Night Blindness


Therefore night will come over you, without visions, and darkness, without divination. The sun will set for the prophets, and the day will go dark for them. (Micah 3:6)

I have never seen a chicken get its head cut off, but I’ve heard stories about how the headless body will run around like—well, like a chicken with its head cut off, spurting blood until it keels over or ricochets off something. There’s something morbidly comical about it, unless you happen to be a chicken or a PETA pal.

Experts pop up in Christianity like acne. At every turn some pastor, some scholar, some accountant sipping a four-dollar latte (with extra syrup) erupts with insight on how this God thing is playing out. You can find a Christian book on any subject from the post-modern economics of the gospel to Pentecostalism in Bavaria. I don’t know how many books I’ve passed over that offered the “key” to some kind of spiritual thing.

And then there are the prophetic types. With eyes like manic pinwheels, they sprout oracular flowcharts and pin down, with utter certainty, stuff even Jesus doesn’t know. By their lights the world should have ended at least seven times by now. So until God finally gets his act together, they will kill time by heaping scorn on the rest of us, a thankless job for which they anticipate the Almighty’s eternal appreciation.

I’m sure glad everybody else knows what’s going on. I sure as hell don’t. I get up in the morning and wonder what’s on the day’s menu of worldly predicaments. I feel the complaints of my body which, in spite of my titanic efforts, insists on breaking down. I blink with incomprehension at the fiascoes of political enterprise and wonder why I’m not that excited about much anymore. I can’t afford the latest must-have anything and don’t want it anyway (which is convenient). I bumble my way through what responsibilities I can’t evade and look forward to bedtime like you wouldn’t believe.

On a regular basis along the way I open the Bible for a high-octane shot of otherness. I also toss up a few confessions of ineptitude to the Great Invisibility—along with some expressions of thanks for the flashlight my faith affords (gotta love that alliteration). I then amen the whole thing and pack the surpassing peace in my pocket (enough already). Let the pundits pontificate (I mean it). Let tomorrow worry about itself.

This is the day that the Lord has made. I say let’s rejoice and be glad in it. Let the chips fall where they may.


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