In which I dwell on dwelling.

1 Chronicles sweeps dramatically into 2 Chronicles as David builds the momentum of building God a house. He first expresses this desire to God. “How can I dwell in my house of cedar if God Himself dwells within curtains?” God answers, “Is it you who will build me a house to dwell in? In all My going about among all the children of Israel, did I ever speak a word, saying, Why have you not built Me a house of cedar?” (1 Sam 7)

I imagine that at this time David probably felt kinda sheepish. If I were him, I would have feebly explained myself, “Well, I meant… it seemed like a good idea at the time… I like houses, I figured you’d like houses, but if you like curtains, curtains are nice! Hurgleblurglebluh.”

But in God’s mind, the idea of a dwelling place must have struck a chord. Since eternity past, God had a desire for a dwelling place. But He wasn’t just thinking about a nice cedar house. He was hoping, waiting, planning for an entity who would match Him in every way: in nature, in content, in intention. Then He would dwell in her. And she would find a home in Him.

To hear a feeble echo of His desire, somewhat close but yet so far, must have filled Jehovah with a sort of wistful longing. No, He didn’t want a house of cedar. And could it really be David who built Him the sort of house he was looking for?

Solomon saw a little deeper into the fallacy of building God a house. At its establishment, he said, “Will God indeed dwell with man on the earth? Behold, the heavens and the heaven of heavens are not able to contain You, how much less this which house I have built” (2 Chron 6:18). He then goes on to propose a compromise, in which the house of God could be a physical beacon towards which the children of Israel could pray.

Solomon saw that God was uncontainable in something as feeble as a physical building. He thought he had the answer to his own question. No, of course God cannot dwell with man on the earth. If God couldn’t dwell in this magnificent temple, was there any way God could dwell with man?

I can only imagine the gut-wrenching desire of God swelling at this moment. All along, since the seed of the idea of the creation of man, God desired to dwell with man. But with the problem of besetting sin in the way, God settled for leaving David and Solomon to their own devices to answer the questions of His dwelling.

Hundreds of years later, God gave His answer.

“Is it you who will build Me a house to dwell in?” Surely it wasn’t David. It wasn’t even David’s son, Solomon. But it was the person whom Solomon symbolized: the Son of God, Jesus. Jesus saw the physical temple in John 2, and said, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” But He spoke of the temple of His body. Indeed, when Jesus died and was raised in glory, He dealt with the problem of sin, became the life-giving Spirit, and for the first time in history, was able to enter into man to dwell in him.

Finally, finally, God would have His house. Paul reminds the Corinthian believers, “Do you not know that you are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?” (1 Cor 3:16)

Solomon had asked, “Will God indeed dwell with man on the earth?” Paul has the answer to him, saying, “We are the temple of the living God, even as God said, ‘I will dwell among them and walk among them; and I will be their God, and they will be My people.’ (2 Cor 6:16)”

For millennia, God was separated from man, a behemoth presence of unapproachable light. Then for centuries, He was tabernacled and dwelt in curtains among the camps of Israel, and in the temple of Jerusalem. But Jesus built Him the house He was really longing for. Not of cedar, but of men. His desire from before time began will be only fulfilled in full in eternity future: Revelation 21 tells us that the Lamb (Christ) will be the temple of the New Jerusalem. The church will dwell in this temple (v. 22), and God will dwell in the church as His tabernacle (v. 3).

But in all the grand macro-imagery of tabernacle, temple, God, and man, I still tell God every morning about my own homelessness. I know the Lord has made me a dwelling place with the Father (John 14:2), for me to dwell in God today. But despite my best efforts, I still feel as if I only transiently dwell in God. As much as I long to match God, to grow into Him, to stay in Him, I still have the muscle memory of the more agnostic compartments of my life: school, work, play. When I’m stressed out, cramming the exceedingly low yield renal tubular acidoses, I unconsciously check out of my residence in God and plummet to the Earth. Or when I rotely scan the annals of social media, looking for some mental anesthesia, I’ve replaced my home in God for some dingy ramshackle hut in the middle of nowhere. Why do I do that? How can I escape my escapism? Why can’t I just be a God homebody?

In the end I don’t think it comes down to my tenacity for dwelling in God. Thank Him, because I’d be done for if it were. It’s as if God is saying, “Is it you who will dwell in Me?” No, I guess it never was. It was always God dwelling in me, drawing me, building me in, until eventually I’ll never go out anymore (Rev. 3:12). Lord, who am I to try to dwell in You on my own strength alone? Lord, dwell in me. Lord, draw me today. Lord, build me in a little more today. Gain the dwelling place in me that You’ve sought after since eternity.