It all began at the Willow Creek Conference on Preaching. Rob Bell gave a soul-stirring message on Leviticus 16. The talk described the Day of Atonement, the scapegoat, and the work of the high priest. Rob brought out a priest and goat, and both were live. He dramatized Jesus' ministry as the ultimate scapegoat and as our great High Priest who sat down when the work was done. The big idea was, "The goat has left the building." The sermon ended with the priest slowly walking to a chair and sitting, after which the audience erupted into cheers, high fives, applause, and a little celebratory dancing. Never before had I desired to borrow from another speaker, but on that day I thought, I want to preach that sermon.

In January, I decided it would make a great Easter message. I mentioned it to the staff and they seemed supportive. Then I asked a group of our leaders if I could spend money on a goat. They feigned nonchalance and told me to get whatever I wanted.

In February, I figured I should get to work. Amazingly, there were several places in the Chicago area advertising animal rentals. I started composing an e-mail. In the subject line I wrote, "Pastor seeking goat." That sounded like a bad personals ad. Next I tried "Goat wanted," but that seemed open to improper interpretation. In the end I went with "Animal rental inquiry," and sent the detailed request out to three places.

I heard back immediately from an agency that rented animals for use in movies and commercials. Amanda told me she would be happy to arrange a goat and handler for me; the cost would be $500. I wrote back and clarified that I didn't need a goat that could actually act. One of the cheaper goats that didn't have much talent but was able to stand up on its own would be fine.

Bob responded next. His goats were already scheduled for that day, but he felt he might be able to squeeze me in. The cost would be $499. I wrote back a thank-you and said I was going to shop around a little before deciding.

Lisa replied a day later. She didn't have a goat available. "However", she said, "we have a desert-painted sheep baby who looks exactly like a goat." The cost would be $350. She could send me a picture. I wasn't all that interested in the faux goat but, out of curiosity, I asked Lisa to send the picture anyway. She never did.

In desperation, I began to ask everyone around me if they knew where I could get a goat. Finally, my youth pastor located a farm that would loan me one for free. I called the lady and identified myself.

"You mean you want a lamb, don't you?" she asked

"No. I would like to borrow one of your goats."

"For Easter Sunday?"

"That's right."

"What are you gonna do with it?"

"Well, I'm not going to sacrifice it, if that's what you're worried about."

She said, "Well, blankety-blank, a preacher with a sense of humor. I'll be blankety-blanked."

That transaction settled, I turned to my next prop need: a high priest's costume. One of the women in our congregation is a talented seamstress, and she eagerly agreed to craft a costume. I gave her drawings and descriptions of the outfit as well as the name of a guy in the church I'd already convinced to wear it.

With all the wheels in motion, I put the sermon on the back burner for March. In April, I began to take Rob's talk and make it mine. I did additional research and verified the information Rob used.

On Easter week, things came together. The costume was incredible. The high priest was ready. Still I was beginning to worry. My mind started to envision all the things that could go wrong. Sleep was hard to come by. Thursday I got up at 4 a.m., and Friday I awoke at 3:00 a.m. On Saturday, my two daughters and I drove the church van an hour away to the farm to pick up the goat.

Ed, the owner, took me to the goat pen. There were about 50 goats in all colors and sizes.

"Which one ya want?" he asked.

"Um … I want a male … with horns … medium-sized … calm … "

Ed startled me by diving into a cluster of goats. When he stood up he had a goat by the back of the neck. The brown and white animal bucked and kicked and bleated and was generally unhappy. At this moment I realized I had neglected to bring a rope or a tranquilizer gun.

"Here," he said, thrusting the squirming goat into my arms. "Hold his legs and be careful of the horns. He could put your eye out."

My youngest daughter named the goat Victor. Victor squealed like an air raid siren all the way back to the van.

The plan was to let the goat have free reign of our garage for the next 24 hours. I spent the previous Saturday clearing it out for that purpose. The goat acknowledged the fine accommodation by immediately depositing a pile of pellets on the floor. These were quickly scooped up and taken outside. Similar pellets were already rolling around inside the church van, so I picked those up, too. This actually brought me a small measure of comfort; I hoped the goat would get it out of his system before Easter Sunday. I returned to the garage just in time to watch Victor empty his bladder onto the floor. Apparently Victor had been saving this up for several days, because the amount of liquid was staggeringly disproportionate to his size.

He wasn't finished. Throughout the day, Victor busied himself with his three major talents, one of which was bleating. We noticed a potential drawback to the goat's usefulness in my sermon. Apparently my role in Victor's abduction had traumatized him. As a result, every time Victor spotted me, he emptied his bowels and bladder. This was not the kind of Pavlovian reaction we were hoping for on Easter Sunday.

