Running Away: The Memoir of a Bishop's Son

By Ulysses Stephen King, Jr.

Ulysses honest candor about the Christian journey is refreshing! He supports the body of Christ in developing spiritual veracity while applying practical truths. Running Away is an authentic discourse exploring life behind the pulpit. Vita Jones, Ph.D
For those sons and daughters who served alongside their parents in ministry and were left on the battlefield wounded with scars, you are not forgotten. There is healing for the soul and spirit, even in the midst of pain and disappointment.
Pastor Kings daring memoir goes beyond the religious slogans and Christian jargon that is so often used by popular celebrity-preachers, and he examines some of the views and stereotypes cast on pastors children who serve in the church. He shares his personal journey, emotions, and reasons for accepting the call to serve as the pastor of a historic classical Pentecostal church. He also attempts to answer the question, Why do so many pastors children leave the church and run away from the call to serve?
Running Away is a memoir of passion told by the son of a bishop who struggled to find his purpose and destiny in a denomination he no longer loved after the death of his father. The book looks at Pastor Kings personal tests, failures, and trials in ministry, and what it took for him to overcome some of the painful experiences of leadership. Running Away is not a memoir of triumph or failure, but of truthhis truth. Pastor King takes a leap of faith and risk by being vulnerable in order to share his story with a broader and wider community, hoping his readers will understand his heart and love for his father, and the local church he faithfully served for over thirty years.
Running Away is a must-read for pastors with children and Christians who are often critical of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Mar 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490871509

Ulysses Stephen King, Jr.

Ulysses Stephen King Jr. is the pastor of Memorial Tabernacle Church in Oakland, California, where he has served for over thirty years. He is a graduate of Southeastern University and an activist for social justice and community outreach. He has done mission outreach in Nigeria, South Africa, and Haiti, and he continues to preach and teach throughout the United States.

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Copyright © 2015 Ulysses Stephen King, Jr..

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Unless otherwise noted, Scripture taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1979, 1980, 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-4908-7151-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-7152-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-7150-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015903264

WestBow Press rev. date: 03/09/2015

Contents

Chapter 1 Stay In the Book

Chapter 2 Judge and Sarah King: A New Beginning

Chapter 3 Those Precious Saints

Chapter 4 West Oakland

Chapter 5 The Preacher

Chapter 6 Singing Preacher

Chapter 7 Touch Somebody’s Life

Chapter 8 A Lady First

Chapter 9 Tryphosa

Chapter 10 Scarred, Not Disabled

Chapter 11 Light

Chapter 12 Sanctified Children

Chapter 13 Old Spice

Chapter 14 Be Me

Chapter 15 Love and Attention

Chapter 16 Because of Love

Chapter 17 Junior

Chapter 18 We Didn’t Know

Chapter 19 Questions and Contradictions

Chapter 20 The Intruders

Chapter 21 Coming Home

Chapter 22 (Defiant) What Would Your Father Say?

Chapter 23 Never Alone

Chapter 24 Walking with God

Chapter 25 Death and Dying

Chapter 26 (Dis)Qualified

Chapter 27 Hope In God

Dedication

I dedicate this book in memory of my beloved sister, Uldean Deane Sarah King, who was my best friend in life. Her faith in me inspires me still.

Epigraph

My religious experience has primarily been the Lord’s pursuit of me, and I’ve been elusive sometimes. Sometimes He’s trapped me. It hasn’t always been pleasant. There are ways I could have run better if I could have.

—Gardner Taylor¹

Where can I go from Your Spirit? Or where can I flee from Your presence? If I ascend into heaven, You are there; If I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there. If I take the wings of the morning, And dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there Your hand shall lead me, and Your right hand shall hold me.

—Psalm 139:7-10

Preface

T his is a book about a journey, discovery, and transition. It is about my life’s journey from within church and family—a life I thought I knew but quickly discovered I didn’t know as well as I thought. I was never truly prepared for the transition from a local minister to a pastor. After the death of my father, I had to mature into a leader overnight. I was still struggling with personal issues of self-discovery, of understanding my purpose, and fighting battles within the church, locally and nationally. I had few friends, if any, to turn to. My personal family life was in a crisis, and although the light from the lighthouse is intended to direct ships away from rocks and shallow waters, I seemed to be intent on becoming a shipwreck.

