Overlake Christian Church -- Congregation Of Thousands Strong In The Face Of Trouble

It looks like a critical time for the state's biggest church. Elders have a detective investigating sex accusations against their leader, and the congregation has just taken on a multimillion-dollar mortgage. But there's more to this church than its charismatic pastor, the Rev. Bob Moorehead. Whether he's guilty of the accusations or not, Moorehead has built a thriving community, one likely to thrive with or without him. -------------------------------

Every Sunday morning, a river of cars, minivans and pickups flows through Redmond's Sammamish Valley, heading for the massive, pink-and-teal box that is the state's largest church.

Five thousand faithful from across the Puget Sound region pass under three metal crosses at the mouth of Overlake Christian Church's half-mile-long parking lot.

On Wednesday nights, 1,000 come for another service, making Overlake the most attended church in Washington. And throughout the week, the civic-center-sized church is rarely empty.

It is where ninth-grade girls learn to become good Christian women. Where high-schoolers prepare for missionary work. Where divorced men and women share the travails of single parenthood. Where recovering alcoholics are taught to find strength in Scripture.

Three days a week, an Aerobics Ministry holds exercise classes and prayer in the church's gym.

All this activity began with the dream of a single man: the Rev. Bob Moorehead. His evangelistic vision is credited with building Overlake from a sleepy congregation of roughly 75 in 1970 to the "mega-church" it is today.

Even after nearly three decades at its pulpit, Moorehead captivates Overlake's congregation with his combination of Biblically based sermons, staunchly held convictions and Southern charm.

But for the first time in those 28 years, the congregation and the leadership must contemplate what Overlake would be like without Moorehead.

In February, a private investigator hired by the 14 elders who govern the church began to research allegations that Moorehead had inappropriately touched several young men. The allegations, most of which involve incidents from the 1970s, surfaced publicly this winter after reports that Moorehead had been arrested in Florida in July 1996 for allegedly masturbating in a public bathroom.

Charges in that case were dropped by a prosecutor who said police reports were inconsistent. But the other allegations linger. Moorehead has denied any wrongdoing, telling other Eastside pastors in a February letter that the claims are "very repulsive to me and everything I have ever stood for."

The pastor's congregants and colleagues continue to support him and are optimistic he'll be absolved when the private investigator's work is completed -probably by the end of this month.

However, there is a surprising willingness to talk about a different outcome: that Moorehead, 61, would be asked to leave the church. Even there, optimism is the order.

In that optimism, for Moorehead, is a potentially painful irony: What he has built at Overlake is so strong, so thriving, that it could likely withstand his departure.

Moorehead has built the church not around himself, but around the Lord, says Tim Avery, former executive pastor.

"Our people are conditioned that if Bob goes through a turbulent time, or the church experiences difficulties, or Bob were to ever leave for whatever reason, that our eyes will still be fixed on the Lord. He'll be in charge of the church. Just like He brought Bob Moorehead in 1970, we know that it's God's church and He will bring whoever he pleases."

Sherri Twiggs, whose family has been going to Overlake for seven years, agrees.

"It's a growing, moving church," she says. "We enjoy Bob's style of preaching, but we're not there solely because of Bob. No matter what happens to Bob, we've committed to stay. Whenever you have the Holy Spirit moving in a place, the Holy Spirit will draw people in."

`A VERY GOOD DOSE'

On Thursday evenings, the choir room at Overlake fills with the sounds of Christian folk-rock. On this night, a college-aged vocalist cups his hands around a microphone as he stands in front of a guitarist, drummer, piano player and bassist.

Between songs, the singer lowers his voice to a hushed whisper: "God, we need you tonight. Some may be here who don't know they need you, but we need you, God. You are my hope and my strength."

The band strikes up another song, and the assembled 18- to 29-year-olds stand and sing along with words projected on a screen. There are few empty seats in the amphitheater, and people continue to filter past the greeters at the door.

