The Prophets Were Activists

For the ones who speak even when it shakes the room

The prophets were not polite.
They did not ask for a turn.
They did not wait
for the meeting to end
or the crowd to calm down.
They opened their mouths
and heaven roared through them.

They wore sackcloth,
not silk.
Dust on their feet,
fire in their bones.
They stood in the gap
when kings closed their doors
and priests turned blind.

They did not flatter.
They cried out.
Let justice roll down like waters
was not a song—
it was a reckoning.

They stood in streets,
on hillsides,
before thrones and temples,
with nothing but truth
and trembling hands.
And still—
they spoke.

The prophets were activists.
Not because they marched,
but because they moved.
Not because they shouted,
but because they obeyed.
Obedience is louder
than all your opinions.

They did not call comfort holy.
They called the people back
to mercy,
to justice,
to the God
who does not ignore
the widow,
the orphan,
the stranger,
the slain.

And the people—
they did not always listen.
They mocked,
they stoned,
they silenced.
But the word kept walking.
The word never returns void.

You think prophecy is mystery,
but it is mirror.
It is resistance
wrapped in love.
It is rebuke
carried on the back of hope.
It is the voice
you try to tune out
when you know
it is telling the truth.

The prophets were not elite.
They were everyday men and women
with sacred scars,
who refused
to make peace
with evil.

And we—
we must not forget.
The call to faith
is also a call to courage.
To cry out
when systems crush.
To weep
when blood is cheap.
To walk into “good trouble”
because the gospel
is not neutral.

Speak like the prophets.
Live like the Word matters.
Love loud.
Act justly.
Disturb the silence.
And when they ask
who gave you the right—

say:
The same God
who sent Amos to the gate,
Jeremiah to the kings,
Esther to the throne,
and me
to this very moment.

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