Shake, Babble, and Roll

On Feb. 8, at the weekly chapel service at Asbury University, revival broke out. Students spontaneously kept worshipping for hours, then days—ultimately two weeks. As the news spread, people started traveling to the Methodist university in Kentucky to partake in the continuous testimonies, preaching, and music.

In truth, it made me uncomfortable. I don’t know what to do with revival—the spontaneous, emotive, communal outpouring. As a theological concept I can believe it—I affirm Pentecost. In actual, specific practice, I’m doubtful.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been thinking about what about it is so uncomfortable. I don’t want to deny those students’ experience. I won’t want to limit the way the Holy Spirit can work. I don’t want to question the sincerity or rationality of other Christians. But here I am, side-eying the whole situation.

Revivals have existed as long as Christianity—again, see Pentecost. Even in liturgical churches, there were events of spontaneous, emotional release. American religion was greatly shaped by the Great Awakenings. The 1906 Azusa Street Revival kicked off the modern Pentecostal movement. For a denomination named after method, the Methodists sure love holiness movements.

Revivals are movements of the Spirit—unplanned, unedited, unrestrained. The constraints of social decorum are untied. There is repentance and healing and praise. Even if one doesn’t see anything supernatural in revival, one can see its purpose: it’s a valve, releasing the pressure of people who face discrimination, injustice, oppression. It’s a commentary and rebuke on society. It’s a wild moment where you’re value isn’t determined by race or sex or class or merit. You are a sinner. You are a child of God.

But it’s still hard for me to say “this revival is real” or “this revival is just collective hysteria and emotive manipulation.” In truth, most revivals are probably both—there are individuals genuinely led to God in such an experience and others who just ride the emotional high until the lights come on and leave puffed up on how pious they are. There are preachers calling for true reform, in the church, in the world. There are conmen manipulating the crowd for gain.

I think we can at least ask, “Does this revival bear fruit?” That’s something that can’t be answered for a long time. It can only be seen in the lives of the participants, their testimonies, and any movements that arise. It can’t be answered in real time watching the live streams. Pentecost is only Pentecost because it is the start of something—the beginning of the Church. The people were transformed and continued to gather and spread the Gospel. If it had just been one, wild morning in Jerusalem, it wouldn’t have mattered. No one today would care about some old, obscure sect and their messiah.

I’ve known since sixth grade (with the first of annual trips to Methodist youth gatherings) that I’m not the kind of person who finds God in swaying, singing crowds. Give me a dead author over a hip speaker who can relate the youths. I will stay seated during when everyone else responds to the altar call. And I used to worry I was missing something that everyone else seemed to somehow know. Was everyone around me really so in touch with God and brimming with revived faith? What did it say about me if I found it all unappealing? And then arrogant disgust, that only a young teen can truly express, came. No, surely they were wrong. They were being manipulated. I’m above such undignified emotionalism.

It's hard to let go of that instinctive reaction when I hear of people being so moved by repetitive guitar chords and yelling, crying sermons. But I don’t want to try to put the Spirit in a box, only moving in ways I understand. I don’t need to shake or roll to receive the Spirit. He comes to me in solitude, in silence, in stillness. I will approach the altar. I will weep. I will respond and repent and be revived. But the time and place and mannerisms will not proclaim “revival.”

So I’m not going to jump on board, extoling the virtues of something just because it’s Christian and viral. But I’m going to be less quick to dismiss or condemn. Maybe the Spirit’s moving there—good; I hope He is. But it’s more important He’s moving here. I’ll sit still and wait.

The Lengthening of Days

The name Lent comes from the Old English lencten, meaning spring or lengthening of days. And that makes sense: Lent is always celebrated in the spring. Even though officially, spring is a month away, it’s currently 80 degrees, and the daffodils are in bloom all around. And come Easter, the dogwoods will be in bloom. So, it certainly feels like the beginning of Lent is ushering in spring.

But Lent doesn’t look very springlike. In Latin, Lent is Quadragesima, after 40. The 40 days of Lent reflect the 40 days Jesus spent in the desert. It calls to mind dryness, barrenness, resisting temptation. In German, the season is Fastenzeit, or “fasting time.” Spring is supposed to be about plenty and life, but Lent is about restraint and sacrifice.

But restraint and sacrifice isn’t the point of Lent, in and of themselves. Lent is a preparation. We are called to die to self. But the Christian message is that death is not the end, death is not victorious. We die to self to live in Christ. Lent prepares for Easter and resurrection.

If we just bask in the warm weather and sunny evenings but don't work in the garden, then, despite spring's virility and the soil's richness, we won't reap any food. If we just show up on Easter morning with new hats and chocolate bunnies, we won't really be changed by Christ's sacrifice and victory. 

If we truly want to celebrate the fruits of the Resurrection, we need to live a life in Christ. That takes reflection, effort, and sacrifice. Lent is the tilling of the soil, the weeding of the garden. It is the work done in order to make the garden grow.

