Exodus 25:8

In the book of Exodus, the Israelite people have just been freed from centuries of slavery in Egypt and are now wandering in the desert under the leadership of Moses, a man chosen by God to lead them. God calls Moses up a mountain and gives him detailed instructions for building a tabernacle — a large, beautifully crafted, portable tent-sanctuary that the entire community would carry with them as they traveled through the wilderness. The word 'sanctuary' means a holy or set-apart place. But notice what God says about why he wants it built: not so that people can come visit him from a distance, but so that he can come and dwell — live, make his home — right among them. His deepest desire is not worship from afar. It is closeness.

Lord, you did not wait for a perfect place — you asked to move into the middle of our wilderness. Move into mine. I do not have a sanctuary to offer you, just my ordinary, unfinished days. Make yourself at home in them anyway. Amen.

There is something quietly stunning about what God does not say here. He does not say, 'Build me a place so you can come find me.' He says, 'Build me a place so I can live among you.' The Israelites had just escaped brutal, multi-generational slavery — they were a wandering, exhausted, disorganized people moving through a harsh and trackless desert with everything they owned on their backs. And God's response to their vulnerability was not to establish a grand temple in a distant city that only the worthy could visit. He asked to move into their camp. Right in the middle of the noise, the arguments, the uncertainty, the smell of a million people cooking over open fires. The tabernacle was, by design, a tent — built to be taken down and set up again wherever the people traveled. God built his house to move with them. That tells you something essential about his character. He does not wait for your life to settle down, for you to get your act together, for the chaos to resolve before he shows up. He moves into the wilderness with you. The question is not whether God wants to be close. The question is whether you are making room — in your schedule, your attention, your ordinary Tuesday — for him to actually dwell there.