The Parable of the House Lights

The kingdom of God is like a house you keep trying to break into—only to discover you’ve been living there the whole time.

You were taught to knock.
To wait.
To bring the right words.
To clean yourself up on the porch before you dared step inside.

You were told the door opens if you insert the right coin:
belief.
sincerity.
good behavior over time.

You learned to jingle the change in your pocket and hope it was enough.

But the lights are already on.

Not because you asked.
Not because you meant it this time.
Not because you finally got the prayer right.

They’re on because someone never left.

You walk the halls like a guest who overstayed.
Careful not to touch anything.
Careful not to assume you belong.
Waiting for the moment someone clears their throat and asks what you’re doing here.

It never happens.

The furniture is worn where bodies have rested.
The fridge hums like it knows your name.
There are fingerprints on the glass that look suspiciously like yours.

You keep expecting terms.
A lease.
A test.
A performance review disguised as love.

Instead, there’s presence.

Not approval that comes and goes.
Not forgiveness waiting on proof.
Not union waiting on belief like a coin-operated machine.

Just a God who made His home here
and never packed a bag.

Faith, it turns out, isn’t how you get inside.
It’s how you stop pretending you’re outside.

Grace isn’t a transaction.
It’s the shock of realizing the door was never locked—
and no one was keeping score of how many times you doubted it.

Religion taught us to live like squatters,
constantly justifying our stay.
Grace teaches us to sit on the couch,
kick off our shoes,
and finally exhale.

Because a conditional God needs validation.
But a loving God just needs space—
and He’s already taken it.

Blessed are the ones who stop trying to earn the address—
and wake up to the truth that they’ve always been home.