The Vision

I have been reading Red Moon Rising the past few month. It has literally taken me months to get through it. It is taking so long because after I finish reading everyday, I am left to think and pray. It shouldn't be, but it is so radical.

More to to come about this, but there is a portion I want to share. When asked about what is vision looked like for this 24-7 prayer movement, the author responded with this:

The Vision?
The vision is JESUS--obsessivley, dangeriously, undeniably Jesus.
The vision is an army of young people. You see 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, they way the West was won.
They are mobile like the wind, they belong to the nations. They need no passport. People write thir addresses in pencil and wonder at their stange 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 make 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 will lay down its 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 Sunday night.
They don't need fame from names. Instead they grin quietly upwards and hear the crowd 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 discipl(in)ed.
Young people who beat their bodies into submission.
Every solider 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."
Sacrifice fuels the fire of victory in their upward eyes.
Winnder.
Martyrs.
Who can stop them?
Can hormones hold them back?
Can failure succeed?
Can fear scare them or death kill them?
And the generation prays
like a dying man
with groans beyond talking,
with warrior cries, sulphuric tears and with great barrow loads of laughter!
Waithing. Watching: 24-7-365.
Whatever it takes they will give:
Breaking the ules.
Shaking mediocrity from its cosy little hide.
Laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs,
laughting at labels, fasting essentials.
The adverisers cannot mold them.
Hollywood cannot hold them.
Peer-pressure is poweless 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 ckithes like costumes to communicate and celebrate but
never to hide.
Would they surrender their image or their popularity?
They woule lay down their very lives--swao sears 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 al depends on God and live as if it all depends on them.
Their DNA chooses JESUS (He breathes out, they breathe in).
Their subconscious sings. They had a blood transfusion with Jesus.
Their words make demons scream in shopping centers.
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 dimention
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 longing of creation itself, the groaning of the Spirit, the very dream of God.
My tomorrow is his today.
My distant hope is his 3-D.
And my feeble, whispered, faithless prayer invokes thunderous,
Resounding, bone-shaking great "Amne" from countless Angles, from
heros of the faith, from Chirst himself. And He is the original dreamers, the ultimate winnder.
Guaranteed.

--peter greig