OPEN - 24/7

Uninterrupted Access to God

Directly across the street from this Puerto Rican restaurant, 24/7, is a small, super-friendly church called Abundant Life Fellowship by the Sea. I wouldn’t have noticed the restaurant if the sign hadn’t been so bold. Bright yellow against a dark, heavy sky. 24/7. No explanation needed. The pastor and I were climbing the narrow outside stairs to begin a few days of gatherings. I remember pausing halfway up. The air smelled like salt and fried food. Traffic moved slowly through the intersection below us. And there it was 24/7.

For a moment, I just stood there looking at it.

I’ve used that phrase for years when I talk about prayer and about our access to God. Twenty-four seven. Always open. Uninterrupted access to the Living God. No closed sign hanging on the door. No business hours posted outside heaven.

Adam and Eve walked with God in the cool of the day. There was a rhythm to their fellowship. A time when the breeze carried His presence through the garden. But as I stood there staring at that sign, I felt freshly aware of something we often say without fully feeling it: in Christ, there is no “cool of the day” appointment anymore.

There’s no waiting for the right atmosphere. No climbing spiritual stairs. No hoping if He’s available. The door is never locked, and access to approach is freely extended. As the New Creation, we live with uninterrupted access to the Living God. Not because we strive for it. Not because we feel spiritual enough. But because Jesus tore down every barrier that ever separated us. What that restaurant advertises with paint and electricity, Heaven declares with blood and resurrection life: open 24/7.

And most days, we walk right past this heavenly access without noticing.

WHEN STORMS SHUT EVERYTHING DOWN

Puerto Rico has seen its share of violent hurricanes. Entire neighborhoods boarded up. Streets emptied. Power gone. When evacuation orders come, even the boldest signs don’t matter.

That bright yellow 24/7 will go dark.

When the winds reach a certain speed and the warnings become urgent, the restaurant closes. It has to. Human businesses have limits. Steel bends. Glass shatters. Doors lock.

As I stood there staring at that sign, it struck me: there are storms strong enough to shut down anything built by human hands. But there are no storms in Heaven. No evacuation orders around the Throne. No emergency shutters pulled down over glory. No moment when the Father says, “Come back when the skies clear.”

When King Uzziah died, the nation shook. A long-standing king was gone. Stability felt fragile. The future looked uncertain. Yet in that same year, when grief and political upheaval filled the land, the Throne of Heaven was not trembling.

He was high and lifted up, and access was granted to approach or to draw near.

The prophet Isaiah was granted access into that most holy place. Not into chaos. Not into panic. Into a room where seraphim still cried, “Holy, holy, holy.” Into a realm where glory still filled the temple. The earth may have been unsettled, but Heaven was not.

That is the access we have now. Not access to a fragile kingdom. Not access to a God who retreats during crisis. We have 24/7 access to the One whose Throne has never been reinforced, never been repaired, never been threatened. Storms may close restaurants. They do not close Heaven.

THE THRONE THAT DOES NOT TREMBLE

Isaiah didn’t invite himself into that Throne room. He was granted access. But here’s the staggering difference between Isaiah’s moment and ours. Isaiah trembled and said, “Woe is me.” He was undone by God’s holiness. A coal had to touch his lips before he could stand in that presence. His access was real, but it was momentary. It was prophetic. It was exceptional.

Ours is covenantal.

We are told to come boldly to the Throne of grace. Boldly. Not casually. Not flippantly. But confidently. Not because we are less aware of holiness, but because the blood of Jesus has already answered its demands.

And yet, if we’re honest, many believers live as if Heaven posts storm warnings.

When the diagnosis comes.
When the bank account dips lower than we’d like.
When grief hits like a hurricane wind.

We assume the doors must be closed.

We pray more hesitantly.
We worship more cautiously.
We feel like we need to wait until the weather inside us clears.

But the Throne is not weather-dependent. The same Throne Isaiah saw high and lifted up is the Throne you and I approach on our worst day. It does not shake when governments do. It does not dim when economies do. It does not evacuate when emotions do. Heaven has no hurricane season. And if the access is truly 24/7, then the question becomes beautifully simple: will we come?