My wife and I rushed over to the church to install defensive measures. We laid down a runway of paper to protect the platform and catch any accidents. We plotted Victor's entrance and exit cues as if it were a presidential motorcade. On a platform surrounded by lilies and tulips, I imagined the impact an incontinent, bleating goat would have on some of our people. It was Saturday evening, and I began to fear that I had made a terrible mistake.

That night, Victor refused to bed down in the spot we'd prepared for him. He preferred to perch on a cabinet. We went to bed exhausted, fervently praying that the Lord would get glory from this impending fiasco. My wife even decided to fast.

The next morning I opened the garage door at 6 a.m. Victor eyed me from his perch on the cabinet top. Below him, the garage floor resembled a topographical map of the Mississippi River delta, and there was no safe place to step. Worse still, Victor's bowels did not join in his slumber. He was nestled comfortably on a cushion of manure. This solidified my intention not to serve Victor any breakfast. I chased him around the garage until I caught him, deposited him in the van, and went to clean up.

I parked the van close to an exit door near the sanctuary. When my goat handler, Larry, arrived, I explained that Victor was a little wild and his platform time would be limited. I chose Larry for the part because he is a strong and unflappable outdoorsman who spends several weeks each year hunting. My only concern was that Larry would have the goat roasting over an open fire before I pronounced the benediction. I reminded Larry that the concept of rental implied returning in good condition.

Since I did not believe the goat could stay quiet or clean for long, I decided he needed to remain in the van. My wife would signal Larry when I started preaching. Then Larry would bring Victor through the exit door and wait in the hall outside the entrance to the platform. At the right time, Larry and Victor would join the high priest and me on the platform.

I told Larry, "The goat will not follow you and he doesn't like to be led, but I need that goat out there. Carry him if you have to. Be careful because he kicks hard and watch out for the horns; you could lose an eye."

As the first service approached, I suddenly realized I'd forgotten all about the high priest. Just as panic was setting in, he turned up with 10 minutes to spare and I quickly helped him into his priestly garments, tassels, bells, and sashes. I reminded the priest of his responsibilities and joined the service.

When it came time for my sermon, I exploded onto the platform. Lack of sleep, anxiety, caffeine, and fervent prayer combined for an extraordinary passion. Moments later, the high priest heard his cue and joined me. People oohed and ahed at the incredibly detailed costume, while I glanced furtively at door number two.

The moment of truth finally arrived. After reading Leviticus 16:20–22 I said, "We need a live goat to help us picture this scene."

The door swung open and there was Larry. He gave a gentle tug and Victor popped out onto the paper runway and planted all four hooves. Larry pulled and Victor slid along behind him out to center stage. When Victor saw all the people he said, "Baaaaaaa."

People laughed, I talked louder, and Victor said "Baaaaaaa" repeatedly with increased volume. I approached the goat with the red cord, symbolizing the sins of the people. But my sudden movement frightened him, and he scrambled backward between Larry's legs. Fortunately, Larry was able to thwart the attempted escape. Then it was time for the high priest to lay his hands on the goat's head. Victor didn't like that either. Although he did stop bleating, it was because he was focused on bucking furiously for freedom.

"Then the man appointed to the task would lead the goat out into the wilderness," I said quickly.

"Baaaaaaa" said the goat.

And Larry slid Victor back out the door. Clearly the goat did not want to leave the building.

The culmination of the sermon was when the high priest sat down. Just as Rob Bell had done, I encouraged people to "celebrate in honor of Jesus, our Great High Priest who is seated now because the work is done." The congregation watched in silence as the priest moved toward the chair and slowly sat down. The church erupted in cheers, praises, and shouts of joy. I did a few laps around the auditorium, slapping hands, and jumping exuberantly. People hugged each other, did high fives, and some managed to rejoice quietly on the inside.

Hoarse and happy, I pronounced the benediction, realizing I had to do the whole thing over again in an hour. The second service went even better. And Victor never did make any unwelcome contributions while on church property. People were blessed and challenged. My prayer that the props would not detract from God's glory was answered.

Following worship, my family and I didn't even take the time for Easter dinner. Instead, we drove for an hour to ensure the goat truly left the building. After the return trip we tackled the cleaning project in the garage. Our flowers should be well-fertilized this year.

The bulletin gave credit and thanks to everyone: Louise, the costume designer, Larry the goat handler, Dan the high priest, the farm that graciously loaned us Victor, and Rob Bell for the big idea, research, and inspiration. But I'll bet Rob never had to keep a goat in his garage.

Right now I'm reading Numbers 22, and I've got my eye out for an even-tempered donkey.

John Henry Beukema is pastor of Cypress Bible Church in Cypress, Texas, and author of Stories from God's Heart (Moody). He served as associate editor of PreachingToday.com.