 |
| The Rev. Dennis King, himself a biker, says, 'people will stick their heads in here and say this isn't a church, but the people
are the church.' carmen k. sisson |
Motorcycle ministry: A 'biker church' in Texas draws a devoted flock
Dennis King preaches in a converted blues bar to motorcycle riders and others who like his brand of everyone-is-welcome worship.
from the January 23, 2008 edition
Page 2 of 3
Soon, he was in church every week. He'd stopped drinking and was doing everything they'd let him, from sweeping floors to driving the church van. He started teaching Sunday School, but still felt called to do more. One day, watching a group of children at the altar, tears rolled down his cheeks. God was calling him to preach, and though he tried to ignore it, he was ready to accept the call.
He worked as a salesman by day and took ministry courses at night. Then one day he graduated and waited to be snapped up by a church in need of a newly minted preacher. It didn't happen. Four years passed before King found a church, and after four and a half years there, he realized he was being led in a different direction again.
His children were grown and he was resuming his love for motorcycles, hanging out at the local pawn shop with a group of Christian bikers who gathered for weekly Bible study.
Still, even after his stint at Northview Baptist Church, he found his quest to form a new church difficult. Every week, the struggling ministry met in homes and local businesses, garnering only a handful of worshipers. And once again, King felt his faith tested. "I wondered why other churches were growing and we weren't," he says. "Some Sundays there weren't but three people there: me, Cindy, and one other person."
In December 2005, his prayers were answered. While preaching to a crowd of 10, he was interrupted by a familiar rumble outside – motorcycles. Forty-five leather-clad bikers poured in, bringing family and friends. The next day, King learned the news. The men were so moved by the service that space was being offered in a local blues-bar venue, The Pigeon Hole. Hope Fellowship finally had a home.
"I realized God had been answering my prayers all along," King says. "He wasn't bringing the men to me. He was bringing me to them."
Initially, Saturday nights meant blues jams at The Pigeon Hole, with a quick cleanup for Sunday church. Though it didn't begin as a biker church, word spread quickly. This was a place where everyone was welcome, even bikers. And though King wasn't a hard-core biker, he knew if he wanted to minister to this flock, he had to ride. Suddenly the former Baptist preacher shed his tie. He got a tattoo while church members stood around, some teasing, all impressed by his dedication to become one with them. The Pigeon Hole became a full-time church.
"A lot of churches expect you to change before you come in, but change doesn't take place until you're in the presence of Jesus," King says. "People will stick their heads in here and say this isn't a church, but the people are the church."
Roger Brown says the open attitude is what drew him and his wife, Lindy. "I've gone to churches where no one would speak to you," he says. "You were an outsider, and you'd wonder why you were there. Here, you're not gonna get in and out without somebody hugging you."
RSS feed
