The last sixteen months had been eventful; I had resigned as a pastor, become a social worker in the high stress world of child protective services, left another church after nine months that was cultic, and, for the past six months, had settled into the back row of a storefront church in my hometown, content to not have anything to do with any kind of ministry or church responsibility ever again.
One Sunday after church, the church pastor asked me to see him after services. When I did, he said, “Look, I have a family emergency and must go out of town. I’d like to ask you to preach at this Wednesday’s evening service.”
“I don’t do that anymore,” I said.
He replied, “I know your history so I know you can just pull an old outline and conduct Wednesday’s service.”
“Sorry, I’m not interested,” I responded.
With a flair of temper and desperation, he retorted, “For the last six months we have taken care of your children, taught them the Bible, and left you alone. You owe me. And I have no one else to turn to.”
“Fine,” I sighed. “I’ll do Wednesday.” And so, I did.
On Thursday morning, the sectional presbyter, a man elected to help the churches and ministers in the area, called me. He said, “There’s a little church in the Orebank area of Kingsport that the denomination is going to close at District Council, and I need you to go hold services there Sunday morning.”
“I don’t do that anymore,” I replied.
For the next ten minutes, he made his case and, to get him off my back, I said, “Listen, try somebody else. If you find yourself scraping the bottom of the barrel, call me back.”
After a brief silence, he replied, “Look, I don’t mean to insult you, but you ARE the bottom of the barrel.”
So it was that I drove into the tiny parking lot of Orebank Assembly of God in a working-class section of Kingsport. There were only about six to eight parking spaces, and the small building was not in good shape. Besides myself, there were six people present for worship. I was greeted by a very sweet, retired barber in his 80s who introduced me to the other five folks.
After the service, as I was getting ready to leave, they surrounded me, expressed their appreciation, and said they would see me tonight at the evening service. Trapped, I smiled and agreed.
That night, there were fourteen people, not including me. When the service was over, they said they would see me on Wednesday.
Relieved, I said, “I have a graduate class at the university on Wednesday.” The elderly greeter said, “Well, all in favor of moving the Wednesday service to Thursday night, raise your hand.” Fourteen hands went up. This was getting out of hand, I thought.
After the Thursday service, they asked me to be their pastor. Alarmed, I said I would have to get back to them.
“Okay,” one said. “See you Sunday!” I complained to God all the way home. The next day, I called the presbyter and told him what had happened.
He said, “Well, good. You should do it.”
“I don’t want to do it!” I almost shouted.
Calming down, I said, “Besides, I have no ministerial credentials with the Assemblies of God.”
He asked, “You were licensed to preach in the Methodist Church, right?”
“Yes, but …”
“Did the Methodist Church revoke them or remove them for cause?”
“Well, no but …”
“Then it’s not a problem. You can serve with special permission until you can be transferred over. Just pray about it and let me know before Sunday.” He hung up.
On Saturday night, I made a list of all the reasons why these good and sweet people did not want me as their pastor. On Sunday morning, I announced that there would be a congregational meeting that night after the service.
After the evening service, I spent a good amount of time explaining why they should choose someone else. Almost twenty-five people were in attendance, some of whom I had not met.
“I am in a high stress job that takes me in seedy places sometimes.” I began. “If someone tells you that they saw me coming out of a massage parlor (in that area back then, a euphemism for a house of prostitution), it’s the truth. If someone tells you they saw me coming out of a place where drugs are sold, that’s the truth too.” I continued in that vein for several moments.
Convinced that I had convinced them to not vote for me, I retired outside. As they began to leave, the retired barber said the ballots were on the communion table. I had secretly decided that the only way I would be their pastor would be if the vote was unanimous. Something virtually unheard of in pastoral voting.
After everyone was gone, I went back into the small sanctuary. I counted the votes and began to weep. The votes were unanimous. Against my desires and even my prayers, I was now a bi-vocational pastor.
In the coming months, these dear people would love me and my family, would be encouraging, and treat us as beloved members of their family. They began to invite their friends and relatives to church, and we grew. The church was not closed at the District Council.
By the time twelve months had passed, the church averaged seventy-five on Sunday morning. I would remain for two more months and help them select a new pastor. I would be moving to another town to attend graduate school and would be leaving the Department of Human Services.
I will always be grateful to those wonderful people. They literally loved me back into the ministry. I had left my previous pastorate crushed and humiliated. Then, we had left the next church we attended emotionally abused and destroyed by a dictatorial pastor.
I never lost faith in God, but I had lost all faith in the Church. I attended only out of duty. But these people …they were not rich or powerful or influential. But they were genuine and authentic believers. And, as far as the ministry was concerned, they saved me.
The church, which now had a congregation with a terrible building, would later merge with a church that had a great building but with very few members. I left that church, I believe in 1978 or 1979, around 45 years ago. Yet those people are among my most precious memories.
All told, I would be part of the Assemblies of God for nineteen years. But, once again, the narrative was about to change,
TO BE CONTINUED…
[David Epps is the Rector of the Cathedral of Christ the King (www.ctk.life). Worship services are on Sundays at 10:00 a.m. and on livestream at www.ctk.life. He is the bishop of the Diocese of the Mid-South (www.midsouthdiocese.life). He has been a weekly opinion columnist for The Citizen for over 27 years. He may be contacted at davidepps@ctk.life.]
