The great door in Rome will be sealed,
jubilee revert to ordinary,
and the surge of Mercy words subside to calmer waters.
But we, who are claimed by the word and carry it as name,
we will stir the waters and make yet the ordinary jubilant,
since every year is of God’s favour, every day waits for mercy.
We will not close the Door of Mercy.
We will stand as keepers, attuned, disposed.
We will hold the door ajar
for the desperate and the disruptive,
the stray, the strange,
the wounded wise and the child too soon old.
They are looking for the door,
waiting by the door,
hoping for the door,
and we must, with them, and for them,
keep faith.
We will not close the Door of Mercy.
There will be room at our inn,
we will make space at the table,
the cooking pot holds ample.
Through the door is feast and safety,
hope and shelter.
My friend, one of the wounded wise, says:
You only have to knock once
and you only have to knock lightly.
The God of mercy, whose door it is,
is always home.
