Not Home. Come Home.

Walls are more than stone, drywall, or lumber. To the vulnerable—refugees fleeing conflict, children cycling through foster homes, individuals without shelter, those confined in prisons or living out their final days in care homes—walls represent a world of meaning. They are the dividing line between exposure and protection, between chaos and rest. They are the difference between being seen as a human or forgotten as a burden.

To be without walls is to be without stability. For the child displaced by war or poverty, walls are not just material but memory: the remembered doorway of safety, a vanished roof that once held warmth and stories.

When you’re vulnerable, walls mean safety from violence, shelter from weather, and a space where your body can finally rest. They mean you’re not living in a tent during harsh weather. They mean your children are not on the streets, prey to exploitation. For the incarcerated or the elderly in institutional care, however, walls can mean entrapment—where dignity is diminished and isolation thickens like concrete. For some, walls protect; for others, they imprison.

Yet even these physical realities point us toward a deeper spiritual truth: every human being longs for a place of refuge—a home in the fullest sense, not just with walls and beams, but with love and dreams (Emerson). The vulnerable not only need protection from the world outside; they need belonging, identity, nourishment, peace. A place where they are safe enough to dream again.

And this is where the beauty of the Gospel speaks. God does not leave us wall-less. He surrounds, shelters, and anchors us. For those wandering, exiled, or confined—God is the one who says, “I will be your refuge. I will be your home.”

In Exodus 33:22, God hides Moses in the cleft of the rock, shielding him with His own hand. In a world that exposes the most vulnerable, God bends low, creates a hiding place, and covers with His presence.

In Psalm 18:2, we find this declaration: “The Lord is my rock, my fortress, and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge.” This isn’t abstract poetry — it’s the song of the endangered and displaced, a God who becomes the strong wall, the unshakable foundation.

And in Isaiah 28:16, God lays a cornerstone, a sure foundation for His people, so they won’t be overcome by panic or instability. That cornerstone is Christ—the one who knew homelessness and rejection, who died outside the city walls, and who became our eternal home.

To those who feel the ache of rooflessness, statelessness, or rootlessness, God is the wall you never had and the home you still hope for. In Him, you are not invisible. In Him, there is refuge from the storm, justice in your suffering, and rest for your weary soul.

Let us be a people who build the good kind of walls—with bricks of mercy and beams of justice—offering not just physical shelter but spiritual solidarity. And let us remember, in every true home, both physical and eternal, God is the architect, refuge, and foundation.