Knock, Knock – God’s Bad Taste

Based on Luke 11:1-13 – Ask, seek, knock and Hosea 1:2-10 – Hosea’s marriage as a prophetic scandal.

The first time Kylie turned up, she knocked on the door three minutes after the service had started. A solid knock too, like a tradie checking if someone’s home. People froze in their pews. Mrs Thompson clutched her handbag like a talisman while George, the usher, hissed, “We don’t get many latecomers.”

Pastor Hannah, halfway through the greeting, smiled awkwardly and went to open the door. There stood Kylie—muddy boots, ripped jeans, hair like a storm cloud, tattoos peeking out from under her flannel shirt. She grinned, not embarrassed in the slightest.

“Am I late? Thought you lot might’ve started without me.”

Hannah waved her in. Kylie stomped up the aisle, boots echoing, and plonked herself in the front row. Someone coughed. Someone else muttered.

By morning tea, Kylie was asking questions.

“So, do you mob do free lunches here, or is that just a rumour?”

Mrs Thompson stiffened. “We… provide biscuits.”

Kylie eyed the tray. “That’ll do.”

People whispered in corners: She’s trouble. Been in and out of rehab. Didn’t she yell at the postie last month? And look at those tattoos. She’s not exactly… respectable.

George summed it up with a sigh: “Why do people like that always find our church?”

Kylie came back the following week. And the week after. Always late, always knocking. One Sunday, she banged so hard George said, “Might as well give her her own key.”

She didn’t know the hymns, but she sang anyway—off-key and loud.

When Hannah read the scripture, Kylie leaned over to the lady next to her and whispered, “That bloke Hosea? What’s with him marrying someone dodgy? Weird story, hey?”

The lady frowned and shifted a little further down the pew.

On a Wednesday afternoon, Hannah found Kylie sitting on the church steps, rolling a cigarette.

“You all right?” Hannah asked.

“Yeah. Just needed somewhere quiet. My old man says I’m useless. Guess I wanted to prove him wrong by coming here. You lot seem decent enough.”

Hannah sat beside her.

“You’re always welcome here, Kylie.”

Kylie gave her a look, half amused, half wary. “Even if I don’t clean up my act? Even if I’m, you know… me?”

The murmurs grew louder.

Mrs Thompson pulled Hannah aside. “I’m worried she’ll scare away visitors. It’s not good for the church’s reputation.”

“Since when did we have a reputation?” George muttered.

“It’s about standards, George!”

Hannah sighed. “We’re meant to love everyone, aren’t we?”

Mrs Thompson sniffed. “There’s love, and then there’s enabling bad behaviour.”

One night, during a thunderstorm, there was another knock—this time on the manse door. Hannah opened it to find Kylie, soaked and shaking.

“Sorry, Rev. Didn’t know where else to go. My mate’s in strife—nowhere to sleep tonight. You got a spare room?”

Hannah hesitated. “I’ll call someone who can help.”

Kylie shook her head. “No time for calls. He’s outside. He needs somewhere dry now.”

Within minutes, Hannah had the hall open. George and a few others came, grumbling but curious. Kylie marched in, leading a young bloke with a face pale as moonlight. “Just one night,” she pleaded.

Mrs Thompson crossed her arms. “This is highly irregular.”

Kylie glared. “You think I don’t know that? But what’s the point of calling yourselves a church if you won’t open the door?”

By morning, the bloke had a hot breakfast and clean clothes. Hannah found Mrs Thompson in the kitchen, washing mugs with stiff arms.

“This is getting out of hand,” Mrs Thompson said.

“Maybe,” Hannah replied, “or maybe it’s exactly the kind of mess we’re meant to be in.”

Kylie kept coming, still knocking late some weeks. But something shifted. People started saving her a seat. George taught her how to ring the bell. The gossip slowed, replaced with stories of her quiet kindness—buying a pie for a hungry kid, checking on an old neighbour.

One Sunday, during morning tea, Mrs Thompson handed Kylie the biscuit tray.

“You’ll do a better job than me,” she muttered. Kylie grinned and handed out biscuits like communion.

After everyone had gone, Hannah locked the church and found Kylie waiting outside.

“You all right?” Hannah asked.

“Yeah.” Kylie kicked at the gravel. “I almost stopped coming, you know. Figured you lot wouldn’t want me here. But something… dunno, something told me to keep knocking. Guess I wanted to see if anyone would open the door.”

Hannah smiled. “And?”

Kylie shrugged. “Well, you did, didn’t you?”

Knock, Knock – God’s Bad Taste

Based on Luke 11:1-13 – Ask, seek, knock and Hosea 1:2-10 – Hosea’s marriage as a prophetic scandal.

The first time Kylie turned up, she knocked on the door three minutes after the service had started. A solid knock too, like a tradie checking if someone’s home. People froze in their pews. Mrs Thompson clutched her handbag like a talisman while George, the usher, hissed, “We don’t get many latecomers.”

Pastor Hannah, halfway through the greeting, smiled awkwardly and went to open the door. There stood Kylie—muddy boots, ripped jeans, hair like a storm cloud, tattoos peeking out from under her flannel shirt. She grinned, not embarrassed in the slightest.

“Am I late? Thought you lot might’ve started without me.”

Hannah waved her in. Kylie stomped up the aisle, boots echoing, and plonked herself in the front row. Someone coughed. Someone else muttered.

By morning tea, Kylie was asking questions.

“So, do you mob do free lunches here, or is that just a rumour?”

Mrs Thompson stiffened. “We… provide biscuits.”

Kylie eyed the tray. “That’ll do.”

People whispered in corners: She’s trouble. Been in and out of rehab. Didn’t she yell at the postie last month? And look at those tattoos. She’s not exactly… respectable.

George summed it up with a sigh: “Why do people like that always find our church?”

Kylie came back the following week. And the week after. Always late, always knocking. One Sunday, she banged so hard George said, “Might as well give her her own key.”

Continue reading the full story here.