Who Holds the Keys to My Father's House?

It ain't those guys over there.

Who holds the keys to my Father’s house?

I was curious, and you called it doubt.

I was searching, and you called me lost.

I was thinking, and you called that dangerous.

I had desire, and you called it gross. 

I had anger, and you called that sinful. 

I loved my neighbors, and you called that permissive.

I pushed back, and you pushed me out.

I was hurting, and you kicked me. 

I was crying, and you laughed.

I was asking my Father questions and you called it 

“Deconstruction.”

And so I left, bruised and ashamed, in search of what was promised. 

But an abuser doesn’t just LET you leave. They follow you out the door, screaming threats and throwing weapons, and hoping that something hits.

False Teacher! Heretic! A Tool of Satan! A Jezebel Spirit! A liar! 

I was an evangelical runaway, looking for somewhere to sleep. 

My spirit, my faith, my whole heart felt homeless.

And then, I saw them. 

Those crying and huddled masses, standing outside the church. Fellow refugees of this Body of Christ. 

We walked together.

We shared our hurt.

We cried, and we cried, and then the craziest thing happened.

I…started healing. 

I realized the people gatekeeping Jesus were never even holding the keys. 

He was.

And He told me a long time ago I was welcome in His house, ANYTIME.

So, church…get ready for Reconstruction. 

Because this Child of God is no longer confused. 

I know my place at the Fathers table, and I’ll be sitting there LOUDLY this year.

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