It wasn’t announced as a farewell. There were no banners, no formal goodbyes, and certainly no one in the congregation knew it would be Jimmy Swaggart’s final Camp Meeting sermon. But looking back now, the weight of that night in 2023 at Family Worship Center feels different — heavier, sacred, and sealed with something eternal.
He walked slowly to the pulpit that night, his steps measured, his Bible pressed tightly to his chest. Though 88 years old, there was fire in his eyes — the same fire that once burned under revival tents in the 1950s, that had thundered across airwaves, and that had led millions to the foot of the cross. But this time, it burned with urgency.
And then, in a trembling but clear voice, he said it:
“If this is my last,
let it be about the Cross… and the Blood.”
The room fell silent.
No one knew what was coming, only that this man — who had given his life to preaching Christ and Him crucified — was about to leave everything on the altar one more time.
His sermon wasn’t polished. It wasn’t scripted. It was raw, full of pauses, emotion, and truth.
“Sanctification still matters,” he declared, voice rising. “Not because it’s religious tradition, but because it’s the only way to stay near the fire. It’s how we’re made ready for glory.”
He pleaded with the church not to forget the sacredness of holy living — not out of legalism, but out of love. He spoke of his own battles. Of the mercy that met him in his lowest hour. Of the blood that washed him clean, again and again.
“Don’t tell me I’m too old-fashioned,” he said, his fist striking the pulpit once, gently.
“Tell me you still believe in a Savior who sanctifies. Tell me the Church hasn’t forgotten how to fall on its knees.”
What happened next was not performance. It was not revival by volume. It was revival by conviction.
People began rising from pews. Some knelt. Others wept. Entire families gathered at the altar in quiet surrender. No music played. No one moved to control it.
Because the Spirit of God was already doing the work.
And as Jimmy closed his Bible, he looked out across the sanctuary — one final time — and simply said:
“That’s all I have tonight. But I believe it’s all we need.”
It would be his last Camp Meeting sermon.
No one knew.
But maybe he did.
Because that night, the man who spent a lifetime preaching grace and truth gave one final message — about the Cross, the Blood, and the holiness that still matters.
And in doing so, Jimmy Swaggart didn’t just finish well. He finished surrendered.