As independent as I thought I was, there was nothing wrong with living in the shadows of great men like my grandfather and father. I will never be able to duplicate their lives and the things they’ve done. I can, however, as Sam Willcut states in his blog about Isaac’s relationship with his father Abraham, said, What a wonderful portrait of extenuating that which is valuable from one generation to another.² Psalm 102:18 says, This will be written for the generation to come, that a people yet to be created may praise the Lord. There is one purpose in my life that is clear to me, that is to preserve the legacies of my father and grandfather, and to share their lived experiences in ministry with a new generation of believers, as their contributions to the local church and larger body of Christ.

I have traveled and ministered in churches within and outside of Christ Holy Sanctified Church, where I was largely unknown. Often to my surprise, whenever I mentioned my father or grandfather’s name their ministry and work outlived and preceded them. I was neither offended nor embarrassed to be introduced as Bishop King’s son. Even today, when I attend a Christ Holy Sanctified Church convention, I am often introduced as the son of Bishop Ulysses King, and the grandson of the founder, Judge King.

Willcut argues that living in the shadows of our fathers does not diminish the work we do. The church may have her members, he writes, who are as Abraham or Jacob, meaning those who may display great faith and obedience like Abraham, while others produced great works like Jacob (Israel), who fathered twelve sons. It’s okay to be sandwiched in between the lives and contributions of great people. Abraham needed Isaac in order for Jacob to be born.

However, as Willcut further notes, God also needs Christians who are as Isaac—that is, the Church also needs people who make lasting contributions that serve to advance the kingdom of God, like the woman who washed Jesus’ feet. Her name is unknown, but Jesus said her act of service to the Master would become a memorial to her (Mark 14:3-9). Or, as he observed,

One may not know us for our great accomplishments, but we can still do what God wants us to do, just as Isaac demonstrates. The greatest mistake in life is to do nothing.³

My name is unknown to millions, but thankfully through this brief work of writing a memoir, I hope to preserve the name and memory of my father and grandfather. It is not unusual or uncommon for leaders and their work to be forgotten by a younger generation. It shouldn’t be this way; unfortunately, it does happen. Finally, Willcut states that Isaac did what he could, and thus we see his name immortalized, nestled within the shadow of his father and son—The God of Abraham, and of Isaac and of Jacob (Acts 3:13).

I chose to write a personal memoir about my relationship with my father after attending conventions, meetings, and events where his name was often mentioned. As I sat in the audience I wondered who these people were talking about. I was frustrated by how some leaders took ownership to what my father said or did, as if he had given them permission to speak on his behalf. Then I realized these people really didn’t know my father because of the erroneous statements being credited to his name. Some of the things being said didn’t even sound like something my father would say or do. In all fairness to those who may have admired him, I realized they could only speak from one dimension of his life as some claimed they personally knew him.

This is a memoir about my personal relationship—a relationship between father and son—a father that I loved more than anyone or anybody else in the world. It is not meant to be a history of his life or the church. I share his story through the lens of his parents—Bishop Judge and Sarah King—who poured into him the history of the church he was called to serve after their deaths. It’s about connecting the dots between a pioneer grandfather whom I only knew through my father, and discovery of my bloodline. I did not always love the church—at least not in the way in which my father and his father did, but I learned to respect it by understanding my father’s love. He literally gave his life in service to Christ as his under-shepherd over the flock of God.

Rick Warren, author, spiritual leader, pastor, and founder of Saddleback Church in Orange County, California, said, Transformation is a process, and as life happens there are tons of ups and downs. It’s a journey of discovery—there are moments on mountaintops and moments in deep valleys of despair.⁴ Every journey has a beginning—some good, others not so good. I would like to think I’ve had a good beginning; however, it seems as if I have experienced more deep valleys of despair than mountaintops along the way. Nevertheless, I am hopeful for a much better ending.

