Where is the Kingdom?

TEXTS
Philemon 7–20 

I have indeed received much joy and encouragement from your love, because the hearts of the saints have been refreshed through you, my brother.  For this reason, though I am bold enough in Christ to command you to do your duty, yet I would rather appeal to you on the basis of love—and I, Paul, do this as an old man, and now also as a prisoner of Christ Jesus.  I am appealing to you for my child, Onesimus, whose father I have become during my imprisonment.  

Formerly he was useless to you, but now he is indeed useful both to you and to me.  I am sending him, that is, my own heart, back to you.  I wanted to keep him with me, so that he might be of service to me in your place during my imprisonment for the gospel; but I preferred to do nothing without your consent, in order that your good deed might be voluntary and not something forced.  

Perhaps this is the reason he was separated from you for a while, so that you might have him back for ever, no longer as a slave but more than a slave, a beloved brother—especially to me but how much more to you, both in the flesh and in the Lord.  So if you consider me your partner, welcome him as you would welcome me.  

If he has wronged you in any way, or owes you anything, charge that to my account.  I, Paul, am writing this with my own hand: I will repay it.  I say nothing about your owing me even your own self.  Yes, brother, let me have this benefit from you in the Lord!  Refresh my heart in Christ.

Luke 17.20–25 

Once Jesus was asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God was coming, and he answered, ‘The kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed; nor will they say, “Look, here it is!” or “There it is!” For, in fact, the kingdom of God is among you.’  

Then he said to the disciples, ‘The days are coming when you will long to see one of the days of the Son of Man, and you will not see it.  They will say to you, “Look there!” or “Look here!” Do not go, do not set off in pursuit.  For as the lightning flashes and lights up the sky from one side to the other, so will the Son of Man be in his day.  But first he must endure much suffering and be rejected by this generation.’

SERMON

Paul’s letter to Philemon is one of those curious little treasures that hides in plain sight.  It’s only one chapter long, tucked away like a note slipped between the pages of a much bigger book.  And that’s what it is — a personal note, handwritten by Paul to his friend Philemon.  It isn’t a theological treatise, or a call to arms, or a grand defence of the faith.  It’s a plea.  A plea on behalf of one man — Onesimus — a runaway slave.

We’re not told the details, but it seems that Onesimus has wronged Philemon in some way — perhaps by stealing from him, or simply by running away.  In the normal order of the Roman world, a runaway slave could expect a beating, branding, or even crucifixion.  But Paul, ever the meddler in social conventions, writes to his wealthy friend with a gentle but devastating subversion: “Perhaps this is the reason he was separated from you for a while, so that you might have him back for ever — no longer as a slave, but more than a slave — a beloved brother.”

And there it is — the Gospel in miniature.  A relationship of power and ownership is transfigured into one of brotherhood and love.  Paul never shouts, “Abolish slavery!” — that would have sounded ridiculous to a first-century ear.  Instead, he plants a time-bomb of grace under the whole structure of oppression.  He quietly suggests that Philemon should see Onesimus not as property but as family.  He even adds, with a wink, “If he’s wronged you in any way, charge it to my account.”  It’s the most elegant guilt-trip in Christian history — and it worked.  Because once you’ve looked your slave in the eye and called him “brother,” the old world cannot go on.

Fast-forward to Luke’s Gospel, and we find Jesus facing his own crowd of Philemons — religious people desperate to know when God’s Kingdom will finally arrive.  “When will it come, Lord?  When will the great day dawn?  When will the Romans be sent packing and righteousness restored?”  Jesus sighs.  “The Kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed.  You won’t say, ‘Look, here it is!’ or ‘There it is!’  For the Kingdom of God is among you.”

Among you.  Not in the sky, not over the horizon, not in some golden age of church attendance — but here, now, in the messy business of how we treat one another.  The Kingdom begins the moment Philemon decides to welcome Onesimus not with punishment but with a hug.  It begins when someone with power lays that power down.  It begins in a thousand small acts of release.

And that’s a problem for us, of course.  We would prefer a Kingdom we can see — a proper revolution, with banners and a clear plan.  We’d like God to ride in on a cloud and sort out the mess — preferably before the next election.  But Jesus says no.  The Son of Man, he warns, will be rejected by his own generation.  The Kingdom will not come with fanfare.  It will come like lightning — sudden, illuminating, but only for a moment.  You’ll see flashes of it: in kindness, in courage, in forgiveness.  But blink, and it’s gone.

I think of the long, tragic history of the church and slavery.  How centuries passed before anyone noticed the small spark Paul lit in Philemon’s heart.  For most of Christian history, bishops blessed slave ships, theologians argued about whether Africans had souls, and Christians quoted Paul’s own words — “slaves, obey your masters” — to defend the indefensible.  The Kingdom was among them, but they couldn’t see it.  Their eyes were fixed on the world as it was, not the world as it might be.

And yet — slowly, painfully — the spark grew.  Quakers began to speak out.  Wilberforce thundered in Parliament.  Abolitionists preached that no man can own another because all are one in Christ.  The old world cracked.  It took two thousand years for the Church to catch up with Paul’s little letter — but that’s how the Kingdom works.  It’s less a revolution than an infection — a holy contagion that spreads through hearts until it changes everything.

So, what does that mean for us — sitting comfortably in Havant, or Leigh Park, or wherever our pew happens to be?  Well, perhaps Paul is still writing letters — still whispering from the past: “If there’s anyone you hold in bondage — through resentment, or prejudice, or fear — receive them as you would receive me.”  Who is your Onesimus?  Who have you written off as useless, or unworthy, or just too awkward to love?  The Kingdom begins there — in the decision to see another person as brother or sister rather than threat or burden.

And when will this Kingdom come?  When will it finally arrive in all its glory?  Well — says Jesus — you won’t spot it by reading the headlines or the church statistics.  You’ll find it breaking out in ordinary places: at the foodbank, in a hospice, in a refugee hostel, in the quiet grace of reconciliation between two people who thought they’d never speak again.  The lightning flashes, and for an instant, you see the world as God intends it to be.

So, let’s keep watching for those flashes.  Let’s keep planting those time-bombs of grace.  And when someone asks us, “Where is the Kingdom of God?” — let’s smile, and answer, “It’s among us.  It’s here.  If only we dare to see it.”