Do not come to me now in the rush. Not in the swell of the room. Not in the chase for one more high place, one more moment to prove you are here. I am tired of mistaking intensity for presence. Tired of thinking you must always arrive in thunder, in tears, in the room lifting itself towards the rafters. No. Come as the whisper. Come as the breath that barely moves the dust in the chapel light. Come as that still small voice that does not force itself through the speakers but

I hear it— a cry rising like incense from flats without furniture, from doorways where the prophets weep, from rooms where children dream...

How long, O Lord? How long will the blood of children cry from the dust? How long will hostages be held and celebrations be made of...

'For yours is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.' At Lighthouse, we say these words together — sometimes...