When a Motorcycle Nearly Cost Me My Church Home

I never imagined that something as simple as how I arrived at church could call my faith into question. After more than four decades of service at First Baptist, I was told I could no longer help serve communion because my Harley was considered “the wrong message.”

The words stung more than I expected. I had shown up that day straight from visiting shut-ins, still in my riding gear, believing that service mattered more than appearances.

Instead, a single moment turned years of quiet dedication into an uncomfortable conversation about image, perception, and belonging. For forty-three years, the church had been my second home. I had taught Sunday school, helped raise money when budgets were tight, and stood at the pulpit during some of the most important moments of my life, including my wife’s memorial service.

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