Insert crescendo organ melody and roaring black congregation.
We’re on an ultralight beam.
We are on an ultralight beam! This is a god dream, this is everything. Amen? This is exceedingly, abundantly, above all that we asked or thought. This is ordained, predestined. Not ordinary, but surely, entirely heavenly. This is our time and space, as engraved in the very foundations of the earth. It is indelible, incompressible. We are the indefatigable, incorruptible, indomitable sons.
We are the salt on the shore, the lamp set on the hill. We are the prophecy fulfilling, bone raising, tongue speaking, lion taming, fire tried sons. Of the prophets they stoned. Oh, we are the stones the builders rejected. Now we carry the church. We are the seeds spilled on the roadside. Look how we blossomed into fruitful trees. Isn’t it fortune? To be young, strong and bound to the vision. To be chasing our thousands, to be devoted to the revolution, that we might just televise. Aren’t we blessed? To be loved by the Father, led by the Son, filled by the Spirit?
How can they say that we are finished? We have just begun. Our mission is incomplete, our creator must be pleased. We have nowhere else to go, so get out of the way. Here we come — not guided by sight, but by faith. Unabashedly, we present the substance of things we hoped for, the evidence of things we could not see. We are pressed on every side, yet not straightened; pursued, yet not forsaken; smitten down, yet not destroyed. We know of conquerors, we are something more.
This is my part, nobody else speak.
This is my father listening, my mother’s blessing. This is my uncle asking to stay, my aunty texting to pray. They tell me this is my grandfather, reincarnated with his oratory and gait. This is my brother’s faith. This is my sister’s pay.
I am a miracle. I am Daniel in the den. I am Daniel’s friends in the fire. I am Elijah, summoning a different fire, then the rain. I am David for the plot, I truly am. Look, my water really became wine. My loaves multiplied. So, can we have a feast for five thousand? Can you ask my “late” friend, Lazarus, to come out? Go, tell it on the mountain: that I was granted sight from the dirt, that I dipped in the river and my wounds disappeared. Tell them I walked on water and the storm calmed. Did you see? You were sleeping!
Keep your eyes open this time. Witness my ascension, in my spotless white and airborne sandals, as I mount my blazing chariot. Look, your prophet will be seized soon. Maybe you can come with me. Maybe you can fixate on me so the serpents you entertain don’t bite. Or maybe you can touch the hem of my garment, so you are rid of your issues?
A touch is all you get. Do not try to stain my garment, or pull me down, with your filthy thumbs. Just so you convince yourself that because you cannot fly, others can’t. So that you tell fellow chickens on the ground that flying is a sham after all. You tell cursed tales about the blessed. You idly lend yourself to witchcraft? We look down at your tiny frame from the skies. We never know what to do with you people; we cannot hope for your downfall if you were never up.
This little light of mine? Glory be to God.
We give glory for the light. We count and name our blessings. The grain is pressed down, shaken together. Until it runs over. Until we feed nations. Until the curious follow the star, come from afar, bearing gifts. We too are wise, so we trade these gifts for more, we fuel our lanterns. We give a spirited account. We see milk and honey, not giants. Never giants. We have met conquerors, we are something more. Our kingdom suffered violence, we learnt force.
Surely, we will come. We will be in the spirit on the Lord’s day. We will march round and round. With the ark. With our cymbals and horns. In one accord. In loud voices. Until the walls come crashing down. Until we try every inhabitant in the fire. Behold, we come quickly. Occupy until then.
