ATLANTA – After Atlanta pastor Philip Anthony Mitchell stopped focusing on growing his congregation three years ago, attendance surged. Now, lines of young adults snake outside 2819 Church, some arriving as early as 5:30 a.m. for Sunday worship.
Christian rap and contemporary music blast like a block party as volunteers cheer through megaphones for about 6,000 weekly worshippers – up from fewer than 200 in 2023, according to the church. Inside, the mood turns serious. Many drawn to 2819’s worship crave Mitchell’s animated intensity and signature preaching: no sugarcoating the Bible.
After spirited prayers and songs leave many crying, Mitchell ambles onstage in his all-black uniform, sometimes in quiet contemplation or tears, before launching into a fiery sermon. His unpolished messages, laden with challenges to revere God and live better, often spread quickly online. A recent prayer event drew far more people than State Farm Arena could hold, with many flying in.
Crying, shouting, storming across the platform and punching the air, Mitchell preaches with his whole body – and an urgency to bring people to faith before they die or what he calls Jesus’ impending return.
“It is life or death for me,” Mitchell told The Associated Press, comparing preaching to the front lines of war. “There are souls that are hanging in the balance. … I think about the fact that in that room somebody might hear the Gospel, and that might be their last opportunity.”
The church – named for Matthew 28:19, a Bible verse commanding believers to “make disciples of all the nations” – is nondenominational and theologically conservative, opposing abortion and supporting marriage only between a man and a woman.
The congregation’s growth has attracted people of many races and ages, but it’s predominantly young Black adults. Their youth is notable since Americans ages 18 to 24 are less likely than older adults to identify as Christian or attend services regularly, according to Pew Research Center.
Warren Bird, an expert on fast-growing churches, said the right leader – and God’s help – are key to growth. He described Mitchell as “speaking a language” that connects with young people other pastors haven’t reached.
Churchgoers say Mitchell’s message resonates because he walks them through scripture and talks candidly about his spiritual transformation, including his past dealing drugs, paying for abortions and attempting suicide.
“I’m still a little rough around the edges, right? I still got a little hood in me,” said Mitchell, who still speaks with a regional New York accent.
Many at 2819 want more than motivational speeches and say Mitchell’s sermons counter the feel-good American preaching he criticizes.
“I’m preaching without watering that down, without filtering out things that we think might be too controversial,” said Mitchell, who wants people to mature spiritually and insists they can’t deal with sin and its consequences without Jesus.
“I think that there is a generation that is gravitating towards that authenticity and truth,” he said. “As a result of that, we are seeing lives being radically transformed.”
Christian podcaster Megan Ashley said she brought a friend to 2819 who had stepped away from her faith, and Mitchell had an impact. The friend told Ashley, “When he speaks, I believe him.”
The tougher messages might hurt some people’s feelings, said Donovan Logan, 23.
“But that’s what it’s supposed to do. If you don’t come to church and want to change, then that’s not the church you’re supposed to be going to,” Logan said.
Elijah McCord, 22, said Mitchell’s sermons about sin touch on what’s happening around him in Atlanta, and Mitchell’s story shows that “there’s life in what God has commanded.” He also values Mitchell’s pleadings to wait until marriage to have sex.
“He biblically talks about sin and repentance and how there’s actually hope in the Gospel,” McCord said.
Churchgoers say 2819’s draw goes beyond Mitchell – it’s the entire worship experience.
Passing dancing greeters, the Sunday crowd enters a dark auditorium permeated with prayer and bold instrumental music before the service, which 2819 calls a gathering, officially begins. Hands lift amid shouts of praise. Tissue boxes sit at aisle ends for those moved to tears.
“The worship is crazy. The Holy Spirit is just there. Like, tangible presence. You feel it!” said Desirae Dominguez, 24.
Mitchell spent 10 years preaching, racking up notes from church growth conferences that yielded little, and eventually struggled with depression. During that time, he took a transformative trip to Israel where he said encounters with God and other Christians changed him. Then, in 2023, he changed the church’s name to 2819.
Mitchell, who has spent three years preaching just from the Book of Matthew, said God told him to preach without bringing prepared notes onstage. Although he attended Bible college, he sometimes doubts himself because of his past.
“I shed a lot of tears because I feel often ill-equipped, undeserving,” said Mitchell. “I would not have called me if I was God to steward something like this, and sometimes I don’t know why my preaching is reaching (people). … I’m still shocked myself.”
When preparing to preach, “I’m thinking about the brokenness of the people in the room, the troubled marriages, the one who is suicidal. I’m thinking about the young lady who’s battling crippling insecurities and don’t know that she has a father up there that loves her more than any man she’s going to find down here.”
The church recently moved into its own building, having outgrown the charter school where services were held, and added a third one. On the first two Sundays at the new location, they added an impromptu fourth gathering because so many people came.
The staff faced similar challenges at Access, the church’s October prayer event that drew an estimated 40,000 people. State Farm Arena was filled to capacity, as was an overflow space in a nearby convention center, leaving thousands outside, the church reported.
“We’re constantly tinkering. We’re constantly fixing things,” said Tatjuana Phillips, 2819’s ministries director.
Despite its size, the church encourages community through small groups called “squads,” which give about 1,700 people a place to discuss sermons and support each other’s growth. Staff also engage with about 75,000 people weekly who watch gatherings online.
The long lines also yield friendships. Ashley Grimes, 35, said that’s where she’s “met so many brothers and sisters in Christ that I now get to do life with.”
On a recent Sunday, Mitchell told the crowd they can turn to Jesus regardless of what they’ve done. It worked for him. God, he said, “used failure to transform my life.”
Kramon is a corps member for The Associated Press/Report for America Statehouse News Initiative. Report for America is a nonprofit national service program that places journalists in local newsrooms to report on undercovered issues.
