Preacher. Pauper. President.

God is Greater Than All My Sin

One funky Saturday. One fine phone call. One faithful friend.

I was in a funk Saturday, the kind that usually rears its head on Sunday, the kind where the twin demons of discontent and discouragement sit on my shoulders and whisper nasty things about me, to me.

To relieve the pressure and to express my love and gratitude for my loyal wife, I surprised her with a trip to Dallas to visit this unique thrift/antique shop I found on Google. On the way, my phone rang. The name “Clark Bosher” appeared on the dash screen of my truck.

“I think I will ignore the call and let it go to voicemail,” I said. “I am sure he wants to talk about the Final Four games later today.”

Clark and I always talk around this time of year. He was a great basketball player in his youth. We have been friends since we were both in our teens. We are sports junkies.

But for whatever reason, I hit the green button and took the call, despite my less-than-stellar mood.

I started the conversation by talking about Cooper Flagg and Duke. He didn’t take the bait. He wasn’t interested. I wish I could quote him exactly, but this is roughly how the conversation went.

Clark: “We hosted Iron Men at our church this week.”

(Clark is the pastor of a thriving church in Willow Park, Texas, just west of Fort Worth.)

“Oh, wow. I didn’t know. How did it go?”

“Well, let me tell you,” he says. “This was our 31st Iron Men gathering. Thirty-one years. In that 31 years, more than 1,000 men have come to Christ. Over 200 have entered the ministry. That’s pretty good.”

“That is fantastic,” I replied.

“Yes, and without you, none of it would have happened. Iron Men does not exist without you. I wanted you to know what impact your dream has had on men for three decades and counting.”

I won’t rehearse the rest of the conversation. It was short because I could not talk.

I wept. Not for a few minutes. For an hour, I wept.

While Demons sneered at me to remind me that it has been three decades since I was anyone’s pastor and that everything I am and all I have ever done amounts to nothing, God dispatched an angel to my friend, with whom I only talk a few times a year, to whisper into his ear a different message.

Thank God for men like Clark Bosher, who follow God’s nudging when it is time to make a phone call and deliver a message of faith, hope, and love.

The Rest of the Story

Iron Men

A national movement was afoot in the mid-to-late nineties. Stadiums all over the world were filled with men seeking and desiring God. They called it Promise-Keepers. The goal was to reclaim manhood—and men—for Christ. In too many homes, spiritual leadership fell to the wife. Men were dragged, kicking and screaming, to church. Or, they sat at home while the moms dressed and drove their children to Sunday School.

Promise-Keepers was born to fight for the home, starting with the man of the house.

I watched the movement from my church study in Paris, Texas. I knew it would pass the men of our church by. It would pass by the entire movement I was part of.

Too ecumenical. Too inclusive. Too watered-down.

I could hear the arguments without hearing them.

I also knew we were at our own crossroads. There were too many absentee fathers, too many men prioritizing everything over their spiritual lives. Marriages were suffering. Children were wandering. Men were lonely, hurting, and carrying loads of guilt to augment the immense responsibilities of fatherhood and marriage.

I was working through the book of Proverbs in my daily devotionals. I was nearing the end of that journey, and Proverbs 27:17 was fresh on my mind.

As iron sharpens iron, one man sharpens another.

“Iron Men,” I thought. That is what we need.

Small Beginnings

Never one to let an idea marinate too long for fear it will weaken or wither, I picked up the phone and began calling pastor friends. Jimmy Withers in Rhome. Jack Hardy up the road from me. Dal Woodruff in Mesquite. Keith Day (my greatest friend). And Clark Bosher.

I anticipated needing a sales pitch, but none was necessary. They had each—to a man—been thinking along similar lines. Within 24 hours, a date was set to meet at Spring Creek Barbecue in Irving, Texas.

There were six of us at that first meeting. We gathered around a table, ate barbecue, drank sweet tea, and fervently shared our hearts. We left with a plan forming. We would launch a ministry, an annual gathering of men. We would bring in Spirit-filled preachers and worship leaders, feature top-shelf music, and, most of all, we would bathe it in prayer.

The men elected me president of Iron Men.

No one at the table knew the secrets I hid. They did not know, but I was sitting atop a powder keg with a lit fuse.

The fall of 1995

By the time the first Iron Men event rolled around in the Fall of 1996, I was set to resign my pastorate and accept an invitation to pastor a larger church in Arlington, Texas. Larger, not better. The church in Paris was my connection. They were my people. I loved them with my being.

I was not running after God. I was running away from the truth.

The first Iron Men was attended by a couple hundred or so men and teen boys. We rented a youth encampment and slept in barracks. The spirit was phenomenal. Evangelist Tim Lee, a war hero who lost both of his legs in Vietnam on March 8, 1971, while fighting as an American soldier, was our featured speaker.

It was a fantastic beginning.

It was also a sad ending.

Iron Men was one of the last things I accomplished in 20 years of church ministry, 13 of which I spent as a senior pastor.

The Wilderness awaited. I would soon be living in shame and fear, searching, trying to find my footing, floundering, falling, falling, falling into despair and near destitution.

This would last for four years. My wife and family suffered with me. She stood by me. She supported me emotionally while I did everything I could to keep the wolves at bay. Pizza delivery. Cab driver. Newspaper thrower. Auto upholstery salesman. Furniture rental store manager.

I’ll rise again, slowly, and on weakened legs

Finally, I started fighting back. I got up, limping. I was like Jonah, whale puke on the beach, but I was not dead. I secured a teaching certificate from the state of Texas and entered a different kind of war zone: a middle school English class.

I was a teacher. I was always a teacher.

Katrina hit in 2005. I gambled our future on catastrophe adjusting. That led me here.

Today, I am President again, this time of Adjust U, a trade school that trains and equips men and women for a career as an insurance claims professional.

I still fight the darkness. I still mourn the loss. I still love the people I loved back then. But I am not alone, and this was not nothing, and you, Satan, can shut the Hell up.

31 years. 1,000+ men who found their way out of the darkness. 200 new ministers of the gospel.

Thank you, Clark. Thank you, Keith. Thank you, Jack. Thank you, Donya!

Thank you, Jesus.