Gene Cunningham concluded his conference with a haunting question. He walked us through too many passages where Jesus was present and available, yet uninvited. John 7:53 says “And everyone went to his own house.” 8:1 says “But Jesus went to the Mount of Olives.” Huddled in blankets, on the ground, looking over the city He came to save. Not even a guest room could be spared.

Near the conference was a gas station. I filled up while leaving. From southern L. A. to Sutter Hill I drove, non-stop. Seven hours, six minutes I drove before, on fumes, I stopped again.

It changed my life.

As I began the drive, I wondered how often I invite Jesus into my life, my thoughts, my soul, my decisions. I didn’t know the answer, so I asked Him.

I invited Him to sit in the passenger seat and ride with me.

At first, it was awkward. I know He calls me friend, but I felt like I should call Him, “Sir”, or “Mister”. He did author the universe, for cryin’ out loud. I settled on “Lord”.

It started light. Someone cut me off in L.A. traffic. I was about to be angry. Then I looked over to my right. I laughed. I think we did. I could tell He loved them, too. I flipped through the radio stations. I asked Him if He liked a few songs. One in particular was on a Christian station. “Do you like this one?” Then I listened. It didn’t even mention Him.

We talked about mutual friends. People in PNG, India, Africa, Asia, Haiti, America. We talked about my wife. I beamed with pride. So did He. My child, His gift to me. My family, my friends, my job.

On we drove. My mind drifted. I started to think about a time I’d been wronged. I was even making Biblical arguments for my position as the victim. Then I looked right. We didn’t laugh this time. I wished He would get out. I wanted to stew. He stayed.

This kept happening. How many times did I want to be alone? With Him there, I couldn’t go through my mental routines. I couldn’t stand on any high horse. I couldn’t blame anyone.

My courage grew, or to say it better, I was breaking down. I knew it was coming. There were questions that had to be asked.

“Are you happy with me?”
“What needs to change?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“What do I need to let go of?”

Some of the answers hurt. Most did. My soul was being exposed. It was like a house with many rooms. Many of them Jesus had been in, but a few were sealed. He had been uninvited.

Though I heard no audible voice, we conversed. The content of that conversation is private. I can tell you we laughed, reflected, reminisced, I wept. He consoled, exhorted, encouraged.

Though I can recite doctrines like omnipresence, eminence, indwelling, fellowship, prayer, this was different. God had always been in heaven, Jesus at His right hand, up there, away, escapable. Now He was sitting next to me, the God-man. Had I ever spoken to Him before? I felt like I needed to introduce myself. He knew me. Did I know Him? I had thanked our Father for what He had done for me innumerable times. Had I thanked Him?

Take a drive. It’s not the open road that’s calling.

“If anyone loves Me, he will keep my word; and my Father will love him, and We will come and make Our home with Him.” Jn 14:23.

Logan