A Declaration of Interdependence Part Two: The Road Not Taken

The Evolutionary Revolutionary — a three-part series for America’s 250th

Be anything you want. Be madmen, drunks, and bastards of every shape and form. But at all costs avoid one thing: success.
—Thomas Merton

The sword is never really countercultural, but the cross always is.
—Brian Zahnd

Previously: I lit a candle and named a wound — a country two hundred and fifty years old, founded on a half-revelation and carrying an unpaid debt, its bells and its clanking chains riding the same currents of air. But I also went digging in the crawlspace of our history and found a stranger, more hopeful America down there: Johannes Kelpius scanning the stars, Marcus Garvey’s mind-power, Jean Toomer’s Harlem mystics trying to dissolve racism at the level of consciousness itself, the Wide Awakes marching under a single watching eye. An America forever convinced it could be remade. I promised you that this buried dream never perished — it only went underground, the way seeds do. Now let me show you one of the times it broke ground and caught fire.

IV. Flipping the Coin on Futures Past

Let’s hop into the Delorean and go back exactly fifty years, because I think 1976 has something to tell us that we urgently need to hear.

When I was a kid, I was weird. (Some things never change.) I collected things. (Some things never change.) I collected stamps and coins and baseball cards and comic books, in part because I was fascinated by how change carried itself through time. Typographies and images and phrases and colors, they’d shift as the years and decades marched on. I loved holding history in my hands, imagining what it would feel like to be alive in the era of Mickey Mantle’s rookie year, mod Archie Comics fashions, or the Walking Liberty half-dollar.

So one day I was given a quarter by my parents, and it wasn’t like the other quarters in my growing coin collection. Don’t get me wrong, it looked much like a brand-new quarter. But rather than a single date, it displayed two: 1776-1976, as though this coin was itself a time traveller, forged of two eras at once and containing everything in-between. And rather than an eagle on its reverse side, there was what looked to me as a kid like a cowboy, which I gradually realized was a young drumming revolutionary. Occurring just a few years before I drew my first breaths in this world, I wondered what this Bicentennial was all about.

Today we remember USAmerica’s Bicentennial — if we remember it at all — as bunting drapes and tall ships and Schoolhouse Rock. But this is the airbrushed version. The America that turned 200 was, in the words of one writer, a “Bicentennial basket case.” Richard Nixon had resigned in disgrace two years before, taking with him whatever public trust Watergate hadn’t already incinerated. The last helicopter had lifted off the Saigon embassy roof only the previous spring. The economy was mired in something new and ugly enough to need a new and ugly word — stagflation, prices and unemployment climbing together, the Misery Index sitting north of thirteen. The country limped to its own birthday party wondering if the whole experiment had been a fraud.

Sound familiar?

Because history might not repeat itself exactly, but it does rhyme. The particulars have changed — the war is now a war we underwrite rather than fight, the corruption wears better suits, the surveillance is in our pockets — but it’s the same song, different verse:

A republic gnawed hollow by graft. A people ground down by costs they did not choose. Institutional trust free-falling. Cruelty toward the stranger is elevated to policy. By 1976 King had already named it and been dead eight years: “there are literally two Americas,” he said. “One flowing with the milk of prosperity and the honey of equality,” and the other with “a daily ugliness about it that transforms the buoyancy of hope into the fatigue of despair.” Fifty years on, the milk has curdled for even more of us, and the two Americas have only moved farther apart.

But here’s the thing about 1976 that the fireworks blinded us to: That desolate, disillusioned, malaise-soaked year was also one of the most spiritually fertile moments in modern American history. In the very soil of despair, something verdant was sprouting.

V. The Jesus Movement — and the Road Not Taken

Fifty years ago, a genuine revival was sweeping the American landscape. Pundits and proponents named it the Jesus Movement — hippies and runaways and dropouts and druggies getting baptized in the Pacific Ocean, coffeehouses and communes and street preachers preaching dire and ostensibly good news; a whole generation deciding that the Jesus of the Gospels had more to offer than the Nixon of the news.

But what is ‘revival’? Growing up Pentecostal, promised revival was around every corner, lurking in Scriptures and in daily headlines; revival was going to enliven our personal connections with God, drive us to remorse for the wrongs we committed, stir up supernatural spiritual gifts and wonders among us, and — most importantly — trigger mass conversions to allegiance to Jesus Christ and swell the ranks of his cosmic Bride, the Church. 

