The Day Moody Stopped Preaching from an Empty Well

In the autumn of 1871, Dwight L. Moody was already filling auditoriums across America. Yet two women in his Chicago congregation — Sarah Anne Cooke and Mrs. Hawxhurst — unsettled him after every service with the same quiet words: "We are praying for you to receive the filling of the Holy Spirit."

Moody bristled at first. He was successful. Crowds came. But something was missing, and he knew it. His ministry ran on determination and charisma, like a man hauling water bucket by bucket from a deep cistern.

Then one November afternoon, walking down a street in New York City, the Spirit of God fell upon him with such force that he ducked into a nearby friend's house and begged to be alone. For hours, wave after wave of God's presence washed over him. He later wrote, "I had such an experience of His love that I had to ask Him to stay His hand."

When Moody returned to preaching — often the very same sermons — everything changed. Where a handful had responded before, now hundreds came forward. The words were the same, but something was flowing through them that hadn't been there before.

This is exactly what Jesus promised on the last day of the Feast of Tabernacles: not just a sip of relief for the thirsty, but rivers of living water pouring out from within. The Spirit does not trickle. When He fills a yielded life, He overflows — through our words, our prayers, our very presence — to a world dying of thirst.