Possible

I have a prophet friend. He does not wear sandals or a tunic. Nor does he carry a staff, or herd goats on a craggy mountainside. He does not live as a hermit, or wail in the streets of your town. Well, maybe he does wail in the streets of your town...the question is, are you listening? A week ago we were sharing an afternoon at the museum. He was grappling with his craft, with what he wants to do next, artistically.

I hear you saying, I thought you said your friend was a prophet..?

Yes, that is what I said. I'll get to that.

My friend paints, and sculpts. He draws and dreams. On this particular day we marvelled at the provocation of hope-what is unleashed when one views a made thing of beauty. We saw a juried art show, an eclectic gathering of paintings, 3-D found art objects, photographs, sculpture, and in the span of an hour were changed for the better, for eternity, I suspect.

I've heard it said before that hope is dangerous-that it, hope, evokes a well-spring of what might be, what could be. Over our post- museum refreshment, my wondering friend said:

Everything is still possible.

Everything. Is. Still. Possible.

My eyes must have twinkled with mischief. Did you hear what you said? I asked, giddy.

Caught, my friend knew he had uttered truth, a truth with astounding reverberation.

We laughed a laugh of surety, of what is to be, and repeated the maxim.

It echoed in the small cafe, I'm sure, long after we departed. It has stayed and stayed with me.

Let's take what my friend said and run with it.

Everything is Still Possible.

Let us believe. Let us submit.

Let us give thanks that possible is true and true is possible, and that artists do become prophets

when hope arrests them.

Soli Deo gloria.