Ruth Greenaway-Robbins

“You open, and no one can shut”

O Key of David and sceptre of the House of Israel;
you open and no one can shut;
you shut and no one can open:
Come and lead the prisoners from the prison house,
those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death.

Keys are small things, but they can carry immense power, hold remarkable memories, 

A single key can grant access or deny it. It can unlock a home, a cell, a future or leave someone waiting outside, unheard. To speak of Christ as the Key of David is to name authority, yes, but a particular kind of authority: one that opens rather than hoards, that releases rather than confines.

I remember, at my licensing by the Bishop here in the church earlier this autumn, being handed an enormous bunch of keys. I felt their weight immediately, and they still baffle me on a daily basis, so many doors, so many locks. And yet, without them, I cannot enter our beautiful church building or do the work to which I have been called. Keys carry weight in more ways than one: they hold power and responsibility, and at their best, they are given not to shut people out, but to open doors.

The image comes from Isaiah, where the key is entrusted to one who will open doors no one else can open. In the ancient world, keys were worn across the shoulder – visible signs of responsibility. This was not private power, but public trust. To hold the key was to be accountable for who was let in, and who was set free.

Advent dares to say that this authority belongs to Christ.

Not to emperors, not to systems, not to institutions, not to the loudest voices or the strongest hands, but to the one who comes quietly, born among the poor, laid in a feeding trough. The sceptre of the House of Israel appears not as a weapon, but as a promise: authority exercised for the good of all.

And the antiphon is clear about what this authority is for.

“Come and lead the prisoners from the prison house, those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death.” This is not abstract language. Scripture knows that prisons are real, made of stone and iron, but also that captivity takes many forms. Fear, addiction, grief, shame, poverty, injustice, despair. Some prisons are visible; others are carried inside the body and the heart.

To pray O Clavis David is to acknowledge both kinds.

It is to name the places where doors feel firmly shut: in our lives, in our communities, in the world we watch on the news. It is to admit how easily systems become locked, how quickly people are labelled, excluded, forgotten. And it is to ask for a different kind of opening: not naïve optimism, but real release.

There is a sharp edge to this antiphon, too.

“You open and no one can shut; you shut and no one can open.”  I believe this is not about control for its own sake. It is about truth. Some doors should be closed: the doors that lead to exploitation, abuse of power, and dehumanisation. Advent hope is not permission for everything to continue as it is. It is the courage to believe that God’s justice will have the final word.

And then comes the deepest image of all: “those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death.”

These words echo the psalms – and the long nights of winter. They speak of people who have lived so long without light that darkness feels normal. Who are not just passing through shadows, but dwelling there. Waiting there.

Advent does not rush past this. It lingers long enough to say: God sees you. God comes for you. The key turns even here. Even when you can’t believe for yourself.

In Jesus, the Key of David does not unlock from a distance. He enters the darkness himself. He knows confinement, fear, abandonment, and death – and still opens a way through. His authority is forged not in avoidance of suffering, but in solidarity with it.

So, when we pray this antiphon, we are not simply asking for doors to open. We are asking to be led, out of what confines us, into light we cannot yet imagine.

And we are trusting that the one who holds the key is gentle enough to wait with us as the door opens.

Today I have chosen the beautiful music of Gabriel Jackson. His O Clavis David unfolds with an expansive generosity, as if a door has been flung wide open before us. It then draws back into a place of quiet gentleness, as though God is patiently coaxing those of us who need it through the very doors that long to be opened.

O Key of David,
holder of doors and keeper of hope,
unlock what binds us
and lead us into your light.
Free all who dwell in darkness,
and open a way where none seems possible.
We wait for you, bringer of release.
Amen.