A Wilderness of Dreams | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: A Wilderness of Dreams | Previous Challenge Entry
By David Johnston
08/21/08
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Today I preached about the Promised Land, about a land of rest and peace, of God’s goodness and blessing, about a home for the poor and widowed. This evening I kneel beside the hospital bed and pray. I remember those in my congregation who like the Israelites are being led out of slavery and into the Promised Land. I thank God that the slave drivers of sin yield to the power of His rule and presence. I read my Bible before moving to the tiny couch: the couch leads to visions and my life as a church leader dies in my dreams.

The window is open as the stifling heat fills the room, slipping under the curtains, conquering the ventilators, the instruments, the functional bed. I lie in the cauldron, dreams swirling above me, trouble brewing, doubling at the sound of locusts toiling outside. My eyelids hover before descending: the world before me – the shadow of a body, my wife lying ill – being replaced with the world inside me. Here is the wilderness of my dreams. A former river confronts me, void of all life, and I take the forty steps over its empty bed, a new Moses, leading the blind, the lame, and deaf. Behind me lies my wife; behind me is my life. Today we prayed over her; we rebuked the devil and prayed for God’s healing presence. I take a confident step forward out of the river; my wife turns; my eyelids soar into the heavens; my eyes focus on her figure, the rhythmic movement of her rhythmic breathing; and the door opens again before me.

Walking through the desert, picking my way across egg shells, I climb higher and higher, approaching a magnificent cathedral, its arms opening, embracing the city, the capital of an empire. The tombs of priests lie below me; standing on their foundations I raise my hands to the heavens, preaching Christ crucified. Fourteen hours a day I lead a church; for ten hours a day my dreams lead me. As pastor I lead and guide, my confident demeanour speaking of escapes from slavery and entrances to the Promised Land. Asleep, I walk and see the shadow of a rock ahead. Here I pause; here I strike the rock. I strike it and the Rock refuses to respond. The rock is silent, unyielding. The charade of my confident blows is no more destructive, constructive than the gentle wind caressing my dying wife’s body. She breathes and I circle the rock. Another prayer – heal her! heal her! heal her! – and still the Rock is unmoving. She sighs and again I strike the rock, confidently expecting water to pour forth. The pretence of a promised land lies yet further; my sermons are full of empty words; death is circling and escape seems impossible.

The clock of the cathedral chimes; the alarms sound; and I awake. Today I have to tell the congregation that she is dead, that together we will have to make our way through the wilderness, a holy people, guided by God, still being formed in His image. Between slavery and the Promised Land lie difficulties and dreams; in the desert remain both slavery and promise. I close my eyes and pray. A widowed leader of a church, my heart broken, I will eventually join my wife in front of the Rock. That day, fulfilment will come, water will pour forth, and the charade will fade into reality. But not yet, not yet... .

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