The Altar Call

Yesterday I characterized fight-or-flight evangelism ("Be saved or spend eternity in hell!") as fragile in that, like any adrenaline rush, it fades too easily into a crash. To stave off the crash, then, fight-or-flight evangelism fosters a fight-or-flight Christianity, a faith that relies on occasional infusions of brand new anxieties. Was my conversion authentic? Am I bearing fruit? Am I (still) 100% certain about my eternal home? Am I evangelizing enough?

The conservative evangelical culture of my childhood (Southern Baptist) turned just about every worship event--services, vacation bible schools, summer bible camps, youth trips, revivals--into events aimed to activate those concerns about one's immortal soul. You knew, going to this or that special event, that you were more than likely going to hear a version of the same pitch--won't you dedicate your life to Christ today, before it's too late?

Now, I have nothing against calls to become a Christian. But what's the effect of issuing that call again and again to people who are already Christians?

Consider the revival altar call as a genre. The audience has just spent the last hour (at least) singing hymns, hearing special music, standing and sitting on command, praying communally, and listening two a (hopefully) talented, charismatic speaker in whom they (hopefully) have invested trust and authority confront them with Hard Biblical Truths about the final judgment or the reality of humanity's sin. Now, at the end of the service, the last hymn of invitation plays, something like "Just As I Am," "I Surrender All," or "I Have Decided to Follow Jesus."

These hymns, the message, the altar call--all of these are familiar. If you've gone to church for any length of time (as most people who attend local revivals do), you've experienced them before. You link the invitation hymns--their pleading words, their mournful tunes--with the ghosts of altar calls past. You know that these songs, in this context, mean Something Holy Will Happen. The air is charged with expectation.

The pastor motions for the singing to stop while the music plays underneath. "Now, I want every head bowed, every eye closed," says the pastor. "I just know that someone right here in this room is feeling the spirit move. Maybe you've come to this church for the first time tonight, and something in the message or in the music caught your conscience. Maybe you want to know more about this God who loved the world so much that he sent his son to die.

"Or maybe you've been a member of this church for a while. Maybe you've thought you were a Christian because you've been going to this church every Sunday. Oh, you remember making a decision long ago, but you forgot what that was about. You suspect you've let your faith become a habit. You worry that maybe just maybe spirit of God was never in you, and you've been trying to fill it up with Sunday school and potlucks. Oh, my friend, if this is you, I pray for you. I worry about you. I think you realize now that if Jesus came tonight, he would say 'Depart from me; I never knew you.'

"You see, it doesn't matter how involved you are in a church. It doesn't matter how good you are to your neighbors. It doesn't matter how many songs you sing or how many Bible verses you memorize because if you die without Christ in your heart, you die in your sins and are destined for Hell.

"If this is you--if you fear you may be one of those in-name-only Christians, I want you to raise your hand." Pause. You feel the urge to look up, peek around, but guilt keeps your eyes closed and head bowed. You perhaps hear some scattered sniffling and sobbing.

Then the pastor, having surveyed the congregation, says, "Thank you. You may put your hands down. I see the spirit has been at work already in some of you. Now, as we sing the last verse again, I would ask that if you raised your hand just now, that you would come forward and make the decision you've been putting off."

Then the congregation starts singing the hymn again, and people make their way out of the pews and down the aisles. Typically (at least, if the altar call is successful), you end up singing the whole hymn over again as more and more people come forward.

Of course I've just made up this speech from bits of memories of countless invitations. Real speeches vary, usually spotlighting several possible kinds of audience members (e.g., people who are saved but who need to rededicate themselves to Christ). And it may be that the pastor's description accurately and honestly describes someone's present experience. But often--I'm tempted to guess from my own experience, more often--the pastor's speech functions as an invitation to be anxious about your own salvation. The Person Who Thought They Were Saved But Weren't is a well-known tale told by pastors. The altar call speech at revival time generally invites you to identify with the unhappy protagonist of that tale.

Indeed, the effect of having your faith commitments questioned deeply by your pastor is akin to having your self-confidence called into question by your psychiatrist ("Are you sure you're ready to ask for a raise at work? Perhaps you just think you deserve one. Maybe you should think long and hard about how effective of a worker you really are."). Asked in high-stakes contexts and when posed to you by authority figures whose opinion you value, the question of certainty itself calls certainty into question.

Maybe I am one of those name-only Christians. Maybe I'm not really saved. I mean, do I feel saved right now? Oh, I'm nervous! Is that nervousness the Holy Spirit moving me to raise my hand? I don't want to; I don't think I need to. But if I really didn't need to, wouldn't I not feel so nervous? I should go down the aisle. Better safe than sorry.

Born out of fear, fight-or-flight Christianity finds itself vulnerable to anxiety-based pitches. It is always open to the invitation to doubt. More than that, fight-or-flight Christianity needs those infusions of fear to keep that high going.

More tomorrow,

JF