hey talk about it in hushed tones now. Like it's a myth. Like it's some ancient relic lost to time. They say the days of raw power are gone-that what we have now is enough. A flash here. A flicker there. Enough to keep the gatherings alive, enough to keep the offerings coming, enough to keep the programs running. But not enough to shake hell. Not enough to empty hospitals. Not enough to raise the dead.

But we know better. We've read the stories. We've seen the records. How men walked with God until the supernatural became natural. How shadows healed the sick. How handkerchiefs cast out devils. How altars caught fire without any matchsticks. How men like Elijah mocked the prophets of Baal because they knew-they knew-that heaven's response was guaranteed.

Where is that power now?
Where is the weight that could make kings tremble?
Where is the fire that could burn without consuming?
Where is the authority that could silence storms and raise bones from graves?

We have become comfortable with a powerless church. We have settled for strategies over Spirit. We have traded fire for fog machines. We have exchanged brokenness for branding. We rehearse sermons instead of tarrying for burdens. And we call it growth. We call it progress. But the sick remain sick. The bound remain bound. The oppressed remain oppressed.

It was not always so. Once upon a time, men carried God. They didn't just know about Him-they hosted Him. Peter could say, "Silver and gold have I none; but such as I have give I thee." He had something. He carried something. There was substance. Weight. A residue of the glory that he had touched. That's why his shadow could heal-because it wasn't just Peter walking down the street; it was God walking with him.

We don't need new methods. We need ancient fire. We don't need more lights-we need the glory that could make Moses' face shine. We don't need more social media followers-we need the kind of power that could make Simon the sorcerer offer money for it. We don't need more strategies-we need the Spirit that could shake the very house where the apostles were gathered.

The early church didn't survive because they had a good PR team. They survived because they had power. And not just any power-the power that could raise the dead, cast out demons, heal the sick, and convert cities. The power that could make jail cells open by themselves. The power that could make governors tremble and religious systems collapse. The power that hell recognized and could not stand against.

And what changed? Did God lose His strength? Did the Holy Ghost retire? Did the blood lose its power? Or did we lose the hunger? Did we trade prayer closets for boardrooms? Did we exchange the upper room for the green room? Did we decide that eloquence was more important than oil?

The power is not gone-it's just waiting. Waiting for men and women who will pay the price. Waiting for intercessors who will cry out until heaven responds. Waiting for consecrated vessels who will not be seduced by platforms. Waiting for altars that are soaked with tears, not trends. Waiting for men and women who will go beyond convenience and step into covenant.

The prophets of Baal danced all day and nothing happened. But when Elijah repaired the altar and called down fire, heaven responded. Not because he shouted louder, but because he aligned himself with God's covenant. The fire is not missing-the altar is broken. And until we rebuild the altar, there will be no fire. Until we put sacrifice back where convenience now sits, there will be no power.

We speak of the Azusa Street Revival like it was some strange, historical accident. But it was no accident. It was the natural outcome of hunger meeting surrender. Men who gave up everything for God's presence. Men who prayed for hours. Men who were not afraid to look foolish in the eyes of men if it meant that heaven would descend.

We have become too polished for power. Too packaged for glory. Too professional for anointing. We are clean-but without oil. Refined-but without residue. Educated-but without impact. So hell is no longer threatened. The witches no longer tremble. The sick no longer hope. Because we have become a generation that knows how to gather crowds but not how to host glory.

But there is a remnant. There are those who are tired of the noise without the weight. There are those who are no longer impressed by church growth strategies and annual conferences. They are crying for something deeper. They are not asking for another revelation-they are asking for visitation. They are hungry for the power of old.

Not the power that makes men famous, but the power that makes men disappear under the weight of glory. The power that empties hospitals. The power that makes nightclub owners shut down because the conviction in the city is too heavy. The power that drives men to their knees in repentance without a sermon. The power that silences demonic activity with just one word.

This generation does not need more entertainment-we need the power of old. We need the God of Elijah. We need the Spirit of Pentecost. We need the weight that will make us stop calling a full auditorium "revival." We need the presence that will make us stop mistaking a large offering for a move of God.

And we will have it. But not until we are ready to die. Not until we are ready to turn off the lights, shut down the shows, and find ourselves face down on the floor until He answers by fire. We will not see the power of old until we pray like the men of old. Until we fast like the prophets of old. Until we care more about the presence than the platform.

Heaven is not withholding power. God is not silent. The heavens are not closed. But God will not release power to a generation that wants glory without sacrifice. That's why the altars must be rebuilt. That's why the fire must fall again. That's why hunger must return.

And when it comes-hell will know it. The sick will know it. The lost will know it. The cities will know it. Because it will no longer be about us. It will no longer be about how well we preach or how many followers we have. It will no longer be about the size of the gathering.

It will be about the weight of the glory. The sound of the heavens. The presence of the King.
And this time-it will not be for a moment.
This time-it will not be for a season.
This time-it will stay.
Because this time-it will not be built on man. It will be built on the altar.
And heaven will finally say again-"This is that."