We forget.
We forget that the same fire that consumed elders who presumed authority in the wilderness is the same fire that rested on those waiting in obedience at Pentecost.
I grew up in the wake of revivals, steeped in their history. My family slept, ate, and breathed revival. My capacity for the unexpected ways God moves is vast. I grew up hearing testimonies of those delivered from addiction, sin, and self-destruction—made new by the power of Christ. I grew up expecting God to move.
So for me, revival is not confusion.
It’s not confusing when an entire room falls to its knees, voices overlapping in desperate repentance before a holy God. Confusion is when no one repents.
It’s not confusion when a leader stands in authority, casting out darkness and setting captives free. Confusion is when no one is delivered—when the demonic moves unchecked, unseen, even in our churches.
It’s not confusion when someone writhes under the fire of deliverance when the presence of God overtakes a body and sets bones ablaze. That may unsettle us, but it does not disrupt God. Confusion is when there is no response.
We judge order by human standards and miss the divine. What unsettles us does not unsettle him. What looks like disorder to us may be the very order of Heaven breaking in.
What disturbs me is not the surge to the altar, the weeping, the trembling, the gasps of those encountering holiness for the first time. What disturbs me is the coldness in his presence—if his presence is there at all. What disturbs me is when we are content with the absence of God.
When God comes, he disrupts.
He overturned tables in the temple to cleanse it. He descended on Sinai with thunder and lightning, and Israel—though they had traveled far to meet Him—shrank back in fear. They preferred a god they could control, a golden calf they could wrap their minds around.
John, the beloved disciple, fell as though dead when he encountered Christ in glory. Isaiah, the prophet, saw the throne and was undone, wrecked by his own unworthiness.
This is the God who disturbs us.
So why do we try to contain Him? Why do we corral his Spirit, managing his manifestations, steering away from the inconvenient, the undignified, the unsettling?
It is not the sinner in the grip of repentance who should concern us—it is the one who feels nothing.
The one unmoved by the fear of the Lord. The one untouched by conviction. The one who silences revival rather than surrendering to it. That person is destitute.
No, I am less concerned about the person who might be there to bring attention to themselves than the self-styled Christian who wears a mask of self-righteousness, unmoved by the proximity of the Holy Spirit, untouched by the fear of God in their hardened heart. Stoicism is not a Christian virtue. Our emotions are not an obstacle to faith but the very seat of who we are—designed by God to respond to him. When a person is truly touched by the presence of God, they respond. They are undone.
But the self-righteous self-idolater—who remains unmoved by the fear of the Lord, who watches repentance with detached disinterest, who is more disturbed by the weeping of the broken than by the sin that breaks them—that person is truly destitute. A heart that feels nothing in the presence of holiness, that flinches not at the weight of sin but at the cries of the repentant, is not a sign of maturity but of spiritual decay. When stoicism mingles with Christianity, it does not produce a deeper faith—it produces a dead one.
Revival does not come with measured restraint or dignified composure. It comes with the holy terror of realizing who God is and who we are before him. It comes with undone hearts, trembling souls, and the rawness of true surrender. If we mistake our cold composure for holiness, we will miss him when he moves.
Growing up in a church with 50% African Americans and 50% Caucasians, I’ve also experienced Western white funerals and African American funerals. The first is uncomfortable with emotions and forces those in mourning to shut down to maintain good order and keep attendees comfortable. The second authentically mourns the loss. No one questions the emotions of a mother who loses a child while she wails. Instead, she's surrounded by those who wail with her. This is the appropriate response.
When revival comes, don’t look for man’s order of quiet dignity that lets sins hide under its cover. Look for authentic responses to God's presence as it moves among us.
Look for the fear of the Lord to grip hearts. Look for the markers of repentance: cries, confessions, trembling at how close we came to being lost forever, demons leaving, chains breaking. Look for men and women who came to mock falling powerless under his weight, held until he releases them, changed.
On the fringes of revival, there is excitement and flesh doing what flesh does in the presence of holiness. But at its core, there is holy fire. The consuming presence of God refines, purifies, and makes us new.
May we not resist the God who disturbs us. May we not trade him for something safe.
For he is holy. And he is here.
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