, if Jesus is the owner, he takes care of it.
So, I’m wondering, in your home, is Jesus the owner or the guest?
Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me. Revelation 3:20 ESV