Bob was giving his testimony to some friends. He had wasted his earliest years in agnosticism and skepticism and gone through a painful divorce. When he came to Christ, his life straightened out. A few years later, he met Kim and they were married. He said, “One reason I believe in God is that He brought Kim into my life.”

I can accept that. It might not stand up in a debate with a panel of philosophers as evidence for the existence of God, but it works for me.

In fact, I venture to say that most Christians have similar evidence of God’s reality, incidents or blessings that provide all the proof they will ever need of the presence of the Lord. Perhaps it was a message at the right time, an experience like nothing before or since, or some person who came into their life and changed it. To their thinking, God was there and on duty.

In my case, one experience in particular will forever stand out as all the proof I could ever ask for that God is real. It was not the healing from cancer three years ago, it was not the various close calls on the highways–although there have been several of those–and it was not all the wonderful people God brought into my life over the years, as special as they are.

It was a deacons meeting in April of 1989.

The church was doing well. I had weathered the crisis, I felt, caused by a multiplicity of conditions and situations over many years, but aggravated by a small group of leaders–some self-appointed–who wanted me out in order to install their own agenda. We were finally in our sparkling new sanctuary, the offerings were running ahead of the budget, people were joining the church, and we had baptized more that year than in any year but one of the last quarter century.

A few months before the fateful deacons meeting, two men asked to meet with me in my office. I suspected nothing. They got right to the point: I should be searching for another church. “If you are determined to stay here,” one said, “there will be a move to get you fired. If you tell us you are looking for another place to go, they will back off and give you time.”

I had been at that church for three stress-filled years. On the surface, it was a typical, loving Baptist church. The majority of the members were the kind who can be found in any comparable-sized church in America. But just beneath the surface, a cancer was festering. A small core of unhappy leaders were second-guessing everything I did. As they shared their dissatisfaction, others in the congregation caught the virus and distrusted everything the staff or I did. The demands and expectations on us were sky-high; the affirmation and encouragement we received were almost non-existent. Staff members were resigning and moving away; criticism was at an all-time high. Even in that atmosphere, God was blessing our efforts.

That wintry night, I said to the two men in my office, “I’ll tell you how surprised I am by this. The church is doing so well, I honestly thought you had come by to brag on me.” When they said nothing, I said to the leader, “Friend, come in here sometime and tell me something I’m doing right.” He muttered, “I wish I could.”

I bought time from them by saying I knew of two places that were considering my name–one a state executive position and the other pastor of a church in another state. If the Lord led me to either, I would be more than happy to depart. So, they backed off.

Four months later, it had become apparent that I was not leaving. That’s why they did what they did.

The monthly deacons meeting that night had been uneventful. The reports were all positive, the signs were good, and I was looking forward to getting home early. Then, the chairman said, “I have been asked to call us into executive session.”

Someone said, “What does that mean?” He answered, “It means the pastor and staff will leave. Only deacons.”

A chill ran over me. This is it. You have heard tales of pastors being fired all your life, but you’ve lived a sheltered existence. This time, it’s about you. You are about to witness a train wreck–with you as the engineer in the lead locomotive.

I had been given no forewarning and had no time to prepare.

I said, “Mister Chairman, I’m the pastor of the church. I do not plan to leave this meeting–unless the deacons actually vote to exclude me.” Someone called out, “I so move.”

They were surprised to discover they did not have the votes to keep me out. So, I won the right to sit through a four-hour meeting during which I heard myself cussed and discussed as though I were not there. A friend said later, “I voted for you to leave because I didn’t want you to have to sit through that.”

In one respect, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

The Lord was present. For four solid hours, I sensed His presence as never before in my life. A peace such as I had never known settled upon me. Love radiated throughout my body. It was better than any drug! I actually found myself sympathizing with the people criticizing me, as they stood and told how I had failed the church, how my sermons were ineffective, how my leadership was non-existent. To some extent, I found myself agreeing with them. Under such trying conditions as the last three years had been, no pastor can give his best. I knew I had not been the leader I should have been. But the Lord had sent me here and I was not leaving until He gave the word.

I felt only love and absolutely no resentment toward any of them.

For the first time in my life, I could understand just a smidgen of what Stephen felt, as recorded in Acts 7. “They gnashed at him with their teeth. But he, being full of the Holy Spirit, gazed into heaven and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing at the right hand of God…. He knelt down and cried with a loud voice, ‘Lord, do not charge them with this sin.'”

Around midnight, everyone on both sides had had his say. It was obvious the plaintiffs did not have sufficient support to get me fired. The chairman expressed surprise by that turn of events. He told the deacons, “I honestly thought more people wanted Joe out. I guess I was wrong.”

I asked if I could speak. Nothing was recorded that night, and this is many years later, but I recall speaking words of love and appreciation to my critics. I told them this rift in the congregation was nothing new, that the pastor for the 1960s and 1970s told me he had struggled with the same undercurrents of dissatisfaction and non-support. We prayed for the church and for one another and adjourned.

What followed that long, tiring evening is too long to cover here. Suffice it to say that six months later, after a lengthy consultation process by an outside “expert,” it was agreed by all involved (and that includes the Lord, too!) that I would leave the church and that the church would write a constitution and bylaws in order to establish a more responsible way of operating, then they would start afresh with a new pastor.

Leaving probably saved my life. Or extended it. The stress I was living under was killing me. I realize now the experience taught me far more than I could have learned any other way. Over the years, I’ve been able to minister to pastors who were being mistreated by churches and churches being misled by pastors far more effectively than if I had never gone through that difficult period.

The 43rd chapter of Isaiah contains some of the most comforting promises anywhere. A couple have special meaning to me personally.

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you, and through the rivers, they will not overflow you.”

That covers Katrina and the floodwaters with which she devastated our city.

“When you walk through the fire, you will not be scorched, nor will the flame burn you.”

That covers the 1989 church conflict as well as one other which I’ll save for another time.

“I will be with you,” the Lord promises. The best possible of all encouragements. He did not promise us a detour or flyover; He promised He will go through it with us.

Still in Isaiah 43. Verse 4

“Since you are precious in my sight, since you are honored and I love you… do not fear, for I am with you….”

Proof aplenty for this country boy.