The Vision.
So this guy comes up to me and says "What's The Vision? What's the big idea?" I open my mouth and the words come out like this.
"The vision? The vision is Jesus – Obsessively, dangerously, undeniably Jesus. The Vision is an army of young people. You seen bones? I see an army, and they are FREE from materialism. They laugh at 9-5 little prisons. They could eat caviar on Monday and crusts on Tuesday. They wouldn't even notice. They know the meaning of The Matrix , the way the west was won. They are mobile like the wine they belong to the nations. They need no passport. People write their addresses in pencil and wonder at strange existence. They are free yet they are slaves of the hurting and dirty and dying. What is 'The Vision'? The Vision is holiness that hurts the eyes. It makes children laugh and adults angry. It gave up the game of minimum integrity long ago to reach for the stars. It scorns the good and strains for the best, it is dangerously pure. Sacrifice fuels the fire of Victory in their upward eyes, winners, Martyrs, who can stop them? Can hormones hold them back? Can failure succeed? Can fear scare them or death kill them? And the generation pray's. Like a dying man with groans beyond talking, with warriors cried, sulphuric tears and with great barrow loads of laughter! Waiting, watching. Whatever it takes they will give : Breaking the rules. Shaking mediocrity from its cozy little hide. Laying down their rights and precious little wrongs, laughing at labels, fasting essentials. The advertisers cannot mold them. Hollywood cannot hold them. Peer pressure is powerless to shake their resolve at late night parties before the cockerel cries. They are incredibly cool, dangerously attractive inside. On the outside? They hardly care. They wear clothes like costumes to communicate but never to hide. Would they surrender their image or popularity? They would lay down their very lives – swap seats with the man on death row. Light flickers from every secret motive, every private conversation. It loves people away from their suicide leaps, their Satan games. This is an army that will lay down its life for the cause. A millions times a day its soldiers choose to loose that they might one day win. The great 'well done' of faithful sons and daughters. Such heroes are as radical on Monday morning as Sunday night. They don't need fame from names. Instead they grin quietly upwards and hear the crowds chanting again and again 'Come On!'. And this is the sound of the underground, the whisper of history in the making. Foundation shaking. Revolutionaries dreaming once again. Mystery is scheming in whispers. Conspiracy is breathing…This is the sound of the underground and the Army is disciplined. Young people who beat their bodies into submissions. Every Soldier would take a bullet for his comrade at arms. The tattoo on their back boasts "For me to Live is Christ and to Die is Gain!" Guilty as hell. A throne for an electric chair. With blood, sweat and many tears, and fruitless days and sleepless nights. They pray as if it all depends on God and live as if it all depends on them. Their DNA chooses Jesus. They subconscious sings. They has a blood transfiguration with Jesus. Their words make demons scream in shopping centre's. Don't you hear them coming? Herald the weirdo's, summon the losers and freaks. Here some the frightened and forgotten. With fire in their eyes. They walk tall and trees applaud, sky scrappers bow mountains are dwarfed by these children of another dimension. Their Prayers summon the hounds of Heaven and invoke the ancient dream of Eden. And this vision will be. It will come to pass, it will come easily. It will come soon. How do I know??? Because this is the long creating itself, the groaning of the spirit, the very dream of God, my tomorrow is his today. My distance is his 3D. And my feeble whispered faithless prayer invokes a thunderstorm, resounding, bone-shaking great "Amen!" from countless angles, from herds of the true faith from Christ himself. And he is the original Dreamer, the ultimate winner.
