Distance from these people, I began to feel, was going to be a very simple quality to maintain.
I was sitting in the main reading room of the New York Public Library, a pile of out-of-print books on the desk in front of me, and the world into which they were taking me seemed about as far removed from my own suburbia as anything could be. I was trying to track down the very first instance of someone’s speaking in tongues in modern times. One early candidate was a mountaineer farmer. One was an itinerant African-American preacher. One, a man who ran a school that charged no tuition. There were Indians in Chile, African natives, outcasts in India. Tib summed up the gulf that divided us.
“Not a one of them,” she said when I reported the results of my research, “ever worried about crabgrass in the lawn.”
She was right. Not many had had lawns to worry about, and the ones who did put a cow on it to graze.
It was in the United States in the year 1900 that a young Methodist minister, Charles F. Parham, decided he must do something about his religious life. He had been reading the Book of Acts and the letters of Paul and comparing the feebleness he found in his own ministry with the power reflected there. Where were his new converts? Where were his miracles? His healings? Surely, he said to himself, the Christians of the first century had a secret that he and his church no longer possessed.
In October 1900, Parham set out to try to find that secret. He had concluded that it would require a more thorough study of the Bible than he could achieve by himself. So he decided to open a Bible school, where he would be both director and one of the students. He would charge no tuition, the students simply supplying what they could toward expenses.
The first matter on the agenda was locating a suitable building at a rent of little—or nothing—a month. And Parham did find such a building in Topeka, Kansas. It was not only large, but picturesque. A Topeka citizen named Stone had started to build a mansion for himself. Halfway through, he ran out of money. The downstairs was magnificent: carved staircases, massive fireplaces, expensive paneling. But the upstairs was finished in the cheapest pine. Around Topeka, the building had a nickname. It was called “Stone’s Folly.”
Charles Parham moved into Stone’s Folly and announced that anyone who wanted to join him there in a study of the New Testament was welcome. Forty students showed up. They must have given Topeka more to talk about than Stone himself had done. They came in buggies and wagons and on foot, bringing with them their wives and children. They brought what they needed to keep house, and soon Stone’s magnificent mansion had diapers hanging from a line in the backyard and a cow grazing on the lawn in front.
Charles Parham knew the direction that their studies should take. For fifty years many Protestants had been paying increasing attention to a religious experience that occurs, traditionally, some time after conversion. It was a day-and-date-able experience that some people called “a second work of grace,” some “the second blessing,” some “sanctification.” But the essence of the experience was always an encounter with the Holy Spirit.
The promise of some kind of new relationship with the Holy Spirit weaves like a thread through the New Testament. From the very opening chapters of the Gospels it is forecast. The Jews, for a while, thought that John the Baptist might be the promised Messiah. But John told them, “There cometh one mightier than I after me, the latchet of whose shoes I am not worthy to stoop down and unloose. I indeed,” he said, “have baptized you with water; but he shall baptize you with the Holy Ghost” (Mark 1:7–8). The baptism with the Holy Spirit, John was saying, would be the distinguishing mark of the Messiah.
Toward the last of His life, Christ began to put increasing emphasis on the Holy Spirit. He would be the comforter of the disciples, standing by them in trouble, leading them into truth, taking Christ’s place when He was gone. After His crucifixion Christ appeared to His disciples and told them that they must stay in Jerusalem.
“ ‘You must wait,’ he said, ‘for the promise made by my Father, about which you have heard me speak: John, as you know, baptized with water, but you will be baptized with the Holy Spirit, and within the next few days’ ” (Acts 1:4–5, NEB).
The disciples did wait as they were instructed. And then:
While the day of Pentecost was running its course they were all together in one place, when suddenly there came from the sky a noise like that of a strong driving wind, which filled the whole house where they were sitting. And there appeared to them tongues like flames of fire, dispersed among them and resting on each one. And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to talk in other tongues, as the Spirit gave them power of utterance.
Acts 2:1–4, NEB
From this infilling with the Holy Spirit the Church dates its beginning. It was new, small, surrounded with enemies, and yet this young Church had power: to heal, to convince, to spread. The churches that evolved with the passing of time kept in their traditions a vestige of this early dependence on a specific filling with the Holy Spirit as the source of their power. Roman Catholics, Lutherans, Episcopalians all preserve, in their confirmation services, the idea that it is at this moment that the confirmee receives a special gift of power to be an effective Christian.
But groups like the Wesleyan Methodists and the Holiness people glimpsed the fact that this ceremony of confirmation was often just a ritual, and often failed really to impart power. They stressed the baptism as an experience that did not come automatically but had to be sought over and over, if necessary, until the Christian was certain he or she had been filled with the Holy Spirit.
