When I was 20 years old, I came to Los Angeles, California, to pastor a church. It all happened because a big bank was going to take possession of a little church born out of the Azusa Street Revival, and my dad did not want to let that happen.
He asked me to step in while he searched for a real pastor. He had me memorize 10 of his best sermons and promised I would only serve for three months.
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I’ll turn 50 soon, and I’m still waiting for the real pastor to show up.
Those first months of pastoring a church taught me a lot. They were excruciatingly difficult. The church had what I like to call a reverse revival, going from 18 members down to two. I remember standing in that little church one Sunday evening, completely alone. Not one person showed up.
I felt defeated.
That night, I went home and sobbed. I also cried out to God, asking Him why I was here and what I was supposed to be doing.
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