The Spectacle and The Sacred

An Apologetic for Spectacle and Emotionalism

There is a meme that circulates in "exvangelical" spaces that reads, "What I thought was the Spirit was just a good drum beat." It suggests that much of what passes for spiritual encounter in modern worship—especially in Pentecostal and evangelical contexts—is nothing more than emotional manipulation masquerading as the sacred. The lights, the music, the swell of emotion, the tightly scripted transitions: it can feel like a concert, a show, an experience engineered to evoke feelings that are then baptized as divine. I understand the critique. I’ve felt the tension. I've been in services that were all show and no substance. And I’ve watched friends walk away from faith entirely because they concluded that what they thought was the Spirit was just the manipulative use of atmosphere.

But I reject the idea that just because something is emotional or immersive, it is therefore inauthentic. I believe in the possibility—and indeed the necessity—of what I would call sacred spectacle. There is, I want to argue, a kind of spectacle that is not a distraction from the holy but a portal into it. When done honestly, when consent is given, when emotional response is not demanded but invited, then the music, the drama, the light, and the beauty become what they've always been in the history of the Church: vessels for glory.

This past week, I participated in an Easter performance at my church. It was multimedia-driven. Lights, soundscapes, projection, drama, choreography, and live music all converged to tell the story of Jesus' death and resurrection. It was, by every definition, a spectacle. But I wept. I shouted. I spoke in tongues. I almost ran the aisles. Not because I was manipulated, but because I was moved—moved by the story I’ve staked my life on, moved by the beauty that made it feel again like it was happening now, moved by the Spirit who met me in the moment. One definition of worship I’ve always loved is this: "The participatory acting out of the biblical story of the Triune God." That’s what this performance was. Not a show, but a re-presentation of the sacred drama we are all invited to join.

What I’ve come to realize is that spectacle has always been part of how God reveals Himself. From the burning bush to the cloud of glory on Sinai, from the dramatic visions of Ezekiel to the transfiguration of Jesus, the sacred is often cloaked in the spectacular. These are not distractions from God's presence—they are manifestations of it. And in the Jewish tradition, from which Christianity springs, temple worship was an orchestrated, multisensory event: incense, robes, chanting, sacrifice, architecture, ritual. It was a spectacle designed not to entertain but to encounter. The mainline Protestant suspicion of the sensory—its fear that smell, sound, and sight might seduce rather than sanctify—was not shared by Israel, nor by the early Church.

In 1985 at East Coast Bible College in North Carolina, Dr. George Voorhis, one of my former professors and one beloved by all in the Church of God tradition, preached a sermon titled "An Apologetic on Emotion." In it, he offered a defense of emotional expression in worship, not as an indulgence but as a requirement of full-bodied faith. "No emotion, no motive = no movement," he said. The Church, he warned, had grown lukewarm because it had disconnected intellect from heart, reason from passion. Voorhis traced the historical, psychological, biblical, and experiential foundations of emotional worship, arguing that our faith must be felt, not just thought. He pointed to Scripture's many examples of emotional worship: shouting, weeping, dancing, falling, trembling, rejoicing, clapping, lifting hands, running, leaping. He showed how revival movements throughout history—Methodist, Presbyterian, Holiness, Pentecostal—have always included the spectacular and emotional as a sign of divine encounter.

But he was not defending emotionalism for its own sake. His point was that emotion, when authentic, is evidence of spiritual movement. We are, as creatures made in the image of a passionate God, meant to love the Lord with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength. That includes our bodies and our emotions.

I think what gets missed in the exvangelical critique is this: not all emotional evocation is manipulation. Sometimes it is an invitation. And what makes the difference is consent and honesty. When churches pretend they are not being theatrical but are in fact scripting every moment to produce a specific response, it breeds distrust. But when we are honest about the role of spectacle in worship—when we name it, bless it, and structure it with theological intent—it becomes something else entirely. It becomes sacred.

Perhaps that’s why some churches now describe their services as “experiences” rather than “worship.” And while that terminology has its own consumeristic baggage, I understand the impulse. In corporate worship, we are gathering together and giving ourselves permission to engage in emotionally charged sacredness. It is not passive. It is participatory. We are entering the story again and again, not just by reading it but by feeling it, moving in it, singing it, dancing it, crying through it.

King David understood this. He was a worshiper and a warrior, a poet and a king. His music had power—not just to soothe Saul, but to shift spiritual atmospheres. When David danced before the ark, he did so with abandon, unafraid of spectacle. Michal, his wife, despised him for it. She preferred dignity over devotion. But David knew what we too often forget: God is not embarrassed by our emotions. The sacred is not allergic to the dramatic.

That doesn’t mean spectacle is sufficient. One of the critical insights of Pentecostal theology, when at its best, is that spectacle does not disciple us. It invites us. It transports us. It may be the launch pad of transformation, but true transformation is found in the practice of disciplines and virtues—prayer, silence, solitude, study, generosity, hospitality. A holistic Pentecostal spirituality participates in sacred spectacle but is sustained by daily discipleship. We mistake spiritual experiences for spiritual maturity. The fire of encounter must be followed by the long obedience of practice.

This is why I have come to love both the spectacle of Pentecostal worship and the quiet rhythm of liturgical prayer. I need the dramatic re-telling of Easter with sound and light and movement. But I also need the slow repetition of the Daily Office. I need the tears that come when the music swells and the voice quivers—but I also need the silence that comes when all the songs are gone and it’s just me and God in the dark. The sacred is not one or the other. It is both.

In fact, liturgy itself is spectacle. The robes, the candles, the processions, the creeds—they are all part of the drama. They are not meaningless repetition; they are the slow choreography of the soul. The Church has always used drama, architecture, sacrament, symbol, and ritual to tell the story of God. We worship in cathedrals shaped like crosses. We stain windows with scenes of redemption. We eat bread and drink wine and call it body and blood. None of this is rational. All of it is beautiful. And through beauty, we are drawn to the Holy.

What we need, then, is not to reject spectacle but to redeem it. To reclaim it as a way of doing theology with our senses. To design worship that stirs the heart, yes—but also forms the soul. To tell the story of Jesus in ways that move people toward love, justice, holiness, and joy.

I think of my friends who left the church because they felt deceived. I understand their pain. But I also wish they had stayed long enough to see that the problem wasn’t the drumbeat. It was the disconnection between what was felt and what was formed. It was the lack of honesty. The absence of follow-through. If the music had been paired with meaning, if the tears had been tended by truth, perhaps the fire would have become a flame that lasted.

We need to talk honestly about how worship works. We need to name the role of atmosphere, acknowledge the use of emotion, and refuse to apologize for beauty. Because there is a chord that pleases the Lord. And when we play it—not for performance, but for presence—it becomes something holy.

So let the lights come up. Let the curtain rise. Let the drums beat and the voices soar. Let the saints shout and the prophets weep. Let the dancers whirl and the prayers rise like incense. But let us also kneel in silence. Let us light candles in the dark. Let us practice solitude, and sabbath, and service. Let us marry the spectacle and the sacred.

Because worship is not less than emotion. It is more. It is love with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength. It is the drama of redemption and the discipline of discipleship. It is the glory of God made visible in the faces of the gathered. And it is the quiet fire that burns when no one is watching.

Let us not be afraid to feel. Let us not be afraid to show. Let us not be afraid to make beauty in the name of the beautiful One.

Not for performance. But for presence.