But how could a person be certain? Some said there was no direct evidence, that you accepted, by faith, the fact that you had been so baptized. Others said that you knew you had received the Holy Spirit when your prayer life became filled with power. But this was a somewhat indefinite criterion. The task that Charles Parham and his fellow Bible students set themselves was to uncover a criterion that could be counted on.
At Stone’s Folly, Parham and his friends spent their time reading the Bible, washing dishes, milking the cow, praying, seeking such a sure evidence of the presence of the Holy Spirit.
In December Parham had to go away on a three-day trip. Before he left Topeka he gave his students an assignment.
“While I’m gone,” he said, “I want you to read the Book of Acts. Study every account where the baptism is received for the first time. See if you can find any constant factor, any common denominator.”
On his return he found the school humming with excitement. The students, studying independently, had all come to the same conclusion. In the five different descriptions in Acts of the baptism being received for the first time, it seemed to them that the curious phenomenon called “speaking in tongues” was either definitely stated as occurring or could be deduced from what the account did record.
The first time was at Pentecost. “And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost, and began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance” (Acts 2:4).
The second was in Samaria.
Now when the apostles which were at Jerusalem heard that Samaria had received the word of God, they sent unto them Peter and John: who, when they were come down, prayed for them, that they might receive the Holy Ghost (for as yet he was fallen upon none of them: only they were baptized in the name of the Lord Jesus.)
Then laid they their hands on them, and they received the Holy Ghost. And when Simon saw that through laying on of the apostles’ hands the Holy Ghost was given, he offered them money, saying, Give me also this power, that on whomsoever I lay hands, he may receive the Holy Ghost.
Acts 8:14–19
The third time was at Damascus, when Paul received the baptism.
And Ananias went his way, and entered into the house; and putting his hands on him said, Brother Saul, the Lord, even Jesus, that appeared unto thee in the way as thou camest, hath sent me, that thou mightest receive thy sight, and be filled with the Holy Ghost. And immediately there fell from his eyes as it had been scales: and he received sight forthwith, and arose, and was baptized.
Acts 9:17–18
The fourth time was at Caesarea, when the household of Cornelius received the baptism.
While Peter yet spake these words, the Holy Ghost fell on them which heard the word. And they of the circumcision which believed were astonished, as many as came with Peter, because that on the Gentiles also was poured out the gift of the Holy Ghost. For they heard them speak with tongues.
Acts 10:44–46
And the fifth recorded instance occurred at Ephesus.
And it came to pass, that, while Apollos was at Corinth, Paul having passed through the upper coasts came to Ephesus: and finding certain disciples, he said unto them, Have ye received the Holy Ghost since ye believed? And they said unto him, We have not so much as heard whether there be any Holy Ghost. . . . And when Paul had laid his hands upon them, the Holy Ghost came on them; and they spake with tongues, and prophesied.
Acts 19:1–6
Parham was intrigued but not convinced. “I see tongues in three of the baptisms,” he said, “but not at Samaria, nor in Paul’s case.”
“No,” said his students, “but we know that Paul did have the gift of tongues later in his ministry. ‘I thank my God, I speak with tongues more than ye all,’ he told the Corinthians (1 Corinthians 14:18). When did he receive this gift? Could it have been at his baptism?”
Parham considered this in silence. “What about Samaria?” he said at last.
“At Samaria, Simon the Magician was so impressed by something he saw when people were filled with the Holy Ghost that he offered money to get this power for himself. What could he have seen that was so special? Not miracles or healings, because he’d already seen Christians doing these things. He’d been following Philip around for weeks just because of such signs. No, when Peter and John arrived and Samarian Christians received the Holy Ghost, Simon saw something new, something different. Might it have been tongues?”
The excitement infected Parham too. Could this really be the evidence they had been looking for? It was late at night. “I wonder what would happen,” he said, “if tomorrow we were all of us together to pray to receive the baptism in the same way it is described in the Bible: with speaking in tongues?”
The next morning, everyone in Stone’s Folly joined in this prayer. They prayed throughout the morning and into the afternoon. The atmosphere around the mansion was charged with expectancy. But the sun went down, and still nothing unusual had occurred.
Then, at about seven o’clock that night—it was New Year’s Eve, 1900—a young student named Agnes N. Ozman remembered something. Wasn’t it true that many of the baptisms described in Acts were accompanied by an action, as well as prayer: Didn’t the person offering the prayer often put his hands on the one who wished to receive the baptism? In the Bible she found the reference she remembered. There it was; at Samaria, at Damascus, at Ephesus, always the word “hands.” “Putting his hands on him.” “Then laid they their hands on them.”
Miss Ozman went to find Charles Parham. She told him about her new thought.
“Would you pray for me in this way?” she asked.
Parham hesitated just long enough to utter a short prayer about the rightness of what they were doing. Then, gently, he placed his two hands on Miss Ozman’s head. Immediately, quietly, there came from her lips a flow of syllables that neither one of them could understand.
