They told me I couldn’t serve communion anymore because my Harley was “sending the wrong message” to the congregation.
Forty-three years I’d been a deacon at First Baptist, never missed a Sunday, tithed faithfully even when money was tight. But the moment our new young pastor saw me roll up on my bike for the church picnic, wearing my riding gear because I’d come straight from visiting shut-ins, suddenly I was “incompatible with our family-friendly image.”
He actually used those words, standing in the same sanctuary where I’d taught Sunday school to half the kids in this town. Where I’d held my wife’s memorial service. Where I’d been baptized at fifteen.
All those years of service meant nothing because I chose two wheels over four. What finally broke me wasn’t the ban itself – it was overhearing him tell the youth group that “Brother Mike is why we need to be careful about the company we keep.”
Like I was some kind of disease that might infect their precious children. Like the man who’d driven the church van for twenty years, who’d built their playground with his own hands, was suddenly dangerous because he owned a motorcycle.
That was six months ago. I kept it quiet, didn’t want to cause division in the church. Started attending the early service instead, sitting in the back, leaving before anyone could feel uncomfortable.
My riding brothers asked why I stopped wearing my “Bikers for Christ” patch, why I didn’t talk about church anymore. I made excuses. Said I was taking a break from serving, needed to focus on other things.
But Sarah Williams saw through it. She’d been attending First Baptist longer than me, taught my daughter in kindergarten thirty years ago. She cornered me at the grocery store last week.
“Michael Thompson, you haven’t been yourself,” she said, studying me with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. “And don’t tell me you’re fine. I’ve known you too long.”
I tried to brush it off, but she wouldn’t let it go. Finally, standing there between the canned goods and cereal, I told her. About Pastor Davidson’s meeting. About being removed from the deacon board. About being asked not to park my bike in the church lot because “it might give visitors the wrong impression.”
Sarah’s face went through several emotions – shock, anger, then something like determination. “That young fool,” she muttered. “He has no idea what he’s done.”
I thought that was the end of it. Sarah would be sympathetic, maybe complain to her friends, life would go on. I’d find another church eventually, somewhere that didn’t care if I rode a Harley. Somewhere that judged me by my faith, not my transportation.
I was wrong.
Sunday morning came, and I did my usual routine. Early service, back row, ready to slip out during the final hymn. But something was different. The parking lot was fuller than usual for the 8 AM service. And there were more motorcycles than I’d ever seen at First Baptist – dozens of them, parked right in front where everyone could see.
Inside, the sanctuary was packed. My riding brothers from the Christian Riders Association. Guys from the Veterans Motorcycle Club. Even some folks from the Widows Sons, the Masonic riders group. All sitting there in their leather vests, mixed in with the regular congregation.
Pastor Davidson looked nervous as he took the pulpit. He kept glancing at all the bikers, his prepared sermon clearly forgotten. He stumbled through announcements, his voice getting higher with each word.
Then Sarah Williams stood up.
“Pastor, before you begin your sermon, I have something to say.” She didn’t wait for permission, just walked right up to the front. “Church family, we need to talk about Brother Mike Thompson.”
I wanted to sink through the floor. This wasn’t what I wanted – not a confrontation, not a scene. But Sarah wasn’t done.
“For forty-three years, Mike Thompson has served this church faithfully. He’s taught your children, visited your sick relatives, fixed this building more times than anyone can count. He’s driven countless teenagers home from youth group when their parents couldn’t make it. He’s been the hands and feet of Jesus in this community.”
She paused, looking directly at Pastor Davidson. “Six months ago, he was told he could no longer serve as a deacon. Not because of any sin. Not because of any failure of faith. But because he rides a motorcycle.”
Murmurs rippled through the congregation. Many looked shocked – apparently, Pastor Davidson had kept his decision quiet, probably told the board Mike had stepped down voluntarily.
