‘Dad Roberts’

By Carl E. Feather

‘If it had been for anybody else but the Lord,

I probably would have stayed back in the mountains.’

The Rev. Henry Roberts, on his decision to stay in Ashtabula.

In the fall of 1961, the Rev. Henry Roberts moved his wife Angie and their 3 sons from McDowell County, W.Va..to Ashtabula township to fulfill the leading of God

Roberts had been called to serve as pastor of the Ashtabula Revival Center, which until his arrival had been a Sunday school program and prayer group. Roberts incorporated the group as a church and set about building it into a self-supporting independent Pentecostal church.

Angie had a job at Molded Fiber glass when the couple arrived in Ashtabula. The fledgling congregation, which had only a $20 piano and rented basement to its credit, it couldn’t pay its new preacher a living wage. Roberts had been promised 90 % of the tithe. In the first year, that worked out to $27.50 a week. To close the gap, Roberts worked the night shift at the Rayon factory in Lake County. Later on, he got a job as a truck diver for Union Carbide Metals. He also worked as a carpenter, painter and Fuller Brush man. The couple sold property they owned in West Virginia to help keep the church afloat. The church was so poor the oil company wouldn’t extend $8 worth of credit to fill their 50-gallon fuel drum the first winter he was here. Fifteen years later, when the church wanted to borrow $80,000 to build, the bank held up the application because the amount requested was too small. What transpired between those extremes was the hard, steady work of building credibility among both the migrant congregation and community at large.

Expanding the appeal

When Roberts arrived, the church was largely composed of Appalachian migrants, many of them related to Roberts or each other. Roberts’ audience during his first revival in Ashtabula included his cousin James Mullins, the Rev. Berlin Smith’s nephews Robert Falke and Henry Collins, and Falke’s brother-in-law Charles Riffe..

Riffe, who migrated to Ashtabula from Jolo, W. Va. in 1954, lived next door to the Pentecostal Holiness pastor, Lawrence English. Riffe says English helped show him the way to Jesus Christ at a time in his life when he was about to lose everything to a drinking habit. Riffe says he took his habit to the altar and came away a different man. “It changed me,” he says. “That’s what religion is all about.” Riffe attended the Pentecostal Holiness Church for only a month or so, although he remained friends with English. The lack of denominational independence was an issue for Riffe, who grew up in the Old Regular Baptist faith. Upon the invitation of the brother-in-law Robert Falke, Riffe began attending meetings at Rose Lee’s new church. Virtually every member was from Appalachia, says Riffe. “It was a close-knit group,” he says.

Roberts wrote the by laws and incorporated the church. He surveyed the talent available t=in the fledgling congregation and chose Henry Collins, A West Virginia native who had come north to work at Union Carbide Metals, to serve as his associate pastor. Collins had served as Sunday school superintendent under Rose Lee Long and was eager to help build a new church.

Collins’ wife Helen, a school teacher, served as secretary/treasurer. Collins himself was a multi-talented mad who served with Roberts for 15 years before moving to Virginia. “They stood by me,” Roberts says. “He was a good carpenter, plumber, and electrician. He was something we needed in building this little church over here.” It was Collins who performed the ceremony for the first couple married in the church, Judy Herron, and Solon Wolford, say Roberts.

One of the big challenges facing Roberts and Collins was bringing credibility to the independent Pentecostal movement. Roberts found an ally in The Full Gospel Businessmen’s Magazine. The periodical contained testimonies from Pentecostal people who were making a difference in their communities. Roberts thought the positive message presented in the publication would go far toward dispelling the mistrust locals had toward the faith. Roberts paid $25 to have a subscription sent to 50 pastors in the community. He says pastors became curious about Pentecostalism, and one church, Plymouth Methodist, invited Collins to preach for them.

Moving from Main Avenue building into a permanent location also gave the congregation credibility. Roberts says they met in the Odd Fellow’s Hall, then McBride’s Tin Shop at West 32^nd and Lake, before purchasing property on the east side of Cook Road in the fall of 1963. I saw the sign and I said “That’s the place,” Roberts said. The place had been headquarters for a local motorcycle club that ran out of gas. “The people in the club had gotten old, too old to ride,” he says. The price was $2000, a lot more money than the church had in its building fund. Despite the lack of credit, the church was able to obtain a loan from a local citizen who specialized in financing real estate. Several of the men who were saved under his ministry expressed an interest in becoming pastors. Roberts gave them the opportunity to preach at Wednesday night services and train under him.

