I wrote this a few years ago as a meditation shared in the liturgy, during Advent, I believe. Just found it in some papers:
The world I live in is old and very weary.
Its canyons and highways and cities barely ripple
when good news hurries through like a shy breeze.
Can I say anything that has not been said before?
Can any new idea save us from our grief or greed or anxious thoughts?
Can nature itself be born again, with crystal-bright air
and every creature loved and thriving?
Can our worst memories be made into anything but what they are?
Can our governments and banks and workplaces and neighborhoods
truly experience a fresh, new day?
Do we dare believe in hope?
The prophets were--let's be honest--wild and incomprehensible.
The dreams they had! The audacity they encouraged!
What troubling, confusing prophesies are these:
that a new thing will happen,
that joy will burst every boundary,
that families will live long and be blessed,
that the universe will pulse with a tranquil heart.
What foolishness is this: to hope and build our courage.
How dangerous to entertain visions of holiness, justice, a good, lovely earth.
If we listen and believe, what might we do?
What songs might we compose,
and what stunning kindnesses might we accomplish?
What sort of uncontrollable, odd people might we become
if we take to heart the words God breathed into Isaiah?
Certainly the prophet knew that what he described was absurd.
Maybe he thought he was going out of his mind,
even to possess such thoughts:
No more weeping? Wolves at peace with lambs?
No wonder he had so few friends.
And yet, he spoke those wild words. He waited for the faith to believe them.
And he waited for us, so that we could believe them, too,
to create a history of people who believe.
VH Wright, December 2013
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