What makes a place feel like home? It’s not just where we sleep. It’s where we rest. It’s where we are known, welcomed, and safe. A place can have walls and furniture, but not feel like home. And other places, simple, quiet, even temporary, can feel like the one place where our soul exhales. But it all depends on who we live with. We all long for a place to call home.
We catch a glimpse of this longing for home in the closing scene of the 2008 film, “The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian.” In the story, four children, Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy, have fought for Narnia, walked with Aslan, and rediscovered who they are in the light of something far greater than themselves. But as the time comes for them to return to England, Aslan tells Peter and Susan, this was your last visit. They will never come back. And as the magic fades, so does their place of deepest belonging.
Peter and Susan are not just leaving a magical land; they are letting go of the place that made them feel most alive. They are stepping out of a world that felt like home into one that suddenly feels flat, unfamiliar, and cold. And yet, Aslan’s parting words shift the weight of their sorrow with a quiet hope: “In your world, I am known by another name.” The comfort isn’t in reclaiming what they’re leaving behind, but in recognizing that what their hearts truly long for still lies ahead. Not in a place, but in a Person.
That ache is captured in the closing song, “This Is Home” by Switchfoot. The lyrics express what Peter and Susan could not yet name: “This is home / now I’m finally where I belong… I’ve got my heart set on what happens next.” It’s about discovering that home isn’t behind you, it’s ahead of you. Not in the place you’re leaving, but in the One who is leading.
The disciples in John 14 felt like they were losing their sense of home. Their Rabbi, the One they had followed for years, was talking about leaving. One of them would betray Him. Another would deny Him. And worst of all, Jesus says He’s going somewhere they cannot follow, yet. But He doesn’t leave them in that confusion. He meets their troubled hearts with a clear and gentle command: “Do not let your heart be troubled.” He doesn’t offer them a strategy, He offers them Himself. In doing so, He calls them to…
Trust Him when the future feels uncertain.
The disciples were shaken. Jesus had just told Peter he would deny Him three times(John 13:38). Betrayal was in the air and Jesus was leaving. Even as their hearts spin with confusion, Jesus calls them to steady their souls in Him. Let’s read…
John 14:1 NASB “Do not let your heart be troubled; believe in God, believe also in Me.
The heart in Scripture is more than just the seat of emotions, it’s the control center of your life. It’s where your thoughts are formed, where your desires take root, and where your motivations and commitments are born. Jesus said that those who are pure in heart will see God (Matt 5:8), and God Himself told Samuel that while people look at the outward appearance, the Lord looks at the heart (1 Sam 16:7).
The heart is also where belief begins. As Paul writes, it is with the heart that one believes, resulting in righteousness (Rom 10:10). And Jesus sees what’s in our hearts even when no one else can. When the scribes silently questioned Him, He asked, “Why are you reasoning about these things in your hearts?” (Mark 2:8).
So when Jesus says, “Do not let your heart be troubled,” this is not a cold command, it’s a pastoral call. He’s not telling the disciples to suppress their emotions, but to take responsibility for what they allow to rule their hearts. He doesn’t say, “Don’t feel troubled.” He says, “Don’t let your heart be troubled.” There’s a difference. His words affirm that, by grace, His followers have a measure of control over how much control their feelings exert over their mind. That’s why, when the future feels uncertain, we must learn to guard our inner life. So how do we guard our inner life when our hearts feel like they’re unraveling? First…
Recognize what’s happening early.
Troubling thoughts don’t announce themselves with fanfare, they creep in. Psalm 42:5 gives us language for discernment:
Psalms 42:5 NASB Why are you in despair, O my soul? And why have you become disturbed within me? Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him For the help of His presence.
That’s a spiritually alert person, catching the descent while it’s still happening. Second…
Interrupt the spiral.
Don’t let your soul preach a false gospel to your mind. As Martyn Lloyd-Jones said, “Have you realized that most of your unhappiness in life is due to the fact that you are listening to yourself instead of talking to yourself?” Talk to your soul. Answer it with truth. Third…
Reframe your emotions with God’s promises.
This isn’t about denial, it’s about anchoring. Rehearse what you know to be true of God, even when it doesn’t feel true of your situation. His sovereignty, His goodness, His nearness, these are not altered by your mood. Fourth…
Take your thoughts captive.
2 Corinthians 10:5 NASB We are destroying speculations and… taking every thought captive to the obedience of Christ,
That’s warfare language. The heart is a battlefield, and you can’t win it passively. Alistair Begg puts it this way: “We do not allow the questions of our hearts to overturn our faith, but we allow our faith to overturn the questions of our hearts.”
