Home For Christmas

Christmas has a way of slowing us down, even when life refuses to cooperate. The lights feel warmer, the music lingers a little longer, and the familiar story of Jesus’ birth somehow meets us exactly where we are rather than where we once were. Each year, the same truth arrives wrapped in new meaning, shaped by the season we’re living instead of the one we remember.

This year, that meaning has centered on the word home.

We are incredibly thankful to be walking into Christmas in a house that is truly ours. Not a temporary stop or a transitional space, but a place we can settle into, invest in, and grow from. As boxes are slowly being unpacked and rooms are beginning to feel lived in, I’ve been struck by how much peace comes with permanence. There’s a difference between staying somewhere and settling somewhere, and that difference changes how you see everything else.

Outside, the cold has been relentless. The kind of cold that stings your face and makes every trip outside feel intentional. And yet, we’ve found ourselves embracing it—layering up, laughing through frozen walks, and returning inside to warmth and light. There’s something grounding about enduring the cold when you know you’re heading back to a place that belongs to you. Home gives you courage to face what’s hard because you know where you’re anchored.

That thought has drawn my heart repeatedly back to the Christmas story itself. Mary and Joseph weren’t settling into permanence when Jesus was born. They were traveling, displaced, and carrying uncertainty with every step. Luke tells us there was no room for them, no space prepared, no sense of welcome extended. The Savior of the world entered humanity not through comfort or control, but through obedience and surrender. God chose to step into the world through borrowed space and fragile circumstances, reminding us that His presence has never depended on ideal conditions.

Isaiah had spoken of it long before—a light shining in darkness, hope rising where despair had taken root. Christmas is the declaration that God does His greatest work in unlikely places, often before anyone realizes what He’s building. That truth has been pressing into my heart in deeply personal ways this season.

At the same time we’ve been settling into our home, life at Pathway has been full—full calendars, full rooms, and full hearts. Ministry has been busy and, at times, demanding. There have been moments when the pace felt heavy and the responsibility overwhelming, but I can honestly say that I have grown more in this season than I have in many comfortable ones. Scripture is clear that growth rarely happens in ease. James reminds us that perseverance is formed through testing, and Paul tells us that endurance produces character and hope. Even Jesus speaks of pruning, of cutting away what is familiar so that deeper fruit can grow.

This season has stretched me, but it has also anchored me. It has reminded me that faith isn’t formed in stillness alone, but in obedience lived out day by day. Settling into a permanent home has clarified something else as well: commitment changes how you build. Temporary places invite hesitation and half-measures. Permanent ones invite investment. When you know you’re staying, you stop holding back. You fix what’s broken. You build with intention. You dream beyond the immediate. That same reality has shaped how we see our commitment to Pathway. This isn’t just a church we attend—it’s where we are planted. It’s where we are choosing to build, to love deeply, and to make Christ known throughout the Des Moines Metro.

Psalm 127 reminds us that unless the Lord builds the house, the work is ultimately in vain. That truth applies far beyond walls and foundations. It speaks to communities, churches, and lives shaped by faithfulness rather than convenience. Christmas grounds that calling even deeper. John tells us that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us—that God didn’t remain distant, but made His home with humanity. Emmanuel. God with us. He stepped into our neighborhood, into our mess, and into our need, showing us what it looks like to move toward brokenness instead of away from it.

That movement is the heart of the mission.

The early church understood this rhythm well. Acts describes a people who gathered together in worship and scattered into daily life with purpose. Faith wasn’t confined to buildings; it was lived out in homes, shared meals, and transformed relationships. That same vision shapes our heart today—to be a church that gathers with joy and scatters with intention, carrying the presence of Christ into everyday life.

As we head into our Christmas services this Sunday, I feel deeply honored to preach—not because of the moment itself, but because of what it represents. Christmas invites us to slow down and remember that joy didn’t arrive through certainty or control. It arrived through surrender. Through a child born into the ordinary and overlooked, yet carrying the weight of eternal promise. Isaiah called Him the Prince of Peace, and the angels declared good news of great joy, but that joy first entered the world quietly before it ever transformed it loudly.

That truth feels especially fitting in this season of our lives. We are home. We are planted. We are committed. And we are expectant. The cold will linger, and the work will continue to be demanding, but we face it all with gratitude because God has been faithful. He has given us a place to belong, a church to love, and a mission worth giving ourselves to fully.

This Christmas, my prayer is simple: that we would remember Jesus didn’t just come to the world—He came for it. And that as His people, we would continue that same movement outward, making Him known, building His Kingdom, and inviting others to find a true home—not just within four walls, but in Christ Himself.