If you live in Gazingstock, Missouri (the hometown of the League of Tyndale), you can usually get your late-breaking local reports from Action 4 News, anchored by Bertha Stettner. Bertha lives in the yellow Victorian house on the corner of 3rd and Maple, and if you need to know what’s going on in town, you just dial 4 on your telephone and Bertha will convey the latest in cutting-edge investigative journalism.

Yes, Bertha’s actual phone number is 4; Gazingstock is a very, very small town.

Last Wednesday evening during her six o’clock newscast, Bertha was the first “journalist” to report that the Gazingstock Baptist Church building was on fire and about to burn to the ground. She had received this tip from her trusty street informant, Vida Whitlock, who claimed to have seen several people forming a bucket brigade outside the church. According to Vida, Deacon Milton Sinclair was manning the church’s well pump while a line of church members frantically passed along pails of water through the side door of the church building to douse the hidden flames inside.

Realizing this was the biggest scoop since last summer when Ned “Bat Ears” Blanton got his head stuck in his porch railing, Bertha immediately rang up every member of the local garden club to broadcast her exclusive report. The garden clubbers then relayed the information to various friends and family, and the story sprouted legs from there. Within minutes, almost everyone in town had heard the news and rushed out of their homes to witness the blazing inferno. The only people in town who didn’t hear about the fire were the boys down at the firehouse. Apparently no one had thought to call them.

When the curious townsfolk finally arrived at the church, however, they saw no evidence of a fire. In fact, the Baptist church stood as it always had. There was no lingering scent of charred wood, no haze of smoke, and no dancing flames of fiery destruction. The bucket brigade that Vida had seen earlier was no longer there; they had abandoned their buckets and disappeared.

Needless to say, it was a bitter pill to swallow for those who had braved the cold night air in hopes of being entertained by the spectacle of tragedy. Realizing they had been horribly misinformed, most of the disillusioned mob went back to their homes to finish supper and settle in for the night. A dozen stragglers, however, stayed behind to salvage the evening as best they could. These stubborn souls found it difficult to believe that Bertha could be wrong, so they decided to have a peek inside the church to see what was going on.

As they snuck towards the building, they were quite surprised when the church’s front door suddenly popped open and Deacon Sinclair started waving at them as if he’d been waiting for them to arrive. “You’re just in time,” the deacon told them with a big smile. “Come on in!” And with that, he shook each of their hands and guided them through the door one-by-one with the aplomb of an experienced church greeter (which he was). By the time the band of looky-loos realized they had been ushered straight into a church meeting, it was too late. All they could do in order to save face was slink quietly into the empty back pew and wait it out.

Of course, when the twelve had a chance to look around, they realized that Bertha’s report had been a bust. There wasn’t a single sign of smoke or fire damage. All they saw was Edgar Sedgwick, a seventy-year-old farmer, standing in front of the congregation in a large galvanized steel trough filled with water. Standing next to Edgar was the church’s pastor, Jeremiah Bone, and they both wore white linen robes.

It wasn’t a fire; it was a baptismal service.

Normally an event like this would have been held down at Nodaway Lake, but being as it was the middle of November, the decision was made by the elders to perform the ordinance inside during their midweek meeting. Church member Tom Bingham donated a unused water trough from his barn, which was hauled into town and placed behind the pulpit. Several other members then formed a makeshift bucket brigade and filled the trough with well water— a sight which Vida Whitlock had woefully misinterpreted.

And so, in the sight of God and the congregation and the twelve visitors, ol’ Edgar now stood in the waters of baptism to testify that Christ is the Son of God. Through heartfelt tears, Edgar acknowledged he was a sinner who had no righteousness of his own to withstand the judgment of God. But thanks be to God, he declared, that Christ had taken the punishment due him on the cross, had risen victoriously from the grave to display His power and triumph over death, and now sat at the right hand of God to graciously place His cloak of righteousness on those who came to Him through faith. And with that, Pastor Bone plunged Edgar into the watery grave to die to self and to live for Christ.

Upon Edgar’s baptism, the congregation celebrated with a chorus of fervent amens and joyous praises to God for graciously drawing another lost sheep into the fold. As the people began to sing the hauntingly beautiful strains of Amazing Grace in the pureness of harmonized voices, the twelve visitors in the back pew felt a chill go down their spines. They sat there not knowing what to do, and yet deep down they realized they had been placed in a position of having to do… something. Each of them had been shaken, in one degree or another, by what they had seen and heard.

What these visitors had witnessed during the baptismal service was the good news that is rarely reported by news anchors, journalists, or even town gossips like Bertha Stettner. It does not have the fleshly intrigue or morbid fascination for which the world often clamors. Nonetheless those who hear this message are never unmoved, for either the heart is pricked by it or pride resists it. The gospel contains a power that places the hearer at the crossroad of life and death and forces them to choose a path. To feign indifference only delays the decision and threatens to dull the eyes and ears to further appeals, perhaps leaving them with no time to recover except by the grace of God.

Within these twelve souls, the seeds of the gospel have been planted. Whether in the future they take strong root or not is known only to God, but we pray as always for a good crop at the harvest as we seek to engage them further.

So thank you, Bertha. The only fire to be seen on Wednesday night came from the wick of your tongue, but it sparked a series of events that, in hindsight, had an eternal direction and purpose. By the providence of God, your efforts drew twelve unbelievers to Gazingstock Baptist Church who perhaps would have never darkened the door of a church in their life, and yet on this night they witnessed the power of the gospel in the life of Edgar Sedgwick, who was buried with Christ and arose to find new life in Him.

This is the good news we all need to pass along to a perishing world: Turn to Christ, that He may save you from the fiery judgment to come. And this time, let’s make sure the boys down at the firehouse hear about it, too.