Chapter 13:

A BRILLIANT BLAZE

 

The phone rang in my Bellingham living room, and I answered, “Hello?”

“Hello, this is Bart.” It was the call I’d been waiting for. “I wanted to let you know that we just had our vote, and we’ve voted you in as pastor of Quinault Valley Chapel.” I heard people applauding in the background because he had the call going through the intercom system at the church.

When I hung up the phone, I had mixed feelings. On the one hand, I was elated—this was exactly what I had wanted. I had reached a new milestone. On the other hand, I felt a real fear. Not only had I just gained the responsibilities of a Senior pastor—a responsibility for guiding, discipling, and disciplining an entire church—but I had taken on that responsibility in a rural area, an area I didn’t know well. I felt a bit like a missionary. I’m a city boy, used to all the amenities and convenience of urban life. I had just become the pastor of a logging town out in the middle of nowhere. It’s a place full of a kind of people I had never known: rugged, independent survivors. These were manly men, guys with missing fingers, who would keep going back, day after day, to that same job where they’d lost those fingers.

I was nervous, so I began to pray. “God, I don’t know what to do. I’m totally out of my element.” I had been an Youth pastor; I had been an evangelist; I had done all sorts of things, but now I would have to be the pastor of my own church. I still felt pretty young; I was in my early thirties. I felt inexperienced. And then I remembered what Solomon prayed. He prayed from his heart, asking for wisdom. He didn’t ask for wealth, prestige, or position. He asked for wisdom so that he could govern well and judge justly. I did the same. “God,” I said, “I really need wisdom. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

So we tied up loose ends in Bellingham and prepared to move. Moving day arrived, and men from Quinault Valley Chapel showed up with a big U-Haul. They wouldn’t let Theresa or me lift a finger; they loaded up everything themselves. Pretty soon, they had packed the truck, and we set out on the four-hour journey to Quinault. Along the way, they bought us dinner.

When we arrived in Quinault, we pulled into the driveway of the beautiful house the church had already acquired for us. We entered the house and found a bunch of people inside, cleaning. They had cleaned the whole house and prepared everything for us to move in. We couldn’t believe the warmth with which they greeted us; we felt so special.

Quinault quickly became home for us. We got our house in shape; my office soon followed. The congregation seemed to love us. I found it a bit odd that the former pastor and his wife still attended that church. But they seemed like good people who really cared about us, so I didn’t think much of it. His wife would come visit my office just to see how I was getting along; she even brought flowers once to spruce up the office. It made me a little nervous (Is she flirting with me, or what?), but it seemed like they were simply trying to ease my way into the church.

One other thing struck me as odd, though. Bart came into my office one day, and during our conversation, he made a strange request. “Ken, I want you to understand that this church wants to remain non-denominational. We’ve got no desire to join the Assemblies of God.”

I didn’t even know what to say. I didn’t have any intention to force the church to become AG—the thought hadn’t even entered my mind—so I said, “Okay.”

I couldn’t understand why he had said that. He had been AG in the past, so maybe he’d had a bad experience? Even so, it felt like he was trying to hold onto some control. We had several similar encounters, when Bart would try to direct my leadership of the church, and they always made me uncomfortable. But I was young, I was immature, and I certainly wasn’t assertive. I didn’t know how to respond. At first, I took Bart’s direction as advice and often followed it. Soon, though, I saw that it was becoming a power struggle, and I began to take charge, focusing on God’s will, not Bart’s. After that, my ministry began to flourish.

 

The only businesses in Quinault at the time were two mercantiles, a restaurant, a gas station, a clinic, and a couple of motels. For a city boy like me, this wasn’t much variety. So one day, when the Schwan’s truck came to town, I walked with my kids to where the truck had set up to see what they had to offer. At the same time, up walked a burly, balding man with a bushy beard. His skin was weathered, and what hair he did have was disheveled. He looked like a wild mountain man. A young boy followed close behind him. The man seemed angry, and with a gruff voice, he soon started berating me about driving too fast through the neighborhood.

What is this, I thought, the welcoming committee? I apologized for driving too fast, though I was pretty sure I didn’t drive too fast. But my apology had no effect on his attitude, and I began to feel real hatred radiating from this guy. That was about the extent of the confrontation, though, and I soon left with my kids.

Later that day, the same guy came into my office. In a half-sincere tone, he started apologizing, but in the middle of the apology, he started griping again.

Something isn’t right here, I thought. There’s something spiritual going on, but I can’t put my finger on it.