This was the vision much-promised by visiting Wednesday-night preachers and extended Sunday-morning altar calls, it was apparently already happening according to the missionaries from Mexico, or China, or Peru. It haunted our sanctuaries and denominational magazines and tape ministries.

But revival isn’t always elusive, and something like it seemed to arrive in the decade before my birth. Sociologists of religion have their own definitions; they treat revival not as a single dramatic event but as a period of intensified religious life — a rapid, measurable surge in conversions, fervor, and communal participation that briefly interrupts the slow drift of secularization. They tend to bracket the theological question of whether God is ‘really’ moving and look instead at the social machinery: what the historian William McLoughlin, borrowing anthropologist Anthony Wallace‘s term, called a “revitalization movement,” a people’s collective reach for a more satisfying way to live; what Émile Durkheim called “collective effervescence,” the almost electric energy a community generates when it gathers around something it experiences as holy. And revivals, these sociologists note, tend to erupt in precisely the conditions of 1976 — seasons of anomie and economic stress, when the old order feels hollow and consumer culture has stopped answering the questions that keep people awake at night. Which is to say: the national malaise happening then wasn’t the opposite of a revival. It was the compost.

Growing up, I learned to  love this movement that swept the US and receded, just before my time. I grew up singing its songs throughout the Baptist, Pentecostal, and even conservative Presbyterian churches I was part of, and aspects of its history were lionized as part of the DNA of the neighborhood-based house church movement I spent my twenties in.

But I also grieve what most of it became.

I’m not the only one holding love and grief simultaneously. Brian Zahnd — pastor of Word of Life Church in St. Joseph, Missouri since 1981, and one of the voices who teaches me this cruciform way of seeing — was a Jesus Movement kid directly, a seventeen-year-old “Jesus freak” running a coffeehouse called the Catacombs in the basement of a dive bar. In Postcards from Babylon: The Church in American Exile he remembers what was genuinely electric about it: “a bunch of long-haired Jesus freaks were realizing that the Sermon on the Mount was thrilling, demanding, and dangerous as dynamite. The Jesus Movement was making Jesus revolutionary again.” They weren’t doing civic religion; they read the Gospels as “a direct challenge to the assumed cultural values of America.” And then Brian names, from the inside, the aspect I’m grieving: “eventually the Jesus Movement was absorbed by the Charismatic Movement and would be slowly seduced by the siren songs coming from the prosperity gospel and the religious right.” 

It all felt compelling at the time. Brian adds: “And I went along for the ride.”

You want the human face of that grief? His name was Lonnie Frisbee. If you saw the glossy 2023 film Jesus Revolution, you met a version of him — the barefoot, Christlike hippie (played, with no small irony, by the actor who plays Jesus in The Chosen) who walked into Chuck Smith‘s buttoned-down Calvary Chapel in 1968 and lit the fuse. That much is true, and then some: Lonnie Frisbee was the charismatic spark behind not one but two global movements — Calvary Chapel and, later, John Wimber‘s Vineyard. He baptized thousands in the Pacific surf, prophesied, prayed for healing, pulled the ‘lost’ kids in by the busload. It is not an exaggeration to say that without this one luminous, strung-out, wounded young man, we would likely never have heard of either.

What the movie leaves out — and what the movements themselves spent decades airbrushing out — is that Lonnie Frisbee was gay. A survivor of childhood sexual abuse who had come up through the Laguna Beach gay scene, he tried, in his early testimony, to name that he had “come out of the homosexual life” — and then discreetly deleted it, because, he said, people started treating him like a leper. When his sexuality could no longer be hidden, both movements he had founded wrote him out of their official histories as though he had never existed. He died of AIDS in 1993, at forty-three, in a state of profound self-loathing — a man who had led thousands to a Jesus of radical welcome and could not, in the end, believe that welcome reached as far as himself. The 2023 film honors him just enough to borrow his charisma and just little enough to avoid his wound: it never names his sexuality, and it omits even the cause of his death from the closing title card. The erasure, fifty years on, was performed one more time — on camera, allegedly for our edification.

