Prophets

A bit of poetry written by Christine Westhoff, which originally was posted on her Substack

The prophetic is not a public affair. It was not meant to dwell on stages, entertaining the crowds. If this is surprising to you then I’m truly sorry that something so sacred has been so deeply misrepresented.

i do not want to stand at a podium, or splash my face around YouTube

like a woman with a trophy, thinking numbers and fame equal kingdom success.

I want to lay at the feet of the broken bride like a woman in labor, glimpsing beyond her present state into the hope of a glorious feast.

To confuse dominion with love is dressing the Holy Spirit in a torn sequin dress parading Her in front of hungry eyes.

Prophets who trip over a lust for power while declaring Your name are clanging symbols waiting for applause, ignoring the symphony just beyond their reach.

The true prophets are hiding in closets, covered in yesterday’s paint splatters with unfinished poetry churning in their souls, waiting in agony for the stars to sing.

May we be found with tear stained cheeks, barely able to whisper your name through quivering lips, holding onto hope with weary hands and shredded hearts.