The Quiet and Messy Revival

The Quiet and the Messy Revival

They say there is a quiet revival —

soft as breath on stained glass,

a hush that Spotify,

TikTok,

and cynicism couldn’t kill.

The soul, stubborn as ever,

still remembers how to kneel.

And they come —

students and searchers,

middle-class,

secular spiritual,

young professionals with

coffee and questions,

drawn to bands and liturgy,

Alpha Course chats and candlelight.

The lure of meaning

in a world fraying at the seams.

Something ancient

leaking through the cracks

of their disenchanted age.

And this too is grace.

Don’t despise it.

But don’t confuse revival

with bums on seats

or hands in the air —

as good as these might be.

Revival is when the Wild Goose

breathes her fierce breath,

when justice stirs,

and mission is reborn.

It is a thin place —

where heaven brushes earth,

where hearts ignite

in both university halls

and urban streets.

For authentic revival

never flatters the powerful

or stays safe in steeples.

It breaks bread with the broken,

brings the margins to the middle,

and births a hunger for justice

that cannot be tamed.

And yes —

there is also a messy revival

in forgotten corners:

in prisons and shelters,

on council estates and recovery rooms.

It smells like roll-ups and sweat,

sounds like broken laughter

and half-remembered hymns.

There are no bands,

just trembling voices

singing praise

through nicotine lungs

and trauma-shaken hands.

And Jesus —

the penniless preacher from Nazareth,

the God-Man of Jubilee —

he’s here too.

Not watching from afar,

but dwelling where the Spirit pours:

in the quiet hush of a communion rail,

and in the chaos of a prison chapel,

in the homeless shelter at dusk,

in the guitars and anthems of auditoriums,

and in tear-streaked prayers on street corners.

He proclaims good news still —

not to the polished,

but to the poor.

He eats with tax collectors

and those on tag,

blesses the bruised,

welcomes the wasted,

and announces

a year of Jubilee —

where hoarded wealth is released,

where systems bend,

and the forgotten find their name.

Let the quiet revival flourish.

Let the messy one rage.

Let incense rise from both altars.

Let both be called holy.

For the Spirit blows

through polished sanctuaries

and shattered shelters alike,

and Christ —

scarred,

smiling —

walks freely between them.

- Rev’d Jon Swales