Swing Wide the Doors

I hear it—

a cry rising like incense

from flats without furniture,

from doorways where the prophets weep,

from rooms where children

dream of peace they’ve never seen.

A cry from the scattered and scorned,

the battered and bruised,

from those with needles in their veins

and lament on their lips,

from women with stories

and tears too heavy for the morning,

and men whose names were forgotten

before they were born.

It began as a whisper,

brushed aside by well-meaning liturgies,

cultures of denial

washed clean by hopium,

falling silent in sanctuaries

where sorrow is too loud to be believed.

But the whisper lingers,

woven through the groan of creation,

echoing in the breath

between exiles and angels,

a soundscape of yearning

that stirs the throne.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Let your compassionate kingdom

unfurl

like dawn in the darkest of nights.

Come, Wild Goose of Love.

Brood over the broken waters.

And heaven replies—

not with trumpet,

but with tears.

The reply comes from the Holy Mystery,

the loving Creator,

the loving Sustainer,

from the God who is in the business

of the reconciliation of all things.

The reply comes through pierced hands,

through the Lamb once slain,

through the Christ who descends

into every hell we’ve made.

The reply rides the wings of the Dove,

hovering over chaos,

fluttering in the lungs of the unheard,

breathing life

where death made its home.

Awake, O Church.

The blessed are not the strong,

but the poor in spirit,

those whose hearts are wide and empty,

like valleys waiting for rain,

those who have let go of status

and cling only to grace.

Blessed are those

who walk in sacred longing,

whose hunger is for justice

as for bread,

whose tears water the earth

like holy rivers.

Awake, O Church.

Your doors are not walls,

they are thresholds of resurrection,

portals of divine grace,

conduits of divine mercy.

Swing them wide

and let the kingdom flow in,

let the kingdom flow out—

like light through stained glass

onto the faces of the forgotten.

— Rev’d Jon Swales 2025 (updated 2020)