Before the sun rises over Atlanta, hundreds of young adults line up outside 2819 Church, eager to worship. Some arrive as early as 5:30 a.m., clutching coffee cups and Bibles, waiting to experience a service that has become one of the city’s most talked-about Sunday gatherings. For Pastor Philip Anthony Mitchell, the revival wasn’t something he planned — it was something God did when he stopped trying to grow the church himself.

Just three years ago, fewer than 200 people attended 2819 Church each week. Now, more than 6,000 worshippers pack into the sanctuary or watch online, many of them under 30. The church’s name, drawn from Matthew 28:19 — “Go and make disciples of all nations” — reflects its mission to reach people with uncompromising truth.

Outside, volunteers cheer with megaphones as Christian rap and contemporary music thump, evoking a block party atmosphere. But once the doors open, the tone shifts. Inside, it’s raw, reverent, and deeply emotional. Hands lift, tears fall, and the atmosphere swells with worship. Then Pastor Mitchell takes the stage, often in tears himself, before delivering one of his fiery, unpolished sermons.

Mitchell preaches with urgency — crying, pacing, even punching the air as he warns about sin and the nearness of Christ’s return. “It is life or death for me,” he told The Associated Press. “There are souls hanging in the balance. Somebody in that room might hear the Gospel, and that might be their last opportunity.”

The 39-year-old pastor is unlike most church leaders. He speaks openly about his past — dealing drugs, paying for abortions, and attempting suicide — and how Jesus changed his life. “I’m still a little rough around the edges,” he admits with a grin. “I still got a little hood in me.” But that honesty resonates deeply with a generation craving realness.

Many say they’re drawn to 2819 because Mitchell doesn’t sugarcoat Scripture. “He biblically talks about sin and repentance and how there’s actually hope in the Gospel,” said 22-year-old Elijah McCord. “There’s life in what God has commanded.”

Christian podcaster Megan Ashley described bringing a friend who had drifted from her faith. “When he speaks, I believe him,” the friend said afterward. For others, like 23-year-old Donovan Logan, the tough preaching is exactly what they’ve been missing. “It might hurt your feelings,” he said. “But that’s what it’s supposed to do. If you don’t come to church wanting to change, then that’s not the church for you.”

The services themselves are unforgettable. Worship is loud, passionate, and filled with the Spirit. “The Holy Spirit is just there,” said 24-year-old Desirae Dominguez. “Like, tangible presence. You feel it!” Tissue boxes line the aisles for those overcome with emotion, and volunteers pray over every seat before worship begins.

Mitchell says the church’s explosive growth came after a personal turning point. Ten years of ministry and countless leadership conferences had left him burned out and depressed. But a trip to Israel in 2022 rekindled his faith. “God met me there,” he said. When he returned home, he changed the church’s name to 2819 and began preaching straight from the Bible — no notes, no filters, just what he felt the Spirit was leading him to say.

Despite his success, Mitchell admits he often feels unworthy. “I shed a lot of tears because I feel ill-equipped, undeserving,” he said. “I would not have called me if I was God.” But every time he preaches, he thinks of the broken people in the room — the suicidal teen, the struggling marriage, the young woman searching for love. “I’m thinking about the one who doesn’t know that she has a Father up there who loves her more than any man she’s going to find down here.”

As attendance skyrockets, the church staff races to keep up. They’ve moved into a new building, added multiple services, and even hosted a massive prayer event called “Access” that drew an estimated 40,000 people — more than State Farm Arena could hold.

Even with the challenges, 2819 feels more like a movement than a church. Members form small groups called “squads” for prayer and accountability, while tens of thousands tune in online every week. Many say the long lines outside have become sacred ground — places where strangers pray together, share testimonies, and make lifelong friends.

Ashley Grimes, 35, said that waiting in line for service has changed her life. “I’ve met so many brothers and sisters in Christ that I now get to do life with,” she said.

Pastor Mitchell, who once doubted God’d ever use him, now watches thousands come forward to give their lives to Christ. “God used failure to transform my life,” he told his congregation one Sunday. For a generation that has largely turned away from the church, 2819 is proof that the hunger for truth — and for Jesus — is still alive and well in Atlanta.