The Vision (redux)
The following words
were written by an awesome guy named Pete Greig who
was speaking at a worship camp that I went to when I was a sophomore in high
school (1999-2000) and I still love it SO much. Anyway, here it is...(This is Sasha a young lady who is my friend on myspace and sent this out as a blog.)
The words of 'The Vision' got written late one night on the wall of the first ever 24-7 Prayer Room. "It wasn't a big deal", says Pete Greig, "... just a very personal thing - trying to work out the call on my life and why I was awake at 0300 praying when sane people are all tucked up in bed!"
But somehow the words of The Vision escaped that Prayer Room! They must have been copied off the wall by someone and sent as an email to a friend. Pete recalls: "I didn't realise any of this until someone in
Before long The Vision was being printed in magazines, remixed by DJ's in
In August 2001 The Vision was published in a magazine called 'The Way' which circulates a staggering 100,000 underground churches in
Call to Arms
We were amazed! Somehow the words scrawled on our Prayer Room wall had taken on a life of their own. The Vision had become a personal mission-statement for many - a generational call to arms.
The Vision made us realise that God was doing something with our prayers, something immeasurably bigger than we could 'ask or hope or imagine'. Perhaps it's another indication that the Spirit really is moving across the nations, uniting the generation with one dream, one passion and one Commander in Chief.
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 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 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 will lay down its life for the cause.
A million 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
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 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. 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 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 its cozy little hide. Laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs. Laughing at labels, fasting essentials. The advertisers cannot mold them.
They are incredibly cool, dangerously attractive inside.
On the outside? They hardly care. They wear clothes like costumes to communicate and celebrate but never to hide.
Would they surrender their image or their popularity?
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 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 weirdoes! 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
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 3D. And my feeble, whispered, faithless prayer invokes a thunderous, resounding, bone-shaking great 'Amen!' from countless angels, from heroes of the faith, from Jesus Christ himself. And he is the original dreamer, the ultimate winner.
And that, my friend, is 100% Guaranteed.
This was sent out by my young friend, Sasha on Myspace. She is one of these herself, just as I am!!