Where have the untamed and wild prophets gone? Those dangerous men of yesteryear whose glaring faults and passions made them the least likely and most powerful preachers of the day. I miss them; I need them. I read about them in books or hear stories that become legends that became impossibilities to our modern ears. They led without wanting to be leaders; they taught, guided, and emboldened those who heard their words—words spoken with a conviction that is sorely missing these days. Because they didn’t fit the mold, they didn’t look the part, and the bureaucrats couldn’t control them; the bureaucrats and the pietists alike distrusted them.
These were not timid men, men well suited to polite society, and so our society, no matter how righteously constructed in this polite and civil age, was all too eager to see them go. And now we know, or at least we’re beginning to understand, that we have slowly cast them out and let them die in obscurity. There is no memorial, no great lament, just the onward march of time that reduces all to the fate of Ozymandias. I am beginning to understand that they themselves didn’t want or expect anything else, but I can’t help but feel deeply saddened by this development. Perhaps it will be my future as well; maybe it should be.
Yet time rolls on, and work is still being done. The Word goes forth, but the wild ones seem to be in short supply. Perhaps we didn’t need them in the first place. It could be that their rough edges and untamed spirit were indeed an offense to the task at hand. It could be that those who felt embarrassed by their words and their presence among them were right all along. They were treated as relics of a different time, holding to uncritical traditions and knee-jerk reactions, and with them out of the way, the real work could get started. And so it has.
In their place, we have set up too many hollow-chested men. Such men are timid. They are men captivated by the hearers as if they had no right to proclaim the truth without their permission. Their boldness usually comes when cloaked in such authorization. Whether cosplaying medieval practices or taking sides in political struggles (both secular and religious), these men play their part. They are safe, predictable, and boring. They pay homage to Truth but filter it through their safely defined and well-outlined path of inclusion so they don’t dare step out of the line. What words of comfort or guidance can they offer me? I am just directed to come hat in hand to the middle managers of the sacred for correction or permission.
We shouldn’t have let them die in obscurity. In a time when men tear down statues and reconstruct our history, we need their voices, their example, and their legacy. I am convinced we will regret losing what they unknowingly gave. I long for something different. I miss the pastor of my youth; I miss the wild ones.