Now, look: I don’t want to throw out Baby Jesus with the bigoted bathwater, nor throw these earnest seekers under the tie-dyed Volkswagen Bus! The conservative wing of the Jesus Movement is not some cartoon supervillain. The hippie movement, at its inception a revolutionary force to be reckoned with, was arguably depoliticized by the strategic U.S. governmental introduction of mind-altering drugs, making the eternal party and tuning in, turning on, and dropping out its establishment-bolstering aim rather than a remaking of the social order in more just and equitable ways. Capitalism was scared of how millions of draft-resisters and Communist-sympathizers could reshape the national fabric, so they un-clenched their pearls just enough to introduce LSD and other substances to the scene. Arguably these same capitalist forces, undergirding U.S. Evangelicalism since the 1950s, were behind what could have been the further domestication of hippies by corralling them into ‘safe’ church structures. But this didn’t happen, at least not right away. What had become hippie ecstasy had no floor under it; evangelicals offering structure, sobriety, a rhythm of discipleship, a bed and a hot meal were meeting real needs the counterculture (as it was distorted) had left bleeding in the street. There is a genuine corrective in here that let the hippies change the conservative evangelical church, too — namely, by reading the Gospels and the Red Letters. Somehow, the fusion of hippies and evangelicals created a prefigurative politics of the Kingdom of God “here on earth as it is in heaven,” embodying their fervently-desired future within sanctuaries, parachurch organizations, songs and streets right here, right now. 

If only this fusion of evangelicalism and hippie culture had been more Jesus-joined, more Sermon on the Mount-shaped, more in keeping with the Upside-Down Kingdom instead of monarchy writ large. Instead, evangelical captivity pendulum-swung hippie culture all the way to fundamentalist’s familiar sex-negativity, bifurcating sexuality from sanctification — telling people their bodies and the Gospel were at odds, that their desires were the enemy of their souls. This swing took its toll, and Lonnie Frisbee’s grave is part of the bill. 

Evangelicalism, even in its allegedly countercultural form, learned to sanctify by subtraction — purifying by erasure, cherishing the gift while disowning the giver. Keep this in your pocket as we walk toward the fork ahead. A movement that can edit out its own queer prophet has already told you something about which branch it’s going to take.

So here we go: This towering movement, bringing millions to life-changing faith in the ‘One Way’ of a Jesus who chooses death rather than retaliation and enemy-love rather than violence, itself feeds the hungry, stirs urgent existential questions, starts hundreds of communes across North America, and stood at a genuine fork in the road. It mostly took the road more tragic. 

One path — the one that came to dominate — was the path of Hal Lindsey’s just-mentioned The Late Great Planet Earth, a bestselling theology of planetary planned obsolescence: the world is doomed, the rapture is imminent, so cooperate with the authorities, save souls off a sinking ship, and leave the “thornier social issues” — racism, war, poverty, the machinery of empire — to burn along with the earth.

And that path had a destination. Larry Eskridge, whose definitive God’s Forever Family surveyed former Jesus People decades later and asked them to place themselves on the political map, before and after. Before their conversion, they had skewed decisively toward a socially-engaged left: 42 percent called themselves liberal, only 22 percent conservative. By the time they responded, the whole spectrum had inverted — progressives diminished to 10 percent, conservatives up to 57. Eskridge’s careful conclusion is that the movement “may have played an important role in moving many young people into the conservative ranks.” The revolutionary energy of the counterculture got baptized, dried off, and sedately re-enlisted on the banks of status-quo respectability.

The historian Preston Shires puts it even more bluntly in Hippies of the Religious Right: the Religious Right “owed no small debt for its political success in the late seventies to the hippie movement of the sixties.” The counterculture didn’t simply die when the troops came home and Nixon flew off in disgrace; its activist soul, Shires writes, “would live on in another avatar.” All that seeker energy, that hunger for authenticity and total commitment, the willingness to reorganize your whole life around a conviction — it got poured, eventually, into a movement that would spend the next forty years fighting against most of what the sixties had fought for. You want a single image for the turn? Franklin Graham, who’d plunged into the counterculture as a teenager, gave his life to his father’s faith in July 1974 — the very month his father’s friend Richard Nixon faced impeachment. The prodigal came home just as the empire’s disgrace peaked, and brought the counterculture’s fire back into the furnace of his father.

But this was never the only path the Jesus Movement embarked on. 