Religious music begins every meeting of Overlake's ministry for young adults, called "Impact!" Although everyone is given a name tag and friends greet each other with backslaps and handshakes, socializing is not a priority. Instead, the ministry seeks to fill the spiritual needs of both Christians and the so-called "unconvinced" in an informal setting where they often preach to one another.

Like other support groups and ministries at Overlake, "Impact!" draws many young people who do not belong to the church and don't attend Sunday sermons. They come because it's the largest such gathering in the region and offers the greatest sense of fellowship with other Christians of the same age and spiritual inclination.

Overlake has 26 full-time pastors leading more than a dozen ministries - subdivisions that encompass almost every age group and church activity. By offering resources that other churches cannot, these ministries extend the church's influence far beyond its huge core membership.

Standing side by side, Tiffani Aerts and Jordan Teater sing and gently sway to the music. Both are members of Westminster Chapel in Bellevue, and attend that church's youth ministry on Wednesdays. They are also regular "Impact!" attendees.

Teater, 19, first visited about six months ago on the advice of a friend who attends Westminster.

"God already has a place at Westminster for me," Teater says. "But spiritually, you can't get enough. It's a very good dose here."

He later brought Aerts with him, and she has been going regularly since November. Searching for a community, she felt instantly welcomed. "There was a great sense of joy and peace and enthusiasm. I can honestly say it was a blessing to be there that night."

At the junior-high and high-school levels, also, Overlake draws many young people whose families are not members of the church.

About a half the kids squirming in their seats at the Sunday morning Junior High Ministry meetings are from families that do not attend Overlake, says Pastor Chris Douglas. The youths come because their friends do, and because their parents figure it's a safe place.

"The family has been disintegrated; there's not a lot for youth out there anymore," says Executive Pastor Dana Erickson. "They come from broken homes, and there's not a lot of support. The church can become that support. We become a family for them."

There are myriad activities for adults as well. Besides ministries for older singles, married couples and women, the church runs three support groups: Healing Wounded Marriages, Divorce Recovery, and Overcomers, for people with substance-abuse problems.

The Biblical Counseling Ministry focuses on crisis intervention, particularly surrounding a disintegrating marriage. The church sanctions divorce only in two cases: adultery, or if a partner is not a Christian.

Whatever the symptom - marriage difficulties, alcohol abuse, depression - the cause is the same, says Larry Bodmer, the pastor who leads the counseling ministry. And so is the cure.

"I tell people to start looking at priorities. At one point, God was important to them, and they have drifted away. They've lost the focus in their lives. It's a matter of getting refocused and priorities back to the spiritual side. I tell them to get involved in Bible studies, men's ministries, women's ministries. People don't have fellowship anymore. The best thing they can do is get involved."

MEMBERSHIP REQUIREMENTS

Membership at Overlake requires a much higher level of involvement than a typical church or synagogue. On a recent evening, 57 people were awarded membership certificates. To become members, they were required to be baptized - in some cases re-baptized - and to attend a one-day seminar. They also answered a questionnaire that posed two questions central to the church's beliefs: Do you know for sure that if you died tonight you would definitely go to Heaven? If you stood before God and He said, "Why should I let you into my Heaven?" what would you say?

To be admitted into the congregation, an applicant's answer must be the same to both: Because I have accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior.

The questionnaire also asks if the applicant is having sex with someone outside marriage, if he or she is or has ever been involved in litigation, and if he or she is under any legal restraining orders.

And all of that is the easy part, says Executive Pastor Erickson.

"We are not a church that sits back and watches. We're a church that gets involved," he tells the new members. "We want our members to minister; that's what makes us a church. It's not just a place to come Wednesday and Sunday and have fun."

That means joining a men's or women's ministry, volunteering at church functions, telling friends and co-workers about Overlake's services, and supporting the church's extensive network of overseas missionaries. And most of all, it means taking seriously the church's primary mission: to bring nonbelievers into the fold.

Many members approach the task enthusiastically. At a recent meeting of the young-adults group, Mariya Anderson, 20, described being a missionary in Spain. Despite an often-hostile reception from resident Catholics, she is determined to return.

