THE VISION (Pete Greig)

So this guy comes up to me and says: “What’s the vision? What’s the big idea?” I open my mouth and words come out like this: The vision?

The Vision is Jesus- Obsessively, Dangerously, Undeniably Jesus.
The Vision is an army of young people.
You see bones? I see an army.
And they are free from materialism.
They could eat caviar on Monday and crusts on Tuesday
They wouldn't even notice, they wouldn't even care.
They know the meaning of the matrix; the way the west was won.
They are mobile like the wind, they belong to the nations.
They need no passport. People write their addresses in pencil, and wonder at their 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.
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 would lay down it's life for the cause.
A million times a day its soldiers choose to lose, that they might one day win the great 'well done' of faithful sons and daughters.
Such heroes are as radical on Monday morning as on Sunday night.
They don't need fame from names.
Instead the grin quietly upwards and here the crowds chanting again and again"Come on!"

And this is the sound of the underground
The whisper of history in the making
Foundations 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 submission.
Every soldier would take a bullet for his comrade in arms.
The tattoo on their back boasts "for me to live is Christ, and to die is gain"
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 a generation prays like a dying man,
with groans beyond talking,
with warrior cries, sulphuric tears, and with great barrow loads of laughter.

Waiting. Watching. 24-7-365

Whatever it takes they will give.
Breaking the rules.
Shaking mediocrity from it's cozy little hide.
Laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs.
Laughing at labels, Fasting essentials.
They would lay down their very lives-
Swap seats with the man on death row, guilty as hell.
A throne for an electric chair.
With blood and sweat and many tears,
With sleepless nights and fruitless days,
They pray as if it all depends on God and live as if it all depends on them.

Their DNA chooses Jesus.
He Breathes out they breath in.
Their subconscious sings.
They had a blood transfusion with Jesus.
Their words make demons scream in shopping malls.
Don't you hear them coming?
Herald the weirdos, summon the losers and the freaks.
Here come the frightened and forgotten, with fire in their eyes.
They walk tall and trees applaud, skyscrapers bow, Mountains are dwarfed by these children of another dimension.
Their prayers summon the hounds of heaven and invoke the ancient dream of Eden.
It will come to pass It will come easily. It will come soon.

How do I know?
Because this is the longing of creation itself. The groaning of the spirit. The very dream of God.
My tomorrow is His today. My distant hope is his 3D and my feeble whispered faithless prayer invokes a thunderous, resounding, bone shaking "Amen!" from Countless Angels, from heroes of the faith, from Christ Himself. And He is the original dreamer, the ultimate winner. Guaranteed.