Acknowledgement

W hen I began this journey of telling my story I didn’t realize how difficult it would be. I thought all I had to do was sit down in front of my laptop computer and start writing. Turning on the computer was the easy part. There were so many starts-and-stops that I nearly gave up the project altogether. Journaling over the years was my salvation however. Looking back through binders, notebooks, file folders from my teenage years through adulthood motivated me to write about my life, love, and relationship with my father—and church.

Working with family tended to be the most stressful; nevertheless, I would like to thank them for their patience and cooperation when they felt they could make a contribution to my story, to which I add the following disclaimer:

I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity in some instances I have changed the names of individuals and places, I may have changed some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence.

Every individual sees life though different lens; we don’t all see the same things the same way. My journey has been a long and lonely process, but I’m so very thankful for friends and family—and new friends— who supported and encouraged me along the way to stay focus and to never give up.

I want to thank those who encouraged me to write my story fearlessly and truthfully from my personal perspective:

My late and beloved sister, Deane S. King, whose inspiration and courage is the foundation and strength of my work. I’ll forward a copy of my book to you in heaven.

My late Uncle Saunders King and Aunt Jo Frances King (both decd.), whose unfailing love and support sustained me after the death of my parents. I would have run away had they not counseled and advised me of the history of our family to endure to the end. I’m still standing, uncle and auntie!

My beloved father, who warned me at an early age that my writing would be my anathema, and some people who may not like or appreciate my honesty or my truth. He taught me to believe in myself and to stand by my convictions, even when I had to stand alone; and my mother, who loved me unconditionally, and lent me to the Lord.

To Dr. Paul Weisser, Ph.D. (Ret.), whose assistance in editing a portion of this book, made it possible for me to publish my memoir. His critique and guidance forced me to step away from the pulpit as a pastor, and use my personal voice, i.e., the bishop’s son, to tell my story.

And to my best friend, and administrative assistant, Ms. Tiffany E. Grant, who inspired me through her creativity and critique to dare to think and be different.

I could have never completed this work without the trust of faithful members of Memorial Tabernacle Church, who allowed me to share my stories at various times within the context of sermon topics on Sundays. Their trust and willingness to listen and understand was invaluable as I had to make decisions about what to include in this book, and what to remove.

Finally, I want to acknowledge my spiritual mentors, to who were many. Without your prayers, advice, support, and wise counsel, I would not be here today to tell my story. I owe you all a great debt of gratitude.

I am still running, but no longer from but to, to see what the end will be.

Introduction

T he purpose for writing this book is to be another voice and witness to what it means to fully follow the Lord. For many Christians, this would seem easy if one is obedient to God’s purpose and will. However, when Jesus asks me to take up his cross and follow Me (Mark 8:34), I ask myself if I am willing to truly be one of His disciples. As Dietrich Bonhoeffer so aptly states, When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die. ⁵ Why would Christ ask me to do such a thing? Why would I want to run away from God’s purpose for my life, particularly when it is clear He has a plan for me? I argue that the cost of being one of the Lord’s disciples may not always be easy, and at times it may feel impossible. The many challenges, disappointments, discouragements—the vicissitudes of life—sometimes make even the strongest Christian want to give up and quit.

Now that I have forty-plus years of ministry behind me, I am a witness to that side of ministry that most Christian authors avoid discussing. Who wants to read about suffering, trials, and tests? Contrary to what many have heard or believe, the truth is that ministry is not always glamorous or exciting. Without question, I know God loves me and He knows what is best for me. To be one of His disciples, He calls me to deny self and self-centeredness. To know Him is to love, trust, and obey Him. This journey has tested my soul, and yet I cling to the cross because I know it is my salvation. His way may not have always been what I expected; in fact, I have met many surprises in my attempt to know His will for my life.