The Pentecostals look back on this hour—7:00 P.M., New Year’s Eve, 1900—as one of the key dates in their history. They point to it as the first time since the days of the early Church that the baptism in the Holy Spirit had been sought, where speaking in tongues was expected as the initial evidence.
At Stone’s Folly, everyone now prayed with increased fervor for the coming of the Holy Spirit. One of the large unfinished rooms on the top floor of the mansion was turned into a prayer room in a conscious effort to recreate the setting of the Upper Room in Jerusalem at Pentecost. Over the next three days there were many baptisms, each one signaled by the mysterious tongues. On January 3, Parham himself and a dozen other ministers from various denominations present with him in this room received the baptism and spoke with tongues. In their excitement they made plans for a grand missionary tour that would carry the new message from Topeka across the country and into Canada.
They got exactly as far as Kansas City.
There they were met with open hostility. No one would listen to the message Parham was so sure of. He and his fellow ministers were pulled apart by the local clergy and newspapers. The little group broke up. Parham was without supporters and without funds. He was without a pulpit. At last he was even without food. Within a few weeks Parham was back in Topeka, and there he received another blow. Stone’s Folly was to be sold. The old monstrosity that had meant so much to the little school had to be abandoned, and with the loss of their meeting place, the school itself disbanded.
Charles Parham began preaching on street corners. He called his ministry a “full Gospel” message: meaning that he believed the Gospel should be preached in its entirety, not leaving out tongues, or healing, or any of the other gifts promised through the Spirit. Three years passed, and still no one listened. And then, in the summer of 1903, Parham arrived in the health resort town of El Dorado Springs, Missouri. And it was here that a dramatic change in his ministry occurred.
The waters at El Dorado were said to be good for all sorts of aches and pains, and Parham took advantage of the atmosphere of need by preaching on the very steps of the springs. After each sermon he invited anyone who was sick or in pain to come for further prayers to the tiny cottage he and his wife had rented nearby. Many came. And from the first, many reported their condition improved. Word got around that here was a man gifted with unusual powers. And it was clear that he was not out for personal gain: he never charged a fee, never took up a collection.
One of the people to come to his free healing services was a woman named Mary Arthur. Mrs. Arthur was losing her sight. She had already had two operations, and with each her condition worsened. On the day she visited the Parhams’ cottage, she could only see out of one eye, and then only with pain.
During the service, Parham laid his hands on her eyes and prayed that the Spirit would flow through him, to heal. Mrs. Arthur rose from her knees shaken and unbelieving. Whereas only minutes before she had had to keep her eyes closed to avoid pain, now she could look directly toward the light without the slightest discomfort.
Mrs. Arthur returned to her home in Galena, Kansas, and began telling everyone about this wonderful new ministry. A few weeks later she invited the Parhams to come to Galena and to hold services in her home. Their decision to accept her invitation marked the turning point in their career, because in Galena the Pentecostal message caught fire.
In just a few days’ time, the living room of the Arthurs’ house was crowded to overflowing. Friends erected a tent on the vacant lot next door. This too was outgrown almost immediately, as people poured into Galena from miles around. Parham and his friends leased an old warehouse on the edge of town. Winter was coming on: for warmth they set potbellied stoves around the sides of the large room; pews were improvised by laying planks across barrels. And there in the warehouse-church, Charles Parham preached Christ’s ministry complete with the baptism in the Holy Spirit.
Night after night people swarmed into the rough church, to leave hours later with stories of healings and strange mystic experiences. The Cincinnati Inquirer sent a man to Galena to cover the revival.
It is doubtful [wrote the correspondent on January 27, 1904], whether in recent years anything has occurred that has awakened the interest, excited the comment, or mystified the people of this region as have the religious meetings being held by Rev. C. F. Parham. . . .
Almost three months have elapsed since this man came to Galena, and during that time he has healed over a thousand people and converted more than 800. . . . People who have not walked for years without the aid of crutches have risen from the altar with their limbs so straightened that they were able to lay aside their crutches. . . . Here the followers receive what they term “the Pentecost” and are enabled to speak in foreign tongues, languages with which they are, when free from this power, utterly unfamiliar. This alone is considered one of the most remarkable things of the meeting. Last week a woman arose during the meeting and spoke for ten minutes, no one apparently in the audience knowing what she said. An Indian, who had come from the Pawnee Reservation in the territory that day to attend the services, stated that she was speaking in the language of his tribe, and that he could understand every word of the testimony. . . .
Parham stayed in Galena over three months, teaching, preaching and healing. When he finally left, it was to fulfill a dream that had been with him since the closing of Stone’s Folly: he wanted to start another school. Five years, almost to the day, after he opened his school in Topeka, he announced the founding of a second, this time in Houston, Texas.
