CHAPTER XIX

THE COME-OUTERS

There's a new name written down in glory,
And it's mine, oh yes, it's mine!

And the white-robed angels sing the story-
"A sinner has come home,"

For there's a new name written down in glory,
And it's mine, oh yes, it's mine!

With my sins forgiven I am bound for heaven,
Never more to roam.

C. AUSTIN MILES.

NDIVIDUALIZED religious renewal-the personal

I

sense of bridging the gulf between man and God, the personal feeling of tangency to the supernatural, the personal interpretation of the experience sublime—has always shaken through the rocking revival sieve originators of faith. Guided by chapters, verses-even single words -from the Holy Writ, which has shown itself capable of infinite connotation, these inspirationalists have wrought extensions, cleavages and departures from established doctrine and practise. Their aim was greater and surer spiritual satisfaction. It has led back to the primitive and it has undertaken further experimentation. In either direction the revival route usually has been taken.

New Lights and Separatists were winnowed from the Great Awakening of 1740, still other Lights from the frontier revival of 1800 and varied divisions were driven from the Methodist and Baptist communions. The Miller

ites, come-outers themselves, split up into diversified Adventists. The Mormons were essentially proselytes and so were the followers of Dowie and Pastor Russell. The unsuccessful have been forgotten; the others are now thriving churches.

Not all of the religious innovations have emanated from a revival nor have they been evangelistic. Sects philosophical or psycho-therapeutic in nature, like Theosophy or Christian Science, have stood aloof from the revivalist method in attracting believers. Then there are grotesque cults nurtured by brutish superstition, but they are another story. Their orgiastic rites and colonized subjection to arrant shamanism and necromancy belong to the colorful category of psychopathic phenomena. Only when one has recourse to the revival to gather adherents does it enter into the epic of evangelization. And it intrudes as bizarre byplay almost unbelievable.

The faith born of a revival, however, can be differentiated in this respect: it demands an even stronger revival for its own perpetuation. All it has of apocalyptic discovery, peculiar promise and special assurance is poured into the swift current flowing from the break in the dam. Holiness, and yet more holiness, in fact complete sanctification, drew away from the Methodists the Pentecostal Church of the Nazarene. No Wesleyan revival ever approached the Pentecostalite sound and sentiency, rapture and intensity. The irrepressible rejoicing of the redeemed has drowned out the traffic of cities and shattered rural quietude. A whole new hymnology was required to express it in song. But the preachers have been reminiscent of oldtime exhorters like Ezekiel Cooper and Lorenzo Dow.

Making a joyful noise unto the Lord has been blessed with success. Nationally united in 1907 and 1908 with

only one thousand two hundred members and two hundred and thirty churches but five hundred and seventyfive unconstrained preachers, the Pentecostalites in twenty years have accumulated about sixty thousand members, one thousand five hundred churches and three thousand expounders of entire sanctification as the consequences of regeneration from Adamitic depravity.

With the preachers double the number of the pulpits and every one a hair-trigger evangel, foe of rum and tobacco and the taint of carnality and herald of the Second Coming that would find men sunk in sin or ready for resplendent robes, there ought to be at least half a million singing that their names are written down in Pentecostal glory if this wicked world lasts twenty years more.

As it is, reconsecrated Methodists, stray Adventists and occasional Baptists, not to mention the hitherto churchless seekers of grace, are being constantly "saved, justified and sanctified" in churches a-tremble and tents straining on guy-ropes all over the country. The results may be generally salubrious, as might be expected of a religion affirmative of happiness. But what could happen may be judged from what did happen when the Pentecostal revival rolled through a village in New Hampshire.

Willing hands helped the evangelist stretch his canvas on the time-honored site across the tracks from the railroad station and bordering the highway that stretches westward toward the Ossipee Mountains. On this spot the soul of Little Eva had often taken its flight and once a hound paused in pursuit of Eliza to wag his tail in appreciation of some meat mischievously tossed to the rickety platform. Between banjo solos, slapstick sketches and ballads and ditties here also medicine had been sold for all the ailments of man and beast-rattlesnake oil for aches

and pains, Sioux salve for cuts, bruises and burns and Tuscarora tablets guaranteed to give an elephant intestinal uneasiness. On the same ground wayfaring revivals were welcomed with equal hospitality.

And so in the dark when the first night's preaching was over and the Pentecostal apostle and his acolyte were standing on the settees to blow out the lamps, it was not surprising that an ingenuous trader and a workmanlike blacksmith, both fond of their cups and recently indulging, should insist that the visitants were ministrels and not ministers. Let them be called Tom and Jerry, not their names, of course, but convenient to answer the purpose. Oblivious to warnings of well-wishing neighbors the stragglers burst into the tent and stood there dumbfounded. But they didn't get away. Before morning both were on the road to conversion.

"I'm saved!" Thomas shouted to the stars of those hot August nights of 1915. "And justified and sanctified," Jeremiah supplied the rest of the salvation formula. Now may be they got it all wrong and expected too much, but they were convinced that they could sin no more. For a fact their previously besetting temptation was removed so long as the revival lasted. It was a season of uncommon righteousness.

There was a sister who never wearied of repeating that she was "under the Blood" and done with carnality; a brother who talked in terms of intimacy with his Savior. Even the weekly movies in the hall over the grain store lost patrons who stoutly declared abjuration forever. Perhaps a score of converted were trampling the grass round the altar. They had sufficient incitation to jubilant holiness. Such preachings, such singing would cower the minions of hell and startle the angels in heaven. None scoffed;

everybody helped; all wanted to keep it going. Creeds did not matter; it was the human drama in that little tent that counted. Who would be next to go forward?

There are four on the platform. A brawny man of liberal measure in height, girth and voice, with massive forehead, bushy eyebrows and tawny mustache-that is the peregrine preacher himself. The plump, motherly person in the corner with a tambourine in her lap is his wife. She helps with the singing. Beaming over the top of the organ, a thin-faced slip of a woman awaits the signal to start pumping and playing. By the side of his chief stands the faithful coadjutor, stubby and corpulent, his gray hair thinning but his countenance radiant with the joy of shouting, singing and sweating for salvation.

"Number Seven!" The Gospel gunner has opened fire. His basso profundo blends with the lusty tenor of his Brother Jonathan and the clear treble of the two women. "I came to Jesus, weary, worn and sad-He took my sins away, He took my sins away-and now His love has made my heart so glad-He took my sins away." The volume has been gaining. The whole tent vibrates with the chorus. There's no stopping. One parson alternates with the other in raising a triumphant "He took my sins away!" Another hymn-"Then at once all my burdens rolled away, rolled away, rolled away." And yet another -"Oh Glory Hallelujah, I am on my way to heaven, shouting glory, shouting glory all the way!" The tambourine is tapping. The organ swells are wide open. Pentecostal power is come.

Preaching is on. You know your own wickedness. You know the consequences.-Here the Sister at the organ nods vigorously and, all smiles, cheerily chants—“Yes, you're going to hell, you're all going to hell."-And why?