"I have the truth and the life and I want to give it to them," she said. "There's no one there to tell them the truth."

Once they are admitted, new church members are quickly enveloped in a local support system of like-minded people for almost every stage of their lives. For many longtime members, this church community has become part of their family history.

The yard of David Kelly's Redmond home is littered with balls, bikes and other evidence of his three children. His 15-year-old daughter attends the local junior high; his younger children are home-schooled.

Kelly has been going to Overlake since 1978, after his parents, former Lutherans, began attending. His father, an IBM executive, was particularly impressed that Moorehead wore a business suit instead of robes, says Kelly.

"He saw someone who looked just like him. He related to the message like he never had before. Bob has a way with relating to people."

Theologically, Kelly says, the message at Overlake was not that far from what he'd heard in the Lutheran church.

"The Lutheran church teaches the same message Overlake teaches: The only way to gain salvation is through Christ. For me, the difference is there is a freshness to it. There's not a lot of tradition that wraps everything up. For me, Overlake continually puts God first in everything we do."

Kelly, 39, was baptized at Overlake and started attending the church's college group. He met his wife, Becky, in the group, and the two were married at the church in 1981. Right away, he and Becky began helping out with the high-school ministry.

"A normal Christian life is one where you are serving other people," Kelly says. "There's a lot of satisfaction with doing the things God wanted you to do."

`STRAIGHT FROM THE WORD OF GOD'

Just as Kelly's father was taken immediately with Moorehead, people say over and over that what brought them in - and what hooked them - was "Pastor Bob."

On a recent Sunday, tanned and rested from a weeklong vacation in Hawaii, Moorehead demonstrates his skills. Seamlessly weaving folksy stories with biblical messages - the exact citations flanking him on two giant overhead electronic screens - he leads his audience through a range of emotions, down the path toward commitment, right to the brink of turning their lives over to Jesus.

One minute Moorehead has them in tears as he calls out their troubles - a rocky marriage, a stressful job, a medical condition.

"I know that some of you are carrying burdens on your back that only God can carry," he says. He beseeches God to help end their dejection, depression, loneliness and fear.

The next minute, he has them laughing with him as he tells a personal story about how reluctant he once was to surrender the keys to a brand-new 1961 Cadillac convertible, a loan from a member of his church back in Oklahoma.

He, too, once fell to the sin of greed, and wanted to keep that convertible. But he gave the keys back, and so must the congregation not fixate on possessions. God doesn't want them to focus on money, he says, his voice reaching a crescendo.

"God does not forbid us from having wealth! God forbids wealth from having us! That's the difference."

Comfortable and folksy on stage, Moorehead is affable and disarmingly soft-spoken in person. His vestigial drawl betrays his Alabama origins, as well as 14 years as a preacher in small churches and towns of Oklahoma and Alabama.

When he arrived in Seattle in 1970, Moorehead was surprised to find resistance to his conservative, literalist approach. A small group of families, dissatisfied with the social-action agenda adopted by many mainline Protestant churches, formed the core of the church. Moorehead felt frustrated that his message wasn't catching on.

Then came the Boeing bust, and with it, the end of a comfortable, secure life for many area residents. Moorehead offered answers, and a straight, solid path. The congregation burgeoned.

Members then and now praise Moorehead for offering truth "straight from the Bible," not an opinion without scriptural basis.

"Everything was biblical," says Overlake member Jeff Baker, 26, recalling what drew his parents to the church. "They enjoyed it because they could go back and learn (from the citations) what they were just taught." Instead of offering an interpretation, he says, Moorehead gives his audience "concrete evidence, straight from the word of God."

Derald Cruse, president of the board of elders, says Moorehead's approach is one not always accepted by the wider community.

"We believe the Bible teaches that there are two kingdoms," he explains. "There's God's kingdom and then there's Satan's kingdom. We're in the business of restoring all the people that are lost."

Overlake believers challenge others, Cruse says, "because what we believe is they have a choice and they need to know that they have a choice."

