The People’s Revival

In 2005, I preached a three-day revival at a big church in Houston. The meetings started on a Friday, and afterward I took any interested church folks out on the streets to learn real ministry. That night we headed down to Westheimer to talk to the runaways and gutterpunks who lived out there.

I arranged a few church vans to head back again on Sunday morning to pick up any of them who wanted to come to church and mess with the Christians. Heh.

So it was Easter Sunday morning and the churchians were doing their thing — pastels everywhere, big hats, girls with bows bigger than their heads. You know the types.

Sure you do. Sure you do.

My kids got there early and I put them in the position of honor: the front two rows. These were crusties, gutterpunks, my people. And the shock from the churchians was palpable.

It was the last night of the meetings, and the pastor had invited Mario Murillo to come be part of it, because when you think “edgy revival,” you obviously think Mario Murillo. (Let the reader sense sarcasm.)

It went about how you’d expect. The establishment Church loves to look edgy. They love to bring in folks like me so they can pretend they’ve got street cred.

After Mario finished closing out the service, he gave his altar call — because that definitely still works — and a bunch of folks came forward. Mostly church kids looking to re-dedicate their lives for the 123rd time.

Murillo has everyone close their eyes and bow their heads, just like Jesus taught, and then he hands the microphone to the pastor. The pastor gives the salvation prayer and everyone cheers, as you do.

I look around and Mario is gone. All those folks are standing there — some of them needing someone to talk to, or a hug, or even real help — and they were about to be dismissed instead.

So I stepped down into the crowd and talked and prayed with people for three hours. Then I followed it with a water baptism in their outdoor baptistry.

By that time Mario had already fled the scene. I asked the pastor what happened, and he explained that Mario had done an “exit prayer,” which is how preachers who don’t want to deal with real people escape unbothered.

I was livid. And the more I thought about it, the hotter I got. How dare he treat people like that? As if poor folks don’t matter. As if street kids are better left on the streets.

So I did what I do: I let him have it with both barrels. Mario — being God’s mighty man of faith and power — responded by quoting the scriptures about respecting elders. When I refused to be intimidated by the power inherent in his dotage, he started making phone calls.

He called everyone who had booked me, and anyone who might be tempted to, and threatened to put them on 24-hour notice: it was me or him. If they didn’t cut ties with me, he’d never come back to their church. And it started to work. Networks and possibilities fell apart.

One night during that time I had a dream. I was on a huge cargo ship — so tall that looking over the starboard side, the crowds on the shore looked like ants. Tens of thousands of them, all waiting to hear some preaching.

I said to a few big-name preachers on the deck with me, “How can they hear you? We’re so high up.” They told me to just use the loudhorn. I picked up the handset and began to preach, but my voice sounded muffled. Still, I could hear the people yelling that they couldn’t hear me.

When I woke up, I knew exactly what it meant. Balls to bone.

Christ cares for every individual — not numbers. It doesn’t matter if tens of thousands respond to your preaching; if one person leaves with questions, or someone needed something from God and went away empty, you failed.

Numbers stroke the ego, but they’re not an indicator of Gospel success. Changed lives, changed hearts — that’s the only metric.

So do some ministry on your own today. You don’t need big crowds. Hug the neck of one person who’s hurting. Sit with an addict and just listen. You’ll see their heart.

Don’t preach or write for money or fame — nothing steals power like self-dealing.

And be true to the One who called you. That’s the only audience that matters in the end.

An audience of One.