The “After” Part of Revival

A recent photo of the Asbury University revival

As I write, an event being termed a “revival” continues in the Asbury University campus chapel in Wilmore, Kentucky. Since Wednesday, February 8th, hundreds of faithful have permanently occupied the chapel building: singing, praying, preaching, and lifting hands unto God. The 24-7 religious outpouring is giving some Christians hope, in a time of seemingly unbridled selfish behavior and the continued numerical decline of American Christianity.

I’ve sat through two previous “revivals,” and therefore have definite opinions. Wrapping oneself in the moment of transcendent unity with fellow believers can definitely feel like communion with God. But, like Jesus tempted in the desert or Buddha planting himself resolutely beneath the Bodhi Tree, that moment only matters in light of what we bring back into the world. The historical track record of that “after” moment leaves me skeptical.

My first “revival” took place at a Christian rock concert in high school, the only Christian rock concert I attended. People were dancing on chairs, singing along, becoming one with the crowd, and then the lead vocalist finished with an altar call. Yes, I responded. But when the crowd dispersed, and we returned to our normal lives, the moment of exultation passed. Without the “worship high,” motivation to repent quickly dwindled.

Years later, a charming young associate pastor at the local United Methodist Church began holding Sunday evening services with a full band. Once again, the experience of crowds, music, and emotional exaltation created a perfect storm of transcendental giddiness. Unlike the rock concert, this service happened regularly, and also involved group Bible study, prayer circles, and other sustained community. This “revival” showed signs of lasting.

This pastor successfully packed a mainline Protestant sanctuary wall-to-wall every Sunday, something most conventional services only accomplish on Christmas and Easter. Donations rolled in, and money was channeled toward common good, like scholarships, community improvements, and overseas disaster relief efforts. Weekly altar calls were warmly received; even my dad, Christian but ordinarily allergic to displays of overt religiosity, walked up to “receive Jesus.”

But as the program continued, something happened: numbers began falling off. Members of the worship band, which peaked around forty-five members, began begging off. The congregation, which briefly held over 750 worshipers—remarkable for a small-ish town—began capping at a hundred, then seventy-five. While worship song instrumental breaks ran longer than the Allman Brothers at the Fillmore East, worship service electric bills started exceeding what the collection took in.

A recent photo of the Asbury University revival

Because the service happened weekly, the falling-off didn’t happen abruptly, as happened after the concert. Rather, things gradually tailed off. People experienced the transcendent worship high, but then returned glumly to regular lives of jobs, school, and cooking dinner. Without discipleship efforts to offer anyone a genuine new life, a genuine straight-and-narrow to walk, the worship high began feeling hollow. Interest waned, and soon, so did the service.

Don’t misunderstand me, what happened in those moments wasn’t hay. The dissolution of self that happens in concert environments distinctly resembles the ego death which Christian and Buddhist mystics describe at moments of salvation or enlightenment. However, concert transcendence depends on the crowd, and ends when everyone goes home. Likewise, when religious people leave the sanctum, if there’s no continuation of community, the emotional response dissipates.

Events like what we’re seeing happen at Asbury University make True Believers feel connected to God and one another. But eventually, everyone has to leave the sanctum and return to daily life. If revival offers nothing beyond that moment of emotional bliss, the pull of ordinary tedium quickly overwhelms grandiose feelings. Like cocaine, a worship high requires greater and greater quantities to overcome the flesh. Mere mortal pastors just can’t provide that.

However, churches can provide community. When “church” is a temporary respite from a world of exploitation, and we return to lives where others profit from our efforts, religion (or anyway religiosity) seems frivolous. Christians need forms of continuing discipleship, opportunities to participate in something larger than themselves. Living the Beatitudes is tiring when you do it alone except for an hour on Sunday. But it’s easy when Christians work together.

I don’t want to diminish the Asbury revival, or the feelings its participants share in that time and space. The defining question, though, is: will they carry those feelings, that experience, into the world? Historically, White Protestant churches are pretty bad at the “after” part of revival. I hope I’m wrong, though, because this world really needs weekday Christians to get busy living by the words we claim to believe.