CHAPTER 10
ROAD'S END
As we continued traveling, we began to consider the
possibility of moving to a smaller town. My wife had been raised
in the country and the more I preached in small town churches,
the more I found them appealing.
In the summer of 1977, I preached in a youth camp in western
Colorado. One of the pastors there had a church in a small town a
few miles away. We became fast friends. He invited me to return
that following April to hold a week of meetings in his church. I
mentioned to him of my interest of leaving Denver for a smaller
community and he immediately suggested his town of fewer than
eight hundred. I wouldn't even consider it and I said as much.
First, it was too small, and furthermore, the nearest airport was
almost fifty miles away. I couldn't picture myself living in that
small of a town - there wasn't any Mcdonald's - and I couldn't see
how living that far from an airport could be anything less than a
big problem.
"How long does it take you to get to the Denver airport now
Phil," my new pastor friend inquired.
"Well," I hesitated, thinking, "it takes probably close to
thirty minutes I suppose."
"And how long," he said, ticking off each item on his
fingers, "does it take you to find a parking space, walk to the
terminal, find the ticket counter, stand in line, pay, stroll down
to the waiting room, and eventually, board the plane?"
"If you put it that way," I replied, "it's probably close to
an hour and a half."
"If not more," he added quickly.
"If not more," I agreed.
"Well," he said scratching his chin and then taking another
sip from his ubiquitous coffee cup, "the last time I flew a few
weeks ago to a convention, I drove to Montrose, which took about
forty minutes, walked directly to the counter which was right at
the front door where I parked, purchased my ticket, walked another
twenty feet and sat down, and waited for the plane. It took me
less than forty-five minutes from the time I left my house till I
was seated in the waiting room."
"Hum," I purred thoughtfully, "you make a pretty good
point," and we began praying about moving to Hotchkiss, Colorado.
Sandy and I left Denver in late March to minister on the
indian reservation in Arizona and New Mexico. From there we flew
to Phoenix for a few days and then to San Francisco where I
preached for two more weeks. Near the end of April, we flew back
to western Colorado where our meetings were scheduled in Hotchkiss
with our new friend in the ministry, Pastor Rayburn Cox.
When the meetings began, Rayburn said, "Have you prayed any
more about moving to a small town?"
"Yes," I replied and we'd like to consider moving here."
We began looking at new houses and in less than a week, we
found a new house for less than market value. One of the men in
the church was a house builder and this particular house had been
occupied by one of his employees for six months before they moved
out of state. He had to sell the house immediately to keep
current with the building loan he had secured and he was willing
to sell it at his cost. Since the realtor was also a member of
the church, we had only the down payment to obtain. Sandy's Mom
offered to give us the five percent down payment needed to secure
the mortgage, the bank approved our loan, and in less than a
month, we moved from Denver to Hotchkiss.
Soon after our move, Brother Cox made me his assistant
pastor and began teaching me how to handle the responsibilities of
the pastorate. He taught me how to lead song services, gave me
the nursing home ministry, asked me to become the youth pastor,
and gave me any other job left in the church to do in order that I
might gain experience. I appreciated his leadership in my life
and more than just being a good friend, he was my pastor. I had
gone into evangelist work as a traveling guest speaker because it
looked easier to me than pastoring a church. Brother Cox's
tutelage, however, gave me the needed confidence to consider
pastoring a church of my own one day.
Though I preached a few special meetings from time to time
during our stay in Hotchkiss, I quickly fell in love with the
ministry and responsibilities of a local church. Eventually I
requested I be ordained and once done, I began making contacts
with churches to obtain a pastoring position.
In mid 1979, Brother Cox felt the Lord leading him to another
western Colorado community to begin a new church. As we discussed
it in his office one Sunday evening, he told me he was going to
resign his position as pastor and though he wasn't going to make
any recommendations, he was sure they would ask me to be their new
pastor. I left his office happier than I had ever been in my
life. My secret life-long dream had just come true. It seemed as
though I floated into the youth room where my kids sat waiting.
They sensed my energized emotions and we had more fun during that
hour than it seemed we'd ever had. I couldn't wait for the
service to be over so I could break the wonderful news to Sandy.
Rayburn's sermon seemed to go on-and-on for ever, though he was
never long winded, and when it was finally over and we made our
way home, I surprised Sandy with the news. We rejoiced together
the rest of that night and the following week seemed to be the
happiest we had ever known.
Eventually a three-man pulpit committee was appointed to
begin the process of hunting for a new pastor. Week after week
passed and nothing was said. People in the church began asking
me when I would be allowed to officially become the new pastor. I
always replied I had nothing to do with that decision but I was
sure the committee would make an announcement shortly.
