The wonderful danger of revival

By Steve Beard

"It is time for Christianity to become a place of terror again," writes Michael Yaconelli, "a place where God continually has to tell us, "Fear not"; a place where our relationship with God is not a simple belief or doctrine or theology, but the constant awareness of God’s terrifying presence in our lives."

That is just one of the many thought-provoking messages in his new book, Dangerous Wonder: The adventure of childlike faith (NavPress). As I have been reading it, I have been vexed with the reality that my Christianity has become too timid, too predictable, too adult-like, and definitely too safe.

That is one reason why I was glad to be back amongst the hell-taunting, heaven-provoking, tongue-speaking, dancing-in-the-aisle brothers and sisters at the Brownsville Assembly of God in Pensacola, Florida. They have been hosting full-tilt revival services for more than three-and-a-half years now. As an evangelical who grew up in southern California, Brownsville has always been a fascinating place to me.

One of the main reasons it intrigues me is because I believe the church property is literally electric with the presence of a holy God. It draws me in with excitement, and simultaneously fills me with holy anxiety. Quite honestly, I usually get a bit nervous—even though I would never admit it.

The sin within me—the depravity of my mind, the wickedness of my heart, the two-faced nature of my spirit—seems so much more transparent while I am there. If our sin had a volume control, mine would seem to be blaring while I am there. As I nervously chat with those around me, I am secretly wishing that I had earplugs to dampen the sound within.

I don’t waste my time comparing my sin to any of the other people jammed into the sanctuary—punk rockers and lawyers, strippers and bankers, truck drivers and housewives, crack addicts and preachers. My sin is loud and transparent—not in comparison to them—but because I am in the manifest presence of Jesus. I can be honest enough with myself to know that my daily walk with God is not what it should be after encountering Jesus in 1983. I am ashamed of that fact.

The fellow strugglers sitting on my right and left are no doubt dealing with the loudness of their own sin. Rather than looking around, I figure that most of us with sweaty palms and racing heartbeats are looking to Jesus, the patron saint of all who want to stumble their way into the kingdom of God and hear those glorious words: "Well done, thou good and faithful servant."

Evangelist Steve Hill has been thundering from the pulpit four nights a week since Father’s Day 1995. The message is the same each night with a slightly different twist: Get the sin out of your life and get your life right with God! Hell is real, he says, Jesus is the way out. It is the old-fashioned hell-fire and brimstone preaching, the message of eternal truth carried by the early Methodist circuit riders. To modern ears, it would be downright terrifying.

"People have fallen into the foolish habit of speaking of orthodoxy as something heavy, humdrum, and safe," said G. K. Chesterton. "There was nothing so perilous or so exciting as orthodoxy." Our contemporary Christianity has become so very hip, palatable, and, well, bland. With all honesty, that has to change.

"The nice, non-threatening God needs to be replaced by the God whose very presence smashes our egos into dust, burns our sin into ashes, and strips us naked to reveal the real person within.…" writes Yaconelli. "It’s time to become people whose God is big and holy and frightening and gentle and tender and ours; a God whose love frightens us into his strong and powerful arms where he dares to hold us in his terrifying, loving presence."

While at Brownsville, I was surrounded by college students from the Wesley Foundations at the University of Georgia and Florida State University. They were in Pensacola for the Thunderstruck Conference sponsored by the Pine Forest United Methodist Church. I sat nervously throughout the entire sermon, feeling the Holy Spirit poke and prod my heart, revealing my sin and seeming to say, "Let’s get this stuff out of here."

I remember the first time I witnessed an altar call at Brownsville. I was sitting on the front row, having just interviewed Steve Hill and the senior pastor, John Kilpatrick. When the music began and this young woman began to sing a haunting song called "Mercy Seat." In a split second, I was overwhelmed as men and women and children began to run down the aisles and dive to the front and weep.

Everything in me began to question my own salvation. "I am saved, right?" I said to myself. "It is okay for me to just watch the others, right?" Although I am secure in my salvation, I do have the impulses of a man who longs to be saved every day. I want the newness of my salvation restored, I want the joy back. I want to relive that time when Jesus was brand-new. I want to remember what it was like before I experienced hypocrisy in the church—let alone in me.

So I utter to God the ultimate litany of understatements, I need your help with these things, oh Lord! Please forgive me. I want it fresh again. I have grown cold. I have not drawn near. The things of this world are starting to look good to me when I don’t have Christian friends around to impress. Help! Help! Help!

The Lord was gracious to me that evening. He always has been. He breaks my heart and then puts it back together again. I need more of that. And that is why I have given up on safe and predictable Christianity and will pursue a life long relationship with a God who dares to hold us in his terrifying, loving presence.

Steve Beard is the editor of Good News magazine and the founder of Thunderstruck.org.