Moments Toward the Kingdom

In the quiet of the evening, when the world is still and the light outlines the edge of the hills, I think of things hidden just behind the mask of what is visible. The towns now shrouded in shadow, dogs barking, cars coming home, people walking their dogs. I think of my mother standing in the hallway outside our bathroom, calling for me to wash behind my ears. After a day of running through fields, my knees stained with earth, my hair tangled with burrs and leaves, she knew I’d hurry through the bath, neglecting those places I could not see. She spoke as if some hidden peril lingered there, a danger unseen, ready to creep into the folds of my being. The backs of my ears, the creases of my elbows—these were my blind spots, as they are for us all. We are the ones closest to ourselves, yet often least aware of what clings to us from a day of rambling and the experiences that shape us in ways we do not notice.

This is no small thing, this blindness to what is near. It is not just the smudges of mud on our cheeks or the scrapes from blackberry bushes on the back of our arms, but the habits of our hearts, the ways of living we inherit like the air we breathe. We all walk paths laid down by those who came before us—ways of speaking, working, loving, and believing—handed down as “the way things are.” These are gifts, yes, but gifts we rarely question. They form us, silently, like the web of a spider we don't see until it glimmers with dew or we walk into it on a path.

I recall the words of David Brooks who speaks of the mind as a living record, a tapestry of neural threads woven by the days we live. Each thought, each act, strengthens these threads, making grooves for our behavior to follow. Our habits, he says, are not mere actions but the physical form of our desires, the way we carry ourselves into the world. They are the story of who we are, written in the firing of synapses, in the rhythm of our steps. Yet beneath these habits lie deeper longings—not just for personal gain, but for a vision of life shared with others, a story we tell together about what matters most.

James K.A. Smith, in his book Desiring the Kingdom, writes of habits as experiences that shape us towards a great story. Some are thin, like the daily brushing of teeth or the familiar bowl of cereal at dawn—small acts that serve a purpose but do not touch the soul’s core. Others are thick, heavy with meaning, forming not just what we do but who we are. These are the practices whose hands shape of our deepest values, the ones that call us to become a certain kind of person. A farmer who rises with the sun to tend the soil is shaped not just by the labor but by the love of the land, the rhythm of seasons, the trust in growth beyond his control. So too, our thick habits—our prayers, our gatherings, our acts of care—bind us to a purpose, a telos, that draws us toward something greater.

But what if the ends we aim for are not worthy of who we are? What if the habits we practice, the liturgies of our days, are pulling us not toward life but toward something less—toward distraction, or pride, or the hollow promises of a world that forgets its Maker? Smith reminds us that every thick habit points to a goal, and if we are to live well, we must uncover the ends hidden in our practices. Are they leading us to the Kingdom of God, where love, peace, and joy abide in the Spirit? Or are they tangled in lesser stories, liturgies of consumption or power that deform us, pulling us away from the dance of grace?

To live for the Kingdom is not to march as a marionette under the strings of the law. It is to join a dance, to move with the One who made us, whose Spirit frees our steps and whose rhythm is love. Our habits, then, are not mere duties but responses to a call, a way of aligning our days with the ends God has set before us. The apostle Paul speaks of being “transformed by the renewing of your mind” (Romans 12:2), of becoming teleios—complete, whole, used as we were made to be. To be perfect, in this sense, is not to be flawless but to aim for the right end, to let our practices shape us into the image of Christ, the true image-bearer.

If Christ is alive in us, as we are in Him, then our habits must join with His life. Prayer is liberated from guilt and penance, to become a breathing, a yearning, a way of placing our time under His lordship. Work becomes an offering, a way of tending the world He loves. Forgiveness becomes a practice of peace, a refusal to let conflict rule where His Spirit reigns. These are the liturgies of the Kingdom, the means that carry us toward the end of all things made new in Christ.

What does it look like to shape a day around this Kingdom? If the end is the gathering of all things under Christ’s love, then every act—every word spoken, every hand extended, every quiet moment of trust—becomes a step in the dance. Love, which lays down self for the sake of another’s God-given worth; peace, which roots us in Christ and frees us to forgive; joy, which rises from the victory of His resurrection—these are the ends that call us. And the means? They are the small, faithful habits: the prayer at dawn, the kindness shown in secret, the work done with care, the pause to see the world as God’s own.

To seek first the Kingdom, as Jesus bids us, is to let our Creator peer behind our ears and bandage the cuts on our arms, to lead us to see the ways we are being influenced or distracted. He will guide us toward his way of working, his priorities, so that the great Healer can let his ends shape our means. It is to trust that as we walk in the way of love, and enter into work that resists shortcuts or shoddy craftsmanship, all we need will be added unto us. Like a farmer who sows with hope, not knowing the harvest but trusting the soil, we live in habits that point to a future already breaking in. And in this, we find not just a way to live, but a way to be made whole, to become the people we were created to be, dancing with the One who leads us home.