At the Palace Door

I will not bless the prison cell
because the saint stood true,
nor call the broken body good
for what the faithful knew.

A martyr's courage does not make
the sword that killed him right;
the blood remains a human loss,
however brave the night.

There had been Scriptures handed up,
and houses stripped away,
the prison crowded, altars raised,
and sacrifice to pay.

So when at last the doors swung wide
and confiscations ceased,
when Christians gathered without fear,
I will not mourn that peace.

Let no one make a golden age
of catacomb and grave;
Christ never taught that suffering
was holy because borne brave.

And yet a faith may change its shape
when all its rooms grow grand,
when Caesar, once beyond the door,
extends an open hand.

I met this faith beside a road
where two old pathways start,
in water poured on mortal flesh,
in prayer learned by the heart.

I met it where the stranger knocked
and someone made him room,
where Christians fed the hungry poor
and carried out their dead.

I met it in the desert dust
where Anthony withdrew,
where power looked unlike a throne
and strength was learned anew.

Its grammar had been ordinary:
a table, cup, and chair,
a widow known, a body washed,
a common life of prayer.

And then another doorway stood,
its lintel cut in stone;
the emperor who once brought fear
now welcomed Christians home.

The little house gave way, in time,
to basilica and floor;
the bishop once pursued by power
was welcomed through its door.

The question did not disappear.
It only changed its frame:
What happens when the empire learns
to honour Jesus' name?

Before, the question carried chains:
When Caesar threatens breath,
will we remain beside the Christ
who would not flee from death?

But now another question waits,
more courteous at the gate:
What happens when the emperor
pulls out a chair of state?

When Caesar says, Come sit with me;
your God shall have his place,
what happens to a people formed
by cruciforming grace?

The palace does not make us false.
The prison made none pure.
No architecture guarantees
what kind of faith endures.

But places tutor our desire,
and tables teach us too;
we learn the shape of what we love
from what we're welcomed to.

For power need not raise its voice
or order us to leave;
sometimes it simply sets the feast
and teaches us to receive.

Perhaps we leave the prison first—
and gladly leave it there—
then slowly lose the stranger too,
the water and the prayer.

Perhaps the bread grows difficult
beside imperial fare;
perhaps the cross looks smaller when
a throne is standing there.

Or perhaps the church may enter still
and carry through the door
the memory of the wounded Christ,
the hungry and the poor.

That is the place I cannot name
as simply loss or gain:
the prison door has opened wide.
I will not wish the chain.

Yet farther down the marble hall
another doorway gleams,
and Caesar's welcome asks the church
what power it now dreams.

So there I leave her at the sill,
with palace lamps before,
the dust of ancient roads behind,
one hand upon the door.

Let her remember water still,
and bread that all may share;
the stranger waiting to be seen,
the body needing care.

Let her remember graves she dug,
the names the empire missed;
the kingdom entering Caesar's world
through wounded feet and wrists.

For I am glad the prison opened.
I will not wish it closed.
But freedom asks its questions too
when church and throne grow close.

For Caesar need not hate the Christ
to alter how he's known;
he need only offer Christians room
too near the imperial throne.

And Christians need not cease to pray
or cast the cross aside;
we may still speak the name of Christ
while learning Caesar's stride.

That possibility troubles me
far more than open hate:
the palace need not conquer faith—
it only needs to wait.

So Constantine remains for me
a threshold, not a score:
the prison fading at our backs,
the palace through the door.

And there the church must learn again
what kind of power is true:
the Lord she follows wears no crown
that Caesar ever knew.

He takes the towel, bends the knee,
draws near enough to touch;
the kingdom comes without the sword
and does not need as much.

So let the palace offer chairs.
Let marble fill the floor.
I want to know what we remember
when we cross the door.

The road. The water. Bread enough.
The stranger given place.
The wounded body of the Christ—
and power wearing grace.