“When I saw that, I just shook my head. I knew we had a live wire.”  

Linda was remembering an early sermon. I was retiring and, as was her custom, she was calling to check in. She began with “Hi boss, it’s your prayer deacon” and then asked the litany of questions she posed each of the 400+ weeks I served Central: “What are you going to preach on Sunday?” “What can I be praying for?” “How are you and Jennie?”

Linda pushed her walker across the parking lot to the church from the apartments next door whenever the doors were open. Disabled? Don’t even go there. Central’s prayer deacon was blessedly abled – abled to live 70+ years with a dignity, perceptivity, knowledge and understanding leavened by a joyful faith. Large print bulletin in hand, she would ease down the sanctuary ramp, greet me, then take a seat in the second pew, pulpit side ­– my one-woman Amen Corner.       

The sermon Linda remembered recalled the Israelites at the Red Sea. With Pharoah’s army advancing, they cried out to God. I proclaimed the preacher’s prerogative: Good News. "Do not be afraid, stand firm, and see the deliverance the LORD will accomplish for you today” (Exodus 14:13,14). 

I then pointed out one of those Aha! insights preachers never tire of stumbling upon. God told the people to “go forward” (14:15). Go forward where? Into the water?

Then followed the telling of one of those stories we preachers find that are gifts of revelation. Rabbis of old say God was unwilling to part the waters until the people evidenced their faith. How? By wading into the water. A man named Nahshon walked in up to his knees, waist, chest, neck. The sea parted. Said the rabbis, we can’t wait passively for God to do everything. God will deliver, but we’re invited to participate by taking the first steps.       

Well, call it the prompting of the Holy Spirit. Call it foolishness. Call it what you will, but I stepped out of the pulpit and cast off my robe. I traipsed to the front of the communion table and took off my shoes and socks. I rolled up my pant legs to my knees and carried on for who knows how long inviting everyone to join the Fellowship of Nahshon by casting caution to the wind, hitching up pant legs, skirts, and dresses, and joining in God’s redeeming work.

I don’t know how many times in Central’s 200+ years somebody stripped on the chancel and cavorted like a blithering idiot – probably once. Someone snapped a photo that captured the moment. The choir’s faces mirrored the congregation’s: a mix of bemusement and bewilderment. 

What I remember is hearing Linda’s inimitable cackle and glimpsing her glee. Her encouragement permitted me thereafter to submit to the Spirit’s prompting uninhibited. I was free to accompany preaching’s spoken words with facial expressions and bodily gestures that magnified the text, to strip down to my vulnerable self by breaking into singing, lifting hands in praise, or allowing the catch in my throat to pause me mid-sentence.

“When I saw that,” said Linda of that fully embodied sermon, “I just shook my head. I knew we had a live wire.” 

One correction to what our beloved prayer deacon said. The “live wire” evidenced that Sunday wasn’t me. It was the Holy Spirit who kindles preachers’ study of the living and active Word that fans into flame some Sundays, inviting preacher and people to go all in, wading together into the wonder and work of shared ministry.