Some people react badly to that, he says. But the people themselves aren't the problem, he says. "It's simply that it's the domain of the dark forces, the dark powers."

Such "dark forces" were cited by Moorehead in a sermon given in January, after news of his 18-month-old Florida arrest became public.

"I don't believe the media is our enemy," Moorehead told the congregation. "I believe they are the victims of our enemy."

The auditorium erupted in applause.

Although Moorehead talked with newspaper and television reporters in February, he now refuses to be interviewed for any story that even mentions the allegations against him.

He wants to get his flock refocused on their larger mission, church leaders say.

Moorehead "loves the church - it's his life," explains Erickson.

Elder Gary Scott calls Moorehead "a driven man," a pastor who frets about every burned-out lightbulb and isn't above cleaning toilets.

But most important, he's focused on the goal, says Erickson.

"He's the one who leads us, he's the one who motivates us, he's the one who teaches us scripturally every week, he's the one who mentors us.

"Bob cast the vision. He's the one that says, `This is the mountain, this is the hill that we want to take.' "

MORTGAGE: $170,000 A MONTH

Taking the region for Christ requires cash. And Moorehead's crisis comes at a crucial time in Overlake's financial health.

Raising money has been little problem for the church in recent years. Overlake brings in roughly $100,000 a week from the collection plate and donations of such big-ticket items as boats, cars and stocks and real estate. In one capital campaign, the church raised $1 million in a single Sunday.

Even under the current strains, church leaders say attendance is healthy and contributions are holding steady. But they want the cloud of uncertainty lifted from their senior pastor as soon as possible.

Looming large is the multimillion-dollar mortgage the elders signed in 1996 to pay for the building that opened last November.

In evangelical circles, it's generally accepted that if the pews are 80 percent full, the worship center appears too crowded and potential members will go elsewhere or stay home. In other words, for a church to thrive, it must have empty seats in every service.

In 1988, just eight years after Overlake had moved into a newly built 2,000-seat auditorium in Kirkland, elders agreed the facility could not keep up with rising demand and a new site had to be found.

But how big and how grand to go? The question threatened to tear the leadership apart.

The proposal was to build a $36.7 million, 250,000-square-foot building in Redmond.

The board of elders, which can only make decisions unanimously, spent weeks debating the pros and cons of taking on such heavy debt. In the end, the tally to move forward was undivided, but only after one elder resigned and another stayed home the night of the vote.

To purchase the land and build the entire structure all at once, the church had to take out a $20 million construction loan. After the building was completed, the construction debt was paid off by another $21 million loan.

The mortgage payments total about $170,000 a month, and the church is preparing to launch a third capital campaign to pay off the debt by 2001.

As the church negotiated permanent financing with Silicon Valley Bank's Religious Financial Resources division last fall, news of Moorehead's Florida arrest began to circulate in the congregation. In October, copies of the arrest report were placed under windshield wipers of cars in the church parking lot. An anonymous cover letter was stapled to the report that charged Overlake with lying about its finances to the bank.

"We took the initiative to call Silicon Valley Bank and make them aware of what was going on," says Avery, the former second-in-command. "We didn't want to hide it, and we didn't want them coming to us and saying, `What's all this about?' We picked up the phone and said, `Here's the deal.' "

The bank was unconcerned about the specific allegations, Avery says, but did question him about Moorehead's possible successor. Just as an entrepreneur's energy drives a business, pastors fill both pews and coffers. When a church loses its guiding hand, financial troubles sometimes follow.

"When we started talking with Silicon Valley Bank, Bob had been here 26 years. And the question is, given his age, what if he leaves?" says Avery. "You bet they asked. We told them we would explore different avenues."

Overlake has no heir apparent for Moorehead. The church could tap the leadership of one of the eight daughter churches spun off across the Eastside. But most likely, a new senior pastor would be brought from another mega-church elsewhere, says Avery.

Given the church's strong financial record, Silicon Valley Bank was not a hard sell, and the $21 million loan was signed last Christmas Eve.

