“…you have set my feet in a spacious place.” (Psalm 31:8)

Last week, during our revival, I had spent the morning with my host pastor. We visited the local middle school and I spoke with the children in several classes about drawing and then sketched each one.  Afterwards, we went to lunch. Then, around 1 o’clock, I returned to the hotel room, ready for a little nap.

That’s when I saw it.

Opening the door to my room, I stood there stunned.

It looked like a bomb had gone off in the room. Trash was scattered around the floor, and bits and pieces of glass were everywhere. On top of the chest of drawers, larger bits of glass were strewn.  Nothing seemed out of place and nothing had fallen from the ceiling.

I went in search of the maid. Kristen was as shocked as I was. “I came in at 10 o’clock to get your towels,” she said. “I’ve not been back since.”

She went for her supervisor, and she in turn called for the hotel manager.

And then, we saw what had happened.

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(This is our account of a difficult three years in our lives–‘ours’ referring to my wife and me–when we pastored a divided church in North Carolina. The article ran in the Winter 2001 issue of “Leadership,” a publication of Christianity Today.  At the conclusion, we have a few postscripts which may be of interest to some.)

How could I lead a congregation that was as hurt as I was?

My calendar for the summer and beyond was blank. I usually planned my preaching schedule for a full year, but beyond the second Sunday in June–nothing. I had no ideas. I sensed no leading from the Spirit. But it was only January, so I decided to try again in a couple of months. Again, nothing. By then, I suspected the Lord was up to something.

A member of my church had told me the year before, “Don’t die in this town.” I knew what she meant. She didn’t envision Columbus as the peak of my ministry. Columbus was a county-seat town with three universities nearby, and, for Mississippi, cosmopolitan. I felt Columbus, First Baptist, and I were a good match. The church grew. We were comfortable together. My family was settled. Our sons and daughter had completed most of their schooling, and after twelve years, they called Columbus home. My wife, Margaret, and I had weathered a few squalls, but life was good–a little quiet, perhaps even stagnant, but good.

And suddenly I could hear the clock ticking. Did God have something more for me?

First Baptist Church of Charlotte, North Carolina, called in March. I ended my ministry at Columbus the second Sunday of June and began in Charlotte one month later.

After I’d been in Charlotte about a month, the man who chaired their search committee phoned. “I have some people I want you to talk with,” he told me. He picked me up and drove me to the impressive home of one of our members. In the living room were a dozen men, all leaders in the church and in the city. Another man appeared in charge.

“We want to offer you some guidance in pastoring the church,” he said. “There are several issues we feel are important, and we want you to know where we stand.” He outlined their position on the battle between conservatives and moderates for control of our denomination and on the role of women in the church. He wanted women elected as deacons, one item in a full slate of changes he wanted made at the church.

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