“This man,” Sarah continued, pointing at me, “has brought more people to Christ through his motorcycle ministry than most of us have in our entire lives. He’s prayed with dying bikers on the side of highways. He’s ministered to people who would never set foot in a traditional church. And we told him he’s not good enough to serve communion because he wears leather instead of a suit?”
Tom Garrett, president of the Christian Riders, stood up next. “Brother Mike led my son to the Lord at a bike rally ten years ago. My boy was lost, deep into drugs, heading for prison or worse. Mike spent three hours with him beside a campfire, sharing his testimony, showing him another way. Today my son’s a youth pastor in Memphis. Because a biker cared enough to reach out when everyone else had written him off.”
One by one, people stood to speak. Riders sharing how I’d ministered to them. Church members admitting they’d wondered why I’d stepped back from serving. Even Mrs. Henderson, who’d clutched her purse tighter whenever bikers visited, admitted she’d been wrong to judge.
Pastor Davidson tried to regain control. “This is highly irregular. If people have concerns, they should address them through proper channels—”
“We tried that,” Sam Rodriguez interrupted. He was on the deacon board, had been for twenty years. “You told us Mike had voluntarily stepped down. You lied to us, Pastor.”
The word hung in the air like an accusation. Which it was.
“I made a decision based on the best interests of the church,” Pastor Davidson said defensively. “We’re trying to attract young families. The image we project matters.”
“And what image is that?” I finally spoke, standing slowly. Every eye turned to me. “That we only accept people who look a certain way? Drive certain vehicles? Wear certain clothes?”
I walked forward, my boots echoing on the hardwood floor. “Jesus ate with tax collectors and sinners. He touched lepers. He welcomed everyone who came to Him with a sincere heart. When did we become too good for that?”
“It’s not about being too good,” Pastor Davidson protested. “It’s about being wise. Being relevant to today’s families.”
“Relevant?” Betty Morrison stood up. Her grandson was one of the kids I’d taught in Sunday school. “You want to know what’s relevant? My grandson still talks about Mr. Mike’s lessons from fifteen years ago. Still remembers the Bible verses he taught through motorcycle metaphors. Still has the little wooden cross Mike carved for him. That’s relevant.”
The service never really recovered. Pastor Davidson rushed through a shortened sermon while half the congregation sat in stunned silence and the other half whispered among themselves. When it ended, people didn’t leave. They clustered in groups, talking, some approaching me with apologies for not speaking up sooner.
But the real showdown came during the church board meeting that evening. I wasn’t invited, but Sam Rodriguez was, and he called me afterward with the details.
“Pastor Davidson tried to defend his position,” Sam told me. “Said he was protecting the church’s reputation. But then old Reverend Phillips asked him a simple question: ‘How many souls has Mike Thompson brought to salvation through his motorcycle ministry?’ And Davidson couldn’t answer. Because he’d never bothered to ask.”
The board had voted. Eight to two, with only Pastor Davidson and his wife dissenting. I was to be reinstated as a deacon immediately, with a formal apology from the pulpit next Sunday.
But I wasn’t sure I wanted to go back. The damage was done. How could I serve alongside someone who saw my motorcycle as a liability instead of a ministry tool? Who valued appearance over authentic faith?
The answer came from an unexpected source. Pastor Davidson showed up at my house Tuesday evening, looking older than his thirty-five years. He stood on my porch, fidgeting with his car keys.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
I let him in, offered him coffee. We sat at my kitchen table, the same table where I’d counseled dozens of struggling bikers over the years.
“I was wrong,” he said without preamble. “I let my own biases, my own… fear, I guess… cloud my judgment. I grew up in a neighborhood where motorcycle gangs were a real problem. When I saw your bike, saw the vest, it triggered something in me that I’m not proud of.”
I studied him. He seemed sincere, but sincerity and changed behavior were two different things.
“My ministry is on the road,” I told him. “It’s in parking lots and rest stops and biker bars. It’s with people who will never walk through your church doors because they know they’ll be judged before they even sit down. You took that away from me. Made me ashamed of something God has used to reach people.”