I asked around later, and I found out from the former pastor that this guy, Brady, had some demonic problems. And it was clear from Brady’s strange behaviors that he did. He would flip me off every time I drove past him. He would yell at me everywhere I ran into him, which I seemed to do more and more frequently, and he often threatened to kill me. His wife and son were quiet and mainly stayed out of sight. He would burn things in his front yard, which was next door to the church. He spent a huge amount of time stoking that fire in his yard, and I never really understood it. It seemed almost like he was obsessed with fire, and it was really creepy, especially at night. Several times, when the Holy Spirit really moved in the church, I would look out the window to see him burning a cross in his yard. Sometimes, he’d fire a shotgun into the ground. Like I said, I’m a city boy, and I come from a pretty non-violent background, so I wasn’t used to seeing people waving guns around. You can imagine how distracting it was when, in the middle of preaching a sermon, I’d hear gunfire and see this guy outside waving his shotgun.

I managed to engage him in conversation several times, sometimes getting past the demonic influence to know he was really hearing me. When I saw that, I started talking about Jesus. It seemed like I could briefly get through to Brady, but then he’d get agitated and would have to run back into his house.

There was another individual in Quinault who troubled me, but this one was in the church. Soon after I became the pastor and started really getting to know the congregation, I began to ask questions about Leon, the board member whose stare had made me uncomfortable on my first visit. He seemed like such a strange choice to serve on a church board. He was almost militant in his faith, and not in a good sense; he would have preferred me to preach condemning messages, blasting everyone with the Word. He always seemed apprehensive and uncomfortable around me; I felt sure he didn’t like me being there. I came to find out that he had been hurt by pastors during his life, so I guess it was natural that he kept his guard up.

He was a peculiar individual: in his theology, in his emotions, in his lifestyle, he differed from all the rest of the congregation. It seemed like he was watching over his shoulder all the time, and there seemed to be a darkness in him. It fit well with the whole atmosphere of the area; there was a spiritual darkness there.

Quinault lay just off an Indian reservation. The Indian folklore and spiritism had heavily influenced the entire area, and I believe much of that influence is demonic. I remember one time, as my family and I were driving back to Quinault from Bremerton, that we could almost see that influence with our eyes. It was like a fog that got heavier as we got closer to Quinault, though there wasn’t any physical fog. True, in our time there, we saw God do some amazing work in Quinault, but we never got over the feeling that something resisted Him. The atmosphere seemed spiritually oppressive.

I saw that same effect in Leon. He rarely sat down in church. He had to keep moving, almost like there was a spiritual struggle inside him that made him uncomfortable and wouldn’t let him sit still. I believe he loved the Lord, but he sowed discord everywhere because of his abrasive attitude. His attendance, even at the board meetings, was sporadic at best. Every meeting he did attend seemed like a battle. He came to the meetings not to reach decisions for the good of the church but to fight. He seemed to question everything about the organized Church worldwide, and he couldn’t agree with any of us about decisions for our church in particular. On the other hand, when it was just the two of us having coffee at his house, we had some great conversations. I really just couldn’t figure him out; I don’t think I ever did.

Finally, Leon resigned from the board and stopped coming to the church. It was odd because he lived on the same street that the church was on. His family still attended, but he didn’t. I believe it was God’s hand that caused him to resign, because as soon as Leon was off the board, peace reigned.

I replaced Leon with a man named Merl. Merl was a wonderful guy. The only problem was, he had been divorced. Many church members hold to a very harsh interpretation of Paul’s words in 1 Timothy that an overseer (sometimes translated bishop or elder) should be the “husband of one wife” (KJV). They believe that any man who has been divorced does not meet this qualification and should never again hold a position of authority in the church. Several of my board members fell into this camp. I, on the other hand, interpret that verse in light of the culture Timothy was dealing with in pastoring the church at Ephesus, a culture where polygamy was not at all unusual. In my view, anyone with a heart to serve the Lord should not be kept from serving, regardless of past mistakes.

So I fought for Merl, and I won the fight. As a board member, he was supportive and submitted to my authority, which was refreshing after the frequent conflicts with Leon. Our board meetings no longer sparked discord and resentment but were full of laughter and joy, even when opinions differed.

 

When I got to the church, they had been without a pastor for a year, which meant that they hadn’t paid a pastor’s salary. I feared the church finances would suffer after they had begun paying me. As I had feared, they did soon hit a slump. The church began to worry about finances, which I now believe was an attack of the enemy, as evidenced by the result.

