The Locks

The Locks

We built doors everywhere—

then locks for each one.

We issued keys to those

who knew the words by heart,

who could thread the eye of the needle

with doctrine parsed clean.

Inside, we polished brass,

counted the faithful,

called it restoration—

as if God was lost somewhere

in the archives of early centuries,

buried beneath councils and creeds.

We measured righteousness in attendance,

marked names in ink,

kept the guest list tight.

The kingdom of God, we said,

requires order,

requires control.

Outside, the weeds grew wild.

We didn’t see the man at the gate,

sanding splinters from wood,

swinging a whip of cords.

We were too busy sorting keys,

polishing them to a mirror shine,

debating who had the right

to open what door, and when.

But the He never carried keys.

He never needed them.

He built no locks,

no fences,

only tables—

long, wide tables,

with more chairs

than we ever counted,

waiting for the ones

we had shut out.