The Narrow Door: Traveling Light for the Great Banquet

Fr. Jijo Kandamkulathy CMF
Claretian Missionaries

Have you ever been on a long journey? I’m not just talking about a vacation, but a real journey—one where every step counts, where the destination is everything? Perhaps a pilgrimage, a hike, or even a difficult chapter in your life. If you have, you know the golden rule of travel: pack light.

I remember an old advertisement for a railway company. It showed a man, weighed down by enormous, heavy suitcases, struggling to climb onto the train, sweating and miserable. Next to him, another traveller, with a single, small bag, stepped aboard with a smile. The slogan was simple and brilliant: “Less Luggage, More Comfort.”

That slogan is not just good travel advice; it is the very heart of the Gospel today. It is the answer to the question that hangs in the air: “Lord, will only a few people be saved?”

Jesus doesn’t give a number. He doesn’t draw a line. Instead, he points to a door. Not a grand, wide, welcoming archway, but a narrow door. And he gives us a warning that should shake us from our spiritual complacency: “Strive to enter through the narrow gate, for many, I tell you, will attempt to enter but will not be strong enough.” What is this narrow door? And why is it so hard to get through?

The people following Jesus that day had their own idea. They were marching to Jerusalem, their hearts bursting with a political dream. They imagined the Kingdom of God as a restored earthly kingdom, with a triumphant Messiah throwing a grand victory banquet. They pictured themselves—the chosen ones, the insiders, the ones who walked with him—strolling right through the front gates.

But Jesus shatters that illusion. He says the door is narrow. Scholars tell us he might have been referring to the “Eye of the Needle” gate in Jerusalem—a small, low door in the city wall used after dark when the main gates were shut. A camel could only get through it if its rider first unloaded all its baggage and then had the animal kneel and crawl through on its knees. Look at that powerful, dramatic image! You cannot enter the Kingdom of God burdened. You cannot kneel before the Lord if you are carrying too much.
What baggage are you trying to carry through the narrow door?

Perhaps it’s the heavy suitcase of pride and ego—the need to be right, to be recognized, to be important. “Lord, I was a lector at the 9 AM Mass for thirty years!” “We ate and drank in your company!” But at the door, that resume means nothing. It’s just dead weight. Maybe it’s the duffel bag of worldly riches and attachments—the obsession with money, status, and possessions that we cling to for security, forgetting that we brought nothing into this world and we take nothing out.

Or perhaps it’s the heaviest baggage of all: the steamer trunk of past hurts, betrayals, and failures. We drag behind us every grudge, every memory of how we were wronged, every sin we’ve committed and refused to give to God’s mercy. This baggage doesn’t just weigh us down; it chains us to the past, making it impossible to step freely into the future God has for us.

The Master of the house, once he rises and locks the door, is shockingly firm. He says to those late to the banquet, “I do not know where you are from.” It’s a terrifying sentence. These weren’t strangers; they were preachers and exorcists! They did holy things! But they were so busy managing their spiritual baggage—their reputation, their achievements—that they missed the one thing that mattered: a humble, loving, present heart.

So how do we travel light?

A story is told of a group of monks who set out on a three-day trek to a mountain top for prayer. Each had to carry his own provisions. As they packed, all the monks scrambled for the lightest, smallest bundles. All except one. A humble monk quietly shouldered the largest, heaviest sack—the one containing all the food for the journey.

The others, I’m sure, thought him a fool. But as the journey wore on, something beautiful happened. At breakfast, the humble monk opened his sack and fed everyone. His burden grew lighter. At lunch, he did the same. By dinner, his pack was almost empty, while the other monks grew weary under the unchanging weight of their personal belongings. He carried not for himself, but for others. His luggage was expendable love.

That is the only baggage worth carrying on the journey to the narrow door: what we can give away for others.

The only thing that gets lighter when you use it is the love of Christ. Acts of charity, forgiveness offered and received, patience, kindness, mercy—these are the provisions that, the more you dispense them, the lighter and freer you become.

The Kingdom of God is not a VIP club for the perfect. It is a Banquet for the merciful, the poor in spirit, the peacemakers, and the humble who have learned to kneel and crawl through the door, unburdened by everything except the love they were willing to give away.

It is good to ask ourselves: What do I need to unpack? What grudge do I need to leave at the foot of the altar? What pride do I need to unload in Confession? What attachment do I need to give away in charity?
Let us strive to enter through the narrow door. Let us travel light, carrying only what we can give away, so that we may hear those most beautiful words not from outside a locked door, but from within the joy of the Feast: “Welcome! Come, you blessed of my Father! I know you.”

Less luggage. More comfort. Eternal comfort.

© Claretian Publications, Macau
Cum Approbatione Ecclesiastica 2025