When we hear the word prophet, we tend to think of someone who predicts the future: someone who speaks in riddles, foretells victories or disasters, reads tea leaves or bones, studies the stars or birds’ entrails, or gazes into a crystal ball. Every culture has its own seers. Greek mythology, for example, is full of such figures. One of them was Cassandra, the Trojan princess cursed by Apollo, who had the gift of foresight but bore the curse of nobody ever believing her—even when she warned her people about the Trojan Horse.
In the Bible, too, prophets spoke about future events and were at times rejected. Yet their primary role was not to predict the future but to interpret the present. It is rather like the curious linguistic coincidence that in French a preacher is called a prédicateur, which to English ears sounds like “predictor,” yet it comes from the Latin praedicare, meaning “to proclaim.” Preachers, teachers, and prophets are all charged with speaking God’s truth into the present, helping us understand how today’s actions are shaping tomorrow. Jeremiah 28:5–9 (click here to read the text) illustrates this distinction.
The story is set during one of the most turbulent periods in Israel’s history. Only a generation earlier, King Josiah had instituted sweeping religious reforms that renewed the nation’s commitment to God. After his death in battle in 609 BC, however, Judah—the southern part of what had once been the Kingdom of Israel—entered a period of political and spiritual instability. The Assyrian Empire, which had already conquered the northern part, was collapsing, while Egypt sought to seize the opportunity to extend its influence. At the same time, Babylon became dominant, decisively defeating Egypt at the Battle of Carchemish in 605 BC.
Judah became a Babylonian vassal state, paying tribute while retaining its own king. Many in Jerusalem longed to regain their independence. Trusting that because the Temple of the Lord stood in their city God would surely protect them, they rebelled under the leadership of King Jehoiakim. This led to the siege of Jerusalem, and in 597 BC many of the city’s leading citizens, craftsmen, soldiers, and members of the royal family were carried into exile. Still, the city itself and the Temple remained standing, and a puppet king continued to rule in Jerusalem.
Naturally, the people hoped that Babylon would soon weaken, the exiles would return, and the sacred treasures of the Temple would be restored. This is exactly what the prophet Hananiah promised would happen within two years. Jeremiah saw matters differently and, as a result, was deeply unpopular. He believed that Babylon was an instrument through which God was calling the people to repent of injustice, idolatry, corruption, and misplaced political confidence. What is striking, however, is that Jeremiah did not immediately expose Hananiah as absurd. Before disagreeing, he too said, “Amen! May the Lord do so”—in effect, “I wish Hananiah were right.”
So perhaps the first question is not, “Who are the false prophets?” but, “What kind of prophecy am I hoping is true?” Those we instinctively dismiss as false are usually the ones with whom we already disagree: the politicians we dislike, the media outlets we distrust, the influencers who strike us as inauthentic—they may or may not be false. The real danger is that false prophets are rarely obvious. Rather, they are often the voices we most want to be right. Hananiah’s beautiful promise of peace, restoration, freedom, homecoming, and the return of the sacred vessels was the message faithful people longed to hear. And yet Jeremiah reminded them that the test of prophecy is not whether it sounds comforting, patriotic, optimistic, or inspiring, but whether it reflects God’s truth. The story of Jeremiah and Hananiah is therefore not about which one of them was right, but about how the people were supposed to discern the difference.
Every generation faces this challenge. We, too, are surrounded by voices competing for our trust and appealing to our longing for certainty and control. Politicians promise quick solutions. Advertisers persuade us that joy lies just one purchase away. Diet industries profit from our dissatisfaction with our bodies. Influencers speak with great confidence on subjects in which they possess little expertise. Some self-help books cloak a lack of depth in the language of psychology. Wellness guides present poorly understood physiological mechanisms with confidence that masks little substance. Polished presentations and compelling personalities create an impression of authority, which is what counts in an age in which information travels faster than wisdom.
Not every confident voice is a false prophet, of course, and exercising discernment does not mean becoming cynical. Research, medicine, psychology, and public policy contribute to our flourishing when pursued with honesty and integrity. The challenge is to figure out who the real prophet is. They may not be eloquent or impressive, or resemble us in education, status, or worldview. During my years in academia, I learned that credentials, expertise, publications, and evidence are rightly valued. But the ministry has repeatedly reminded me that wisdom is not confined to formal education. Some of the most profound theological insights come from children after a children’s message, from people approaching the end of life, or parishioners who would never describe themselves as theologians. They have become prophets for me, not because they predicted the future, but because they helped me understand the present.
Sometimes the prophet is not even the one speaking, but the one bringing the meal, writing the card, or simply sitting beside us. And at times, the prophet is the one receiving the meal, for Jesus immediately follows his words, “Whoever welcomes a prophet in the name of a prophet will receive a prophet’s reward” (Matthew 10:41-42) with the simple image of offering a cup of cold water. This passage echoes his well-known teaching, “I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in” (Matthew 25:35).