“WOE” HAS BEEN CHANGED TO WELCOME

When Isaiah saw the Lord high and lifted up, his first words were not confidence. They were collapsing.

“Woe is me.”

He didn’t say it because God was cruel. He said it because holiness exposes everything. In that light, there was no pretending. No managing an image. No religious composure. Only the overwhelming awareness of his own uncleanness. That was the only honest response available under that Covenant. But something has changed. Under the New Covenant, we do not approach the Throne as prophets awaiting a coal from the altar. We approach as sons and daughters who have already been cleansed. The righteousness Isaiah longed for has been given to us in Christ.

The coal has already touched our lips.

Condemnation has been answered.

Not because God lowered His holiness. Not because the Throne became less glorious. But because Jesus satisfied every demand holiness ever made. The same fire that would have undone us has already fallen on Another.

So we don’t come shrinking under judgment.

We come saying, “Abba.”

That access to the Thrice Holy God doesn’t produce arrogance. It produces awe without fear. Reverence without retreat. Nearness without dread. Isaiah’s access was breathtaking, but it carried the weight of judgment. Ours carries the weight of finished righteousness. He saw the Throne and felt undone. We see the Throne and are invited closer.

The removal of condemnation does not remove wonder. It does not make us casual. It does not make us loud and swaggering in the presence of God. It does not flatten the Throne into something ordinary. If anything, it deepens the awe. We see the same holiness Isaiah saw, but we also see the Lamb. We know what it cost to bring us near. We know what stood between that Throne and us and what it took to remove it. As a result of what Christ, the Lamb of God, accomplished for us, we don’t shrink back in terror. On the other hand, we also don’t stroll in as if nothing happened.

We come in awe.
We come in gratitude.
We come surrendered.
We come with a holy fear that is not dread, but deep reverence.

It is possible to be fully secure and deeply reverent at the same time. The accusation is gone, but the weight remains. Not the weight of condemnation, but now the weight of glory. When you understand that you stand before a Throne that never shakes, welcomed by righteousness that is not your own, something steadies inside you. Storms may rage around you, but you are not trying to earn access. You are not negotiating entrance.

You are invited.

And that produces something stronger than fear.

It produces worship.

COME – AN OPEN INVITATION

• Draw near. (James 4:8)

• Come boldly. (Hebrews 4:16)

• Approach with confidence. (Hebrews 10:19–22)

So why do we come?

We come because the invitation is real.

We come because the blood has already spoken.

We come because the Throne is not fragile, and neither is the righteousness that brought us there. When you approach boldly, something shifts. Not in Heaven. The Throne does not adjust. God does not become more attentive. He is not more open at 6 a.m. than at midnight. The shift does not happen in Heaven. It happens in you.

Fear loosens its grip.
Striving begins to fall off.
Storms may still rage, but they no longer define the horizon.

A bold approach does not mean loud prayers or dramatic emotion. It means you stop negotiating for a door that is already open. It means you stop introducing yourself as a sinner, hoping to be tolerated, and begin standing as a son or daughter who has been welcomed.

And something steadies.

Peace replaces panic.
Worship replaces worry.
Confidence replaces collapse.

Not because you are strong, but because the Throne is.

So maybe the simplest response is this: Come.

Not when you feel worthy.
Not when the storm passes.
Not when your thoughts are clearer.

Come now.

Come aware of His holiness.
Come grateful for the Lamb.
Come with awe.
Come with reverence.
Come with boldness.

The sign above that restaurant may go dark in a hurricane.

But Heaven does not.

The invitation stands.

Twenty-four seven.

And when you step into that reality, you don’t walk away ashamed. You walk away anchored.

PRAYER OF GRATITUDE

Father, thank You that Your Throne is never closed.
Thank You that I do not stand at a distance, but am welcomed through Christ.

The “woe” has been answered.
The way has been opened.

Teach me to come boldly, with awe and gratitude.
Steady me in every storm.
Anchor me in what is finished.

I receive Your invitation.
I come.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.