William E. Hatcher, the popular preacher of the 19th century whose persona this columnist frequently assumes, told the following story in his autobiography.
It is a fascinating revelation of a time that is no more. The only part of the story which remains consistent with our times is the unchanging characteristic of the human dilemma: the need for salvation from ourselves.
The story unfolded in one of the most Virginian of all our communities, Culpeper. It seems that Hatcher, who already had a reputation as a revival preacher, had been invited by Pastor Charles F. James to hold a meeting in November 1885 at the Culpeper Baptist Church. It was one of those old-fashioned two-weeks of preaching. The Baptists had reported to the preacher that Culpeper's “religious condition was deplorably low and that vice and immorality was rampant in their community.” And this was over a century ago when the town had “possibly two-thousand people.”
Upon arriving, Hatcher discovered that “the social and business” circles of the community were against a revival meeting. The meeting began with small congregations, reflective of the “appalling religious apathy in all the churches” and general “ungodliness” in the town.
Instead there occurred what came to be known as “The Devil's Revival,” which began in the back room of a store and included some of the town's leading businessmen, a prominent physician and “others equally conspicuous and aggressive.”
The gang which composed “The Devil's Revival” came to the church's revival meetings and then retreated to their den for a mockery of the church meeting. “They sang the same hymns, prayed the same prayers and preached the same sermons, so far as they were able to do so,” reported Hatcher. “The talent of this irreverent mischief was very decided, and it was said to have been exceedingly laughable and entertaining. The Christian people were posted as to what was going on, but they were not only ardent believers in religious freedom but in irreligious freedom, so far as it operated within the lines of law.
“The meeting went at a drag speed for a while, but one night the foremost citizen of the town made a public profession of his Christian faith. It came almost with the force of a cyclone, and the following night the two leaders of the services at the store made an open profession of their faith.
“One of the most effective features of this rival meeting had been its choice and beautiful singing, one of its leaders being a soloist of extraordinary magnetism and popularity, and he was one of our converts. The day after his conversion, I sent him a message that I was anxious to see him about a matter of great importance. He came promptly but with many misgivings lest I had in store for him some withering rebukes for past misdemeanors.
“I told him that I had sent for him to request that he would come into our choir and that I would expect him to respond with a solo whenever I called upon him. He protested and declared that he knew no solos except those that he had sung in the other meeting. I told him that they were the ones that I especially desired. That night he stood at the pulpit and sang, ‘Almost Persuaded.' The echoes of that song went far and wide. In all my ministry I never witnessed a meeting whose power was more profound, whose fruit was richer or whose influence was more abiding.”
During the revival at Culpeper there was a murder trial underway at the courthouse; and the judge allowed the jury to attend the services at night. When the invitations were extended, several of the jurors along with the sheriff were among the converts.
At the last service, the local Episcopal rector stood and expressed his gratitude for the revival meeting. He declared that half of his membership had been “savingly converted under the influence of that revival.” Someone later told Hatcher that the other half of the Episcopal church — “the unconverted half” — made it “so uncomfortable for the enthusiastic rector that he did not abide much longer.”
In good Baptist fashion, a gentleman arose and gave a personal testimony of his own conversion. This he did in a simple, pictorial, whole-hearted fashion,” said Hatcher. “He described every step in the processes of faith which led him to an acceptance of the Saviour. The building was packed with a great audience and I remarked that the religious experience just related was a jacket about big enough to fit a boy, and that if anybody had put it on I would like to see him.” It was vintage Hatcher-speak.
From his vantage point on the platform, Hatcher noticed a boy in the gallery who was trying to make his way downstairs. “A boy got up and through many difficulties picked his way out through the standing lines of men, and after a while, by knocking, got the front door of the church, which was blocked up with men, sufficiently opened to slip through, and came with a quiet, manly step up the aisle to the pulpit. I asked him why he had come. ‘What the gentleman said fits me exactly,' the boy said, ‘and I accept Christ as my Saviour just as he did.' ”
“ ‘Here is the boy that the jacket fits,' said I, and up came another until there were 11 boys who came. They were the sons of the prominent people of the town and the sight was so moving and the signs of emotions in the audience so strong that I dismissed the audience.” The Devil's Revival had become the Lord's Mighty Army.
Fred Anderson may be contacted at P.O. Box 34, University of Richmond, VA 23173.