“Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.” John 14:1-3
The early Christians waiting for Christ's return didn't take this promise lightly—it coursed through the blood, a fever in their bloodstream.
They lived with a kind of fire, a fire that spits, not sings. Maranatha (Aramaic for "Oh Lord, come") was the very substance of their survival. Against loss, prison, loneliness, betrayal—they lifted their eyes. They endured and bore the struggles in silence, with their gaze fixed beyond this life, beyond the hardships. They knew that nothing here was final. Not death, not injustice, not the empire that pressed its weight on their backs. There was a King. He had come. And He would come again.
But that urgency…? It has grown quiet among us. Thus, a question runs beneath the surface. Quiet, mostly. But persistent.
Are we truly awaiting His return?
This is our Invitation to wake, watch, and long for the King.
But what does it mean to wait?
To wait is to live by a truth not yet fulfilled. It is to persist. To keep the flame lit. To wait, not with vague assent. Not as dogma held out of duty or repetition. But waiting in the way one waits for something real. Tangible. Imminent.
You know what I still can’t wrap my head around, though?
We, humans, know how to wait for the call that never comes, for the child who arrives late into the world, for that love letter. We count time. We prepare. We rehearse the reunion before it even happens.
And yet, when it comes to Him—His return—our anticipation falters.
Why?
Isn’t the return of Christ the greatest, the most epic wait in history?
We sadly have exchanged our longings for distractions, for personal dreams that keep us bound to this world.
Seeing how the world shrugs at injustice, rotten to the core. Rewarding the depraved, the greedy, and the unscrupulous individuals that prey on the innocent and the weak—His return should be something we long for.
The return of Christ that consumed the lives of early Christians has become a footnote in a sermon for most of the preachers of today, avoiding it like a plague for fear of making them look and sound like fanatically deranged religious zealots or dreading losing church members who are still deeply bound to the things of the world.
Sadly, for some of us, Jesus’ return is just a doctrine to acknowledge, not a truth to live by.
His return is not a myth, but a promise from a God whose faithfulness didn’t falter through the ages. A God whose faithfulness is carved in the hearts of His loyal servants from long ago to the present. Thus, we know He will return as He promised. And He will come not as He came the first time, lowly, obscure, easy to miss. He will come visibly. With authority. The sky will split. The dead will rise. Every motive, every hidden thing, will come to light.
And we will see Him.
And though a bit of a cliche, there's a question we should all ask ourselves now: Will I be ready or caught flat-footed if Jesus returns today?
Waiting is not passivity. It is not superstition or obsession. It is not a wild prophecy scrawled in margins or feverish speculation. It is simpler. It is quiet faith. A disciplined life.
To wait for Christ is to:
Keep your lamp burning, even when the night drags on.
Live a holy life in a culture that worships compromise.
Speak the truth when lies are more convenient.
Love sacrificially, serve joyfully, forgive freely.
Refuse to let weariness give birth to apathy.
Be awake, not anxious, but alert. Not paralyzed, but prepared.
To truly live with Maranatha as our heart posture.
The Lord warned us that the waiting would feel long. Like a groom who lingers. Like a master who stays away. Some of us may drift. Some mock. Some forget. But the ones who wait—those who love His appearing—will not be ashamed. Their waiting will not be in vain. Their ache will be met with joy that will persist beyond time.
The world is fractured. That much is obvious. But these societal problems, financial difficulties, and natural disasters—as difficult as they are—are not a cause for despair. It is confirmation of the events prophesied thousands of years ago about the end of days. God’s prophecy stands, and so is His promise.
But we should long for His return not only because we’re tired of life’s pressures but because we long for Him because the love for God burns deeper into the heart, acknowledging that He has always been our home.
There is this quote from Augustine, Bishop of Hippo from 396 to 430, that resonated with me, “Thou hast made us for Thyself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it finds its rest in Thee.”
If we truly love Him, we should long for His return the same way a tree leans toward the sun after a long winter. The way a widow is achingly waiting to be reunited with the love of his life. The way a mother waits for her son to come home from war or the way lovers aches in waiting after years apart. Now, more than ever, may our passion for God never waver. May our hearts never rest until we rest in Him.
Let's pray:
Lord, help us remember that those who watch—those who wait, those who love your appearing—will not be ashamed at your coming. Remind us that our faith will become sight, our hope vindicated. Amen.
Photo Credit: ©iStock/Getty Images Plus/NORIMA
Related Resource: Instead of Doing More This Summer, Maybe You Need to Do Less
If you've been feeling tired, overwhelmed, depleted, or just quietly wondering where God is in the middle of a very full life — this episode is for you. And honestly? It might be for me too, because I'm recording this in one of those seasons myself.
Today we're doing something a little different. Instead of going deep in a passage, we're talking about what to do when deep feels like too much — when you need less, not more. Specifically, I'm walking you through one of my favorite practices for weary seasons: handwriting scripture.
Not typing it. Not scrolling past it. Actually writing it out, slowly, in your own hand — because something happens in your brain when you do that. The words land differently. They go deeper. And over time, they become part of that personal library of God's voice that the Holy Spirit can pull from when you need it most. That's what Psalm 119:11 means when it says I have hidden your word in my heart — it's scripture moving into your long-term memory, where it lives and stays even when you haven't opened your Bible in weeks.
I'm sharing the five verses I wrote out for myself today — and why each one hit me fresh even though I've known some of them for years. This episode is part of our How to Study the Bible Podcast, a show that brings life back to reading the Bible and helps you understand even the hardest parts of Scripture. If this episode helps you know and love God more, be sure to follow the How to Study the Bible Podcast on Apple or Spotify so you never miss an episode!
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