After calling them to take charge of their troubled hearts, Jesus doesn’t say, “Try harder” or “Hang in there.” He says something far more personal: “Believe in God, believe also in Me.” In other words, the antidote to a troubled heart isn’t just inner calm, it’s relational trust. Jesus tells them to anchor their faith where it has always belonged: first in the Father, and now, in Himself.
This is a staggering claim. No rabbi in the first century would have dared say, “Trust in God, trust in me too.” Either Jesus is dangerously deluded… or He is telling the truth about who He really is. He is not merely a teacher pointing the way to God, He is the way. He doesn’t just speak for God, He speaks as God. When Jesus says, “Believe in Me,” He isn’t asking for vague spiritual optimism, He is calling His disciples to rest the full weight of their confidence on His promises, His presence, and His person. And we must do the same.
Don’t just try to believe more, believe specifically in the One who said, “My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me; and I give them eternal life, and they will never perish…” (John 10:27–28). Anchor your emotions to His character: He is faithful. He is sovereign. He is near. And when anxiety rises like a tide, don’t carry it alone. As Paul writes, “Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God…” (Phil 4:6).
This kind of trust is not wishful thinking. It’s built on a solid promise. Jesus doesn’t just call us to believe in Him, He gives us something to believe about Him. He tells His disciples where He’s going and why: not to abandon them, but to prepare a place for them. A place in His Father’s house. A place that will feel like home. So next, He invites the believer to…
Rest in His promise to bring you home.
John 14:2 NASB “In My Father’s house are many dwelling places; if it were not so, I would have told you;
The phrase “My Father’s house” isn’t new in John’s Gospel, but it takes on a whole new depth here. When Jesus first used it in John 2:16, He was referring to the temple, the earthly place where God’s presence dwelled. But that temple had been corrupted. And now, as Jesus prepares to leave His disciples, He speaks not of a building made with hands, but of the true, eternal dwelling place of God: heaven itself.
Heaven is the place where God’s glory dwells, where His will is done perfectly, where every sorrow is healed, and where His children are fully welcomed. It is vibrant, physical, joyful, bursting with color, music, laughter, and purpose. Picture a renewed Earth without the curse: trees waving in the wind, animals unafraid, feasts shared with saints from every generation. You’ll have a real body, resurrected and radiant, fit for real relationships, real adventures, and real worship. We will explore, learn, build, create, and rule alongside Christ in meaningful service. We’ll delight in culture and art, music and discovery, play and productivity, forever growing, never bored, never weary. All that you loved about life here, beauty, belonging, creativity, intimacy, joy, will be heightened beyond your imagination. Heaven will not strip away what makes life rich; it will restore it, purify it, and glorify it. Don’t let the world’s cartoons or cynicism define your view of heaven.
Rehearse what is real.
Jesus is not just assuring the disciples that things will get better. He’s telling them they have a home, a permanent, prepared, and personal home with the Father. Some older Bible translations use the word “mansions” here, but that misses the point. Jesus isn’t talking about luxury, He’s talking about relationship. In the first-century world, when a son got married, he wouldn’t move across town, he’d build onto his father’s house. The home would grow to include space for every generation. That’s the picture Jesus gives: “There’s a place for you with My Father. You belong in His household.”
And Jesus doesn’t say those places “will be” there, He says they “are” there, they already exist. They’re not under construction, stuck in some endless PG&E backlog, waiting for the power to be turned on. The preparation Jesus speaks of isn’t about building space, it’s about making a way. He’s not going to heaven to grab a hammer, He’s going to the cross to open the door. So this isn’t a travel brochure for the curious, it’s a quiet promise for the weary: “You’re not forgotten. I’ve made the way. There’s room for you in My Father’s house.”
And here’s the part we can’t miss: Jesus isn’t just promising something that starts when we die. A few verses later, He says, “If anyone loves Me, he will keep My word; and My Father will love him, and We will come to him and make Our home with him” (John 14:23). That same word for “dwelling place” shows up again as “home”. Jesus is not just preparing a place for you, He is already preparing you for that place. If you belong to Christ, He’s already moved in. His Spirit dwells in you now, making your heart a kind of living preview of the home that’s coming. You don’t have to wait until the end to know you’re His. He’s already made His home in you. And one day soon, He’ll bring you fully home to Him.
