“Good morning, ladies! We’re going to teach you a new song this week.” 

It was a rhetorical “we” – I was leading worship by myself that morning in the prison. Not the way we like to do things, but sometimes there’s no one else.

“The song is called ‘New Thing’,” I explain. “We believe that no matter what your past has looked like, no matter how you have been hurt or have hurt others, Jesus wants to do something new, and he is inviting you into that new life this morning.” A few ladies clap politely, I strum the opening chords on my guitar, and take a breath to begin the first verse.

“…”

Nothing. Utter blank. The song I had practiced, prayed over, committed to memory all week, had vanished from my mind. 75 pairs of eyes stared expectantly. The silence was deafening. All the reasons I don’t belong there started racing through my head…and then I started to laugh. The ladies laughed with me. One of my team members remembered a few words, and a few agonizing moments later I pulled it together and started the song again. I messed up the second verse too. No one cared. The ice was broken.

My weakness, my imperfection, my failing to meet worldly expectations, gets me out of the way. I am vulnerable to criticism and rejection, but I am truly presenting Christ and not myself. When I come with “weakness, fear and trembling,” as Paul writes, I am letting His power shine through. And I am presenting Christ faithfully, as He presented himself to the world: vulnerable. Willing to suffer. In terms of the expectations put on Him by His followers, a failure. Silent to the charges against Him, not shouting His opponents down with defensive arguments, not trying to prove or justify Himself. That would have been human wisdom. What the world needed, what I need, and what those ladies in prison need, is the power of the Holy Spirit to transform broken lives and rebellious hearts. And thanks to some forgotten song lyrics that morning, that’s exactly what they received.