Bee Mine

St. Valentine is obviously most associated with love. He married Christian couples in secret, when Christianity was illegal in Rome. But, he is the patron of more than love and marriage.

He is a patron of those suffering from fainting, epilepsy, plague, and mental illness (he was a physician and cared for the sick). He has also been a patron of beekeepers since as early as 496.

Beekeeping is one of those trades that used to be more common. Before we had industrial sugarcane and corn syrup, honey was the best sweetener. It was common for the bees to live among us; they got pollen and protection in our gardens, and we got wax and honey.

Honey is an almost magical substance. It contains essential vitamins and minerals. It can be harvested year-round. It can be preserved indefinitely. When the Israelites longed for the “land of milk and honey,” they longed for a place of unending nourishment, both physical and spiritual.

I don’t think St. Valentine kept bees himself. St. Modomnoc did.

St. Modomnoc was born in Ireland in the 500s. He was a missionary priest and a disciple of St. David of Wales. It’s possible his name was really Dominic but he was so often called “my Dominic” or “mo (little) Dominic” that his name evolved into Modomnoc.

Modomnoc was the beekeeper for his monastery in Wales. The monks used the bees for their honey and wax. It was said that Modomnoc cared well for the bees and that they never stung him. He talked to them like friends. When he was returning to Ireland, three times the bees swarmed, following him to the boat and settling on the mast.

The custom of “telling the bees” of important family matters (birth, marriage, death) is thought to come from Modomnoc and his bees.  

St. Modomnoc’s feast day is Feb. 13, just a day before St. Valentine’s. That seems appropriate, and I want the bees and their keepers to be my valentine this year. 

If you ever find yourself in an ecological talk with me, you’ll undoubtedly hear about frogs, bees, and Monarch butterflies. I worry about them. Where have they gone? I’m not that old, and I’m not that far from the place of my birth. But I remember running into frogs, bees, and butterflies all the time in my childhood summers. And then somewhere along the way, they just… disappeared. I've gone years in my adult life without seeing a Monarch butterfly. There's a nostalgic sadness to that, but then there's the much more unsettling reality as to why. 

Habitat destruction, pesticides, air pollution, and climate change have all affected the small creatures that I used to take for granted. The bee population dropped significantly in the 20th century. And for those that survive, colony collapse is more common, and there's pesticides in the honey. No one longs for the land of soured milk and poisoned honey. Yet here we are. 

We cannot survive without bees. Bees perform about 80% of the world’s pollination. If there’s a flower, there’s a bee (and if there’s a bee, there’s a flower). Bee pollination sustains an enormous amount of plant life on Earth. No bees means stagnation, infertility, death. 

Fortunately, beekeepers have been working hard to save bees. In the U.S., bee populations have slowly been increasing since around 2008. Things are not ok, but there is hope that maybe, just maybe, we can appreciate our ecosystem enough to not destroy it. From the brink of catastrophe, beekeepers are caring for the little, industrious creatures who give the world flowers, sweetness, and life.

St. Valentine and St. Modomnoc, pray for them!

And There Was Light

Today’s first reading takes us back to the very beginning: Genesis 1:1-19, the first four days of creation. God spoke and it was so.

Such a powerful, foundational piece of scripture, and it’s stuck on a Monday reading in Ordinary Time? (Ok, it’s also read at the Easter Vigil, the most important day. But it was a surprise to see it this morning.)

The bleak, gray of February isn’t really the season one thinks of light and creation and life. And yet, it is a month of growing light. It is the halfway point between winter solace and spring equinox, roughly halfway between Christmas and Easter. Candlemas, just a few days ago, celebrates the Presentation of Jesus to the Temple, where Simeon declares him, “a light of revelation for the Gentiles” (Luke 2:32).

There is light, growing light, but it is still small and dim. We are starting to sense a coming spring, but it is not truly here yet. Looking at the beginning of Genesis in this February lens, you can feel the anticipation building. God is really going for something here, with this creation. Each day builds upon the last, more complex, more intimate. Yes, we start with light—but there is no one there to see it. They are yet to come. And there is more light coming—the sun and stars. And a brighter light still—the Light of the World.

In verse 14, God says, “Let there be lights in the expanse of the heavens to separate the day from the night, and they shall serve as signs and for seasons, and for days and years; and they shall serve as lights in the expanse of the heavens to give light on the earth.” God wants us to note the movement of the stars and note the change of the seasons. He wants us to observe and connect with his creation.

Amongst the weeks of drizzle and chill, the sun is slowly lingering longer, the daffodils are starting to poke up from the earth, we are seasonally tipping from death to birth and liturgically tipping from birth to death/rebirth.

Lent is a just a couple weeks away. We will enter into a spiritual “formless and desolate emptiness,” waiting for God to speak light and to resurrect creation.

February is a first light, a candle, a turning page, warm anticipation. February is a beginning, a promise of all to come.