I find myself hesitating whenever I sing the hymn Where He Leads Me, I Will Follow, because to follow Him, I must be willing to suffer with Him. I have learned that if I accept God’s will, my destiny is not defined by me and neither can it be changed by me. I am not always happy with God’s decisions, and I do not always rejoice, as Peter tells me to do in my trials. I am not happy when people lie about me or test me. I don’t rejoice when I fall into different trials and temptations. After many years I have learned that my circumstances may never change, but He will give me the strength to bear them.

There are a plethora of books written by qualified church leaders, Christian counselors, therapists, and theologians in which one can find answers to most questions. Pastors and teachers of successful megachurches and ministries have won millions of followers with their intelligence and wisdom on a divergence of topics. I have read many of the same books for unanswered questions in my own life, specifically as they pertain to my destiny. I am not attempting to write yet another book on the subject of purpose or destiny.

The market is already saturated with enough information written by well-respected men and women of faith, and yet people seem more confused. In my quest to understand my own life and find answers to my questions, I realized that no one can speak for me or tell my story, except me. As much as I love those great men and women of faith, many of them could not speak for the average every day Christian who simply believes the answer to any and every problem is prayer, faith in Christ and His Word. That was my father’s faith.

I have written this memoir from a very personal and emotional place, time, and season in my life. It is a compilation of ambivalent emotions, including sorrow, pain, happiness, and joy. I experienced that dark night of the soul after those closest and dearest to me were gone: my father and mother, Bishop Ulysses S. King, Sr., and Tryphosa King; my uncle and aunt, Saunders King and Jo Frances King; and finally, my dear sister and close friend, Deane. In telling the story of my relationship with my father and other relatives, I have made every attempt to be accurate, without embellishing the events. It is my truth as I see my life through the lens of my father’s world—the church. I did not need to find biblical witnesses to speak the truth. All I needed was to look at grandparents and parents lived experiences for guidance. I write this memoir in their memory.

Several things this book is not: It is not another preacher’s kid or PK tell-all story revealing everything that I liked or disliked about the church. As a matter of fact, I dislike the term PK, for all the reasons associated with it, which are too numerous to list here. Writer Judith Barrington defines a memoir as a story from a life.⁶ In this case, it is a story of my life. The term PK raises many stereotypically biased views and unrealistic expectations of what pastor’s children are like. The term also places pastor’s children in a box that many, like me, spend a lifetime trying to break out of. When the Barna Research Group did a survey, Prodigal Pastor Kids: Fact or Fiction?,⁷ their findings about the experiences of pastors’ children in church life were mostly negative. Therefore, whenever possible, I attempt to use the expression pastors’ children to identify those especially gifted individuals who are often thrown unwillingly into the spotlight of leadership.

I am not attempting to write a pretentious story of my life from the viewpoint of overcoming some great obstacle, such as sickness, poverty, or a near-death experience. Everyone wants a hero, but I assure you, I don’t qualify. This is not a Christian motivational book with a list of Top Ten things you should or should not do if you want to be successful, powerful, rich, or famous. And neither is it a book about self-pity. It is my personal memoir, a brief story of my life, my relationship with my parents—in particular my father—and some of the events that could have destroyed us as a family, but only made us stronger. I have often wanted to give up, quit, run away, but the lessons I learned from my grandparents, parents, and others gave me strength to endure and face another day. In a very real way, this is their story.

Finally, it is my hope and prayer that by sharing the experiences of my family and my own personal lived experience, I have discovered my identity and self. John R. W. Stott wrote, The cross revolutionizes our attitude to ourselves as well as to God. Stott then poses the following questions: Who are we, then? How should we think of ourselves? What attitude should we adopt towards ourselves? These are questions to which a satisfactory answer cannot be given without reference to the cross.⁸ That is why the quest for my own identity is essential.

