Chosen to be a Pastor

The stark white wooden sanctuary of St. Mary Congregational Church sits quietly on South Louisiana Street in Abbeville. Signs outside give the history of the property and structure, which was built in 1905 and is on the National Register of Historic places. It is also believed to be the first school in Vermilion Parish to educate freed southern slaves.

“The first pastor of St. Mary’s Congregational Church was James A. Herod,” says Reverend Kevin Williams, current Pastor of the church. “He is considered the father of African American education in Vermilion Parish.”

Reverend Williams has been the Pastor at St. Mary Congregational Church for sixteen years, but began preaching when he was only five years old. He has taken seminary courses, but says that one becomes a Pastor by calling, not by education.

“You don’t choose to be a Pastor,” says Reverend Williams. “You’re chosen.”


Reverend William’s duties as a Pastor include, by are not limited to, managing church finances, organizing and overseeing charitable events, and ministry. When necessary, he will also roll up his sleeves and pull out the vacuum cleaner.

“You have to remind yourself that you’re a servant,” says Reverend Williams. “One of the greatest attributes a leader must possess is the strength to stay in a position and disposition of selflessness. You mustn’t build yourself up so high that the fall will kill you.”

St. Mary gives back to its community by sponsoring drives for school supplies, collecting donations for those affected by hurricanes, and hosting dinners for the less fortunate. One of the church’s most successful creations is called, “Boys to Men.” For the past eleven summers, males aged nine to fifteen participate in a four-week long program involving military exercises and community service.

“The participants get paid at the end of August after they’ve been through the program,” says Reverend Williams. “It teaches them how to handle money and to be accountable.”

When I walk into any interview for this column, I carry a list of questions written on a white tablet. My hope is that they guide me to the story needing to be told. But when I began asking them to Reverend Williams, he said he had a few questions of his own.

“What do you hope to get out of this interview?” he asked. “Would you be willing to trust me so that we can take it to the next level?”

My initial intention for starting this column was to find out a little bit about different careers (and to get my mom off of my case about getting a job). However, I did hope to truly experience what it would be like to work in these professions.

“Um. I guess I just want people to know what it’s like to be a Pastor,” I responded. “And sure. I’ll trust you.”

Reverend Williams disappeared from the office where I was interviewing him and then returned with a long blue and orange robe. He handed it to me and then told me to put it on and follow him. When we got inside of the sanctuary, he asked me to step up to the altar and face the empty church pews.

“You can’t find out what it’s like to be a Pastor from a list of questions,” Reverend Williams said. “You’ll need to stand up there and let the people facing you know how much you love and care about them.”

Reverend Williams informed me that he was not going to make it easy for me. I was already beginning to perspire in the long robe, but my body temperature rose even more as the Pastor walked to different church pews and revealed characters and challenges.

“This gentleman doesn’t want to be here today,” said Reverend Williams. “He lost his job and family this week. He doesn’t believe that you care about him.”

There was a single mother, victims of domestic violence and others who didn’t believe that I practiced what I preached. With each new face, my goal of sending a message about hope and love became more difficult.

But I started enthusiastically as if I were writing a column for the paper. I hoped to dazzle the well-spoken Reverend Williams with my words, and imagined him asking me to preach with him one Sunday. But within a few minutes of my sermon, he began to snore, and then walked out of the church.





Reverend Williams came back moments later, and told me that I was boring him. That he didn’t believe that I cared about him. That a person who cared wouldn’t stand frozen behind an altar.

I tried to have a conversation with him, but one of the rules of my lesson was that I couldn’t speak back. People could only hear me through my sermon.

“You can’t just stand up there and tell them that you care,” said Reverend Williams. “You have to allow the Lord to use you to give people hope.”

I started over, but this time walked around the front of the church. New characters with new challenges evolved in the pews and told me that they didn’t believe me. They didn’t think I could be trusted.

This went on for over an hour. I was drenched in sweat, frustrated and ready to give up.

Why is he putting me through this military-like exercise? I wondered. Did he enroll me in the Boys to Men program? Surely, he doesn’t think I’m fifteen.

Then I got it. Reverend Williams wanted to give me a close-up look at some of the challenges a leader faces. But to also show me that I can’t become a Pastor just by putting on a robe and preaching. I can only become one by being chosen.

Even though I will never be known as Reverend Couvillon, I am grateful for my lesson on leadership from Reverend Williams. He helped me feel more grounded, and to not only think about the message I want to communicate, but its vehicle. I was not chosen to be a Pastor, but I was blessed by time with a leader.

St Mary Congregational Church is located at 213 South Louisiana Street. For service information, call 337-319-2846.