The city was called Meridian.
It was not an ancient city of stone gates and camel roads. It was glass, steel, noise, traffic, digital billboards, coffee shops, podcasts in earbuds, calendars filled two months ahead, and souls too hurried to notice they were starving.
In Meridian lived a young believer named Eli.
He loved the Lord, or at least he truly meant to. He read devotionals in the morning when he remembered. He played worship music in the car. He posted verses online. He served at church once a month, sometimes twice when his schedule allowed. He wanted to be known as faithful. He wanted to be useful. He wanted, if he was honest, to matter.
And that is where the trouble began.
For Meridian was a city ruled by two kingdoms.
The first kingdom was loud and dazzling. It did not always look evil. In fact, it often looked admirable. Its banners read words like success, influence, visibility, control, relevance, security, platform, and image. Its citizens woke early and slept late. They measured life in numbers: followers, income, invitations, accomplishments, upgrades, applause.
This kingdom had many preachers, though few stood behind pulpits. Some preached through advertisements. Some through ambition. Some through fear. Some through comparison. Their sermon was always the same: Build your name. Protect your place. Curate your life. Win.
The second kingdom was harder to see.
It did not advertise.
Its King did not shout over the marketplace. He did not force entrance into any heart. His realm often arrived quietly, like light slipping under a door at dawn. His kingdom could be found in hidden obedience, in forgiveness when revenge felt sweeter, in secret prayer, in generosity no one applauded, in truthfulness when lies seemed safer, in surrender when self-promotion seemed wise.
Its citizens were not always impressive. But there was about them a strange fragrance — peace in sorrow, steadiness in confusion, kindness without strategy, strength without harshness, humility without self-contempt. They seemed to belong to another order of things.
Eli lived every day between these two kingdoms, though he did not yet understand it.
One Monday morning, after a difficult weekend, Eli sat in a café staring at his phone. A friend from church had launched a ministry podcast and already gained attention. Another had published a book. A third had posted photographs from a conference stage, smiling under bright lights. Eli felt that familiar ache: the silent accusation that he was being left behind.
He whispered into his coffee, “Lord, I just want to be used by You.”
And because the human heart can hide from itself so easily, he did not hear the second sentence buried beneath the first:
“And I would like to be noticed while it happens.”
That afternoon, an older man from his fellowship sat beside him. His name was Micah. He was the sort of man people overlooked because heaven had marked him more deeply than earth had. He had no great title, no thriving online ministry, no polished brand. But when he prayed, people felt as if a window had opened.
“You look troubled,” Micah said.
“I’m just trying to find my place,” Eli replied.
Micah nodded. “That is often another way of saying we are trying to keep a little kingdom alive.”
Eli looked up, startled.
Micah continued. “There are two kingdoms always at work. One says, ‘Assert yourself.’ The other says, ‘Lose yourself in Christ.’ One says, ‘Be seen.’ The other says, ‘Abide.’ One runs on anxiety. The other on trust.”
Eli gave a tired smile. “That sounds spiritual. But I live in the real world.”
Micah smiled back, and there was no trace of mockery in it. “My son, that is the real world.”
Then Micah told him a story.
“There was once a man who inherited a small garden from his father. It was not grand, but it was alive — fig trees, herbs, vines, and a spring of clear water. The father had said, ‘Tend this garden, and it will feed many.’
“But the son looked over the wall and saw another kingdom. There were towers there, polished and high. Trumpets sounded when men entered its gates. Crowds applauded those who built quickly and visibly. So the son became ashamed of the garden. He thought, ‘What good is slow fruit when I could build towers?’
“So he cut down the vines to make scaffolding. He filled the spring with stones to lay foundations. He used the fig wood to frame a platform from which he could announce his progress. And for a time, all admired him.
“But when summer came, he had height and no shade, visibility and no fruit, structure and no water. The poor did not eat from his towers. The weary did not rest there. And in the night, he heard the voice of his father ask, ‘Why did you destroy the thing I told you to tend?’”
Micah fell silent.
Eli turned the story over in his mind. “So the garden is…?”
…
To be continued.
For His Name’s Sake
C. L. J. Dryden
Shalom
Life With CD 