One of the most common questions I get is how I ended up pastoring a Bikers’ Church. After all, it’s not exactly the most common “lifestyle choice.” And so, I’ve decided to write a post (or two) telling you a little about my journey. I debated doing this post for about a week. After all, it’s about the most self-centred post a person can do. It’s a post all about me. But, let’s face it, isn’t blogging fairly narcissistic? Most bloggers use the forum to share their personal opinions on a variety of subjects.
So, let me tell you a little of my journey.
I wasn’t born into a biker family. But I wasn’t born into a preacher’s family either. My natural father was a bank robber. In fact, he went to jail before my second birthday, and spent the next fifteen years behind bars. He did break out of prison on a few occasions. In the early 70’s, he ended up in a shoot out in downtown Ottawa. While he was unharmed, he was arrested and put back in jail. To be honest, I don’t remember any of the incidents with my dad growing up. For some reason I believed he had died when I was a baby (not sure if someone told me that, of if I just assumed it). Mind you, I did grow up always wanting to be the robber when I played “Cops & Robbers” with my friends!
I wasn’t overly close with the Dale side of the family, although I did spend time with my Aunts and Uncles. In fact, it was a couple of my Aunts who taught me to smoke when I was nine! A habit I continued on and off until I was sixteen. The Dale side of the family struggled with a lot of pain. One Aunt committed suicide, my Uncle Terry was beaten to death in 1990, and another Aunt was killed when the small plane she was a passenger on crashed.
I was a loner growing up. For a number of reasons, my mom moved often. In fact, I couldn’t begin to name all of the different schools I attended growing up. My mom cared for my brother (who is five years older), my sister (1.5 years younger), and myself. She was my hero, and I wrote about her here. After her death, my sister discovered that there were actually two other siblings. A brother and a sister who were born between my brother and I. For some reason, she gave them up. Perhaps some day I’ll meet them.
When I was thirteen, my mom met (and married) Gary, an old school biker. It was then that my passion for riding became a reality. I bought my first dirt bike, and along with my step-brother, rode every day regardless of the weather. In his younger days, Gary had been a member of an outlaw motorcycle club. While he wasn’t riding with the club anymore, he was still friends with a lot of club guys. I can remember coming home and finding thirty Harleys parked outside my house. I spent time with guys named “Mountain Man”. I learned to ride with many of them.
A few years later, my mom began to search for meaning. That search led her to a church, where she turned her life over to God. In the Fall of 1982, our family began attending church. I had no interest in anything spiritual, and believed that church was for old people, women, and sissy guys. No real, tough guy would ever be a Christian.
That opinion changed a few month later when the preacher shared the story of Jesus. As I listened to what Jesus experienced on the Cross — the punishment that he took upon his body — I was in awe. Anyone who could be a strong as Jesus was worthy of my respect. I began a journey of discovering him. A journey I have continued to this day.
LIfe wasn’t easy after I began my spiritual journey. I thought it would be. I thought that being a Christian would mean that everything in life would begin to go better. I thought I would have no more problems. No more challenges.
That all changed on January 9, 1983. The day my house blew up. But, I’ll save that, and the rest of the story, for tomorrow.