I chose to write my memoir from my earliest years of remembrance as a child to the death of my father in 1985. The years of my life and ministry following his death are still a mystery and yet to be told. Being the baby of the family there were many things I didn’t understand or wasn’t aware of until much later as an adult. My siblings and I experienced our own personal need for love and attention while growing up in some form or another. Since this is my story, I intentionally left out many details and events that may be sensitive to them, or that they might prefer to be kept private and personal. I include my brothers and sisters only when their lives intersect with mine, or if the particular event or events are important and necessary to telling my parents’ story. Without their voices within the narrative at certain times and places would make this memoir incomplete.

I make no attempts to intrude upon my brothers’ and sisters’ personal experiences or unspoken truths. Their story may or may never be told, which is their prerogative entirely. It makes sense to put one’s past behind you once you’ve experienced pain and disappointment. It is no wonder that the Apostle Paul encourages Christians to forget those things which are behind and reaching forward to those things which are ahead (Philippians 3:12). Once a wound has been healed, what sense does it make to reopen the same wounded place? Mine is not a story of retelling or opening old wounds, but rather a story of healing and redemption as the son of a bishop.

I share my life to shed light on the otherwise seemingly perfect world that some think pastors’ children live in. It is far from perfect; and if the truth be told there are a lot of unhappy preachers’ children who exists from week-to-week feeling obligated to be called Christian. Most are extremely loyal and extremely protective toward their parents and families, and many have chosen to be silent for the sake of their parents’ position in leadership and ministry.

If my father had not taught me about the power of the Cross and the love of Jesus Christ for me, I would have left the church decades ago. Each time I focused my attention on my parents’ lives and the way they suffered for Christ and the church, my attention is directed to the cross where Jesus suffered and died. They showed me that there was redemption through suffering, and life could be lived joyfully when we cast our cares upon Him.

I chose to walk with God, but it saddens me that so many friends I knew walked away from Him. For those of us who may have chosen to follow Christ, we are simply children, happy that we survived church life without abandoning our faith completely.

Chapter 1

Stay In the Book

H istory is not always told, represented, or presented accurately, and sometimes facts are misinterpreted or omitted by the writer, person, or persons retelling the story. One of the many challenges in writing about African-American ancestry during or after the Civil War era is there are very few documents actually written by Blacks who lived during that period. Another challenge is many freed slaves and their families moved from place to place to find work and away from their oppressors, making it difficult to pinpoint their place of origin.

Attempting to reconstruct the lived experiences of a people torn apart by an evil system of human trafficking and suffering takes a considerable amount of time and qualitative research. I wasn’t prepared for the extensive amount of work it took to find information about my grandfather’s side of the family—the Kings. Grandmother Sarah was a Mitchell, and there still is a considerable amount of research information available on her family history. What information I was able to gather only touched the surface of my discovery into my family background. While retracing the footsteps of my father I was met with some resistance from a few family members who were unwilling to share sensitive information that they felt should be left buried in the past. What I’ve written here is not meant to be a complete record of the history of my family; to do so would take an entirely separate book of its own. I have only taken what information I needed for the purposes of writing this memoir, and to tell my story as it pertains to my relationship with my dad.

The church was central in the lives of my father and grandparents. Family life and community revolved around the church, and little else was done outside of it. It was nearly impossible to find any documentation or someone to talk with about my grandparents’ personal lives that did not include the church. A social life seemed nonexistent: you went to work and church and very little else in-between. Most of their lives were experienced within their Christian experience. Albert J. Raboteau, professor of religion at Princeton University, states:

As the one institution which freed blacks were allowed to control, the church was the center of social, economic, educational, and political activity. It was also a source of continuity and identity for the black community. In their churches, black worshipers continued for decades to pray, sing, preach, and shout as they or their parents had during slavery.⁹

One obstacle to documenting African-American ancestry is the fact that many slave marriages were not officially recorded, and those marriages that were solemnized and blessed by the church were recorded in a church or family Bible. Raboteau also states,

The wedding ceremony was meant to solemnize and publicly announce the union, in love, of two individuals—and here lay the terrible irony—which was to last for life, a union which God had made and no man was to break asunder.¹⁰

