A Fable

 

The Bureaucracy of Heaven: A Tragedy in Three Acts

I have gone back and forth about whether to share this. I do not want to offend anyone, and I have edited it more than once after talking it through with my family. We have reasoned together about how it might be received and how I could help the spirit of it come through more clearly. My hope was to write something true with a touch of humor, although my husband kindly pointed out that my humor sometimes sounds more like sarcasm. In the end, I decided to share it anyway.

This little story reflects only my own understanding. I mean no harm to anyone, so I hope no one will take offense.

The song I chose does not connect directly to the story, but it matches how I feel today. I am tired, I am worn, and I know the only one who can give me rest.

In a small covenant village, the Lord gave the women three sacred charges:
to plant a Living Tree, to build a bridge, and to keep love alive in their homes.

The first command was easy enough. They planted the Tree and watered it with prayer. It grew straight and strong, its fruit sweet with revelation. For a time, all was well—until someone worried.
“What if one of us forgets how to care for it?” she asked.
“Then let’s make a rule,” another replied. “We’ll vote to require what the Lord already told us to do—just to be safe.”

And so they did.

They wrote it down, printed it out, and called it order.

But rules have a way of outgrowing their planters.

Soon, no one dared to miss watering day, even when heaven sent rain. The roots drowned in their devotion, and the tree wilted under too much righteousness.

When the leaves began to fall, the women panicked. “Perhaps the bridge will unite us,” they said, and turned to their second command.

The Lord had told them, “Build it together, that all may cross in safety.” So they met to reason and to listen. For a while, it was lovely—stone, wood, and ideas all blending.

But patience is a fragile virtue.

“This is taking FOREVER,” said one. “Let’s take a vote. The majority will decide, and we’ll move forward in unity!”

They did. And by a margin of one (and a recount that no one wanted), they chose clay.

“Unity!” they cheered, ignoring the potter’s skeptical squint. It was easy to shape...and easier to justify.

The bridge looked glorious—right up until the rains came.

When it collapsed, they cried out, “Lord, we were united! We all agreed!”

And the Lord, with the weary tenderness reserved for His children, said,
“You were united in haste, not in heart. You stopped reasoning when it became uncomfortable. The majority may finish a bridge, but only charity can make it last.”

Defeated but not destroyed, they returned home, determined at least to love one another. To prove it, they held a family meeting.
“We should vote to require love,” one suggested. “That way, no one can EVER accuse US of failing.”
Even the children raised their hands—it felt so noble...so tidy.

From then on, affection was monitored like attendance. Smiles became compliance. Disagreement was labeled “unloving.”
Eventually, even laughter felt dangerous
(it wasn’t in the bylaws after all).

Until one mother, tired of the silence, stood up and said,
“If we have to vote to love, we’ve already forgotten how.”

She tore the rule from the wall, opened the windows, and let the breeze back in. “Love doesn’t need a procedure,” she said. “It just needs room to breathe.”

And that day, the Living Tree sprouted again outside, nourished by rain no one scheduled. The bridge, rebuilt with patience, stood firm. The family—still flawed, still figuring things out—finally remembered why they’d started building anything at all.

And the Lord? He smiled, because even wilted trees (and bridges, and families) can bloom when given room to fail.

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Moral:
Heaven’s work can’t survive bureaucracy. Unity doesn’t happen by vote—it’s born of grace. Not from rules, but from hearts that choose love when it costs something.