Preacher: Otis Moss III

Maybe it’s his OM3 version of the Bible; maybe it’s the repetition of an idea over and over again until somebody—anybody—gets it; maybe it’s the stories, or the insistence that we tell each other some key principle. Whatever it is, I am right there, because, whatever else he might be, the Reverend Dr. Otis Moss III is a teacher.

When I started teaching high school chemistry, a group of my students made fun of the fact that I told them on the first day to take their texts home and hide them under their beds until they had to return them in June. The text was boring, and was good for looking things up, but they were going to learn my way. They called it McChemistry.

In my first-year-teacher arrogance, I knew I could do better than that text, and, for many of those kids, I did. I injected some imagination into my classes; some showing, rather than constant telling. Orbitals weren’t illustrations in the book, but rotating strings that formed shapes when they were spinning. Gas atoms were superballs in a jar, crashing and bumping, speeding up and slowing down to form liquids, and, at their slowest, solids. Distribution of electrons in orbitals was reduced to a schoolbus’ seats filling up. I tried to use whatever I could to get my students to identify how things worked. I was the queen of metaphor.

That is precisely what Reverend Moss does. He reaches out and, through the wonders of his imagination, creates a bible that is accessible and identifiable to his audience—the OM3 version. His Bible stories leap off the page, shaking the dust of years of interpretation from their feet. Those people look like us, sound like us, act like us—and, in a weird type of time travel miracle that only Reverend Moss truly can accomplish, they become us. The paralytic has friends who care enough to tear off a roof to bring him to Jesus, whether he wants to go or not, and each of them holds up his corner of the mat, is responsible for his part of the job. We feel Jephtha’s pain at rejection because of his origins, and savor the validation he feels when he is asked to return to a position of command. We are the Samaritan on the road between Jerusalem and Jericho, and somehow divine the difference between religion and faith. (Religion tells you when to sit and stand; faith tells you how to live!)

He teaches. He makes his subject real. He brings it to life with his enthusiasm and his focus and with every tool he has in his toolbox, not least of which is his delivery. His words tumble out, tripping over one another in their eagerness and excitement. Teachers are often the only people in the room who are excited and enthusiastic ; not here. Enthusiasm begets enthusiasm, and he has us on our feet by the end of his lesson, his sermon, his preaching. On our feet, applauding the skill with which he has guided us to where we didn’t even know we wanted to go.

And then, there is the part, every time,  that brings me to the verge of tears. At that point, where this audience stands and applauds him , tries to show him how good he really is, and how well he has delivered his message, he turns his back on us, and drops to one knee—quietly, with no words, no fanfare, acknowledging the Word he invited into the room, reminding us that it isn’t his message, but God’s, not his triumph, but that of the Holy Spirit, teaching us by example that what we do is nothing, compared to what God can do through us. 

Amen. Hallelujah.