Scars on chrome remind us not all scars are visible. The sign on the motorcycle caught my eye just minutes after I pulled into the church parking lot. I paused, thinking about what it meant.
Later, I learned that the bike belongs to Gary Burd, senior pastor of Christian Heritage Church (CHC) in Amarillo, Texas. He also directs EVUSA’s Mission: M25 ministry, which reaches out to nontraditional people groups.
Gary had invited me to attend the ninth annual Biker Sunday, cohosted by the church and Mission: M25. This two-day event is an outreach to the biker community that includes a parade and Toys for Tots drive in conjunction with the Marines.
He warned me it would be like nothing I had ever experienced. He was right.
The event kicked off with a Saturday swap meet. Vendors set up shop in the church parking lot and youth building. Rows of shiny motorcycles gleamed in the sunlight. A stunt driver whizzed by on a fourwheeler, laughing as he popped it up on its back tires. Families milled about, examining the vendors’ wares and chatting with one another. The atmosphere was more like a family festival than a biker event. I had always heard that bikers could be tough and mean. But these people were friendly and caring, warmly welcoming me into their church family.
A shiny black Harley caught my eye, and I stopped to snap a photo. Soon, the owner and his wife were chatting amicably with me. Lupé and Rena Reyna are CHC members and help with Biker Sunday. Rena explained that this event was her way of reaching out to women in need.
“In the biker community, women are sometimes viewed as property instead of a person,” she said. “I want these women to see that the emblem on my jacket looks like my pastor’s emblem; it looks just like anyone else’s patch. It doesn’t say I’m anyone’s property. It states that I’m me.”
Rena also said ministering to the biker community has given her more understanding and compassion for people. “It’s awesome to be a part of something that’s reaching others,” she said.
The next day, I arrived at the church for Sunday morning service. The street was packed with cars and motorcycles. As I walked in, an usher wearing jeans and a black leather vest greeted me with a smile. Over 20 motorcycles lined the altar. Gary stood on stage wearing jeans and a black leather vest. His brother Keith, who organizes the event, wore black chaps and a matching vest. Nearly everyone in the congregation was dressed similarly. I watched in awe as a sea of bandannas and black leather began to praise God. Some were Pentecostal; some were Baptist; some were Methodist. But on this day, everyone was welcomed as a child of God.
After the service, Gary and members of the church’s biker ministry revved up their engines and rode their bikes out of the sanctuary. The service was over, but the day was just beginning.
Mission: M25’s philosophy of ministry focuses on taking the message to the hurting outside the four walls of the church. That’s exactly what the congregation did. They went down to Scooter’s Bar, where they began to sign bikers up for the annual parade and toy drive. Within an hour, bikes lined the street as far as the eye could see, waiting for the parade to begin.
First came the police escort, followed by the Marines. Then came the church’s biker ministry. Next was the Toys for Tots Santa Claus bike. Behind him roared 720 bikes, all with a toy strapped to the back. The parade wound through town, making its way back to the church. A crowd lined the street, cheering and waving American flags, as the bikes pulled into the parking lot.
Then every person got off his bike, picked up his gift, and walked to a tent where Marines were accepting toys. The donation line stretched down the street. At the end of the day, the biker community had donated enough toys to fill nearly two military trucks. The same people who were considered “outcasts” had given over $29,000 in toys.
The rest of the day was a celebration. The church gave away 4,000 barbecue sandwiches. There were bike games, including drag racing. Stunt drivers performed daredevil feats as a band played “Sweet Home Alabama.”
In another tent, members of the church’s biker ministry performed “bike blessings.” This is a special prayer of protection and guidance over a rider and his or her bike. That Sunday, the team gave 20 bike blessings.
At the end of the day, the crowd gathered around a makeshift stage in the parking lot and waited for the final event—a Harley-Davidson giveaway. But before that took place, Gary asked the crowd for five minutes to hear “something that’s really important to us.” Then he called on his friend, an evangelist called Ox, to share the gospel.
Ox spent the early part of his life in a biker gang in Chicago. Sixteen years ago, he accepted Christ and has been ministering to bikers ever since. As he shared his testimony, the crowd stood silent. He spoke as only a fellow biker could, spouting tough love intermingled with the gospel message. He never condemned, only compelled them to find what they were looking for in Jesus.
After Ox’s testimony, Gary asked the crowd to sing “Amazing Grace.” And there, in a parking lot where “Sweet Home Alabama” had been performed just minutes earlier, hundreds of voices sang, “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound / That saved a wretch like me. / I once was lost, but now am found, / Was blind, but now I see.”
There was no altar call, no sinner’s prayer, only the sweet sound of grace breaking hardened hearts and healing wounded souls.
As I left the church that evening, I reflected again on the sign on Gary’s bike. Now I understood. The sign is not for the lost. We can easily see their scars. The sign is for people like me. I went to Biker Sunday expecting to see people saved and lives changed. Instead, I was the one who was changed. I saw that I, like so many others in the church, had been scarred by our culture’s preconceived notions about ministry and outreach. The weekend was as much for me as for them. Biker Sunday was not about having an altar call and seeing hundreds of people respond. It was about building relationships and showing Christ’s love.
How do you find scars on chrome? You cannot see them; you can only feel them. To find and repair the scar, you must be close enough to touch it, to feel the rough edges and the indented grooves. That is what Christ calls us—the church—to do.
That is what Mission: M25 does. That is what Biker Sunday does.
Mégan Miles is administrative assistant to the director of Communications for the IPHC. She lives in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.
Biker Sunday was held annual on the last weekend in September, in Amarillo, Texas.
Original Article Text:
Miles, Mégan (2009, January). M25: Healing Invisible Scars. IPHC Experience, 6(1), 10-11.
http://www.iphcexperience.com/_pdfs/2009/Experience_Jan09.pdf
