The woman in the floral-print dress was a question mark, folded into a wheelchair. Her name was Delia, and for eleven years, a knot of bone and nerve in her spine had been the answer to every prayer she’d ever whispered. The doctors had used words like “degenerative” and “irreversible.” The wheelchair was the final punctuation.
“That’s the lie talking,” Copeland said, and he smiled again. “You can. The healing is already done. You just have to get up and walk into it.”
“There is no sickness in this room that has a right to be here,” he thundered. “I’m not asking God to heal you. God healed you two thousand years ago at Calvary. My job is just to make you believe it.” kenneth copeland healing
Delia’s eyes were wet. She whispered, “Martha, push me forward.”
“You,” he said. “The woman in the chair. You’ve been sitting in that lie for eleven years. The Lord says tonight, the anointing breaks the yoke.” The woman in the floral-print dress was a
He paced the stage, a panther in polished shoes. He told stories of tumors vanishing, of blind eyes popping open like window shades. He laughed—a sharp, sudden cackle that made the front row flinch and then laugh along, nervously.
Copeland stopped pacing. He tilted his head, as if listening to a voice only he could hear. He pointed a long, manicured finger directly toward Delia. “That’s the lie talking,” Copeland said, and he
“In the name of Jesus,” he said, not loudly, but the microphone caught every syllable, “I command that crooked spine to straighten. I command the pain to go to the feet of Jesus. Stand up.”