The Walled Garden

A Modern Parable, Submitted Anonymously

The streets of heaven shimmered as if woven with sunlight. Everywhere, laughter broke out like bells. Saints sang as they moved from feast to feast, and the great river of life wound through the city, clear as glass, refreshing everyone who stopped to drink.

But in one corner of the city, something unusual was happening.

A group of men in clerical collars had staked out a small plot of land. With serious faces they worked, hauling timbers labeled Doctrine, Tradition, Bylaws, and stacking them into a neat, high wall.

They set signs on the gates that read: Authorized Access Only.

They were proud of their progress.

“Heaven is glorious,” one said, “but it must be kept orderly. We can’t have just anyone assuming they belong.” Another nodded. “If we don’t preserve purity here, what will become of heaven itself?”

The others murmured agreement, as if they were saving heaven from its own recklessness. Meanwhile, heaven rolled on.

From every direction came streams of people young and old, weary pilgrims and radiant martyrs, strangers and friends. They danced, they sang, they embraced. A great banquet stretched for miles, its tables heavy with food, and Jesus himself moved easily among them, laughing, blessing, telling stories.

Every so often, Christ strolled past the little walled garden. He waved, smiled, and walked on. He never paused for inspection, never flashed credentials. He was always on the other side of the wall, never within.

Inside the enclosure, the air felt thin. They could hear music, but muffled. They could see light, but dimmed through the timbers they had stacked so carefully. Yet they congratulated each other often. “We are safe here,” they said. “We are faithful. We are the true remnant.”

One day, a child ran to the gate. Her dress shimmered like starlight, her eyes wide with joy. She leaned against the bars and called, “Come play with us! The music is for you too.”

The men stiffened. “We appreciate the invitation,” said one, “but we cannot join until we are certain you have the right understanding of things.”

The child tilted her head. “But Jesus is already dancing with us.” They turned away, shaking their heads. “The child does not understand. Doctrine must be guarded.” The child left, skipping, and the sound of her laughter faded back into the feast.

The years, or what passed for years in that timeless place, slipped by. The wall grew taller, the rules stricter. Some who had once built with zeal grew weary and quietly slipped away, following the music beyond the wall. The remaining few shook their heads and said, “They were never truly of us.”

One evening, when the light of the Lamb glowed especially bright, a traveler from another land paused at the gate. “Brothers, why do you sit here behind walls? Don’t you know the gates of this city are never shut?”

“We are preserving the true heaven,” they replied. “The rest have compromised. We alone hold fast.”

The traveler smiled sadly. “Then perhaps you have not noticed. You are not keeping anyone out. You are only keeping yourselves in.”

He walked away, and the sound of his voice joined the laughter of the saints. And so it was that in the city whose gates are always open, a little corner remained walled off.

Not because God had excluded anyone, but because some hearts still longed for fences.

The music of heaven never ceased, and the banquet rolled on. Christ continued to walk freely, his arms outstretched, inviting, calling, laughing. And even as the walls stood, they trembled ever so slightly with the rhythm of the songs outside, songs that would not stop until every corner of heaven learned to dance.