At least five churches were established as a result of his mentoring; they include The Church of the Living God, Freedom Worship Center, Geneva Revival Center, Family Worship Center and a community church in Greenville, Pa., with David Carr as pastor.

Power of prayer demonstrated in Roberts’ life

The Rev. Henry Roberts is getting tired of dying. When he was just a couple years old, Roberts contracted typhoid fever and was given up for dead. His mother and father bathed his limp body, dressed him in burial clothes, laid him out on the kitchen table and folded his arms across his chest. His father was dispatched to have a casket built for his son his mother went in t bedroom and began praying. In that prayer Ella Roberts thanked God for giving Henry to her for 3 years and reiterated her desire that he would grow up to be a preacher. She closed her prayer by turning her son over to God and his will. When she turned to leave the room, Henry was standing at the door. I said “Momma, can you fix me something to eat? I’m hungry,” Roberts says.

Five years later, Roberts contracted the flu and once again lay near death. Indeed, he says he saw himself float above his body and feel the pain and suffering leave him. As he floated above the room toward God, Roberts saw his mother and other family members gather around his bed and begin crying and praying. The harder the people prayed, the closer he drew back to the body. When the prayers eased up, Roberts was drawn toward heaven. Back and forth he went, between empyrean and earth, bliss and pain, an 8 year old on a celestial yo-yo string. “Every time they’d go to praying’ they’d pull me back down again,” he says. “I figured I was about a mile away - then, after a while, I was back there looking up at them, and I had the same old pain.” “Everybody was so happy there, except me. They didn’t know how angry I was they had pulled me back down,” he says.

Thirteen years later, while serving with an Army Air Force military police unit in the South Pacific, Roberts contracted scab typhus. His condition steadily grew worse and he ended up severely jaundiced and unable to speak. He was taken to a hospital in Australia but given little hope for survival. Indeed his Sargent was told he had dies. Doctors had no treatment for the illness, and Roberts lay in the hospital for days unable to talk or get out of bed. Then one day he received a letter from his mother, who had enclosed a handkerchief with a dab of oil on it. Referring to Acts 18, she instructed Roberts to lay it on his throat and pray for healing. Although he had grown up around the Pentecostal practice of prayer cloths, he was initially embarrassed at his mother’s effort. He quickly hid the letter and cloth. But when no one was around, Roberts got the handkerchief out, put it on his throat and prayed. The next time someone came in to check on Roberts’ condition, he shocked the staff by talking. Roberts was soon shipped back to the base to rejoin his company, much to his Sargent’s surprise.

Roberts says his senior years have likewise been filled with miraculous recoveries from illness. His cancer doctor told him four years ago that he had only six months to live. Eighteen years ago, a heart attack put him in the hospital for five weeks, during which time doctors gave him very little hope for a long life. A doctor who was not assigned to Roberts wanted to examine him just to satisfy his own professional curiosity. He said, “I have never in 46 years of practicing medicine seen anybody living with a heart as bad as yours,” Roberts says. “He told me to go home, do nothing, take it easy and buy yourself some time.

Roberts says he was surrounded with prayer during that time of illness and credits it for his recovery. I told a friend, “I got so many churches wanting to pray for me that I don’t think I could die if I wanted to,” he says.

Taking his faith south

Roberts says his original plan was to nurture these fledgling pastors to the point they could assume leadership of Ashtabula Revival Center so he and Angie could return to West Virginia. This was in spite of the fact that offers to evangelize in other churches had virtually stopped after he accepted the call to Ashtabula. Nevertheless he made plans to take his faith south. Unknown to Angie Roberts squirreled away a little money each week until he had enough to make the move back home. On the day he planned to give Angie the good news, she had some news of her own. She’d bought some merchandise on credit and the bill was due. Angie didn’t have the money to pay for it, and when she told her husband the amount, he realized God had once again spoked. “It was exactly what I had saved,” he says. After that, he accepted the fact he was destined to serve in Ashtabula. If it had been for anybody else but the Lord, I probably would have stayed back in the mountains,” he says

Through Roberts and Collins persistent, steady efforts, the membership expanded beyond the core of Appalachian founders. New members were brought into the church through baptism, which created a challenge for the church because it lacked a baptistry. Roberts says they used Lake Erie and Whitman’s Creek for the baptizing services, even in winter. He recalls one baptizing session that occurred when the ice was 4 to 5 inches thick at the creek mouth. Members walked out on the ice, hoping their weight would crack a hole for the baptizing. But it didn’t. A couple men got a railroad tie and used it to break the ice,” Roberts says. They lowered Roberts and Ishmel Hamilton into the water, then one by one lowered each new believer into the hole with the pastor and his associate. “After about the 5^th one was baptized, Ish and I can’t stand this no longer. He jumped out and went back to the car that running with the heater on,” Roberts says. “Henry Collins jumped in with me and finished the baptizing.”