Coming out of a post-slavery period, it is certain that Judge and Sarah, as Christians, understood the importance of solemnizing their union. It is not certain, however, why their marriage was not officially recorded in Caddo, Desoto, or Calcasieu Parishes where they were known to have lived. My grandparents were not slaves; however, the tentacles of slavery still clung to the lives of millions of African Americans after 1865. During the 1900 U. S. Federal Census, Judge and Sarah stated that they were married in 1898. A record of their union, however, is recorded in a family Bible kept by Carl Rigmaiden, Jr., a relative of my grandmother, in Lake Charles, Louisiana, along with the names of my grandmother’s parents, siblings, and other relatives. Much of my grandfather’s family remains a mystery, and extensive research is still needed. I discovered, however, while doing research at the Southwest Louisiana Genealogical and Historical Library in Lake Charles that my grandfather’s father came from North Carolina, which would make sense, seeing that a great number of Blacks arrived in the United States at Wilmington, North Carolina, located on the Cape Fear River during the 1700’s, and sold into slavery.

From my early childhood, I listened to many stories about my grandparents from the few elderly witnesses who knew them. Their stories were fragmented and often incomplete, and they shared information that was only relevant to them. This information came in form of a testimony, like the one I heard from Mother Carrie Fields, who received Christ under the ministry of my grandfather in Oakland:

Oh, those precious saints! Bishop King and Mother Sarah were mighty people of God, and filled with Holy Ghost. He could really preach and sing, and Mother [King] would teach the people how to live holy and sanctified! Oh, praise the name of Jesus!

Combining those bits and pieces of testimonies from various members of the early church formed a colorful tapestry of my grandparents’ lives and ministry. These oral testimonies, as Genevieve Fabre and Robert O’ Meally state, are crucial parts of the historical record.¹¹ Because much of the church and our family’s history come from an oral tradition a great portion of it has been forgotten or carried to the grave along with my ancestors. However, those occasions, when memory shouts at us and recalls stories told to us when we were children should never be ignored. Pierre Nora writes,

What we call memory today is therefore not memory but already history. What we take to be flare-ups of memory are in fact its final consumption in the flames of history. The quest for memory is the search for one’s history.¹²

My research trip for this book to Lake Charles was filled with emotion, mystery, and anticipation. So much has changed in thirty years since I last visited the home of my great-grandparents, grandparents, and father. I love and enjoy the familiar, but change can sometimes be intimidating. Life is much simpler when we can identify those times, people, and places that hold special meaning to us, but sometimes we can’t go back, and thus we must be willing to let go of the past.

I looked for the house where my late cousin, Carl Rigmaiden, Sr., once lived, and it was not in the place I remembered. His son, Carl, Jr., said the family had it physically moved to a new location after his father died to make way for a new chemical plant that was soon to be built in the area. Homes where neighbors once lived and trees where children climbed at play have been replaced or torn down to make way for progress. The old one-lane concrete road that my cousins Carl, Jr. and Carolyn walked to and from school as children have been replaced with a two-lane asphalt road. Cars were few when I was a child, he said. Whenever two cars met traveling in opposite directions down the same road, someone would have to move off the road in order to let the other pass. People traveled by horse and buggy, even during the late 1940s and early 1950s, making the road congested with travelers.

The schoolhouse where Grandmother Sarah taught children in K-6 how to read has been replaced with a modern community center, which continues to serve the needs of children. As I stood on this hallowed ground I was reminded of a statement made by Carter G. Woodson, Reconstruction began in the schoolhouses, not the statehouses … The missionary teacher was at work in the South long before it was known how the war would end.¹³

The old Christ Sanctified Holy Church¹⁴ where my grandmother’s family worshiped has been demolished to also make way for the new chemical plant. The ground was wet and muddy, and only an empty clearing remains as a reminder of where the sanctuary in the woods once stood. It was a single wooden structure that rested on cement blocks, and inside was a wood-burning stove to keep the building warm during the winter for the faithful who came to worship in the rain and snow. The weather didn’t prevent the saints from coming to church. My cousin said, They came from back in the woods, pointing to the tall oak and pine trees that looked like a walled fortress to prevent anyone from entering.

