Five more minutes and it will be 11 a.m. I place my Bible on the lectern and open it to the scripture I want to read. I glance over at our singer, Sheila, and her accompanist. They are plugged in and making final level checks on their guitars. We are positioned right against the deck rail so I can clearly see the faces of those below -- a hundred or so already and more and more ducking under the ropes. A few have brought folding chairs or blankets. Beyond the roped enclosure I notice beachgoers in their swimsuits looking on with curiosity. Sheila nods at me. They are ready. I take one final glance over my shoulder and see a few stragglers throwing down the last of their drinks before John-John herds them outside. I give them a few seconds to get down the steps to the beach and I begin.

“We are gathered this morning to celebrate the life of our dear friend Mary.” My lapel mic is working fine, my voice resonating over the dull roar of summer surf. The guitar player blends in slow and subdued, picking out the notes of Amazing Grace. I know what it is to put a congregation in the palm of my hand and this one is there.

“I have chosen two uncommon scriptures for this morning because Mary, despite her unassuming ways, was a very uncommon woman. The first verses come from the book of Matthew,” I explain, and begin to read:

“‘When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and taught them saying: Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy. Blessed are the pure of heart, for they will see God.’”

I look up from my reading and see many heads below are nodding in agreement. I start to say something about Mary seeing God right now, but I think, “they get it. Don’t guild the lily.” John-John is hustling through the crowd handing out song sheets and I also notice more and more of the casual beachgoers being drawn toward the edge of our gathering. I go on to the next scripture.

“Our second reading is from the third chapter of John’s gospel: ‘Jesus answered, Very truly I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and the spirit. What is born of flesh is flesh and what is born of the Spirit is spirit.’” I close the book dramatically and pause in silence before saying, “Will you please now join us in singing Amazing Grace.” Mary’s friends sing with gusto and I smile inside as I imagine a group of them sitting around a pub table, beer steins held high, belting out the hymn like a drinking song, “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. ... I once was lost but now am found, was blind, but now, I see.” Most of the curious interlopers stay for the singing. I see some lips moving. One group starts to drift off, but then stops and turns back, unable to break free.

Next up is a time of tribute. John-John has strung a microphone to the bottom of the deck stairway and a half-dozen well-wishers step forward to praise Mary. “Caring,” one calls her; “loving,” says another. All the words come out that we would hope for at our own memorial:

“A true friend.”

“Would give the shirt of her back.”

“If you needed help, you didn’t have to ask twice.”

“Will be really missed.”

I look to Teresa to see if she wants to speak and she shakes her head, no. I ask her to stand anyway, and I say we are honored to have Mary’s daughter with us. From below, someone yells, “We love you Teresa just like we loved your mother!” and the whole congregation breaks into applause. Then Sheila sings Over the Rainbow and the tears start to flow. “Somewhere over the rainbow bluebirds fly. Birds fly over the rainbow, why then, oh why can't I?”

Some sway to the music; others look entranced, eyes closed. When she finishes I step back to the lectern. I begin by asking a question.

“Is anyone feeling a little sticky in this humidity?”

“It’s Florida, pastor,” someone yells and the rest laugh.

“True enough,“ I say, “but there’s more to it than that. A few years ago, helping my son with a science project on evaporation, I learned exactly why humid climates make us feel uncomfortable. You see moisture tends to flow from the wetter body to the drier. A body of water, like a lake for instance, will lose more water if the air is dry than if it’s wet. If we think of ourselves as bodies of water, which we mostly are, then we see it works the same way: the drier the air, the more moisture can flow into it. Now, how is it that we humans cool ourselves?”

“By sweating,” someone yells out.

“Bingo,” I say.

“Dogs do it by panting,” a tall man up front tosses in.

I give him a wry smile and say, “you know, I’m actually going somewhere with this.” More laughter.

“So in a dry climate it’s easy to evaporate away our body heat by sweating. In a humid climate, not so easy. Now imagine for a moment the opposite is true. Our bodies are completely dry and the air is laden with moisture, theoretically wouldn’t the moisture be drawn from the air toward our bodies?” A rhetorical question. I give it a moment to sink in.

“When Jesus said ‘blessed are the hungry and the thirsty’ he wasn’t making some sympathetic statement, wasn’t saying ‘oh, you poor thing you.’ He really meant that these are the lucky ones. Because of their emptiness, they are in a prime position to be filled. You see, God’s spirit works like water and like moisture in the air. By nature, it moves to fill up the empty spaces and to bring life-giving moisture to dry places. If you fill the spaces inside you with other things -- cars and boats, pride in your accomplishments, there’s no incentive to draw God’s spirit. God looks on us and says, ‘hey, they’re pretty full already -- full of themselves maybe -- but pretty full; they don’t need me.’ But if God sees you’re empty, hungry, thirsty, dry as the desert sands, the Spirit will flow to you like a river in full flood! Somebody say amen!

