Let the mobs howl,

Let them dance with glee.

But God isn’t there.

Anymore than God was in

the wind, the quake, and the fire.

But only in the still small voice.

Here was God.

For Elijah.

Oh, how we love the big stuff.

The miracles and the blessings.

The noise of triumph, and the shouts of power.

Oh, how we love such things.

But there is no God in any of it.

Only the small gods of small minds.

The gods of our own making.

Give me your gold, said Aaron.

And into the fire he threw it.

And out popped a little god.

A little golden calf.

A little god to see, a little god to touch.

Let the mob howl.

Let the preachers preach.

And the prophets promise:

Honor and glory.

National dominance and victory.

The world is our plum.

Oh, take and eat it.

It tastes so good.

But in the stomach, it churns bitter.

Hate and fear.

Anger and violence.

Wanton destruction.

Let the mobs howl,

Let them dance with glee.

It will end.

As it always does.

But not until it has run its course.

Stand ready for the day.

Be firm in resolve:

To be patient, and speak truth.

Let the mobs howl,

Let them dance with glee.

It will end in fire and sorrow.