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Bikers at Irving church grateful to have God as driving force
By admin | August 27, 2007
Bikers at Irving church grateful to
have God as driving force
IRVING – Along West Irving Boulevard, past idle factories and decaying warehouses, roars a thunderous herd of urban cowboys. They’re clad in leather from tip to tail: cowhide boots, jackets, vests and pants.
Photos by RICKY MOON/Special Contributor
Leland Hallett prepares to attend a service at Hope Fellowship at The Pigeon Hole. The church was started in January 2006 for bikers, but it has attracted parishioners from all walks of life. ‘People come to be a part of the family atmosphere,’ Pastor Dennis King says.
It’s a Sunday morning, so traffic is light in this industrial section. Good thing. The families packed into their sedans and sport utility vehicles on the Lord’s day wouldn’t take kindly to the look of this gang of riders.
The group pulls up to an antique storefront that used to be a banquet hall dubbed The Pigeon Hole. They back their machines between two bright orange traffic cones, dismount their metal steeds and stretch their legs.
The pins on their leather jackets are decidedly un-desperado: “Real Men Love Jesus,” “Bikers for Christ,” “Satan Sucks.” The large patch depicting a motorcycle on each of their leather jackets has a deeper meaning upon close inspection: The rear wheel doubles as the eye of Christ, watching over them. The frame is in the shape of a fish. The front end resembles Moses’ staff. Two crosses replace the twin cams.
Welcome to Hope Fellowship at The Pigeon Hole, a self-proclaimed “biker-friendly church” housed in an 80-year-old bar, deep in the heart of Irving. The congregation was started for bikers, by bikers, in January 2006. But word of mouth brought laypeople from all walks of life through the front door.
A man named Lucky, who wears Dickies overalls over his 250-plus-pound body and sports a handlebar mustache, peeks his head out the front door and addresses his brothers.
“We’re gettin’ ready to start,” he grunts. “Get on in here.”
The bikers quickly stomp up the wooden steps.
Inside, there’s a bar and a couple dozen card tables scattered about. Chinese lanterns hang from the rafters. Mooose, a black-clad, bandanna-wearing road warrior with a ZZ Top beard, serves coffee from behind the bar, while children run around, chased by their mothers.
About 80 bikers brought their girlfriends and wives with them. They, in turn, brought the kids, some on the backs of their own motorcycles. Another 50 parishioners are on hand, including Randall Anglin, a fresh-faced 23-year-old.
“I wish I was a biker,” he says emphatically. But to these guys, being a biker means more than just owning a bike. Mr. Anglin is part of the working class, like everyone else here – including the bikers. He toils away at Verizon during the week and looks forward to Sunday and church, mostly to listen to Pastor Dennis King, the reason there is an assembly every week.
As the congregants take their seats, Mr. King waits in the wings. He looks menacing in his black shirt, leather chaps, orange Harley-Davidson bandanna and goatee.
He’s here to lead his congregation, about 150-strong today and growing as word spreads throughout North Texas about this unique church for outlaws, current and reformed. As Mr. King takes the stage, he launches into an apology.
“Yesterday, I was not happy,” he begins. “I acted out in a bad manner. I did things and said things I shouldn’t have. And I want to apologize to my wife.”
The pastor’s eyes well up with tears, which triggers the second coming of tears from the congregants, some of whom were still broken up from Mr. Anglin’s opening prayer. Mr. King calls on congregants to share their stories. One lady sobbingly recalls how she snapped at her daughter. A biker speaks of how he had road rage and “acted out” in a very non-Christian manner.
“I’m wondering if my bad day didn’t rub off on others in this room,” Mr. King declares. “Sounds like a lot of us had a bad day. If so, I want you to mend that fence. It’ll help you on your journey to become pure of heart.”
Reformed men
Not too long ago, Mr. King was just Dennis, a biker who battled with drugs and alcohol. He’d been in and out of the church scene his whole life, sometimes straying for years at a time and only living to ride. Like a lot of the reformed men around him, he believes God spoke to him one day and showed the lost soul his calling: He’d be a minister.
Mr. King enrolled in Arlington Baptist College and became ordained in 1990. Unlike a lot of his classmates, Mr. King never had any desire to preach from an elevated pulpit. The Dallas area is fraught with tales of church-as-big-business.
“I’m not saying anything against the mega-churches,” he says. “But I believe that those who should be saved need to be brought to and accepted by the church on their own volition. My philosophy has always been to bring in those that need help.”
Bikers are proud people. As a biker himself, the last thing Mr. King wants to do is sermonize to someone who isn’t ready. “Our doors are always open for anyone, be it a biker or a layperson,” he says. “That’s how we’re different from every other church. At Hope Fellowship, we don’t pass judgment, because many of us know what it’s like to be judged. Many of our congregants have been turned away from other churches. Here, we are all-accepting. People come to be a part of the family atmosphere.”
Hope Fellowship’s men haven’t always been lambs of God. Many of these men were outlaws, buying and selling drugs, drinking whiskey in lieu of bottled water and roving the streets.
Guys like Phillip Hargrove, a muscular biker with a deep, gravelly voice, impeccable posture and hands like the paws of a bull mastiff. In the ’80s and ’90s, he hooked up with a Dallas motorcycle gang. He was getting ready to go through the gang’s initiation procedure. He was told to prospect and steal a few Harleys. Then God spoke to him.
“I was on my bike one day, and every time I looked around, I could have swore I saw cops,” he says. “I checked myself into rehab, and they sent me to church.” Word of mouth brought him to Hope Fellowship.
New hope
Then there’s Mooose (born Art Eslinger). “I’ve been into just about everything an outlaw can be into,” he says through his walrus mustache. “I did drugs, I sold drugs, I drank a ton. I hung out with a lot of violent people at violent parties and at strip joints. Got a buddy who’s a Hell’s Angel in San Diego, and one time I was watching the TV news and they showed him in this report. Turns out the Angels got into it with another club. Some people got shot, most got their bones broke, which isn’t terribly shocking. But I was supposed to be on that ride. That could have been me.
“Hope Fellowship has changed me in many ways, spiritually and as a man,” he says. “Even in how I ride. I used to ride like a total idiot. I used to go between 85 and 90 right down the center lane, or between a truck and the retaining wall.”
Mooose, like Mr. Hargrove and Mr. King, quit drinking and doing drugs. The church gave him new hope.
At the end of services, Mr. King announces that day’s ride: He’s leading his minions to a laid-up member’s house, and then on to the hospital to pray for a parishioner’s child. After every Sunday service, many in the group take to the streets and ride to pray for someone in need.
“I look at some of the people who come in here, and they just have nothing,” Mr. King says. “I know they’ve been drinking or that they’re on drugs. Most churches would kick them out. We welcome them. After all, they’re the people who need us the most.”
Adam Pitluk is a Dallas-based freelance writer.
Topics: Evangelism, Ministry |