The board soon approached me with a plan to cut the missions program from our budget. I fought and fought, but after awhile, they wore me down. We cut all missionary funding, intending to review the question again three months later. As soon as we made that decision, our finances did a steeper nosedive. Then one day as I prayed, I began grieving: God put it on my heart that we had made a grave error. We had not followed Him in faith; we had allowed ourselves to be consumed by the cares of the world.

I took it to the board immediately. It had been only one month since our ill-conceived decision, but I wanted to respond to God’s words without hesitation. We started again with one missionary, and we sent money right away. It seemed to me that God’s response was almost instantaneous: our finances turned around. When I left Quinault Valley four years later, the church’s finances were just as solid as they had been before I had come.

 

Other than my issues with Brady and Leon, the first few months in Quinault went pretty smoothly. In fact, they were great. We had sixty conversions in the first couple of months, and we saw God’s Spirit really begin to move. With such a quick influx of people, I really struggled about how to lead them. I remember weeping in my office, crying out to the Lord: “God, I don’t know how to disciple these people; I don’t know what to do. Please help me!”

The Book of James tells us that God gives wisdom to those who ask, and He proved His Word again this time. He laid on my heart the desire to form cell groups. By encouraging the church body to meet in these smaller groups during the week, I could give them the opportunity to grow and enjoy fellowship outside of Sunday morning.

So I called a pastor friend of mine who had started a cell group ministry before. I asked him to come out and talk to me and my board about the process and give us an idea of what the ministry might require. He and his Associate pastor came to visit and walked us through what their ministry looked like. By the time they left, we had decided to try out this cell group idea. God continued to pour His wisdom on me, prompting me to write a curriculum for these groups rather than follow an existing one.

Our cell group ministry was born! The congregation jumped right in, and the groups grew and grew. God blessed this ministry and those who participated. It seemed like everyone I talked to had developed a deeper relationship with Christ as a result of joining a group. The church flourished.

Then I got a phone call. It was one of the board members. Larry, our Secretary Treasurer (whose house we’d stayed at during our initial visit), had been out logging with his grown son. They had been lifting some trees with a loader when one tree shifted. The tree had rolled onto his son’s leg, crushing his leg and pinning the young man to the ground. The father had moved the vehicle to lift the tree off, but the tree had shifted again. This time, it had crushed the young man’s head.

At the same time I felt the horror of that accident, I felt a terror of my own. Now, in my early thirties, I had to conduct a funeral for a man not much younger. I knew this tragedy would be a real test for me, and I needed the wisdom of God. I had been to funerals, sure, but I’d never conducted one before. In a town that size (about 1,500 people), everyone knows everyone else. That young man had been known and deeply loved by that community. And they all knew me—the outsider, the new kid on the block—and would judge me by how I handled that situation. I suddenly felt I was under a magnifying glass.

Well, I met with the family, and we planned the service. It was to be held in our church, which seated about 200, so we were planning for a packed house. Later, as we worked to set up the church, Brady, the demonized man, approached. He came into the church, walked up to me, and said with gentleness, “Can I help you?”

Floored, I said, “Absolutely, you can help us.” I came to find out that he and the young man had been friends. So Brady worked along with us to set up the church, and while we worked, we all joked and laughed together and got along really well.

Then the guests arrived, and the time came to begin. I was nervous beyond words. The church overflowed with people. We had over 400 in attendance. They stood wall-to-wall in the sanctuary, they massed outside all around the church, and they even peeked in from the kitchen.

And God proved Himself again by giving me wisdom. The service was awesome. We really felt His presence there, comforting the grieving. Everything went smoothly, and people came up to me afterward to affirm me.

“You did a great job,” they said. It was like I’d passed a test in their eyes by conducting this service well.

I had passed a test with Brady, as well. His attitude toward me seemed changed. He was friendlier, almost companionable. His wife had prepared a dish for the potluck, so I went over to their house afterwards to return the plate. He actually talked with me! He didn’t argue, cuss me out, or flip me off; we just talked. I thought, Hey, maybe I’m making some in-roads with this guy. Maybe I’m finally in a place where I can minister to him.

Every day after that for about a week, I found myself over on Brady’s property, talking with him. Mostly, we talked about surface things, but I directed the conversation to the Lord whenever I could. And it seemed he actually listened and agreed!

Wow, I thought, this is really happening! The walls are breaking down. I’m really getting through to him, and there’s going to be a victory here!

