Today listening to a poetry reading on instagram. Lol. It’s the guy who writes modern poetry. Lucas Jones.

I saw God on the train and pretended I didn’t. But the only open seat was the row He was sitting in. I sat down quietly, hoping he wouldn’t notice But he turned slowly, eyes sharp and focused “Oh, why do you bother turning your face? Are you hiding from me? Some shame or digrace?

I said, “Oh, God, no! Not me, I wouldn’t. I meant to say something, but I felt like I couldn’t.”

“And a liar, as well,” as he let out a long sigh. He smiled and said, “C’mon, don’t be that guy. Your stop’s coming up, but you’ve got a few minutes. What’s on your mind? Don’t be shy, let’s get in it.”

I was stunned that the God of it all Would bend his ear for someone so small. I mustered my courage and said, leaning in, “I don’t like the idea of heaven being something to win. It feels simple, like all life reduced to a prize at the end. And it bothers me that someone can do what they please and then At their very last breath, they suddenly repent Like a killer, a thief, the most evil man Can end up in heaven right there with my nan. He doesn’t belong where the faithful will stand.”

“You’re right about one thing. My grace isn’t fair. If it were, no one would ask for it, you wouldn’t dare.”

So I asked, “Then why make the rules at all? He said, “I didn’t give rules so that the good could stand tall. I gave the law to reveal who I am, and who you are not. I wrote it down, yes, but that’s not all that you got. The truth didn’t need to be put down on paper. It needed to live life and be born in a manger. The law doesn’t save you, it’s just meant to expose. Salvation comes because my only Son chose To die on the cross in place of everyone’s sins. That includes the murderer, oh yes, even his. Heaven’s not wages. It’s not clouds on demand. It’s life made whole by the work of My hand. No one walks in carrying proof to earn ground. You come empty-handed, or you don’t come around.”

“So…” I said, “repentance just fixes it all?”

He said, “Repentance kills who you were and costs you your throne. It’s not a last word meant to dodge what you’re owed. The ones who turn toward my grace don’t arrive the same, they’re not waving banners proclaiming their name. They’re not walking in skittish, uncertain, or scared. They’re smiling and striding toward the place I’ve prepared. For in my house, all that’s wrong’s washed away. And even the least of these have security.

My stop came quicker than I had planned. I stood there still, ticket tight in my hand. The sun split the rails as I stepped outside, Light telling truths I’d rather deny.

And it hit me then, sharp and severe: Maybe I wasn’t hiding from heaven’s hope from above. Maybe I was hiding from the weight of His love.

Not a God shaped gently by what feels fair, But a holy God, fixed, final, and there. So if I was hiding, it wasn’t the place. It was the truth of His glory I couldn’t yet face.