Another wing of this same revival, radical and rooted, and it’s the wing I’m tethering my newsletter’s upcoming rechristening on. Have you seen my counterculture-inspired rebrand yet? It’s really fun; I worked with Adventure Time and The Midnight Gospel lead animator Andy Ristaino, who did a gorgeous job:

Coming soon to Substack!

Now let me introduce you to the radical wing of the Jesus Movement that evangelicalism’s Ministry of Nostalgia and Whitewashed Tombs doesn’t want you to know about.

Go to Berkeley, 1969, ground zero of the New Left. Four former staffers from Campus Crusade for Christ — led by a farm-raised Army vet and statistics professor named Jack Sparks — decided the radical students everyone else had written off were exactly the people Jesus would be with. So they grew their hair and beards, traded in for jeans and workshirts, and waded into the Third World Liberation Front strike with hand-lettered placards reading “Pig State No, Anarchy No, Jesus Yes!” and “It Takes Guts to Follow Jesus the Real Revolutionist!” The marchers cursed them and spat on them; when the police charged, the Jesus freaks got teargassed and beaten right alongside the radicals. They stayed anyway. They called themselves the Christian World Liberation Front, published a paper called Right On!, and baptized their converts in the fountain on Sproul Plaza. Eskridge’s verdict: “Meeting the radical left on its own ground, the CWLF held their own.” One of Sparks’s old Pennsylvania backers was so scandalized by the look and the tactics that he pulled his money, warning that Sparks was “cutting himself off from the good people of America… the people who are the backbone of this country.”

(Check out this archive of Right On!, published by the CWLF in Berkeley from July 1969 to June 1976. And see this ambitious oral history project of the Jesus Movement in general.)

The CWLF wasn’t a fluke; it was a seed. Out of it came people like Sharon Gallagher, who argued that the New Left’s aims were admirable, but they were failing precisely because it had thrown away “the resources of orthodox religion” in their scramble to rebuild a broken society. In David Swartz‘s telling, the CWLF became a genuine rival to Students for a Democratic Society on that campus, fusing Jesus-People piety with a “small is beautiful,” anti-technocratic, communitarian ethic. Conversion and commune. Born-again and anti-empire. The two things we’ve been told can’t coexist, coexisting.

And then came the moment when this scattered energy nearly cohered into a movement. Thanksgiving 1973, a run-down YMCA hotel on South Wabash in Chicago. Fifty evangelical leaders gathered around a young, unknown organizer named Ron Sider with “the echoes of stray gunfire from outside” ringing through the hall. Over several days they hammered out the Chicago Declaration of Evangelical Social Concern, and it aimed, in Swartz’s words, “to the left, not the right.” They confessed evangelical complicity and condemned American militarism, sexism, economic injustice, and — by name — President Nixon’s “lust for and abuse of power.” Calvin College’s Paul Henry stood up and said evangelicals “dare no longer remain silent in the face of glaring social evil.” The Washington Post covered it and speculated that these “young evangelicals” might be “the wave of the future.”

But as history would tell us, these young evangelicals swelled, then crested. The Post had the intensity right and the direction backwards; it was the Religious Right, not this Chicago remnant, that would build the machine that would come to define evangelicalism in the last quarter of the 20th century (and beyond). This is the ache Swartz organizes his Moral Minority The Evangelical Left in an Age of Conservatism around — a question I think we have to sit inside if we’re going to avoid repeating it: why, when the early 1970s were so “politically up for grabs,” did evangelicalism end up “so closely identified with conservative, rather than progressive, politics”? The road not taken was, for one shimmering moment, wide open and well-lit. And we didn’t take it.

Some who were there tried. One of the youngest delegates at that Chicago meeting was a suburban-Detroit kid named Jim Wallis, who had come to faith through the antiwar movement — his politics were forged in the Michigan State chapter of Students for a Democratic Society before they were ever baptized. But Wallis didn’t do it alone, and I want to name another early figure, because he became a mentor and a friend to me and his fingerprints are on my work more than he knows. In 1971, seven young seminarians at Trinity Evangelical Divinity School — among them a twenty-three-year-old named Bob Sabath — pooled a hundred dollars each, rented a typesetter for twenty-five dollars a night above a noisy bar, and printed twenty thousand copies of a newspaper they called The Post-American: an open indictment of the civil religion then blessing the war in Vietnam. They melded, as Swartz puts it, “the rhetoric and activist style of New Left politics with evangelical piety and theology,” hauled the bundles to campus student unions in their own cars, and collected the subscriptions in a shoebox.