Finally, before a Sunday night evening service, I was asked
to meet with the pulpit committee in the pastor's study. I sat in
a wooden chair squeezed into one of the corners of the tiny office
with the other three men all seated nearby. "Phil," the
spokesman began, "you know we've been discussing the condition of
the church. We want to do what's right for everyone involved.
This church has gone through a lot of problems over the past few
years and we all agree we need someone who can bring us back to a
place of stability."
I didn't like the sound of those words and I became uneasy;
shifting uncomfortably in my seat.
"So," I heard him say, "in light of all of this, we are not
asking you to become the pastor of this church. We would,
however, ask you to remain as the temporary pastor until we can
locate other candidates."
I was having trouble hearing his words. The other men each
began to speak in turn but I somehow found their words fuzzy and
distant. They made it clear that their decision had nothing to do
with my blindness but I knew better. The head of the committee
had stood in my living room only a few days earlier and expressed
his concern that I could handle the job.
"I don't have any problem with your doctrine," he assured me,
"it's the fact you are blind. I just don't see how you could do
certain things."
Now they were expecting me to believe otherwise? At the same
time, though not capable of handling the job, they were asking me
to be there pastor until they could get another? Why not just say
"Until we can get a better one...one not blind."
I had experienced rejection in mild forms before due to my
blindness but nothing of this magnitude. It felt as though an
atomic bomb had just exploded over the little town and I was the
only survivor. I can't remember anything else that happened that
night; eternity seemed to have stopped dead in its tracks.
Somehow finding myself riding home with the head of the
pulpit committee, I was unable to find any words to speak and thus
rode in complete silence. This man, two years younger than I, had
been probably my best friend in the church. He was a dairymen and
the most financially successful man in the membership. I had
spent many hours with him visiting people throughout the valley on
Thursday nights. He had spent many hours in my home sharing
friendship with my family. I trusted him as much as I did my own
pastor but I knew in my heart he had rejected me pastoring the
church because I was blind; he had said so.
"Phil," he finally said, breaking the somber mood that hung
like a thick curtain between us, "I know things will work out for
you some day and that the Lord will give you a church to pastor.
You have plenty of talent and your preaching is second to none.
You can stay and be our assistant pastor for as long as you
like...until you get a church to pastor."
I still couldn't speak. It seemed as though we had nothing
in common on which to base a conversation. Finally I struggled as
a drowning man fighting his way to the surface and said, "Ralph, I
know the real reason for the committee's decision because you
were the one who stated the fact a week ago in my living room. My
only concern is my future."
"Future?" he said, puzzled.
"Yes, my future. If the people I have been working with for
the past year and a half, those whom I have served, those whose
children I have pastored in the church youth ministry, those for
whom I have prayed for faithfully each day, those who have seen
my abilities, if those people won't give me a chance, how can I
expect total strangers to do otherwise." It wasn't a question.
The next night Rayburn came to visit us. He would be leaving
in a week; moving to another town a hundred miles away to begin a
new ministry. When he had heard of the committee's decision and,
why, he left and tried to get them to reconsider. It was too
late; the decision was final.
Over the next four months I served as the pastor. During
that period of time, three men were called and asked to candidate.
The first two were voted upon and turned down. The third was
finally voted upon and became the new pastor. People had become
so concerned that they wouldn't get a pastor at all and by the
third candidate, they were willing to take anyone. Over the next
three years they had as many pastors and eventually became so
small, they could no longer support a full time pastor.
As I lay in bed one night, unable to sleep, listening to my
sleeping wife's rhythmic breathing, I saw myself walking a road
alone. There was lush green grass growing either side of the
empty road. After walking for some distance, I noticed there were
no flowers or trees growing aside the road; just green grass. I
walked for some time, climbing hills, traversing valleys, but
never once living the road. I didn't feel lost but I somehow felt
uneasy. I eventually became aware that the road likewise
provided not a single sign of direction or location. I became
more and more uncomfortable with the experience but kept walking
the road alone.
Finally, as I pictured this scene in my mind's eye, the road
abruptly ended and I found myself standing in an opened field.
It was a strange feeling. Assuming the road began again just
beyond the next grassy hill, I continued walking through the fresh
green grass. Standing atop the next hill and looking down, I saw
nothing but grass in every direction. There was no road as far as
the eye could see. Suddenly feeling cold and exposed, I whirled
to retrace my steps and regain the road. It had vanished. I was
stranded and acutely alone.
As soon as the new pastor had arrived, we placed our home on
the market. I was no longer being paid enough by the church to
support my family and living expenses would be less in Denver.
