Chapter 10 Roads End

Chapter 10 Roads End

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.