Overlake's ministries and outreach programs cinched the deal, says Therese DeGroot, manager of the bank's Religious Financial Resources division.

"They're doing a lot for the community, and that translates into bringing people in. I was very impressed with Overlake," she says, noting that most churches do not have the strength to qualify for such heavy debt.

It is unclear how Overlake's ability to pay off its mortgage would be affected if Moorehead were forced to resign.

It doesn't take much to knock Overlake off budget. Snowstorms two years ago lowered attendance for several weeks; as a result, the ministries were told to cut their budgets by 35 percent.

If a money crunch did result, the elders likely could not be held personally liable for the debt.

Moorehead and Overlake's other pastors are not directly involved in fund-raising, church officials say. No particular person is targeted for contributions, and only two secretaries know the identities of donors.

But one contributor says Moorehead is actively engaged in finances, and approached him personally after he withdrew a $250,000 pledge.

"I've been to his office and he's been to mine. Anytime he needed anything, he would come to me. You're one of the good guys if you give money," says Gerry Shupe, president of Btu Energy, a Bellevue company that builds natural-gas turbines. Shupe says he gave the church roughly $500,000 during his seven years as a member. He left Overlake last year, citing concerns over the sexual-misconduct allegations.

"I got a letter recently from Bob, saying, `We miss you. We want you back.' He wouldn't have written a letter for the $50 giver. He knows where the money comes from."

BUILT-IN RESILIENCE

Beyond financial considerations, scandals involving senior ministers often precipitate a crisis of faith in both the church and the greater Christian community.

"All you have to do is go back to the Jimmy Swaggart situation," says the Rev. H.B. London, who ministers to clergy in crisis as part of an outreach effort with Focus on the Family, an evangelical organization.

Swaggart's Louisiana church "was one of the most flourishing, vibrant congregations in the South," London says, before Swaggart tearfully confessed to patronizing a prostitute. Once about 7,000, attendance at Swaggart's sermons has fallen to the 200-400 range.

And ripples from a church scandal can travel far beyond the particular church's walls, at least in the short term. When Swaggart and Jim Bakker were driven from their pulpits by allegations of sexual immorality, not only did their own ministries dwindle, "every minister in the country became an object of some suspicion," London says.

That has added to the pressure to bring Moorehead's situation to a conclusion, says Overlake elder Gary Scott.

"This whole thing is affecting the whole Christian community, not just Overlake," he says. "Any time you have allegations against any Christian pastor, it affects the credibility of the church at large."

Of course, no church has as much at stake in this case as Overlake does. Still, some experts say, the church may be perfectly positioned to survive the loss of its chief minister.

Rodney Stark, a UW sociologist who studies religion, believes Overlake may be more resilient than a church whose main attraction is a Sunday service, because its congregational life exists primarily in the smaller ministries - what he calls "the really tiny little congregations."

It's there that people become "hooked-in and related" and find "real intimacy," Stark says.

Those relationships take root in support groups as people struggle to heal wounded marriages, in young-adult groups as they listen to testimonials by young missionaries, in the nursery as they help soothe infants while parents attend services.

Overlake's members don't come for just the sermon, says Stark. "These people have a structure. They're not an audience, they're a community."

For Sherri Twiggs, that sense of belonging and intimacy comes once a week, when she spends an hour or so with a group of teen girls in the Junior High Ministry. With her own two boys off in another corner, Twiggs talks with the girls about dating, parents and how to choose the right friends. Lately, the topic of conversation has turned to Moorehead, and the future of Overlake.

People are praying for Moorehead almost round-the-clock, Twiggs tells the group. The elders are doing everything they can to get to the bottom of all this; the whole thing will surely blow over.

"But we're not here to worship Pastor Bob," she adds. "We're here to worship Jesus Christ."

Alex Fryer's phone message number is 206-464-8124. His e-mail address is: afry-new@seatimes.com Carol M. Ostrom's phone message number is 206-464-2249. Her e-mail address is: cost-new@seatimes.com