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Now I recognize it as the defining moment in my ministry. Almost one thousand people were gathered inside our one-time Masonic Temple for our Wednesday night prayer meeting.

The shouts from protesters outside competed with our prayers. "Racist, sexist, anti-gay, born-again bigots go away!"

The chant was relentless. The longer they yelled, the louder they yelled. The mob was angry and growing more agitated. They spray-painted graffiti on our old building and splashed red paint on the sidewalks. They waved signs bearing deadly threats. I didn't know if the night would end without violence.

Our church, Armitage Baptist in Chicago, had been their target for months. Our presence on sidewalks outside the city's abortion clinics—telling pregnant women about alternatives to abortion and drawing attention to the rights of the unborn—had raised the hackles of an array of radical groups. The militant homosexual machine Act Up had failed in their attempt to take over our Easter worship service. They blew whistles and dropped condoms in the offering plate. Seven screaming protesters were arrested, prompting an investigation by the city's human rights commission.

Now a coalition of ten political groups had amassed on our doorstep, including Queer Nation, seditionists Refuse and Resist, Puerto Ricans to free political prisoners, and Sister Serpent, an occult group.

Our church was one of a dozen targets across the nation that night in 1994. Activists were protesting on the anniversary of the shooting death of a Pensacola, Florida, abortion doctor. It seemed accidental that we found out about the rally ahead of time. One of our members saw a flyer on his college campus and told us our church was the Chicago site.

"We will have a concert of prayer on Wednesday night," I told our congregation on Sunday. "We'll pray for our nation, our city, and for the demonstrators." The people of Armitage were primed. And a little nervous.

My friend James Meeks was surprised that I hadn't told him about the coming march when one of his church members relayed the news. James is pastor of Salem Baptist Church, a large African-American congregation across town. We had become good friends in recent years. A black pastor and a white pastor find a lot of common ground ministering in the city. We shared stories and encouragement, pulpits, and even some church attenders. James had been very open about his ministry—what it takes to reach African Americans with the gospel and involve them in the church. He had been very supportive of our work in this drug-infested, gang-driven neighborhood.

"What would I tell you?" I asked when he wanted to know why I hadn't called for his help. "Would I ask you to shut down your service?" I learned his answer as the chants of witches and anarchists turned to screams.

A school bus screeched to a halt on Kedzie Boulevard, wedging the protesters between the street and our stoop. Another followed, and another. Seven buses ringed the block.

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