The entire biblical storyline bends toward this idea. From the moment Adam and Eve were exiled from Eden, humanity has been homesick. Abraham lived in tents, “looking for the city whose architect and builder is God” (Heb. 11:10). David longed to “dwell in the house of the Lord forever” (Ps. 23:6). The prophets envisioned a day when the scattered would be gathered, and the tears wiped away (Isa. 25:8). Heaven is not an escape, it is the culmination of redemption, the full restoration of fellowship with God.
This is the home Augustine spoke of when he prayed, “Our heart is restless until it finds its rest in Thee.” Augustine had tried pleasure, success, philosophy, and prestige. None of it satisfied. Because the soul made by God can only rest in God. And this is the home Jesus is pointing to, not a sanctuary from trouble, but a reunion with the Father. The true temple. The better country. The only place your soul will ever fully exhale. The writings of the early church fathers are soaked with longing, not because they were escapists, but because they had tasted the disappointments of this world and refused to settle.
C. S. Lewis puts it beautifully: “If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world… I must keep alive in myself the desire for my true country.” The Father’s house is that country. It is the destination for which every unmet longing in your life is a breadcrumb trail. The reason even your best moments still feel incomplete is because you weren’t made for tents, you were made for a temple. And Jesus is saying, “You’re almost home.”
Long for what you were made for.
Jesus says there are “many dwelling places.” That’s not just quantity, it’s invitation. There is room in the Father’s house. Enough room for every tribe and tongue. Enough room for the weak and weary. Enough room for former rebels and prodigals. The world offers exclusivity, elitism, and barriers. But Jesus says, “There’s room.” But don’t mistake invitation for entitlement. Entry into that house comes only through the Son. These are not public rentals. They are family rooms. Jesus isn’t offering universalism, He’s offering Himself. He’s the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and no one comes to the Father except through Him. But through Him, anyone can. That’s the hope: not that everyone gets in by default, but that anyone can come by grace.
This isn’t metaphor. This isn’t a state of mind. Jesus is plain: “If it were not so, I would have told you.” He’s not teasing them with images, He’s telling the truth. The disciples were about to watch everything they loved fall apart, Jesus betrayed, arrested, crucified. And in that moment of unraveling, Jesus wants them to know: Heaven is not an idea. It’s a place. A place where sin is no more. Where justice is no longer delayed. Where the light never fades, and every tear gets wiped away. That’s not escapism, that’s faith. It’s not sentimental, it’s true. He doesn’t tell them this to ease their fears with soft poetry. He tells them because it’s real. And it’s coming.
Trust the cost He paid to bring you home.
John 14:2 NASB “I go to prepare a place for you…”
And what is that cost? The cost to secure our place in the Father’s house wasn’t measured in gold or silver but in the precious blood of Christ. Our sins have amassed a debt far beyond our ability to pay, alienating us from the holiness of God. Yet, through His atoning sacrifice, Jesus settled this insurmountable debt, bridging the chasm between our sinfulness and God’s righteousness. He endured the wrath we deserved, ensuring that we, who could never afford such grace, are welcomed into eternal fellowship with Him.
Jesus didn’t die for people who almost had it together. He died for people whose very best moments were still soaked in self. You don’t have to be a murderer to be guilty, you just have to break the law once (James 2:10). And if you’ve ever told a lie, indulged a lustful thought, judged someone in arrogance, or lived one day without loving God with all your heart, you’ve shattered the standard.
The same Jesus who forgave the woman caught in adultery condemned the Pharisees who tithed their spices but refused to bow their hearts. External goodness is not enough. You can attend church, avoid scandal, and still be utterly lost. If you believe your sin is small, the cross will never feel necessary. But when you finally see it for what it is, not just a mistake, but a mutiny, you’ll stop comparing yourself to others and start crying out for mercy. Let the weight of your sin…
Magnify the worth of your Savior.
So many treat the cross like a security blanket for a life they have no intention of surrendering. They talk about grace, but never tremble at justice. They say “Jesus paid it all,” and then keep living like they’re not bought. But hear me, if your heart is unbroken over sin, the cross should haunt you before it comforts you.
Sin is not a bad habit. It’s treason. It’s not weakness, it’s rebellion. It’s not just falling short, it’s aiming at the wrong target. Scripture doesn’t say we were misguided, it says we were dead in our trespasses (Eph. 2:1), enemies of God (Rom. 5:10), by nature children of wrath (Eph. 2:3). That’s why Christ’s blood had to be poured out. Not to adjust your moral compass, but to save you from judgment.