Behind the church is a narrow road leading into the woods to a plot of ground where the souls of the early saints, and my ancestors, rest. At one time there was order and symmetry to the graves, markers, and headstones that identified where the bodies of the saints lay. Lake Charles sits at only twenty feet above sea level, and over time, the weather and wet earth have shifted the graves and their markers so that some of the grave sites have nearly become one huge grave mound. In one of the graves, however, there is no mistaking the names carved in stone and who lies underneath this most sacred ground: Sanders and Sealy Mitchell, Grandmother Sarah’s parents.

Some of women would walk on dirt roads dressed in white to the old wooden church, Carl said. We laughed together at the thought of these women walking to church in the rain and mud in white dresses. Wearing white was a symbol of sanctification and holiness—pure and clean—which meant you were a saint! The trees amplified the sounds of singing as the saints gave praise to God. There were no street lamps to light their way to the church house; only the dim light from kerosene lamps shining from inside directed the faithful to the sanctuary in the woods.

Standing on the grounds where the church once stood I could imagine the saints coming to worship, walking on the dirt roads, and greeting one another with expectation of a great time in service. I could hear them singing,

When all God’s children get together,

What a time, what a time, what a time!

We’re gonna sit down,

By the banks of the river.

What a time, what a time, what a time!"

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During the 1800’s, the Old Spanish Trail was a trade route for commerce and the slave trade. The Trail stretched from St. Augustine, Florida to San Diego, California, and after the Civil War ended in 1865, it continued to be a popular southern route for millions of travelers. Freed slaves traveled along this road to freedom and to other cities or states to find work. The Trail passed through Lake Charles, and what better place to establish a church than alongside a road where people frequently traveled. The church became the church on the way where people stopped to hear the gospel message about a Savior who would not only deliver them from their oppressors, but would also deliver them from sin.

At some point in time before 1898, my grandparents met, fell in love, and began a new life and family together in Westlake, Louisiana, in Calcasieu Parish. Sarah Ann Mitchell was a deeply religious woman, and a member of the Colored Methodist Episcopal Church¹⁵—or CME, as it is commonly called today—already showed signs of leadership as a Bible teacher and public speaker. Her deep love for God drew her and a few family members down the Old Spanish Trail to the little wooden church on the way. News had spread throughout Westlake and the surrounding region of a Sanctified Band of White Christians who was teaching holiness and sanctification unlike what had been taught in the Methodist Church.

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The name Ulysses was an unusual name and difficult for some to spell and pronounce. While doing research of my grandparents’ origin and my father’s birthplace, I discovered many misspellings of his name, mostly written by census workers during the 1910 and 1920 census. There is no actual record or certificate of my father’s birth in Mansfield, Louisiana in 1906 where Dad said he was born. It is quite possible and highly probable that his father, Judge, named his son after General Ulysses S. Grant, someone whom Blacks revered as a champion for the rights and safety of Blacks in the South during the Civil War.

My grandfather was a skilled laborer, and like most African-Americans, he looked for a better life for his family. Census and church records show however, that over a period of twenty years Judge and Sarah didn’t stay in one place very long. They became missionaries and evangelists for the Sanctified Band to which they became members at the turn of the century. According to Harry J. Collins, Jr., and Floyd L. Hagan, Sr., church historians for Christ Sanctified Holy Church, writes,

The Sanctified People … sole purpose was to spread their beliefs to others, and they journeyed to small towns and big cities all across the nation. They typically would move into a town and stay anywhere from six months to two years. During that time, they would hold services in the surrounding communities so that they could reach as many people as possible.¹⁶

Jesus was coming soon, so it was important for everyone to get ready for that Great Day. Generally, the early Pentecostal-Holiness denominations were a purely otherworldly group of believers who looked for the imminent return and Second Coming of Jesus Christ. Life outside of the Christian experience was worldly, temporal, and passing away, thus it was imperative that the message of Christ’s soon return be spread throughout the region. Judge and Sarah were among those early Sanctified People called to bring the gospel to northwest Louisiana and small rural towns like Keatchie. Souls had to be saved and new churches planted. The church was growing in numbers and followers, and Lake Charles would only be the beginning.