Then one day, on my way home, I pulled into Brady’s driveway to check up on him, just to see how he was, which I’d been doing regularly. He was out in his front yard, stoking a fire.

I pulled in, and with the window rolled down, I said, “Hey, Brady, how’s it going?”

“Get the [expletive] off my property,” he said.

“Brady, what’s wrong?” I asked.

“Get off my property,” he repeated.

“Alright,” I said, “I’ll just come back tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” he spat.

I didn’t. We never had a comfortable relationship again; it became combative, as it had been in the beginning. The fact that I couldn’t get through to Brady weighed heavily on me. I couldn’t help free him from whatever bondage had a hold on him. Maybe nothing I had done would make any kind of difference in his life. Could I have done more? I didn’t know.

 

After the funeral, our ministry in Quinault became even more vibrant. God caused the church to grow and flourish. The cell groups continued growing, and I saw immense growth and strengthening in the faith of the new believers. They were going into the community and reaching the world for Christ, demonstrating even to our “seasoned saints” what it meant to have passion for Christ. We were fast becoming the kind of active church most pastors only dream about.

Quinault Valley Chapel was a fairly small church, though; we had about 125 regular attendees. With a small church like that, there just isn’t room for a large pastoral staff. So I was the Senior pastor, the Youth pastor, and the Children’s pastor, which meant I had to lead a gathering for each of those groups on different nights during the week. (I did have a volunteer, Leroy, who led worship. He soon took on the role of Associate pastor, though still on a volunteer basis.) Sure, it was tiring, but I loved the fact that I could see the ministry grow. The youth group alone held steady at about fifty kids. I never had this many as a Youth pastor! I thought. It was true; I’d struggled to get twenty in my Bellingham group, and it had usually been just Dale and Tina’s kids. But here, the Spirit of God moved, and kids got saved. I felt like God had poured Miracle-Gro on the whole church.

This growth allowed me great opportunities to reach more people in creative ways. For example, I decided to teach the Youth group about life after death. So I went down to the funeral home (forty minutes away) and asked them if I could borrow a casket. Talk about an unusual request! I explained to them my plan, and they agreed to let me use one. They gave me a really nice one—beautifully constructed and shiny, with a satin lining—and we loaded it into my van. I took it to the church and set it up.

When the teens came in for the Youth group meeting, I had dimmed the lights and set the church up just as it would have been for a real funeral. I held a mock funeral service there, and throughout the service, I asked, “Where has this young person gone? Did they go to heaven, or did they go to hell?” We talked about choices, small decisions to choose either the things of God or the things of this world, and how those choices set up a pattern that either leads us to God or leads us away.

At the end of the service, I had each of them come up to view the person in the coffin. I told them they would decide in their own minds where this young person went. As each came up, I opened the coffin enough for that person to see inside. Each one looked in and saw the mirror I had placed there.

As I closed the lid each time, I saw tears on each face. The solemnity of the occasion really hit home. Those teens knew that this was a grave choice that each one of them had to make. And many of them that night chose to give their lives to Christ.

When I took the casket back to the funeral home, the director told me he loved what I had done. He said, “We’re going to be having students from the local high schools coming here for a presentation. Would you be willing to speak to them?”

He continued, “Obviously, it can’t be exactly the same talk. I mean, it can’t be a Christian production; the school wouldn’t go for it. But you could give a motivational talk on making good choices.”

What an opportunity! God had opened a huge door. Imagine: the chance to talk to all of the high-school students in the area, not just your own Youth group. The kids who really needed to hear about making right choices would get to hear it. And at the end, each one of them would come face-to-face with the reality of death, forcing them to consider questions of eternity.

After that talk, I had several teachers from the K-12 school come up to me and say, “I don’t know what you’re doing, but whatever it is, keep it up; this is the best school year we’ve ever had.” Kids were getting along, respecting the teachers, and generally making good decisions.

I often went to visit the school after that, and—I don’t know if this happens anywhere in the United States—when I pulled onto the property, teachers would give the students hall passes and let them leave class to come see me! The school let me walk the halls and speak with the kids. I could give them advice, help with their problems, and even pray for them. I had kids yelling out of the windows to greet me when I showed up. These kids were really getting touched by God.

The football team began praying in their team huddle before going onto the field—many of them were in the Youth group. After the games, they would come to our church, and we’d have a Fifth Quarter, a hang-out and party time with music and food. They all had a great time, and it was an easy way to help them make right choices—we knew that nobody was out getting into trouble with their post-game energy.