Jesus didn’t suffer to make sin safer. He suffered to put it to death. And if we cherish what He came to kill, we spit on His wounds. He didn’t die so you could live unchanged. He died to make you new. “Shall we continue in sin so that grace may increase? May it never be!” (Rom. 6:1–2). If you treat the cross like a license to sin, you’ve never stood at its foot. You’ve never seen the horror of what your sin cost Him. You’ve never wept over the nails you drove in.
Reflect on the magnitude of this gift. The most extravagant earthly accommodations pale in comparison to the place Christ has prepared. And unlike the world’s exclusive suites, access isn’t granted based on our merit or means but through faith in the One who paid the ultimate price on our behalf. If Jesus had to bleed to prepare a place for you, then maybe it’s time to ask: Have I really let Him prepare me for that place?
But if your heart is broken over seeing your sin and wondering if there’s still room for you, hear this: Yes, there is. Let your brokenness lead you to…
Embrace His welcome.
Jesus went to the cross not to shame you, but to save you. His wounds were not to keep you away but to open the door. He didn’t go to prepare a place for the strong, but for the weary. Not for the proud, but for the poor in spirit. Not for those who try to earn their way in, but for those who fall at His feet and say, “Have mercy on me, a sinner.”
Matthew 11:28 NASB: “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.
The same voice that thundered the law now whispers grace. The blood He shed was not a down payment, it was the full price. “It is finished” means your guilt is not stronger than His grace. You don’t have to crawl your way back to God. The way is already made. He has gone before you. And He has prepared a place.
So stop trying to outrun your past. Stop trying to clean yourself up. Come as you are, to the cross, to the grace that welcomes sinners, to the place He secured not because you were worthy, but because He is. He didn’t just prepare a place, He prepared you for that place. And He will not lose you on the way home.
Jesus doesn’t just promise a place, He promises His presence. He’s not preparing a room and handing over the keys. He’s coming back to walk you in. That’s the hope at the heart of verse 3. “I will come again and receive you to Myself.” This is not just doctrine for the end-times chart, it’s hope for your every day. Because when the world feels like it’s unraveling, and you feel out of place here, Jesus says: “I’m not done. I haven’t forgotten you. I will come again.” And until then, don’t live as a citizen of this world, but…
Live in light of His return for you.
John 14:3 NASB “If I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself, that where I am, there you may be also.
When Jesus says, “I will come again,” He is not offering wishful thinking or poetic comfort. He is declaring a promise that the Church has clung to for 2,000 years: the personal, visible, bodily return of Christ. And yet, for many skeptics—both past and present—this very promise has been seen as a point of embarrassment, even failure.
Bertrand Russell, in his essay Why I Am Not a Christian, claimed this was one of the reasons he rejected Jesus altogether. He argued that Jesus clearly expected to return within a generation, and when He didn’t, it proved He was wrong. Others, like Albert Schweitzer, tried to salvage Christianity by recasting Jesus as a failed apocalyptic prophet—one who mistakenly believed the world would end in His lifetime. While Russell walked away in disbelief, Schweitzer tried to rebrand the entire faith. Both saw this promise and stumbled. And let’s be honest—some still do. Some look at this verse and say, “It’s been 2,000 years. Where is He?” Even Peter said that mockers would come with this very accusation:
2 Peter 3:4 NASB: and saying, “Where is the promise of His coming? For ever since the fathers fell asleep, all continues just as it was from the beginning of creation.”
So what do we say? First, we begin by asking: Did Jesus actually claim He would return within the apostles’ lifetime? The answer is no—not if we read carefully. Jesus says plainly,
Matthew 24:36 NASB: “But of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but the Father alone.
In Luke 19:11–12, He tells a parable precisely because people wrongly assumed the kingdom would appear immediately. He corrects them, not confirms them.
Some point to Matthew 24:34—“this generation will not pass away…”—as proof of an imminent return. But that phrase likely refers to the generation that sees the end-times signs listed just prior. In fact, Jesus often blurred the lines between the fall of Jerusalem (AD 70) and the final return, using the first as a foreshadowing of the second. The destruction of the temple was not a failure of prophecy—it was a fulfillment of it (cf. Matt. 24:2). And it gave weight to His promise: If He was right about that, you can trust Him about the rest.
