The Kingdom is poetry
In a world of prose.
It seeks not to
inform
But to transform.
It is the bud that
sprouts forth
From the cracked
concrete.
The Kingdom is the
music that Christ is singing.
It is in following
him that we dance along,
And we try to do so
in such a way
That inspires others
to join us.
It is in forsaking
heaven to embrace the earth
That we find that the
Kingdom had been here all along.
It is turning things
inside out
And flipping things
upside down.
It is exalting the humble
And crying out for
justice.
It is alive and
active
And sometimes I can
still hear it rustling under the stairs.
It cannot be
contained by any religion,
Governed by any
doctrine,
Or invoked by any
formula.
It will not be
described,
Prescribed,
Or subscribed to.
It is always only
love.
It drinks good wine,
Dances with beautiful
women,
And at night it walks
the streets
And snuggles up next
to the broken.
The Kingdom is making
us human again.
We did not start it,
We cannot stop it,
And yet it is the
unfolding narrative
In which we enter
into every day.
It likes to wrestle,
but some days it wears lipstick.
The Kingdom is ‘not a
victory march,
It’s a cold and it’s
a broken Alleluia.’
It revolts against
institutions,
Breaks down barriers
And it promises that
you do not have to serve
The face on the coin.
It is good news for
the poor,
Liberation for the
captive
And it resides in the
deep, primal groans
Of all of creation.
And whether up above
Or down below
The Kingdom will one
day have the last word.
