What is the Kingdom of God like? And to what can it be compared?
It is like a thief and a murderer, sharing a single cell in a dirty prison. Through the barred windows they can see the world outside, the blue sky overhead, freedom, yet just out of reach.
Not that life out there had ever gone well for them. It had been one loss after another, and a life spent forever trying to take back what had been stolen from them.
Now in this cell together, tolerating each other, but inwardly despising each other for every crime, real or imagined, that the other may have committed, there came a day when the thief noticed the murderer on the opposite bunk, hunched over, similar to his own posture and he was overcome by the distinct feeling of seeing himself in the mirror.
From that day he began to question if his hatred for the murderer was really a hatred for himself projected.
When he tried to talk about these thoughts with his fellow prisoner, he was met with spit and vitriol and threats I won’t repeat here.
And yet a compassion grew in the thief for this angry cellmate.
At meal times, when bread was brought in by the guard, their custom had been to devour it as quickly as possible for fear the other might take anything not eaten immediately. But as the thief’s compassion began to grow, he realized that their hunger- as great it was- could never be satisfied by the meager supply and they would both always be hungry in this cell. He even began to understand that it wasn’t so much about his hunger for the dry bread, or even his physical hunger at all, but the aggressive consumption was all about violently taking back something that the world had violently taken from him.
But even the thief himself was shocked when his growing compassion for his cellmate led him to offer some of his portions to this murderer that he had come to see as a reflection of himself. He would be all the more hungry, but then again, he figured he was always hungry anyway.
His murderous cellmate took a strong suspicion to this generous offer, for no one had ever offered him kindness, he attacked the thief violently in an attempt to take not just the piece offered, but the rest of his portion as well.
In the commotion, a piece of bread fell through one of the gaps in a small floor grate beside the thief’s bed. As he lay there, resting from the fight, he heard a faint quiet groaning from that floor grate.
Astonished, the thief knelt down to listen closer and sure enough he heard the voice of a man, parched and dry, a raspy voice whispering up the saddest “thank you” ever whispered.
From that day on the thief offered his cellmate a piece of his portion, and then divided his remaining portion with the voice in the floor, shoving it in pieces through the grate after dipping them in water.
The thief had no idea why this other man was kept beneath them, but when he tried to see anything down there it was just a black void.
Eventually the thief began to speak with the man down there, and was astonished to find him a well-spoken fellow, and even more astonished to find him a great listener, and a true friendship was born. These conversations became the world to him, and through these conversations with a man he could not see, but could only hear, he learned more about himself than he had in his entire lifetime of what he used to call “freedom”.
The murderer continued to call the thief a fool. “Talking to the floor again, are ya?” He’d taunt. Never once did the murderer stop to listen for the quiet voice that came from below.
As winter approached and it grew painfully cold, a viral pneumonia swept the land, and many prisoners succumbed to the illness. The thief, after months of giving much of his food portions away, had become very weak, and when the illness took hold, he died shortly after.
The portions delivered to the cell were immediately halved and the murderer was saddened that he would no longer receive any extra portions from his now-deceased cellmate. And for the first time he felt something. A twinge of remorse, perhaps. Not much, but undeniable.
He barely slept that night, he was so bothered by this new sensation. He tried to convince himself that it was because he had been such a good and loyal friend to the thief that this new feeling arose. So the next morning when his bread was delivered, it was with great pride that he took the smallest portion he could tear off, dipped the corner quickly in his water, and held for himself a solemn memorial ceremony for his crazy former cellmate who used to talk to the floor grate and shoved that little morsel through.
And when he heard that quiet “thank you” whispered back at him, all of his pomp and pride melted right through that floor drain as well.
He had never done anything for anyone else in his life. A sudden bout of humility hit him like a collapsing wall of bricks because he knew full well that if he had truly known there actually was another prisoner down there starving and waiting for his scraps there is no way he would have willingly parted with so much as a single crumb.
But there he was, crying on the floor of his cell. He had done nothing but harm others for his own gain for his entire life, even mocked the only one who had ever given him anything, and now he had become the giver himself.
And as if another was speaking through him, he felt his lips move and from his heart came these words rattling up his throat… “You’re welcome, friend”
From that day forward he broke bread and shared it daily with the one he could not see, and though he lived the rest of his days in captivity in his prison cell, these daily acts of generosity and relational devotion gave him the greatest sense of freedom he had ever known.
There were some kind folks in the town where the prison was located, and many of them made a regular habit of bringing small gifts of comfort to the prisoners, but they had stopped coming to the murderer’s cell years ago after being verbally berated by this man’s ingratitude. It was as though the man could not even see those visitors, he could only see them for how he could benefit from them.
When the kind townsfolk heard from the prison guard that this murderous man had somehow changed after the death of his cellmate, some cautiously came to see him again. They were shocked to find a man who was more interested in their lives than what they might be able to offer him. He never even asked if they had brought anything at all, and sometimes they would sit for hours as this prisoner’s care for them prompted them to share with him all manners of troubles they were facing. They found a patient listener, and a man of deep understanding, and grace to face their own situations, whatever they were.
They affectionately began to call the visiting window “The Courtyard”, and the prisoner was puzzled by this. When he asked his friend in the cell beneath him what it could mean, the soft reply rose up from the depths, “they call it the courtyard because they have come to see you as royalty, and they visit you as though they were entering the castle of a king. And you are puzzled because you don’t see yourself as a king in any way. This is something I love about you. Maybe it helps if you understand that you are simply showing them the joy of friendship, the same as you have found with me here. When they say this, don’t think of yourself as a king in the castle, for that is not what you are. But rather, by tending to them gently and with patience, you have become a priest, this prison has become your temple, and you have minded your courtyard well.
And this is what the kingdom of God is like; it is like a prison that has become a temple.