He nodded, swallowing hard. “I know. Sarah Williams made sure I knew. She had seventeen people come to my office yesterday. Seventeen people who found faith through your motorcycle ministry. People I’d never met because they worship elsewhere now, but who wanted me to know what kind of man I’d pushed aside.”
“So what now?” I asked.
“Now I ask for your forgiveness. And I ask you to help me understand. To teach me about this ministry I was too proud to see.” He met my eyes. “The board wants you back. I want you back. But more than that, I want to learn how to reach people I’ve been avoiding my whole pastoral career.”
It would have been easy to say no. To hold onto the hurt, the humiliation of being deemed unworthy after decades of service. But that’s not what bikers do. We believe in brotherhood, in second chances, in judging people by their actions, not their mistakes.
“Alright,” I said. “But things change. No more hiding my bike. No more pretending I’m something I’m not. If you want me back, you get all of me – leather vest and all.”
He agreed. That Sunday, I served communion wearing my Bikers for Christ vest over my usual shirt and tie. Pastor Davidson not only apologized publicly but announced a new ministry partnership with local motorcycle clubs. He even asked if I’d teach him to ride.
“Fair warning,” I told him after the service. “Once you start, it’s hard to stop. The open road has a way of getting into your soul.”
He smiled, looking more genuine than I’d seen him since he’d arrived at First Baptist. “Maybe that’s what my soul needs.”
Three months later, Pastor Davidson passed his motorcycle safety course. He bought a small Honda, nothing fancy, but reliable. We’ve ridden together several times now, visiting shut-ins, bringing groceries to elderly members who can’t drive anymore. He still looks uncomfortable in his helmet, still rides like he’s afraid the bike might buck him off. But he’s trying.
Last week, a family visited First Baptist – rough-looking folks, both parents covered in tattoos, riding a beat-up Harley with their teenage son on his own smaller bike. In the old days, they would have gotten stares, maybe felt unwelcome enough to never return.
Instead, Pastor Davidson met them in the parking lot, admired their bikes, invited them to park in the front row. During the service, he mentioned the church’s partnership with local riding groups, pointed me out as someone they could talk to about faith and motorcycles.
They stayed for the potluck. Their son joined the youth group. They’ve been back every Sunday since.
“You know what I learned?” Pastor Davidson told me as we watched them leave that first day. “I learned that the Great Commission doesn’t say ‘Go into all the world except biker bars.’ It just says ‘Go.'”
I wear my deacon badge on my vest now, right next to my Bikers for Christ patch. Some Sundays I show up in my truck, some Sundays on my Harley. Nobody blinks either way anymore. Because First Baptist finally remembered something important: the ground is level at the foot of the cross, whether you arrived on two wheels or four.
And Pastor Davidson? He’s planning to ride in the next charity run. Says he wants to see this “motorcycle ministry” firsthand. Wants to understand why so many bikers talk about finding God on the open road.
I’ll be riding beside him, making sure he keeps up, watching his back like brothers do. Because that’s what we are now – brothers. Not despite the motorcycles, but because of what the motorcycles taught us about breaking down walls, about seeing past surface differences, about finding common ground on the highway of faith.
Sometimes it takes conflict to create understanding. Sometimes it takes standing up to create change. And sometimes, it takes a bunch of bikers showing up at an 8 AM church service to remind folks what Christianity is really about.
The funny thing is, our youth group has grown by thirty percent since we started openly welcoming bikers. Turns out, teenagers relate to people who refuse to conform, who live authentically, who choose the harder path because it’s the right one.
Who would have thought that a bunch of old guys on motorcycles could teach the church about reaching the next generation?
Then again, maybe that’s not surprising at all. Jesus himself was a radical who challenged the religious establishment, who welcomed outcasts, who chose fishermen and tax collectors as his disciples.
Pretty sure He would have been comfortable on a Harley.