Real estate was selling quickly in the coal mining communities of
western Colorado during those days and our home sold within a
month. Moving back to the big city was difficult and
dissatisfying as well. We moved from living on the edge of a
small town where the sheep were just on the other side of our back
fence, where meadow larks sang almost continuously, where humming
birds buzzed about our backyard and drank from our feeders, where
we could leave doors unlocked, where gardens provided most of our
food, where deer and elk stakes filled our freezer, where we had
purchased our first home, where the air was fresh and clean, to
the big crowded city where the air was corrupted with smog, cars
roared passed our front door by the thousands, and where I once
said I never wanted to return.
Flying back to Denver alone one weekday, I was picked up by
my Mom at the airport. I immediately began calling friends to see
if anyone knew of a place we could rent. A good friend, Gary
Morgan, was in real estate and began helping me look for a house.
We finally found one large enough to house our growing family and
fit our limited budget. It was literally less than a hundred feet
off one of the most busiest streets in Denver. We never opened
our front windows during the four years we lived there because the
street noise was so great, it was impossible to carry on a normal
conversation in the living room. The landlord was very friendly,
however, and he eagerly agreed to allow my ham radio tower and
antennas to be installed on his property. For a few months we
lived on the money we made from the sale of our home but
eventually there was nothing left. We wanted to reinvest our
money in another home in Denver. Unfortunately, the house market
in Denver was so elevated, compared to the small communities of
western Colorado, that to have purchased a Denver home would have
made our house payments beyond our financial capability.
I reluctantly began attempting to schedule meetings and since
I had made friends with several pastors over the years, I began to
once again travel. My heart was never in it, however, and I found
it more and more difficult to stay away from my family. We now
had a boy and a girl in our little family, making it impossible
for all of us to travel together, and I missed them more than ever
during the lonely days and nights in motels, on planes, and in
family homes.
My rejection by the church in Hotchkiss was intensified over
the next few months. My Denver pastor began attempting to make
contacts for me with churches looking for full time pastors. His
own brother was totally blind and he seemed to be aware of the
problems a blind pastor might have trying to get in a church
initially. I explained in detail all the had happen to me in the
small western Colorado town but he assured me that could be
overcome. Six months later he said he had tried again and again
to get me into a church but every time they discovered I and my
wife were blind, they became disinterested. He eventually felt I
was no longer called to the ministry and, once while seated in my
living room, said I not only had failed, but was out of the will
of God and should get out of the ministry. He recommended I
return to the Colorado State Services For The Blind vending stand
program thus implying I could expect no more help from him or the
church.
As the months drifted by and our funds dwindled, I became
more and more despondent. I could see very little in store for my
future. Sleeplessness became a way of life for me and I spent
many late nights on my ham radio to pass the time. The rejection
I had experienced was beginning to collect its price from me
physically and emotionally and I finally decided to get into
something with which I had some familiarity.
In early 1980 I purchased a high speed cassette duplicator,
along with a few hundred blank cassettes, and began copying tapes
for churches and evangelists. My reasoning was that I could
eventually move back to a small town and perhaps pastor a church
unable to support a full time pastor. My business could support
me and I could live anywhere I wished since most of my customers
lived out of state. As the business began to grow, however, I
began to doubt I would ever enter the ministry again.
As the months past, I lived and relived all the experiences
of the previous two years. My heart ached to preach again but I
did my best to suppress the feelings. Besides my chronic
sleeplessness, I began to gain weight, suffer severe headaches,
and experience stomach disorder. Though I occasionally preached,
the opportunities were few and my credibility with pastors
diminished substantially.
For years I had recommended a local Denver counseling
ministry to those I felt incapable of helping. One day I
reluctantly picked up the telephone and inquire of their services.
Making an appointment was perhaps one of the most difficult things
I had ever done. The place I had sent people over the years was
now the very place I found myself.
During the emotional strain I experienced and the financial
depravity, I had begun isolating what I considered to be the
solution to my problem. I had read often of men and women of God
being filled with the Holy Spirit of God and somehow it seemed as
though that was the direction I needed to take. After several
counseling sessions, I recall coming to the final session with one
question in mind. As I sat in front of the counselor and shared
with him the things the Lord had been showing me in my life during
those weeks, I finally got to what was on my mind. "Aron," I
said, "it seems to me that I have come to a place in my life where
I need the leading of the Holy Spirit. I don't know much about
the Holy Spirit, except what I've been taught in church and in
Bible college, but it seems there is more. What does it mean to
be filled with the Holy Spirit?" Though this brother in Christ
shared with me his knowledge on the subject of the Spirit filled
life, he told me nothing I didn't already know. Leaving his
office for the last time, I went home and decided in my heart
that I was going to discover the answer to that question plus one
other. I made a commitment with the Lord that I was going to
spend a certain amount of time on my knees each day praying until
He, my Heavenly Father, revealed to me the truth in His Word about
the Spirit filled life. I additionally asked God to show me how I
could pray and get my prayers answered.