Just before the Bicentennial the community had moved to inner-city Washington and taken the name Sojourners — fully present in the world, but citizens of a different order. And they meant it: for more than a decade they held their money in common, early-church style, allowing themselves five dollars a month for personal spending, so that the highest-paid person on staff was a neighborhood woman who wanted an evening cleaning job. When Bob and his wife Jackie brought their first son home, it was to a Columbia Heights row house they shared with eighteen other people — including an African-American family and a Lakota couple with kin visiting from the reservation in South Dakota. “You had to be a bit crazy to be in the early community,” Bob wrote later. “And yes, we were poor. And we were small.”

This is the revolutionary thread of Bob’s life, inspiring in its own right as Bob and Jackie have now lived nearly-continuously in intentional community life, in one setting or another, for over half a century now. But this isn’t the only reason I keep him close: he did not stop there, nor did he curdle into cynicism the way so many movement people do. In the decades since, Bob turned inward as fiercely as he’s turned outward — devoting himself to the evolution of consciousness as a contemplative student-teacher of the very Fourth Way that ran through Jean Toomer’s Harlem, offering silent retreats in the West Virginia hills and writing about how we might “both seek social justice and do justice to our souls.” His personal ambition, he likes to say, inverts everything the empire worships: “poorer, poorer; slower, slower; smaller, smaller; quieter, quieter.” 

Bob, in his mature years, challenges us: “So much of the day is carried along by habit that we rarely notice we’ve been swept away until much later. But even a brief moment of willingly returning to ourselves can quietly change the quality of the next moment. Not by striving, but by simply becoming present. Perhaps today there is one ordinary moment that is waiting for your attention.”

One person, holding the outer revolution and the inner evolution together, across fifty years. When I tell you this dynamism is possible, I am not speaking theoretically. I learned it, in part, from him.

And Bob is not the only place that inner current surfaces in these radical communities. Down the road from Sojourners in D.C., Gordon Cosby‘s Church of the Saviour had spent thirty years braiding together what it called the “inward journey” and the “outward journey” — intensive spiritual formation and concrete mission among the poor, forming one inseparable whole.

And when that community’s great chronicler, Elizabeth O’Connor, wrote its curriculum of inner work — most of all in her 1971 book Our Many Selves — she reached, like Bob would, for Maurice Nicoll‘s Psychological Commentaries on the Teaching of Gurdjieff and Ouspensky. Her premise is rooted in Fourth Way anthropology: we are not one settled “I” but a crowd of competing selves, mostly asleep at the wheel of life. Transformation begins the moment we learn to watch ourselves without flinching. “If I respect the plurality in myself,” she wrote, “and no longer see my jealous self as the whole of me, then I have gained the distance I need to observe it… and let it acquaint me with a piece of my own lost history. In this way I come into possession of more of myself and extend my own inner kingdom.”

Can you feel the circuit completing? This same current of waking up running through Jean Toomer’s Harlem circle surfaces again in the inner life of a racially-integrated radical Christian community in Washington. The reason?

Revolutionary action requires evolutionary being.

Outward motion unmoored from sustained inner work — the sort the evangelical Jesus Movement too often skipped, mistaking a high-point conversion for the totality of spiritual formation — tends to burn hot and then burn out, eventually curdling into the very domination it set out to resist. 

And the contemplatives among us need the opposite reminder: Inner work was never meant to be a private escape hatch into serene detachment, but a furnace forging us fit to love in public. The mystic and the activist are not two people. They are one person — awake, awake.

Back to the bicentennial…In 1976, rather than grow bigger and richer, Church of the Saviour did something beautifully countercultural: it deliberately multiplied itself into six little churches — one for housing, one for children, one for hospitality, one for the poor, one for public policy, one for retreat — choosing to stay “small and poor” on principle. While the country celebrated largesse, these disciples chose embeddedness. While empire consolidated, they scattered like seed.

