Chapter 45 The Kingdom is Coming

The sweat on his brow reminds me, all at once, of his humanity. We’re sitting together on the edge of a curb, and he actually looks tired, this Savior of mine. I’m freshly aware that he doesn’t have a place to lay his head. I guess I’ve always thought he was somehow above or beyond sleep.

And the need for a home.

But really, he is very much a man, and I suppose fully capable of exhaustion, my imagination notwithstanding. And on top of that, he’s earthy, poor, perhaps even unrefined by our savvy standards; this very whimsy of a modern day Rider, inspired to put flesh to my historical and geographical detachment. He’s right here in my town, and most certainly my day.

And he is, indeed, homeless, just like he was the first time, so he’s quite at ease with the weary and the jaded. Yet another sign that his Kingdom is all backassward and upside down in every way possible.

Who is he, some King of the broken rabble?

He tells me his pace has been frenzied in recent weeks and months. This doesn’t come as a surprise to me, because I’ve felt a certain tension in the air -- maybe you have too. He confirms this to be true, for much is afoot, quite a lot is changing. A veil is being lifted, he says, in the spaces and shadows beyond our perception.

And he also reveals that it will intensify -- we'll sense his presence more frequently, as he makes his way down our collective Courts, our wandering Ways, our aspiring Avenues and our lavish Lanes. Much like a contemporary Paul Revere, shouting:

"The Kingdom is coming! The Kingdom is coming!"

But not with a shout you'd expect, with audible tones; no, it will only be for those with willing ears to hear -- over the din of that Harley rumble, its engine humming in a low idle.

Yet, who will be willing? Who will want a Kingdom like his? Certainly it'll make more sense to ignore it.

It will be nearly impossible, though. Upon hearing it, inviting it, and letting it get under our skin, we'll move slowly to the front door of our homes, peering first through the perceived safety of a latched chain lock, then tentatively, inches more through a fastened screen door -- and then, laying down our fishing nets, our nest eggs, our diplomas and doctrines and security blankets of all sorts, we'll move our way out onto the front porch.

The wind will pick up and the chimes will clang an eerie chord. Out on the driveway or the sidewalk to the street, the pull will simply be too strong; his promise too magnetic. He'll tell us again and again that we'll die a little more today than we did yesterday, but certainly not as much as we will tomorrow. There’s a danger in this Kingdom he’s inaugurating and it won't be like anything we were led to believe in Sunday school.

And this is somehow a good thing?

Maybe it’ll be best to ride this storm out, I think -- on the inside, in a low lying room. Underneath the stairs, yes, it will be much safer. We'll hear but cover our ears to the shrill sound of the alarms and well meaning air horns carrying their piercing warnings through the wind.

But this storm won't pass, he reminds me.

There he'll be, waiting, beckoning.

“The Kingdom is coming!”

What? Does he want us to become homeless too? To really, actually follow him and become earthy, poor, perhaps even unrefined by our savvy standards?

What kind of Kingdom is this?