When I was a little boy, keys were my thing. Not toys. Not marbles. Not baseball cards. Keys. Real, metal, grownup keys—the kind that clinked in your pocket and made you feel like you had access to the universe.
And I had a source.
My grandfather—Pop—was a policeman. And apparently in the 1960s, Americans were losing keys at a rate that can only be described as “biblical.” Pop would bring me bags of keys. Now, I’m sure it was only three or four at a time, but to my young eyes it looked like Fort Knox had sprung a leak.
I had a ritual. A system. A liturgy of keys.
- House keys over here
- Car keys over there
- Mystery keys (the ones that looked like they opened secret government bunkers) in a special pile
Back then, every car company had its own key design. Ford keys looked like Ford keys. GM keys looked like GM keys. Chrysler keys looked like they were designed on a Friday afternoon. And because Ford also made Mercury, their keys were cousins—interchangeable in shape, though not in function. You could slip a Mercury key into a Ford ignition, but it wasn’t supposed to turn.
Supposed to.
One Friday night, Pop dropped off a fresh batch of keys. I sorted them with the precision of a jeweler. Then I grabbed a couple of Mercury keys and headed outside for what I can only describe as unauthorized field research.
I climbed into our 1961 Ford Galaxie—bench seat, steering wheel the size of a hula hoop, and an ignition switch that sat right on the dashboard like it was daring you to try something foolish.
I inserted a Mercury key.
It fit.
But it didn’t turn.
I inserted another Mercury key.
It fit.
It didn’t turn.
Then came key number three.
I slid it in, gave it a twist, and—VROOOOM—the Ford Galaxie roared to life like it had been waiting all day for a small child to hotwire it.Naturally, I followed the adult pattern I had observed:
I pulled the column shifter down into “D.”
“D” meant go.
And go it did.
The car lurched forward and traveled a majestic, triumphant five feet straight into the side of the house. The dent remained for forty years, a permanent historical marker commemorating the beginning of my illustrious driving career.
The adults poured out of the house like a fire drill—Mom, Dad, and Pop the policeman.
“How did you start the car?” they asked.
I explained my keybased methodology. Pop immediately cut off my Ford key supply.
I still had a large collection of GM keys, though, and Pop owned a Chevrolet. I had a whole testing plan ready for that vehicle. Sadly, my research program was shut down before Phase Two.
Jesus has given us the keys to the Kingdom—and unlike my MercuryFord experiment, these keys actually belong to us, they always fit, and they never cause property damage.
You’re not locked out.
You’re not stuck in “Park.”
You don’t have to hotwire your way into grace.
The astonishing truth is this:
In Christ, you already hold the keys.
Keys to freedom.
Keys to forgiveness.
Keys to hope.
Keys to a life that actually goes somewhere.
And unlike that 1961 Ford Galaxie, you won’t crash into the side of the house when you use them.
Jesus hands you the keys and says, “Go ahead. Turn the ignition. Live. Move. Be free.”
That’s a Kingdom worth driving toward.
Doug de Graffenried is the Senior Pastor of Trinity Methodist Church in Ruston, Louisiana. You can reach Doug at his email: DougDeGraffenried
