Revival Happens in the Streets

On Asbury, the histories that make us, and the Spirit that takes us.

“Revival” was part of my spiritual lexicon growing up, as familiar as cornfields and hay mows. “Revival” meant mid-week meetings in the dimly-lit gymnasium with scuffed up floors and tattered basketball hoops. It meant traveling preachers in Cadillac sedans with slicked-back hair and silk ties. The Spirit would move, because men and their schedules (and wallets) told it to. In our church, it meant strange sounds and people being slain in the spirit, toppling like a row of dominoes along a floor that was built for children in sneakers.

We children were not there to play. Once, we were herded up front at one of these “Revivals,” I might have been ten or twelve. The sweaty preacher scream-prayed that we would receive the Holy Spirit, as evidenced by speaking in tongues. As far as I knew, this was the only evidence allowed. All or nothing. I knew people who wanted this gift so badly they wept, week after week. We sang along to the undercurrent that some just weren’t holy enough. But I knew I never wanted it. I didn’t buy it. It embarrassed me.

I didn’t yet know I would run from it as fast as I could when the DMV put a driver’s license in my hands, but I did know to keep my distance, which was why it was shocking when the traveling preacher-man announced to our congregation of desperate women with frayed purses and desperate men too tired for the neckties that two of us had received “the gift.” He pushed me and Ricky out from the tangle of bewildered kids. The people cheered. They danced. They broke out into the very same “language” we had been coached to parrot.

In the coming weeks, they would appoint us Co-Presidents of the VFC Sunday School because we had the receipts.

And I knew they were lying.

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Over the past week I received half a dozen DMs asking my thoughts on the “revival” taking place at Asbury University in Kentucky. Initially, I was content to simply say, “I’m not the one to ask.” But the attention around it grew, and I found myself vaguely, if silently, uncomfortable.

The first words I spoke were to one of my best friends. “Why do I feel so weird about this? Am I broken?”

I was caught in some sort of interpersonal no-man’s land. I stood side-eyed on the one side. But on the other side, people I know, people I trust, were penning emotional captions about how captivated they were by this authentic move of God.

Late last night a woman sent this, “I’m not sure why people feel the need to have an opinion on something they are not even involved in.”

It’s a fair question. But the truth is, this is not just a spiritual phenomenon. It is also cultural. It is of this time and this soil. And though most of us are not there, many of us have been “there.” Culture always catches us at the intersections of our lived experiences. We try to understand events outside of us, and sometimes, we wind up understanding something new about ourselves in the process.

Turning on the lights poses no danger.

It simply shows us what was already in the room.

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Last Friday night I sent an email to The Secret Soup wishing us all a serene weekend ahead and suggesting a new favorite recipe to help steer us all toward the path of peace. That was certainly my plan.

I woke up the next morning to Drama in the neighborhood.

Imagine the parking lot of my beloved church, less than two blocks down our street, filled to capacity with police cars and armored SWAT vehicles. Imagine dozens of officers in riot gear holding AR-15s in firing position. Imagine a quiet Saturday morning crushed by the strobing force-field of red and blue.

Hours later, a man walked out of his home with his hands up.

I recognized him immediately.

I spent the rest of the day texting with a close friend and neighbor, piecing together a tragedy that had been written long ago. She understood contours I never will. I understood contours I never imagined I would.

The awareness that so many lives had been irrevocably altered chased me for the rest of the day. When we walked into town that evening for burgers, past the emptied church parking lot, enjoying the unseasonably warm air, I couldn’t escape the feeling that my easy steps were tracing the map of someone else’s greatest pain.

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The word “revival” means to awaken. It describes a process of renewal or restoration. A turning away from one thing and toward something different. With regard to Asbury, my question has always been, “What happens when they leave the building?” I have asked it with more cynicism than I care to admit. But I am the carrier of falsified documents. My history lives in my body and it has taught me to be watchful and hesitant. The same people who dimmed the lights and led me to decades of mountaintops would end up warning me away from hard places. They said comfort was my birthright. But I always knew what would happen when I walked out of that gymnasium.

Though I am not in the room where it’s happening, it’s not about whether it’s “good” or “bad.” As with most things, it’s probably a combination of both. As someone who looks to the sky and the ground and the imperfect people around me as spiritual directors, I’m inclined to believe (especially when it’s hardest) that the weighty hand of God tips the scales in “good’s” favor.

We can hypothetically strip away the bad actors, the ill-intentioned, and the ones swooping in from states away proclaiming God’s greatness even as they colonize what does not belong to them for personal gain. (They look quite different from that red-faced preacher with his diamond tie clip, and yet…)

We can do our best to focus on the “good,” and maybe that’s helpful or encouraging for some of us. I’m just not convinced we should call it revival, and language matters. It might be rest. Or worship. It looks a lot like Sabbath.

All of these things might prepare us for revival.

But revival doesn’t happen in the shelter. It happens in the streets.

Redemption.

Renewal.

Restoration.

Revival is the grand reversal. The rogue turn-around.

Revival happens after we’ve filled our deficits, when we gather the courage to step outside in surrender to face what we must; maybe arrows, maybe music, probably a combination of both.

I have seen revival this week, but not on a screen.

Revival is a scared child who grows into a scared man, forgetting along the way that he’s allowed to be scared.

Revival is a phone call to a best friend. An early-morning plea for help and a last grasp at comfort before leaving the building with our hands up, able to face the consequences of what we’ve done, but just barely.

(Revival is built of just-barelys.)

Revival is grabbing our weirdest hoodie at the last minute and going to church even though we say we don’t believe in God. We don’t want to commit to much, so please don’t make assumptions. But life stopped making sense yesterday and all we can do now is submit to the magnetic love of God, silently praying (we don’t call it that) God’s people won’t f it all up.

Revival is when our expectations collide with grace we didn’t even know we had.

Revival is a heart-shattered mom showing up for lunch on Monday because she has to keep going, even though her world tilted permanently just two days prior.

Revival is beef and potatoes. Fresh pineapple chopped into perfectly bite-sized pieces. Revival is offering seconds. (Revival is receiving them.)

Revival happens when our eyes have no choice but to adjust to the daylight of what is. Another mass shooting at Michigan State. An under-regarded public health crisis in East Palestine, Ohio. Enduring violence, mockery, and diminishment against BIPOC communities. Children of God trapped beneath the rubble in Syria. Our friend Charlie, who hasn’t come around in a few days. We notice what needs repairing and grab our _________ (shovel, hammer, paintbrush, whisk, cool cloth, car keys, stethoscope, walking shoes, coffee cup, camera, wallet…) with no guarantees.

Revival happens when the poets and prophets pool their resources, placing their calloused hands on the same plow and pushing it up the rock-riddled hill.

Revival happens when we return to our ordinary lives and mundane routines only to find them strangely lit with hope. We see past the catastrophes and lock eyes with each other. We grab hands for whatever comes next, knowing our bodies will live the testimony.

Revival is constantly happening out here in the land of the living.

With all my heart, I hope God is watering the garden at Asbury and on 5th Street. I want to believe. I hope we are constantly being guided toward a revolutionary reversal. Lord knows we we need to turn some things around.

But revival is not an extended worship service.

Revival is the fruit.

Revival does not live inside walls.

Revival happens in the streets.

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“The Lord will guide you continually, giving you water when you are dry and restoring your strength.

You will be like a well-watered garden, like an ever-flowing spring.

Some of you will rebuild the deserted ruins of your cities.

Then you will be known as a rebuilder of walls and a restorer of homes.”

Isaiah 58:11-12

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