Even though I had never been to a “biker church” when I took on this project, I somehow found exactly what I expected. Simply put, rough looking guys from all walks of life, meeting in a less-than-traditional space for worship. But I wasn’t prepared for the fervor and passion that filled the tiny space; pastor Billy Powell’s hoarse voice bounced off every wall of the dingy thrift store converted sanctuary where old armchairs (all for sale) accommodated the overflow guests. Just like the days when he was a scrappy fighter in his motorcycle “club,” Powell meets his new duties head-on and follows through. I can’t say for certain where he spends the rest of his days, as he is almost impossible to track down outside of the church (I heard he works at some construction sites as well as a tattoo shop), but I met people from 20, 30 miles around who had come in to hear him preach and share about his new life, serving the Lord. At his handlebar-adorned pulpit is, to me, where this story is certainly centered.