It was to this school that a student came who was destined to become another key figure in the story of the Pentecostals: W. J. Seymour, an ordained African-American minister. It was Seymour who carried the Pentecostal message to California, to one of the most famous addresses in Pentecostal history: 312 Azusa Street, Los Angeles.
Seymour arrived in Los Angeles, suitcase in hand, never guessing the furor he was to touch off. He had been invited to preach in a small African-American church there. Fresh from his experience in Parham’s school, Seymour opened what was intended to be a series of sermons with an address on the Holy Spirit and the phenomenon of speaking in tongues. That was too much for the elders of the little church. The next day when Seymour arrived to speak, he found the doors of the church locked.
One of the members of the church, however, did not agree with this treatment. She told Mr. Seymour that if he wanted to, he was welcome to preach in her own home. The house was on the old side, she admitted, but it was better than nothing.
For three days Seymour preached there, quietly and logically presenting the biblical background to his position. But on the evening of April 9, 1906, as he was speaking, people listening began to receive the baptism. They spoke in tongues, they laughed, they shouted and sang until the scene must have paralleled the original Pentecost, when Peter and his companions were accused of being drunk with new wine.
The news spread. By early the next morning, a large crowd was packed into the rickety old house, and many more were outside waiting for a chance to get in. The shouting and singing, the “Hallelujahs” and “Praise the Lords” resounded from the rafters. Hand clapping and feet stomping began; the old building began to shake. No one noticed. Then, with one particularly loud “Praise the Lord!” the foundations gave way: the floors collapsed, the walls caved in, the roof fell.
No one was hurt. But it was clear that the rapidly growing meeting needed larger (and sturdier) quarters. After a bit of searching they located just the place: 312 Azusa Street.
The Azusa Street address was in an unpretentious part of town. The neighbors were a lumberyard, a stable and a tombstone factory. But at least no one would be disturbed by the “new wine” exuberance of the congregation. The two-story building itself had once been a livery stable but had been partially destroyed by fire and was now abandoned. A flat roof replaced the burned one, giving the structure a sawed-off look. The worshipers whitewashed the outside of the building and dragged nail kegs inside for seats. Seymour himself sat quietly at one end of the big downstairs room praying constantly and preaching rarely. He was the leader, but he led more by suggestion than by direction.
The Azusa Street revival lasted for three years. Rich and poor alike came to see what was going on. People came from nearby towns, from the Midwest, from New England, Canada, Great Britain. There were whites and African-Americans, old and young, educated and illiterate. Reporters from all over the country came to investigate, and whether they filed reports that were favorable or unfavorable, they always had a good story.
During my research I was in correspondence with one of the few surviving eyewitnesses to the Azusa Street revival. He is Mr. Harvey McAlister of Springfield, Missouri, who wrote me that he had visited the mission himself many times. He had one especially interesting incident to relate:
My brother, Robert E. McAlister, now deceased, was in Los Angeles when the following incident took place and he reported it to me. The girl, whom I knew intimately, and I heard the incident also from her parents, was Kathleen Scott.
This . . . took place in what is known as Old Azusa Street Mission. People traveled from every part of the world to investigate what was happening there. There was a large auditorium with an “Upper Room” upstairs. The place was open day and night for several years, with preaching services two or three times daily, and people in prayer in the Upper Room day and night. At the close of the preaching crowds would retire to the Upper Room to pray. When time came for preaching, someone would ring a bell and all would come downstairs for the services.
Kathleen was in the Upper Room, teen-age, at this particular time. A man entered the building, the service now being in process, and hearing people pray, he ventured upstairs to the prayer room. The moment he entered, Kathleen, moved by the Spirit, arose and pointed to the man as he stood at the head of the stairway, and spoke in a language other than her own for several minutes.
The ringing of the bell, calling the people to the preaching service, interrupted. All the people arose and made their way to the stairway. The man, as Kathleen approached the stairs, took her arm and directed her downstairs, to the speaker’s desk and waited until order was restored in the auditorium. Then he spoke.
“I am a Jew, and I came to this city to investigate this speaking in tongues. No person in this city knows my first or my last name, as I am here under an assumed name. No one in this city knows my occupation, or anything about me. I go to hear preachers for the purpose of taking their sermons apart, and using them in lecturing against the Christian religion.
“This girl, as I entered the room, started speaking in the Hebrew language. She told me my first name and my last name, and she told me why I was in the city and what my occupation was in life, and then she called upon me to repent. She told me things about my life which it would be impossible for any person in this city to know.”
Then [Mr. McAlister’s letter concludes], the man dropped to his knees and cried and prayed as though his heart would break.
This was the Azusa Street revival. Without fanfare, without advertisements, or choirs, or bands, or any of the usual accompaniments of revival, the movement that was born in an old livery stable swept ahead. All day, all night, for over one thousand days.