Three or four shout “Amen!” I go to full stride.

“That’s how it was with Mary. She was hungering and thirsting for righteousness like nobody I’ve ever seen. She was like a desert inside, but remember, that’s not bad. God had her just the way he wanted her. And let me assure you my friends, God’s spirit came on her like a torrent, and she was filled to the brim!”

“Amen!”

“I was lucky to meet Mary about that time. It’s always good to be around someone being washed with God’s spirit because a little is likely to splash over on you.” I smiled; they laughed.

“I was down at the river fishing with my friend John-John. I think most of you know John-John.” The people looked to him and he waved and smiled, happy to hear his name mentioned.

“If you ever fished at the park downtown, you know it’s mostly the common folk who fish from the walkway there or below on the banks. I suppose the ones with more wherewithal are out on their boats. For whatever reason, that evening I notice the people I’m among and I’m thinking how those who followed Jesus were the common folk, the poor, even the outcasts. Those who were filled up with other things had no use for him, and while a few of his disciples like Peter, James and John did have boats, he made them leave their boats behind.

“So I’m fishing down at the river -- I had just caught a nice red but that’s another story -- when Mary calls out to me and says she knows me from my church. She tells me a little about herself and says she wants me to baptize her right then and there in the river. I could feel something special and almost felt like John the Baptist when he told Jesus, ‘no you should baptize me,’ but I agree and we go into the river and the people there fishing put down their rods and reels and go to singing like a choir of angels, and what seems obvious is here’s a woman so hungry, so thirsty for God’s spirit that this baptism is going to bring a flow of living water like nothing I’ve ever seen! Amen?”

“Amen!”

“Don’t get me wrong; she didn’t swallow any of that old river water, but she drank so deep of the living water that to the day she died she was never thirsty again!”

Cries of “Amen!” and “Praise God!” erupt all over.

I’m about to begin again when I notice the people looking past me. I turn to see Teresa at my shoulder holding an urn. She must have had it in her big purse. “I want you to sprinkle my mother’s ashes in the ocean,” she says. “I don’t want her to ever be dry again.”

I take the urn from her, holding it aloft as I look in her eyes. She nods. Yes, she is sure. Applause and shouts boom from below as I start down the steps to the beach. I notice that Carolyn, Becky and Sagan all rise to follow Teresa and me off the deck. The crowd parts and then falls in behind us as I make my way to the water’s edge, where I strip off my sports coat and shoes and quickly roll up my white linen slacks a few turns. I am ecstatic. Out of control. Nothing in my training or experience has prepared me for this. That evening I baptized Mary? Beyond my usual realm, yes, but it had a quiet decorum. This feels more like a college football game.

I take Teresa’s hand and together we wade thigh deep into the water. The crowd is hooting and hollering with excitement. I hand her the urn, lift my hands for silence and say, “let’s pray.” An instant hush falls upon us. The only sound is the rhythmic arrival of ocean waters. I hear nothing coming from the others on the beach. No music. Nothing. As if the whole world has paused to be part of this moment.

I cry out in a loud voice, “Thank you precious creator for sending your spirit as living water to your daughter Mary, and may you now take her back into the endless depths of your eternal love!” Teresa holds the urn as I loosen the cap. She whispers, “you do it,” and I take the urn in my right hand and with one long backhanded sweep give Mary back into God’s care.

Teresa and I hug, and again she whispers into my ear. This time her words are, “baptize me.”

“Are you sure,” I ask. “You’re wearing an expensive dress.”

“It’s wet already,” she says.

I turn toward shore and call out to the crowd, “More work for God’s spirit. Teresa has asked me to baptize her!” The crowd is caught up in passion. Sighing, crying, deep breathing muffled by reverence layered over high emotion. And when I lift Teresa from the water, someone shouts out, “I want some of that living water, pastor!” And another, “Please pastor, baptize me too!” Soon a line forms and an incredible day has turned even more incredible with one after another of these dry spirits immersed in the healing moisture of God’s love.

Finally, the end of the line arrives and I see that it is Carolyn, Becky and Sagan.

“You’re already baptized,” I tell Carolyn. “And you too son. We don’t baptize again just for effect.”

“But I haven’t been,” Becky says, “and I’m about as hungry and thirsty as they come.”

“I know you are sweetheart,” I say. “And I know God is ready to fill you up.” I ask Carolyn and Sagan to stand on either side of her and lock their arms under her. I take her head and slowly we lower her into the warm Atlantic waters, baptizing her in the name of the Father, the Son, and God’s Holy Spirit. Amen.