My grandparents told my father that around 1907, the Holy Spirit spoke to them to stop in a little cotton community in Caddo Parish to preach to the workers and families, many who still lived on plantations at the turn of the century. Judge and Sarah—and many of the early missionaries—traveled by horse and buggy, and others came on floathouses along the Red River. There were no public buildings or churches in which they could preach, so they preached under a large oak tree at night because racism and segregation in the South. They didn’t have kerosene lamps or electricity in many rural communities, so they would light pine knots to make torches, and then sat them all around the open field where they were preaching. There were all kinds of insects and even snakes in the field, but it did not prevent them from preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Judge and Sarah were both young novices in ministry; nevertheless, they were obedient servants to the call of Jesus Christ, and to their elders, Dempsey Perkins and Ell Rigmaiden¹⁷ who sent them out to plant new churches. They believed Jesus commanded them to Go! so they packed their bags and went to wherever the Holy Spirit would lead them. I will never forget my grandmother’s enthusiasm and excitement about evangelism. Many years later when we would visit her on the farm in Chowchilla, California, she would often say, I’m ready to pack my bags and go preach the Gospel! and she meant every word. She would have been on the road that day if her health, body, and age had not prevented her from traveling.

From Louisiana to California, Judge followed the leading of the Holy Spirit to where he would go and take the message of salvation. He knew he had to provide for the needs of his family, so wherever he could find work and a community willing to hear his message of sanctification and holiness, was where he and his family temporarily settled. Work was always secondary to his calling, and his family understood not to attach themselves to one place for very long.

Moving an entire family from city to city, and across the country, was not an easy task; particularly for an African-American family in the South at the beginning of the 1900s. Not to mention the cost of relocating, limited housing for Blacks, and poor living conditions. Usually the husband or male head of the household would leave his family behind while he went to find work. Once employment was found, and a place for his family to live, he then returned to bring his family back with him to their new home. But not Judge. He took his family with him wherever he went. As a matter of fact, by the time my father reached his thirteenth birthday, Judge and Sarah relocated about four different times—in different states—before they reached California, circa 1920.

On May 18, 1917, Congress passed the Selective Service Act requiring all male citizens between the ages of 21 and 31 to register for the draft. Even before the act was passed, African-American males from all over the country eagerly joined the war effort. They viewed the conflict as an opportunity to prove their loyalty, patriotism, and worthiness for equal treatment in the United States. Although Judge was too old to fight in World War I, records show he registered just the same on September 12, 1918, one year before the war ended. At that time he was employed as a porter at Beaumont Shipping in Beaumont, Texas—and Sarah and their children were there with him.

Fortunately for Judge and Sarah, the Sanctified church had created a network of church communities and friends nearly in every place they went, which made it possible for them to find help or a place to stay, if needed. The early saints were hospitable and they opened their homes to fellow believers. Even if they didn’t know one another, the saints felt obligated to share whatever they had with the man of God. They were their brothers and sisters-in-Christ, and would never think of turning away someone who was bringing the gospel them. Life apart from the church was no life at all for Judge and Sarah King. They were unapologetically Christian who served the church as pastors, preachers, missionaries, teachers, and evangelists.

It couldn’t have been easy for Judge and Sarah in their sojourn from Louisiana to California at the beginning of the twentieth century, with five children in tow. Freedom would not come easily for African-Americans after the Civil War ended in 1865. Racial prejudice and segregation manifested itself through violence against Blacks with the permission and passage of unjust laws. The evils of slavery had left its scars on Black families long after the slave brands had healed on the backs of men, women, and children. Families had been separated and sold; others were killed while trying to escape. Laws were passed to prevent Blacks from interracial marriage; to keep Blacks from being educated; to keep them from movement to other regions in the U.S.; and from owning land and property. In other words, whatever