Disaster

Northside Baptist Church was a cinderblock building along a busy street. It sat on an acre lot, the front half gravel, the back half weeds. A homemade sign along the road proclaimed, 

Northside Baptist Church 
Supporting the Southern Baptist Convention
Sunday Bible Study 9:45  
 Morning Worship 11:00 
Evening Service 6:00 
Wednesday Bible Study 7:00

A board swinging from chains beneath the sign read, “Pastor Maury Robertson.” My office was at end of a narrow modular building where the children met.  

The 30-40 people who came each Sunday greeted me with smiles and encouragement. Bob M, an 80 year-old dynamite salesman, led the music. He had a face like a bulldog and a wide toothy smile that made me think of a politician. 

Bob M called me each week to tell me which hymns he had chosen so I could put them in the bulletin. My first clue that something was off track was his tone on one of these calls. He was all dynamite salesman, no politician. 

“Number 222. Number 33. Number 426. And for the offertory, Number 319. Got it?”

“Got it.” I said. 

“Click.” 

Invitations to his house after church stopped. I didn’t know why but it was okay. Northside had another option: Bob L. Every Sunday after church, one crowd went to Bob M’s house and the other to Bob L’s. At Bob L’s, we felt like part of the family. We ate delicious barbecue, watched the 49ers, and discussed the Bible during commercials. 

One Sunday, Bob L asked if I would announce the Life Chain, a pro life demonstration that would take place in a few weeks. “Sure,” I said. Southern Baptist churches were assumed to be pro-life so I didn’t think this would be a problem. The next Sunday, I announced the Life Chain and told them I would be there, assuming my presence was expected. As I made the announcement, a dark cloud crossed Bob M’s face.

At the monthly all-church business meeting, Bob M made a motion that we never discuss abortion in church because it was a political issue, not a spiritual one. His people nodded in agreement. They had been prepped for this. Bob L’s wife, who was strongly pro-life, burst into tears and disappeared out the back door. Undaunted, someone from Bob M’s crowd called for a vote. The motion carried. 

Afterward, I went to Bob L’s house. They were seething, shocked that Bob M had sucker punched them with this power play.

The next Sunday was our monthly deacons’ meeting. There were only three deacons: Bob M and two others, both from his crowd.

“You would be wise to stick with the majority,” he counseled me.

“But abortion is a moral issue, not just a political one,” I replied, surprised by the strain in my voice.

A look of paternal compassion washed over Bob’s face. “You know,” he said, “Times are tough. Jobs are hard to come by. You should be careful.”

It felt like that day on the basketball court. I lost it. “How can you threaten me?”  I shouted.

Bob’s face flipped instantly from paternal compassion to injury. The other two bought it.  Bob was just trying to help. I, on the other hand, had committed the unforgivable sin. I had lost my temper. I had not yet learned the art of fighting in church where the trick is to feign compassion and sneak the dagger in unseen. I had no experience at this. Bob was a ninja. I returned to Bob L’s house and told them what had happened. They were boiling mad. 

I had to take a stand. Abortion was wrong, wasn’t it? The pastor is the spokesman for God. He cannot adjust the message to the whims of his congregation. The next Sunday, I opened my Bible and announced that I would be laying out the Biblical teaching on abortion. An elderly woman gathered her things and left. She was followed by a young woman who slammed the door so hard the walls shook. I plowed ahead, verse-by-verse, making my case, finding courage in the nods of my supporters and dodging daggers from the rest. 

That night, we gathered at Bob L’s house to assess the situation. They congratulated me on my courage. But what now? To my surprise, Bob said, 

“We have to end this.”

We piled into our cars and caravanned to Bob M’s house where his people were gathered. Bob L rang the bell. No answer. He rapped on the door. Nothing. He banged on it. Silence. He broke into tears and cried out.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Let’s talk! You can have it your way.” No response.

We returned to our cars and went home. 

In Southern Baptist Churches the majority rules. We were outnumbered. The next Sunday I resigned to avoid being fired. 

Julie and I returned to our little apartment. How would we pay the rent? Julie made minimum wage at a local preschool. I made nothing. I called my favorite seminary professor, seeking encouragement and counsel. Bob M had already called to tell him what a disaster I was. 

“I hear you split a perfectly good church,” said my seminary professor. 

I tried to explain but received with neither understanding nor forgiveness. 

That Thanksgiving, I gathered with Julie’s big Italian family in Novato. I sat in silence in the TV room with the men, staring at a football game. I had bet everything that if I gave myself to God, God would take care of me and use me to work wonders. In just four months, I had blown my first church to smithereens. My career had ended before it even began. 

The phone rang. It was Bob L. 

“We want to start a new church and we want you to be the pastor.” 

I told them I would need to pray about it but I already knew my answer.