Edwin Markham captures this in his poem How the Great Guest Came (1915)1. A cobbler prepares his house, believing that Christ had promised to visit him. (In a sense, he acts as his own prophet.) As he waits, he keeps welcoming needy strangers who arrive at his door, only to discover later that it was Christ himself who had come in their guise. Perhaps, we shouldn’t decide in advance what God will look like when God comes!
Similarly, there is an old story about a monastery that had fallen on hard times. Few new monks joined, the buildings were deteriorating, and the brothers became discouraged. Nearby lived a rabbi whom the monks respected. Hoping for advice, the abbot went to visit him. The rabbi said, “I’m sorry. I have no advice to give. The only thing I can tell you is that the Messiah is one of you.” Puzzled, the abbot shared the rabbi’s words with the community. “The Messiah is one of us? Brother Thomas? Surely not. Brother Andrew? Impossible. Perhaps Brother John? Well… maybe…” Since no one knew who it was, they began treating one another with new reverence. Gradually, the visitors noticed the difference, joy returned, and the monastery became alive again.
What would happen if we all approached one another wondering, “Could God have something to say to me through this person?” We might listen more carefully and dismiss people less quickly. Throughout Scripture, God speaks through shepherds and kings, comes as an infant instead of a warrior, and dies as a crucified Messiah instead of a conquering one. But which Hananiahs are we most tempted to believe? The one that tells us there will be no consequences to our mistakes, change is unnecessary, someone else is responsible, happiness can be purchased, complex problems have simple solutions, or there is nothing left to learn?
Perhaps the most pervasive false prophecy of our culture is not, “Buy this product,” but, “You are not enough as you are.” Or that our value depends upon proving ourselves better than others. That message comes dressed as health, beauty, success, productivity, and wellness. Yet discernment means asking not only, “Is this factually accurate?” but also, “Does this align with what we know about the image of God that lives within each of us?” Does it encourage gratitude, dignity, stewardship of our bodies, and love of neighbour? Does it bear the marks of God’s own character: truth, justice, humility, compassion, and self-giving love?
Finally, we too are called to exercise our own prophetic vocation. Few of us will stand before kings as Jeremiah did. Yet all of us are given opportunities to speak truth gently within our own circles, to defend the vulnerable, to question injustice, to encourage hope, and to remind others of God’s presence. In that sense, every disciple shares in the prophetic ministry of Christ. A prophet is one who helps us perceive the present more truthfully. And the disciple is the one humble enough to listen. Thanks be to God.
- “How the Great Guest Came”
Before the cathedral in grandeur rose
At Ingelburg where the Danube goes;
Before its forest of silver spire
Went airily up to the clouds and fires;
Before the oak had ready a beam,
While yet the arch was stone and dream —
There where the altar was later laid,
Conrad the cobbler, plied his trade.
It happened one day at the year’s white end —
Two neighbors called in on their old-time friend;
And they found the shop, so meager and mean,
Made gay with a hundred boughs of green.
Conrad was stitching with face ashine,
But suddenly stopped as he twitched a twine:
“Old friends, good news! At dawn today,
As the cocks were scaring the night away,
The Lord appeared in a dream to me,
And said, `I am coming your Guest to be!’
So I’ve been busy with feet astir,
Strewing the floor with branches of fir.
The wall is washed and the shelf is shined,
And over the rafter the holly twined.
He comes today, and the table is spread
With milk and honey and wheaten bread.”
His friends went home; and his face grew still
As he watched for the shadow across the sill.
He lived all the moments o’er and o’er,
When the Lord should enter the lowly door —
The knock, the call, the latch pulled up,
The lighted face, the offered cup.
He would wash the feet where the spikes had been,
He would kiss the hands where the nails went in,
And then at the last would sit with Him
And break the bread as the day grew dim.
While the cobbler mused there passed his pane
A beggar drenched by the driving rain.
He called him in from the stony street
And gave him shoes for his bruised feet.
The beggar went and there came a crone,
Her face with wrinkles of sorrow sown.
A bundle of faggots bowed her back,
And she was spent with the wrench and rack.
He gave her his loaf and steadied her load
As she took her way on the weary road.
Then to his door came a little child,
Lost and afraid in the world so wild,
In the big, dark world. Catching it up,
He gave it the milk in the waiting cup,
And led it home to its mother’s arms,
Out of the reach of the world’s alarms.
The day went down in the crimson west
And with it the hope of the blessed Guest,
And Conrad sighed as the world turned gray:
“Why is it, Lord, that your feet delay?
Did you forget that this was the day?”
Then soft in the silence a Voice he heard:
“Lift up your heart, for I have kept my word.
Three times I came to your friendly door;
Three times my shadow was on your floor.
I was the beggar with the bruised feet;
I was the woman you gave to eat;
I was the child on the homeless street!” ↩︎
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