Parables

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.