Doesn’t hurt to ask

Pentecostalism went mainstream in the 1970's and the church was soon bulging at the seams. Roberts says the need for more space became so great they purchased a bus, parked it behind the building and used it to house their teen classes. Heating duct work was run from the furnace inside the building to the bus. In 1972 Roberts approached Salinda Weaver about purchasing 1.5 acres of land on the west side of Cook Road. He was told he was wasting his time trying to buy the land. Other parties had inquired about it and Weaver flatly refused to sell the property, which had been in her family for 170 years. Roberts, however had faith. She said she would think about it and I told her I’d pray about it.” Roberts says. When I went back to see her, she said to me very firmly, “Rev. Roberts, I am not going to sell you that land.” She let it sink in for about 10 seconds. Then she said “I’m going to give you that land.” Roberts drew up the plans for the new church and had blueprints made. Then he organized a crew of workers to erect and finish the building. Roberts himself did much of the physical labor of building the church while still holding down a secular job and being a pastor. The congregation moved into the new church building in 1977. Additions since then have included a gymnasium and fellowship hall. As the congregation grew, demands on Henry Roberts’ time became too great for one man to handle. The stress came to a head in 1983, when Roberts suffered a severe hear attack that landed him in the hospital for five weeks. Roberts placed a call to his son Kenny, who was serving as a pastor to a church in Gray, Ky, Kenny had always said he wouldn’t come back to Ohio or be pastor at his father’s church, but the illness changed that. He immediately responded to his father’s request and agreed to serve as associate. He became pastor of the church in 1991. Kenny’s entrance into the ministry came when he was a young adult. Like his father, he was called on the spur of the moment to speak before a group in the church. His father says he was floored to hear his son preach like a seasoned pro, without the benefit of preparation. Everybody was shocked, Henry Roberts says. “He was like an old minister who’d been in the ministry all his life. He knew his scriptures and he held to his subject. Here all the time I thought he’d been sitting in the back row of the church reading comic books, but he’d been reading the Bible.” Kenny says watching his father exercise his faith time and time again helped him develop his own faith. “Living in a house with him, you knew Christianity was true,” Kenny Roberts says. “It’s his faith. He would be praying and a church would come to mind and that’s where he’d drive. I’ve seen him go off to Indiana with no money in his pocket. But it’s easy to have faith when you know you’re doing the right thing.

Faithful servants

From their Cook Road home south of the church, Henry and Angie Roberts watch the constant stream of activity at the church day and night. Kenny Roberts says he did 107 funerals in 2000 and 56 weddings last year. Many of the funerals are for the Appalachian migrants who attended small Pentecostal churches on the wane. And many are for people who don’t have a church but have met either Henry or Kenny through their community outreach. “So many people know you after 40 years in the ministry,” Kenny says.

Attendance ranges from 250 to 350 on Sunday; 150 at mid-week services.. “We had so many on Easter we couldn’t let all of them in,” Kenny says. He credits an Appalachian tradition for the church’s growth, although he estimated that only 30% of the congregation now has ties to that region. Roberts says the church has only Sunday school on Sunday mornings. After a common opening session in which Kenny Roberts gives a message, the students disperse to their classes. The main service is on Sunday evenings, when churches in Appalachia typically meet.

Kenny Roberts says this practice allows worshipers from other churche3s to worship in the Pentecostal tradition while retaining membership in other congregation. He says the Pentecostal style is particularly appealing to young people, who appreciate the variety of music and open mindedness to worship styles. “Youth like the church, they like the music,” he says.

Kenny Roberts says there’s no secret to this ministry it’s a matter of sharing the gospel honestly and giving people room to respond to it. “If your people are excited, they will work,” he says. “It’s the people, not the ministry.” For his father’s part in the ministry it has been a matter of living a consistent life of faith. “I just kept preaching to them having revivals,” Henry Roberts says. “Visiting them, being nice to them, until I became dad to them.”

Roberts says he realizes he is in the twilight of his ministry, and God has given him the wisdom to graciously step aside and let the next generation continue the work. Looking back on his ministry, he sums it up succinctly: “We’ve had a glorious hard time.”