A story of home. Until I was in fourth grade, our family of six

lived in the town of Woodleaf, North Carolina, population

898. My father was the pastor of Unity Presbyterian

Church, and we lived in a manse (that’s a home owned

by the church) less than two hundred yards from the

sanctuary. Now, to be the pastor’s kid in Woodleaf meant to

be known—and known about—by the whole town.

The story begins in that manse. It was Friday morning, and

Dad was writing his sermon (I can still hear the typewriter

keystrokes). And I, four years old, was playing somewhere

nearby. Dad was focused, and I was bored. So, I decided

to set off for Uncle Sam and Aunt Gloria’s house. Sam

and Gloria Correll were chosen family, dairy farmers, and

church members who lived closest to us, only about a

quarter mile from the manse, and even closer if I took the

shortcut through the pasture, which I did. Dad was busy, so

I didn’t see the need to mention my plan to him. I simply set

out on my journey like only a four-year-old could, confident,

curious, and blissfully unaware of any risk before me.

I slipped under the fence and into the pasture. I walked

past cows I barely even noticed, and back under the

fence on the other side, and finally into the Corrells’ home

through the carport door. A triumphant entry. I can’t

remember what I said, but I do remember how it felt when

Uncle Sam scooped me up— his arms around me, the

smell of the farm on his clothes, his laughter, which was

half-relief and half-rebuke. I remember it because I felt

secure. I felt safe. I felt at home. Only later did I learn the

reason for his reaction. It turns out that this happened to be

the day the Corrells had put the bull out in the pasture, the

very pasture I had ambled through, for his regular visit.

I had no idea I had walked through danger. All I knew: that I

was welcomed, like a child, at home.

Time and again, Christian theology declares that God

chose to take on flesh. The heart of our faith is the truth

that God made a home in this world. And because of

this, all our ordinary places are touched by holiness. As

the Kentucky farmer and poet Wendell Berry has written,

“There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred

places and desecrated places.”i Yes, the world that is our

home belongs to God. It is sacred. It’s up to us to honor,

ignore, or defile this.

The Psalmist takes it a step further. “Lord, you have been

our dwelling place in all generations.” I remember when

our son Benjamin was four years old. I was reading to him

a book about a dog who meows and quacks, oinks and

moos. Concerned, his loving and dutiful mother takes the

dog to the vet, who quickly discovers that there is a cat, a

duck, a pig, and a cow living inside of him. So, amused, I

asked Ben, “Do you think we might be living inside a dog?”

He looked up at me, confused by the question, and then

replied with a four-year-old’s certainty, “No, Dad. I already

know we live in God.”

The witness of scripture confirms what Ben already knew:

God is our home.

Which places, for you, radiate with the presence of God?

As you consider the experiences where God felt closest,

which memories rise to the surface? I recall mountain

vistas where I’ve been overcome with awe, soaring chapels

where I’ve been met with grace, the sanctuaries where I’ve

made my vows and my life has been changed. I imagine

that each of you could name places where God feels

especially near. There is something in each of us that longs

to feel at home, something that attaches our experience of

God to particular places, specific locations, where God’s

presence is tangible for us.

It is not that God is any more present in those places.

God is indeed everywhere, our dwelling place in all

generations and every place. But we humans have always

needed spaces and times set aside to reorient us to God’s

constant presence. It’s why Jacob built a pillar at Bethel.

Why Moses set up a tabernacle. Why Jesus worshiped

every week in the synagogue. Why Mary went to the

tomb. Why Paul planted churches. Why Prisca and Aquila

opened their home to host one. And it is the promise at

the heart of Revelation’s vision: “See the home of God is

among mortals.”

God is our home. And our home is with God.

As we travel the road of faith, we need regular reminders of

this truth. We need time and space set apart to be at home

with God—to remember where we’ve been, to recall who

we are, to consider where we are going and why it matters.

I remember a couple, in the waning days of the pandemic,

who had returned to in-person worship after many months

streaming at home. They joked with me about how they’d

grown a little too fond of worshiping in their pajamas with

a cup of coffee in hand. (Both of which are totally fine with

me in the sanctuary, by the way.) They described them as

perks of online worship. But they went on to say how eager

they were to be back in this space and how overwhelmed

they were when they walked in for the first time. When I

asked why, they said, “Simple. We can’t multitask in the

sanctuary.” So much of our lives is spent juggling too many

things at the same time and not doing any of them very

well. But here, perhaps uniquely in our lives, here we do

one thing: we come to encounter God.

As our lives are increasingly untethered from our bodies—

scrolling, streaming, swiping, isolating—this place calls

us to be fully present, body and soul, heart and mind.

Every week, in this space, we reclaim the sacred power of

embodied faith. Whenever we lift our voices in unison or

extend our hands in care. In this space, presence—your

presence—matters.

And what we do here matters as well. That’s why we keep

returning. Here we baptize our babies. Here we make

confirmation promises and wedding vows. Here we sing

with joy and listen as angelic voices proclaim God’s glory.

Here we break the bread of life and drink from the cup of

salvation. Here we proclaim resurrection hope and light the

candles of Christmas peace.

Here, we invite children to learn the stories of faith. Here,

we honor our saints and grieve our losses. Holiness

happens in this room—not because the space is magical,

but because we have set it apart. Here we speak sacred

words we speak nowhere else. “Till death do us part.”

“Child of the covenant.” “Glorious company of the saints

in light.” “The body of Christ broken for you.” “Help me

see what you see and love the way you love.” This is the

room where we are nourished for the journey. Where we

rehearse our final homecoming.

The final chapters of Revelation offer a dramatic vision of

how all our journeys will one day end. We often imagine

the end of the story as escape, our souls raptured from this

weary world. One fine morning, I’ll fly away.

But Revelation tells a different story. The elevators are not

going up; they’re coming down. They holy city descends.

Heaven meets earth. The home of God is among mortals.

We are not escaping this world; God is redeeming it. We

are going home, but home is here.

God is our home. And God’s home is with us.

This morning, we have the joy of welcoming a new class

of confirmands into membership of our congregation. For

many months now, these teenagers have been preparing

to make their profession of faith and be received by you,

their church. They have been on a journey of spiritual

growth and discovery together. And the end of this journey

is to return to the place they started and be at home.

Of course, for our confirmands, this day does not mark

a completion but the next step on a lifelong pilgrimage.

To feel at home in God is not to rest, but to rise. To be

sent. To carry that sense of home with us as we venture

forward. And, friends, we too are a part of that call and

responsibility. This community must be not only a refuge

but a launch pad for ministries of love, and compassion,

and justice.

We are not where we once were. We have not yet arrived

at our destination. We are on the way. And today, as these

confirmands take their place among us, they are not

settling in. They’re lacing up their traveling shoes.

And so, to you, our confirmands, our fellow travelers:

May you know, this day and every day, the God who walks

alongside you, faithful, steadfast, unafraid. May you travel

light, but never alone. May the voices of this community

echo in your heart, reminding you where you come from

and to whom you belong. And when you lose your way—

and you will lose your way—may the grace you claim today

be the light that guides you home.

Friends, our journey is not complete. We are still traveling,

walking each other toward a destination we cannot always

see. So, keep going. Walk with courageous faith. Trust the

God who makes a home among us, who waits at the door

to welcome you—a wandering child, swept up in the arms

of grace.

Not a stranger. Not a guest. But a child at home.