So then, what kind of return is Jesus speaking of here in John 14? Not metaphor. Not the resurrection. Not Pentecost. This is eschatological, the Second Coming—the same return promised by the angels in
Acts 1:11 NASB: They also said, “Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking into the sky? This Jesus, who has been taken up from you into heaven, will come in just the same way as you have watched Him go into heaven.”
It is the blessed hope of Titus 2:13, the comfort of 1 Thessalonians 4:17, the final unveiling of Revelation 19.
And if some say, “But why is it taking so long?”—the apostle Peter already answered:
2 Peter 3:9 NASB: The Lord is not slow about His promise, as some count slowness, but is patient toward you, not wishing for any to perish but for all to come to repentance.
God delays not because He has failed, but because He is merciful. He is giving time—time for repentance, for the gospel to reach every nation, for the full harvest to be gathered. But know this…
His delay is not a denial.
When Jesus says, “I will come again,” He means it. The timing is unknown—but the promise is unshakable. And this is not just theology for the curious. It’s courage for the weary. The point of the second coming is not to satisfy our curiosity about the future but to shape our faithfulness in the present. To remind us that history is not random, and suffering is not final. The King is coming. And He is coming for you.
So don’t live like He’s forgotten. Don’t drift into spiritual slumber. Don’t treat the world as your home. Live in light of His return. Let His promise lift your chin in trials, steel your spine in temptation, and steady your hands in service. Because when He comes, it won’t just be to end history—it will be to bring you home.
The joy of heaven isn’t streets of gold but the presence of Jesus. The goal is not geography, it is proximity to Christ. We’re not merely looking for a reward—we’re longing for a person. The promise of “that where I am, there you may be also” reveals the real treasure of heaven: Christ Himself. The glory of eternity is not its golden streets, but unbroken communion with the Savior. What makes heaven home is not the place, but the Person who prepared it.
Conclusion
Jesus’ promise, “I will come again,” is not a gentle lullaby for spiritual infants—it’s a trumpet blast that should awaken sleepers and comfort sufferers alike. If you’re coasting through life, thinking little of eternity, this word is a warning. If you’ve built your dreams on this life, poured your hope into earthly security, or dulled your ache for God with the distractions of this age, then hear this: Christ is not preparing a place for the spiritually indifferent. His promise is not a backup plan—it is the plan. And it demands your full allegiance now.
Yet even now, in the quiet moments between distractions, doesn’t something inside you still ache for more? Not just more experiences, but more meaning? More wholeness? That unshakable longing—for a world made right, for a love that never leaves, for a joy that doesn’t decay—is not a glitch in the system. It’s evidence that you were made for something more than this world can give. C. S. Lewis put it this way: “If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.” And Jesus is the door to that world.
But before He brings us there, He had to bring us back to God. The good news of the gospel is not that you can earn your way into heaven, but that Jesus made a way through the cross. We’ve all rebelled against God—whether in open defiance or quiet disregard—and we’ve earned judgment, not reward. Our sin separated us from Him, and no amount of good behavior can fix what’s been broken. But Jesus came for sinners. He lived the life we could not live, died the death we deserved, and rose again to give us what we could never earn: forgiveness, righteousness, and eternal life.
This is the invitation of the gospel: not just to be forgiven, but to be welcomed. To be reconciled to God. To have the Spirit of Christ dwell in you now and to dwell with Him forever. That’s what He purchased at Calvary. That’s what He’s preparing even now.
So, to the comfortable: be warned. Earth will not remain your playground. Christ will return, and His return will expose what you truly loved. If your heart is tethered to this age, His appearing will not be a comfort—it will be a crisis.
But to the afflicted, the weary, the brokenhearted—the one who feels like an exile in a foreign land—take heart. The words “I will come again” are meant for you. Christ is not just preparing a place; He is preparing to receive you to Himself. You will not be left outside. He knows your name, your sorrow, your story. You are not forgotten.
This is the promise that steadies trembling hearts: the King is coming, and He’s coming for you. Not to congratulate the strong, but to lift the weak. Not to crown the proud, but to raise the poor in spirit. Not to hand out rewards, but to gather His people—those who’ve clung to Him in faith and repentance, whose hope is not in themselves, but in His grace.
So live in light of His return. Let His promise lift your chin in trials, steel your spine in temptation, and steady your hands in service. Let longing shape your loyalty and lifestyle. Remind yourself: the story ends well. The sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing to the glory that will be revealed.
And to all who long for home: the door is open. Run to Jesus. There is room in the Father’s house—and He Himself will bring you there.
