small prophets

These are the days of the lone preachers, the ordinary mystics, the small prophets. Where once ideological giants clashed, now the layman sees big things, and the world listens. The bonds of the old giants, the big voices to which we gave our lives, these bonds are falling away, giving rise to simple communication, to near-silent whispers, to small prophecy.

Phillip, a technology-worker, sends his ideas into the void when he has a spare moment. His visions span millenia: They twist together the threads of Bhuddism, Gnostic Christianity, gestalt psychotherapy, and computer hacking to produce something new. His ideas twist out through the void, and many read them. His metaphors for the self are derived from the computer; his promises for the self aim towards something greater than simple computation. Many respond, thankful for his presentation of old ideas in new terms. Many respond, thankful for his glorious new ideas drawing from the old cliches. He is not a hacker, not a writer, but a prophet. He speaks words of meaning, and we learn.

In this time there are no followers, no disciples. The prophets of old gathered thousands around them, walked the world in a throng of swirling humanity. When they died and were replaced by their ideals, still millions swarmed to them. But this is the time of the small prophets, and thus the small disciples. Perhaps we understand their words. Perhaps their ideas take root in our mind. Perhaps we thank them. But always, we move on.

"Religion" is too big a word. It implies structure, hierarchy... It implies singluarity, if not universalism. Too big, too big. When the small prophets speak, there is no thought of martyrs and history and redemption. Only of connection, and perhaps of meaning gained.

Couchie is not his real name. He was simply an ephemeral being, a member of a small community. And he was wise. When he disapeared, faded from view, his ideas spoke for themselves in a voice only slightly louder than his own: Those he left behind gathered his words together, and together the words lived. He knew of many things, and didn't hesitate to share. We read his words, and perhaps we responded. But more, we remembered, held the ideas as they grew and morphed and changed. We do not know his name, and in the end, we no longer know him, but we know what he was. His prophecy stays with us.

It simply isn't about the holy and the right anymore. Even the truth is fading from view. There are ideas, and we share them. And as we share them, they multiply: Each listener knows what they mean, and so they mean many things. The ancients remembered the prophets, but today they are small, and will fade from view. In the end, only the meaning gained will remain.

Elian plays with form and meaning. His works are beautiful, capturing something purely aesthetic, but underneath there is a grounding. He knows about words, about meaning, and he gives and gives, leaving small words written in a thousand forms. He knows of plurality, knows that what he says can and indeed must take many forms. So his forms change, twisting and turning before our very eyes, squirming off the page... And in the end, we are left with only what was underneath. The form is gone, the meaning remains.

The old prophets spoke of miracles. Today's prophets show us healing.

Scott, a photographer, doesn't just document what he sees: He molds until it is a symbol of its own. Most of his photographs have no captions, and indeed need none. Their voices speak to us, clearly and precisely, of sickness, of mercy, of redemption. He travels the globe, we travel his visions. He doesn't tell a story; his prophecy is of moments. And we listen to them.

Just as there were many more old prophets than are remembered today, there are many more small prophets than are known today. They are everywhere, each and every one with a small message. Some write parables, some epics. And yet they are everywhere. While the old prophets shouted their words from the tops of mountains, today's small prophets leave their whispers in the quiet corners, waiting for them to be found. We rub metaphorical shoulders with them every day, their ideas shining brightly, providing the energy for our own beliefs to grow and change, plant-like, winding around each other and moving towards the sun.

-lelandpaul