The 3-million-member organization has held outdoor baptisms with fire hoses in Eastern cities such as New York and Philadelphia. In North Carolina last year, one reportedly drew 2,500 people.
But this was the first street baptism for California, according to church officials.
It took a surprising amount of organization -- including getting the church's water meter hooked up to a fire hydrant so the water department would know how much to charge.
By early Sunday morning, all the preparations were in place. Hoses had been rented. Traffic officers had closed the block of Vernon Avenue in front of the church. Massive white armchairs for the visiting clergy -- out of range of the hoses -- had been set up on the church steps.
Hot dogs were cooking on a grill in the parking lot and musicians in brass bands visiting from Virginia and North Carolina were setting up chairs, cleaning horns and mopping their foreheads in the unseasonable heat.
All morning, men, women and children dressed all in white streamed into the church. Some brought shower caps or towels to protect their hair from the onslaught of healing water.
Shortly after 11 a.m., they began gathering in the middle of the street.
"Father, we ask you to drive away the violence," called Apostle C.M. Gibbs, who came from Baltimore. "This city needs a healing."
Parishioners clapped in response.
About noon, the current bishop, S.C. Madison, known as Daddy Madison, arrived from his hotel. He's 85 and came only for the end of the service.
As he climbed the steps of the church, a little boy whispered to his mother: "Mommy, I want to get baptized."
A few seconds later, the hoses were turned on. The brass bands seemed to play louder as two church elders each held a hose and began to spray in the air.
Within minutes, everyone was soaked. For more than 10 minutes, they danced in the spray of falling water.
Then the hoses were turned off, the street was reopened to traffic, and church members were urged to go home, get changed and return in the evening for another service.
As she walked toward the parking lot with her son, Renard Myers, 10, Fuquay broke into a smile.
"I feel blessed," she said.
jessica.garrison@latimes.com
