Green Screen

Living in the light reveals the crescent moon shadow. Yazeed bursts out like an illuminated fruit growing out of the thirsty Saharan desert sands. The wall he painted behind him is the green one. Evergreen is rich coloring for the Arab world conquered by Muslim rule. As an Egyptian Christian, he’s occupying the majority framework as a minority among the myriad minarets and mosques bowing to Mohammed: head mark. Daily he faces Jesus with affectionate Arabic whispers as he makes a way through Cairo’s metropolis of never ceasing momentum. His hand gently touches your inner forearm: I am with you. Man to man public display of affection is an affirmation of care not unnaturally twisted like withered vine branches. Come along down the dusty path along the rail lines and pop-up markets. Watchful eyes meet yours.

The advancing deception of the green screen appears real. Here it’s everywhere inside the numbers: truth or false. All these fears of one or the other. Seamless false identities are found to be superimposed when our brothers are mistreated. Skip a beat. There’s one who goes before us who faced the volatility in the streets in victory. Dark principalities and powers swirl tower to tower hour by hour to tend the cowering braves. Stray barks. Lurking free range feral cats. The beeps of machines breathe. Motorized carriages course throughout the city like steer. Headlights are lit neon crayons. Melt your eyes like heat on wax. They drip and run into one another as one; glaring. These blaring, horns are acoustic weapons waking the unaware to warn them of what’s to come: beware.

After leaving the back of a restaurant from a conversation with someone who cared enough to pull Brandon aside, a simple command was followed by one in step, “When you go to Egypt, you go to the Christians first. They need Jesus too. Then you go to the Muslims.” Introduced to one among the populous plenty through the Spirit, relationships become anew. Off the beaten path littered with trash and pulverized brown dirt there appeared a hidden apartment. Careful, watch out for the craters and rocks sticking out like gnarly knobs. Stop tripping and pay attention. Up the spiraling cement staircase past cages of attentive blue-belly parakeets is a two-bedroom flat. Why would an Egyptian Arab open his home to strangers from foreign lands? Yazeed replied, “They’re not strangers.” Colossians says, “The gospel is constantly bearing fruit and growing throughout the whole world – just as it has been doing among you since the day you heard it and truly understood God’s grace.”

The Arabic language instructor risks his family’s safety as well as his own to cut keys that will allow the visitors to open the door to the Arab world. One to one replicas. It’s not a Kwikset, but a life long cursive script inscription upon a blank. Frustration sets in when the language goes missing from their minds like lost keys, but it’s the fact of staying close together how the copy is made. Meanwhile the green screen of the Arab Spring is the headline while the kingdom is being built like a brick kitchen. Made relationship produces fruit over a North African market gathered meal as foreigners become guests. Their lives laid down together. In step, brick by brick renovations kept up the upkeep of the fixer-up flat in the midst of the televised revolution with zero coverage.

Yazeed is a global local leader without wearing decorative patches. Dispatches travel through a special messenger each time the emergency call goes out. The ghost-white dove departs and arrives from the rooftop when the time is right. Like a hanging fog, the sanging barrage of loudspeakers engulf the ears of the swarming streets. The azaan’s acoustic weapon swirl and settle in the quiet place. Pardon me. The interruptions are a pardoned tradition side by side the hanging icons like Coptic comic books in the nave. Superstitions are on guard like heavy drapes. In love, since the righteous raver tore through the veil everywhere has become a sanctuary without fail. Truth pierces the black heart with a nail and rushes in a new heart with the force of a gale. The dead rail against the living as if a gift of thanksgiving.   

Wedged between Kasr El-Dobara and the Mogamma’s alleyway is staging for the Egyptian military. On either end piles of dark green sandbags mimic pyramids. Weapons rest on the pinnacles ready for anything to trigger fire. Long rows of military trucks with heavy duty fencing affixed to their windows host young Egyptian troops awaiting the chance to apply their war games training against the tumultuous tide arising from the subway or traffic circle in the heaving heart of Tahrir square. Size and shapes of previous revolutions are scaled for weight behind fortified walls of the Egyptian Armed Forces. Behind the colossal Mogamma government administrative building stands the gates of the kingdom of heaven for Arabs.

Kasr El-Dobara’s congregation and its visitors pass through a single metal detector. The presence of God fills the marble courtyard with a celebration of life not contingent on how their treated by their Muslim brothers and sisters. The incense of worship plumes like smoke without the thurible. Cypress oil regulates the blood flow regardless of body type. Wooden words in long-stretched Arabic script hang on the sides of the sanctuary like name tags for Allah. El Hamolelah. At the feet of Jesus, their normal human power is consumed by the eternal life. Worship in Arabic singes the atmosphere upon the first note and explodes into a supernatural fire storm. Transparency is as clear as the polished tiles; nothing is swept underneath the rug. They act on the tug of the Spirit because they know the author of love more grand than their ancient histories. Thousands cry out to the Lord because of their oppressors in any form. Blowing the ram’s horn assembles the scattered into one body marching forward. The forewarning goes forth from one end of the sky to another, from one end of the country to another in the cradle of civilization. The Lord your God will remember you and save you from your enemies and the adversary who coordinates attacks against you in your land.