Pastors

When the car rolled to a stop, Phil Davis nervously glanced over at his wife. He knew what Cynthia was thinking--Phil, what have you gotten us into this time? He wondered the same thing. They were parked in front of a low-income housing project.

Why did I agree to this? he thought. Oh well, I'll just preach and leave.

He had been asked to speak at Galilean Baptist Church, a church plant in a rundown neighborhood of Charlotte, North Carolina. The pastor, who was white, was attempting to start an African-American church. That's about all Phil knew.

As soon as he shut the motor off, however, Phil also knew he was overdressed. He had on a blue, pin-striped suit and a crisply starched button-down shirt with a red tie. He normally dressed that way: he was a corporate manager for a finance company. But in his heart of hearts, he was a preacher. Several years earlier, he had sensed God's call to ministry.

The Davises got out of the car and climbed the rickety steps to a first-floor flat. There the ...

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