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.
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