Aga Rengma
In an age where cynicism often overshadows hope, the recent revival and healing festival held in Dimapur offered something increasingly rare: a glimpse of unity born from shared faith. For four days, thousands gathered not as fractured communities divided by politics or denomination, but as one collective voice lifted in worship, prayer, and song.
I confess I am not a devout Christian myself. Yet standing among those thousands, watching faces illuminated by joy and voices raised in unison, I found myself moved by something that transcended religious boundaries. This was not merely a religious gathering; it was a demonstration of what happens when people come together with genuine hope, seeking something beyond the mundane struggles of daily existence.
The energy was palpable. Young and old, from across Dimapur, Nagaland, came with hearts open and spirits eager. They sang with abandon, danced with pure joy, and prayed with a fervor that reminded me of faith’s true purpose: to uplift, to heal, to bind communities together in shared purpose. In those moments, denominational lines blurred, social hierarchies dissolved, and what remained was simply humanity seeking connection with the divine and with each other.
Yet, as I witnessed this powerful display of faith and the hunger for spiritual renewal among our people, I could not help but reflect on a profound irony that should trouble every Naga Christian. On October 15, 1977, the Nagaland Baptist Churches Council made a solemn covenant to send 10,000 missionaries out into the world. It was a bold promise, befitting a people who claim to be followers of Christ and who have adopted “Nagaland for Christ” as our state motto.
Nearly five decades have passed since that covenant was made. In 2018, Rev Alemmeren, under whose leadership the NBCC made that historic promise, acknowledged a painful truth: the covenant remained unfulfilled. Around the same time, Wabang Longchari, Director of Sinai Ministry, reiterated that the 1977 covenant is yet to be fulfilled and launched a movement named “GO” to pursue the promise of sending 10,000 missionaries out into the world (not sure how far they have achieved as of today).
The irony is bitter and unavoidable. Instead of our people going out to preach to the world, others are coming to revive and rescue us. We who once pledged to be light-bearers to the nations now sit in darkness, waiting for others to bring us the very light we promised to carry. The revival festival in Dimapur, powerful as it was, should also serve as a mirror reflecting our collective failure to live up to our calling.
This raises uncomfortable questions about both our church leadership and our government. What happened to that missionary zeal? Where did that vision disappear? And more importantly, what are we doing now to reclaim it?
Nagaland proudly proclaims itself a Christian state, yet our government’s actions suggest otherwise. Each year, hundreds of crores of rupees are invested in the Hornbill festival. While cultural preservation has its place and tourism brings revenue, one must ask: what are we really preserving and promoting?
The Hornbill festival, for all its pageantry and international attention, is increasingly becoming a commercial spectacle that benefits a select few while ordinary citizens struggle with poverty, unemployment, and a crisis of purpose among our youth. Compare this with the revival festival in Dimapur, which was organized largely through grassroots efforts of individuals and ministries and no government support, yet drew thousands who came seeking not entertainment but transformation.
If our state motto means anything beyond hollow rhetoric, should not our government actively support and organize such spiritual gatherings? If even a fraction of the Hornbill budget were redirected toward organizing regular crusades, revival meetings, and healing festivals across Nagaland, we could address the spiritual and moral crisis facing our society. Such events could serve as powerful antidotes to the corruption, substance abuse, and hopelessness that plague our state.
The Nagaland Baptist Churches Council, as the primary Christian body in our state, must also engage in serious introspection. Over the years, the NBCC has increasingly found itself embroiled in political and social controversies, from confrontations with civil society organizations over issues like the NLTP Act to socializing with political leaders at functions that often seem more about power than faith.
While the church has every right to speak on moral issues, one must ask whether these entanglements have distracted the NBCC from its core mandate: the spiritual upliftment of the Naga people. The unfulfilled 1977 covenant stands as a stark reminder of promises broken and vision lost amid the noise of political engagement.
The NBCC must refocus on its spiritual mission. Instead of getting drawn into political battles and social controversies that often generate more heat than light, the council should be organizing revivals, training missionaries, equipping believers, and addressing the spiritual vacuum that has allowed corruption, violence, and moral decay to flourish in a supposedly Christian state.
The people of Nagaland are hungry for genuine spiritual leadership. The turnout at the Dimapur revival proves this beyond doubt. They are not asking their church leaders to be political brokers or social activists, but to be shepherds who feed their flocks, prophets who speak truth, and leaders who inspire faith. Sadly, NBCC wasn’t part of it.
Making Nagaland truly a “Nagaland for Christ” state requires both the government and the NBCC to recognize and fulfill their respective responsibilities. The government must move beyond using Christian rhetoric for political gain and actively invest in the spiritual wellbeing of its citizens. This means allocating resources for spiritual programs, supporting revival movements, and creating an environment where faith can flourish.
The NBCC, on the other hand, must return to its first calling. It must pursue that 1977 covenant with renewed vigor, not as a matter of institutional pride, but as obedience to the Great Commission. It must organize systematic training for missionaries, create pathways for young people to engage in ministry, and above all, focus on deepening the faith of Naga Christians rather than broadening the church's political influence.
As I left the festival grounds in Dimapur, watching families walk together in the fading light, still humming hymns and sharing testimonies, I felt something I rarely feel these days: hope for Nagaland’s future. Not hope rooted in political promises or development schemes that never materialize (like the incomplete state stadium itself where the revival was held) but hope born from seeing people genuinely changed, communities strengthened, and faith renewed.
The revival showed what is possible when people gather in genuine faith. It also revealed how desperately our people hunger for spiritual meaning in a state where both government and church leadership have often failed to provide it.
Perhaps it is time for both our government and our church leadership to remember what “Nagaland for Christ” truly means. Perhaps it is time to invest not just in festivals that attract tourists, but in movements that transform hearts and send out witnesses. Perhaps it is time to stop waiting for others to revive us and start being the revival we promised to take to the world.
As someone who still considers myself a nominal Christian, someone still learning, still searching, I’ve realized that moments of genuine fellowship like this do something to the heart. When you stand among thousands who are worshipping with honesty and joy, you can’t help but feel something shift inside you. It may not be a sudden miracle or a dramatic revelation, but it softens you, opens you, and makes you feel closer to God in a way you can’t fully explain. It is something our people need today in the midst of all the chaos.
The writer is writer, thinker and youth activist, and Interim Convenor, Western Naga Youth Front
