Read

Revelation 3:20 “Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.”

Think

No room. That’s how the story begins for Jesus. Not in the palace of a king or the home of a wealthy host—but on the margins, in the leftover space that no one else wanted.

Bethlehem had filled up. Travelers poured in from every direction for the census, returning to their ancestral town. Families hosted extended relatives. Inns were packed. Every bed, every floor, every space was already spoken for. So when Mary and Joseph arrived, exhausted and expectant, there was simply nowhere to go. Luke doesn’t dramatize the moment. He just records the fact: there was no guest room available.

That line has echoed through history. It captures something deeper than just a logistical issue. The problem wasn’t rejection—it was preoccupation. The town wasn’t hostile. It was just too full. Which makes it a mirror for our own lives.

We don’t often push Jesus away deliberately. We just fill our lives with so much else that there’s little space left to welcome him. The schedules are full. The mental load is heavy. The demands are constant. We drift, unintentionally, into the same pattern Bethlehem did—no room left for the most important guest.

Jesus doesn’t demand a throne. He simply asks for space. Revelation 3:20 paints a picture of quiet pursuit. He stands at the door and knocks, not with force or fury, but with patience and invitation. He desires to come in—not to critique or consume, but to dwell, to share a meal, to be known.

The language of that verse isn’t transactional. It’s relational. “I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.” In the ancient world, sharing a meal was more than sustenance—it was connection, belonging, intimacy. Jesus isn’t asking for your performance. He’s asking for your presence.

This is what Advent calls us back to. Not just sentiment, but surrender. Not just tradition, but trust. Amid all the movement and motion of the season, Jesus quietly asks: will you make room for me?

Consider where he chose to be born. A manger. A feeding trough. A borrowed corner of a darkened stable. This wasn’t because God ran out of options. It was a declaration. The Savior of the world didn’t need luxury to be Lord. His glory didn’t depend on setting or applause. His presence transformed whatever space made room for him. Even now, he comes the same way.

He steps into overlooked places. He enters lives that feel too cluttered, too chaotic, too unworthy. He doesn’t wait for things to be tidy. He comes while they’re still tangled.

It’s easy to believe the lie that God is only interested in our best. That we need to clean up before we can invite him in. But the Christmas story tells a different truth. Jesus was born into noise, discomfort, and uncertainty—and none of it kept him away.

The miracle wasn’t in the setting. It was in the arrival. He came anyway. Despite the crowd. Despite the lack of space. Despite being overlooked. And still, he came.

That’s the heartbeat of grace. God doesn’t wait for a cleared path. He makes his home wherever he’s welcomed, even in small, unexpected corners.

There’s a quiet challenge buried in this day’s reflection: What’s crowding your soul? What’s filling the places where Jesus longs to dwell?

Sometimes the barriers aren’t bad things. They’re just everything else. The nonstop pace, the unchecked expectations, the endless digital noise. It all adds up, until there’s no room left to simply sit and let Christ in.

He’s not asking for a grand gesture. He’s asking for attention. A turning of the heart. A door opened, even slightly.

Bethlehem didn’t see what was happening that night. The world was busy, distracted, unaware. But in the margins, a King was born. And the space that made room—no matter how humble—was the space that held glory. That’s still true today.

Apply

Set aside ten minutes today—just ten—and ask yourself honestly: where have I made room for everything but Jesus? Name one way you can create space today, even if it’s small. He doesn’t need perfection—just permission.

Pray

Jesus, I confess that my heart feels crowded. There are so many voices, so many pressures, so many distractions. I don’t want to push you to the edges of my life. I want to welcome you fully. Help me clear space—not just in my schedule, but in my soul. You came when there was no room, and you still come now. I want to be available. I want to be open. Come dwell with me. In your name I pray. Amen.