Behind them stood older, tougher traditions still. The Catholic Worker houses Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin had run since 1933 — voluntary poverty, radical hospitality, peace-making, a treasury held in common. Koinonia Farm in Georgia, living interracially and sharing everything, decades before it was safe. And a Black-led evangelical conscience that had been calling the white church to something truer to Jesus: John Alexander’s Freedom Now, and voices like Tom Skinner, Bill Pannell, and John Perkins — Perkins welding evangelism to racial reconciliation and the redistribution of wealth in Mississippi — refusing to let their white brethren pretend the gospel had nothing to say about power.

And here’s the plot twist the Nostalgia Machine really leaves out: the deepest challenge to American evangelical complacency in those years came not from within, but from the Global South, running northward. In August 1972, the Ecuadorian evangelical René Padilla wrote a letter to Carl F. H. Henry, the dean of American evangelical theology, that ought to be carved over the door of every comfortable church in this country: “Young people [ask] questions regarding the Christian attitude towards a Marxist regime, while the pastors [discuss] the length of the skirts that girls are wearing in church. A social ethic — we have none.” Padilla actually warned Henry to stay off the subject when he toured Latin America — precisely because he was an American, and Americans had forfeited the right to lecture the poor about justice. Through the Latin American Theological Fraternity, Padilla and Samuel Escobar were developing what they called misión integral — integral mission, the whole gospel for the whole person in the whole world — and they were, in the historian David Kirkpatrick‘s striking phrase, marketing that social Christianity to a rising generation of global evangelicals, “including many in the United States.” The son evangelizing the father. The mission field sending missionaries back to the empire.

That current fed the Ecclesial Base Communities too — the comunidades eclesiales de base spreading through barrios and shantytowns after the bishops met at Medellín in 1968, poor families reading Scripture together. Their central question wasn’t “how do I get saved before the world ends?” like their hippie cousins to the north, but “what does this text reveal about our suffering, our liberation, right here-and-now?” When Padilla and Escobar marched into the 1974 Lausanne Congress and told the assembled might of Western evangelicalism to its face that a gospel severing personal salvation from social justice was no gospel at all; they were speaking for a whole hemisphere the American church had assumed it was there to save.

Not all of the radical wing burned out or sold out, either. Some of it is still standing. Jesus People USA — the movement’s great survivor, chronicled in Shawn David Young‘s Gray Sabbath: Jesus People USA, the Evangelical Left, and the Evolution of Christian Rock — has held on for half a century in poor Uptown Chicago, braiding the hippie aesthetic and loud music with shelters for the homeless and a determined effort to “reestablish left-leaning principles of social justice” against the tide of the Religious Right. Proof the communal impulse didn’t have to curdle into quietism. And Catholic Worker houses have spanned nearly the past century — before, during, and after the Jesus Movement moment — joyfully rebellious witnesses that another world is possible.

And so, here’s the paradox this revival contained: disposable planet and Beloved Community. The chaplaincy of empire and the church of the poor. Hal Lindsey counting down to Armageddon and Jack Sparks getting teargassed for Jesus in Berkeley. 

One movement, fanning its revolutionary fire in radically opposite directions — and the branch that burned hottest was not the one deepest-rooted in Jesus’ primordial call.

We are standing at this same fork today. Same disillusioned country, same malaise, same young people hungry for something worthy of their finitude. The same choice between a faith that urges you to evacuate the world and a spiritual current that rolls up its sleeves to cultivate it. 

Do you have eyes to see?

The living Christ holds out a nail-scarred hand, a twinkle in his eyes.

Now as a half-century ago and two thousand years ago, he dares us to accompany him on the road less traveled.

Next time — Part Three: Evolutionary, Revolutionary. Wherein I raise the only question that finally matters: How? How do we choose a steadier road without losing our souls on it — without burning out, selling out, or baptizing a new cruelty? What holds our inner evolution and outer revolution together, and what does it actually ask of you, this week, where you live? In the final installment I’ll bring in an unlikely fellow-traveler from the psychedelic left, lay out the theology of belonging I’ve been circling all along — and then, if you’ll forgive an old Pentecostal, give you an alter call. Sign up here if you don’t already get these in your inbox.

Related posts:

USAmerica at 250: A Declaration of Interdependence Changing the World with Faith, Hope & Love: Ecology, Identity, Class & Solidarity in the Way of Jesus with Joerg Rieger! Troubling the Waters: Navigating Apocalyptic Currents with Jim Perkinson Are We the Miracle We’re Waiting For? A Christmas Uprising