The man who will not act until he knows all will never act at all.
Jim Elliot
The church fellowship that a young Greg Laurie started in Riverside, California, in 1972 would eventually become one of the largest churches in America. No one was more surprised than Greg that something like this would occur.
Back in ’72, Greg had no idea, really, what he was doing. Today he likes to point out that this was long before churches hired consultants, did branding studies for carefully chosen names, conducted market research of geographical areas, and orchestrated sophisticated social media packages.
It began when the leaders of an Episcopalian church in Riverside, California, got in touch with Chuck Smith and his team at Calvary Chapel. They had heard of the Jesus Movement and wanted something like it to blow through their church. They suggested a Monday night youth-oriented meeting, if someone from Calvary Chapel could come to Riverside to lead it. Their facility was a beautiful, old, traditional stone church, and unfortunately, its numbers were dwindling.
Chuck sent God’s secret weapon, Lonnie Frisbee, to the Riverside church . . . and soon the Monday night meetings exploded with three hundred kids, with new converts showing up each week.
At the time, Greg wasn’t on staff with Calvary Chapel. He just hung around, willing to do whatever jobs popped up. He’d go see sick people in the hospital. He’d help out with vacation Bible school for the neighborhood children. He’d lead the Bible study in the local mental institution.
On his first visit to that facility, Greg was standing in the lobby with his buddy and fellow hippie preacher, Mike MacIntosh. One of the residents approached them, his eyes a little vacant.
Mike, overflowing with earnest fervor, asked the patient if he had ever met Jesus.
“No,” the man responded, brightening up. He stuck his hand out to Greg. “Pleased to meet you, sir!”
The Bible study in Riverside continued to be a “happening” under Lonnie. But then, to Greg’s surprise, Lonnie suddenly left Calvary Chapel to join a spiritual movement in Florida.
After Lonnie’s departure, the growing fellowship in Riverside began to falter and shrink. Various pastors from Calvary Chapel would take it for one week at a time, but it was an inconvenient drive from Costa Mesa, as the freeways were often backed up with traffic.
One day Greg was hanging out at a staff meeting, and no one else was able—or wanted—to do the Riverside service. Then they all stopped and looked at Greg . . . eager Greg, at least ten years younger than the rest of the group. He’d do anything. He was like the little brother to whom you could give your smooshed peanut butter sandwich or the chore you didn’t want.
“Hey, Greg! Why don’t you go down to Riverside?” they asked.
“Yes!” said Greg. He was out the door with his battered Bible before they could change their minds.
Greg arrived in his sputtering Corvair at the address he’d been given in Riverside. It was a stately, traditional, old stone Episcopal church. It looked formal. Greg smoothed his jeans for a moment and then strode in the front door, his Bible under his arm.
An older man was waiting, looking for the pastor from Calvary Chapel who was going to lead the service. “Hello,” he said to Greg. “The service won’t start for a while. You can wait in a pew until the preacher shows up.”
“I’ve been sent from Calvary Chapel to teach tonight,” nineteen-year-old Greg said earnestly.
The older man raised his eyebrows. He waited around for a while. Kids started arriving for the service. And sure enough, no proper preacher arrived.
“Okay,” said the church person. “You can speak, but just this one time.”
It was not a huge vote of confidence. But Greg wasn’t really into a performance mentality. All he knew was there was power in the Word of God, that God had done a miracle in his life, and that he wanted to pass the gospel on to others.
He began to speak, and something started to happen. He was telling the kids about Peter walking on the water, keeping his eyes on Jesus. And even as he was talking, Greg felt like he was Peter. As long as he kept his eyes on Jesus, he’d make it through this talk. And then, a miracle: the kids began to sit up, listen, and get into the lesson. At the end, Greg asked if any of them might want to receive Christ. Six young people came forward to pray with him. They were smiling and full of tears.
After the service, everyone was asking Greg if he’d be back the following week. He told them he wasn’t sure, thinking that the church staff did not seem particularly enthusiastic about his presence. Then the older guy who’d reluctantly let Greg speak told him he could come back, but that his leadership there would be a week-to-week thing.
This was not an auspicious beginning for what would one day become a direct outgrowth of Greg’s experience of the Jesus Revolution: a rousing megachurch of fifteen thousand people. In God’s economy, then and now, small beginnings often lead to greater ends.
Greg continued week by week in his probationary leadership of the little Riverside fellowship. The group grew and grew. He met the church rector, a formal, somewhat remote man who didn’t seem particularly connected to his people. He hadn’t paid much attention to the growing youth congregation within his church.
But then a local newspaper ran a feature story on the weekly meeting. The journalist described it as a “happening,” with every pew filled with eager young people. Since the kids were so hungry for God’s Word, Greg had also started a Wednesday night service. He’d drawn some graphics and had printed a little bulletin for the flock. In small print at the top of the left page, it said, “Minister: Greg Laurie.” Greg hadn’t wanted to use the title “pastor.” It felt presumptuous. So, knowing that the title “minister” was interchangeable with the word “servant,” he’d used that.
It didn’t matter. The rector was not pleased. He told Greg that he should become an Episcopalian youth pastor. Perhaps a few years in seminary—preferably one that was far, far away—would get Greg out of his hair, and things could go back to their arid formality, firmly under his control.
Greg thought and prayed about the older man’s idea, but felt no leading to pursue it. As the fellowship continued to grow, the rector told Greg he wanted to address the group. He’d speak on topics that he thought were hip and relevant, quoting from Jesus Christ Superstar more than the New Testament. To his surprise, the young people didn’t really resonate. As young Cathe put it at the time, “We’d all been out there in the world. We didn’t want Broadway shows or quotes from the Desiderata or this older guy trying to be cool to relate with kids. We wanted meat from the pure Word of God! It was like food for us.”
The rector could not help but notice the cool reception his “teaching” received. Soon a carload of the Episcopal church leaders made its way to Costa Mesa for a meeting with Pastor Chuck Smith. It was time to get rid of Greg Laurie.
Greg, who had seen the angry brothers’ arrival, retreated to an empty church office to pray. As he did so, a verse from Psalm 118 kept reverberating in his head: “When hard pressed, I cried to the LORD; he brought me into a spacious place.”1 He didn’t know quite what that meant, but he did know enough to call on God in his distress.
The meeting with the disgruntled Episcopalians ended. They jumped in their car and sped away.
The buzzer on the intercom sounded in the office where Greg was praying.
It was Chuck’s assistant.
“Greg, Pastor Chuck was wondering if you would come to his office?”
Greg knew that this was the end of his fledgling “pastor” career, and he was back to being simply a starving artist.
“Come in, Greg!” Chuck said cheerfully.
Greg walked hesitantly into the office. Chuck was smiling.
“Greg,” said Chuck Smith, “we’ve got to get you a new church.”