Denny Nissley, 43, of Manassas, Va., holds the 10-foot cross he sometimes uses in his street ministry; behind him are his wife, Sandy, holding their 1-year-old son, Amos, and their daughters in the family bus. THE WASHINGTON POST

Denny Nissley has 9 kids, 1 bus and a mission

Web posted February 27, 1999

By Phil McCombs
The Washington Post

MANASSAS, Va. -- Denny Nissley is a friendly, outgoing guy with a nice house, an adoring wife and nine chipper children. Your mainstream American.

He also has a Harley-Davidson for evangelizing at biker rallies, a 10-foot cross with ``HE DIED FOR YOU'' in red lettering that he carried into the fray of the Million Man March, and a full-size tour bus in which the Nissleys crisscross America much of the year, ``taking the love of Jesus to where it's most desperately needed, and hardest to find.''

That's the motto of their Christ in Action ``street ministry,'' which has led this family to proclaim the Word at state fairs and public parks, Mardi Gras and inner-city housing projects -- anywhere, in short, where they can ``invade the enemy's front lines,'' as their pamphlet puts it.

Nissley, 43, doesn't talk much about politics -- his agenda is the Lord's. Yet his is the kind of Bible-based fervor many Republicans hope is launching a new moral awakening in America -- one that they can tap at the dawn of a new millennium.

A former welder, doper and alcoholic, Nissley modestly figures he preaches to a million folks a year. ``I've been shot at, beat on, put in jail,'' he says, with no hint of boasting. ``I've worked with drug addicts, alcoholics, prostitutes and inner-city street gang members.'' Of course, he tries not to take his wife and children into spots that are too dangerous.

In January, they all went up to Capitol Hill to pray at the anti-abortion rally on the 26th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, the U.S. Supreme Court decision that legalized abortion.

Denny and Sandy Nissley's eight daughters -- Rachel, 16; Bethany, 15; Melody, 12; Deborah, 11; Leah, 8; Elizabeth, 7; Grace, 5; and Priscilla, 3 -- had solemnly marched forward and lit a ``Life Candle.'' Little Amos, 1, stayed back in his pregnant mother's arms.

Presidential candidate Gary Bauer, head of the conservative Family Research Council, told the gathering that ``1 1/2 million aborted babies a year cannot be tolerated,'' and promised to make this the ``central issue'' of his campaign, if he runs.

Nissley listened closely. A Republican who voted for Dole in 1996, he later says flatly: ``I don't think you can separate faith, culture and politics. If you take God out of politics, I believe democracy will fail.

``This nation was founded on biblical principles, and the further we pull away from them the weaker we are.''

The Nissleys belong to Manassas Assembly of God, one of numerous ``mega-churches'' that have sprung up in suburbs across the country. The charismatic Pentecostal congregation has grown so fast that it's building a $9 million, 300,000-square-foot facility that will seat 2,000 in the sanctuary and will include classrooms and a gym.

``If all our members were as fervent as Denny,'' quips church receptionist Adeline Worthley, ``we'd have to build three new churches.''

Though he is an ordained Assemblies of God minister, Nissley's assignment is not to preach to a flock like most pastors, but to reach out to nonbelievers.

``He's a genuine person. What you see in Denny is exactly what he is,'' says Manassas Assembly of God pastor Charles Nestor, who has known the Nissleys for 15 years. ``He's committed to taking the message of Christ to people who probably would never attend a regular worship service, and he does it with total commitment.''

Nestor says he understands that Republicans are seeking political gain by identifying with conservative Christians, but sees ``a great danger if the church identifies itself with one cause or party, because we need to be able to speak prophetically to the entire political spectrum.''

When the Nissleys pull into an event or an area to evangelize, they're not interested in party affiliations. They just want people to hear the Word. In addition to the 1971 MCI-7 bus in which the family travels, their Christ in Action ministry has recently acquired a Peterbilt 18-wheeler equipped with a 14,000-watt sound system and rigged for instant conversion into an outdoor theater.

There's also a 20-foot mobile kitchen with eldest daughter Rachel at the helm. ``I've cooked as many as 8,500 hot dogs a day,'' she says with a smile.

Funded by donations from friends and businesses, the Nissleys work closely with local churches in the areas they visit; volunteers pilot the vehicles.

``We pull up in the inner cities and put on a big block party,'' Denny explains, sitting with his wife and children in the comfortable living room of their home near Manassas and leafing through photo albums of their various evangelistic adventures. ``We do dramatic presentations and have contemporary Christian music groups perform. In black areas, we'll have rap.''

The family is on the road six to eight months a year. Sandy Nissley, 37, home-schools the children wherever they find themselves. Last Christmas they visited orphanages in a Mexican border town, bringing food, clothing and medicine to children who were ``living in garbage dumps,'' as Nissley describes it. ``They were fighting with the pigs for scraps of food.''

``I made friends with a girl named Blanca!'' Leah chirps.

In Washington, when the Nissleys were distributing food one Christmas, Rachel found it ``amazing, some people didn't even know that the Christmas story is in the Bible.'' She was talking about a street person they'd met.

``I sat there on the sidewalk and read it to him,'' her father adds. ``I told him, 'My kids baked these cookies for you, and this is in the Bible -- this is the Good News.' ''

As he talks, Nissley quotes Scripture from time to time, while Bethany, using an electronic Bible, announces the exact citations almost immediately by entering keywords.

``Matthew 25:40!'' she chimes in.

That's the part where Jesus has been talking about helping the poor, the sick, the homeless, the prisoners, and notes, ``Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.''

``We don't think people should kill their babies,'' Rachel says, reflecting on what the passage means to her. ``I mean, my mom is going to have Number 10 in May, and for us that baby is already part of our family.''

Her voice is almost wistful; her earrings are little silver crosses.

Two decades ago, Nissley himself was a lost wretch. He drank so much, his pals nicknamed him ``Funnel.''

Guzzling beer and burglarizing gas stations for drug money, he was on a blind, angry search for meaning in his life -- for some way to fill the terrible void he felt within.

Nissley's parents -- his father worked in insurance and his mother worked as his secretary -- were solid, churchgoing citizens in Lancaster, Pa., but somehow that didn't work for Denny. He barely made it through high school, and once flung his crutch in rage at a doctor who wanted to amputate his leg after a work accident.

He kept the leg, and his addictions, until one night he found the meaning he'd been searching for. Nissley gave his life to Jesus at a barn revival, experienced ``an indescribable inner peace'' and was healed.

That was April 3, 1977. ``A thousand cases of beer never satisfied or even filled my thirsty funnel,'' he relates in a colorful tract that he hands out at revivals. ``But one taste of Dr. Jesus' new prescription, Living Water, satisfied my entire being!''

Half a year later, Nissley received his call to preach.

``I was watching the 11 o'clock news one night,'' he remembers, ``and there was an automobile accident. A young couple I knew from school was in the car, and I'd talked to them earlier that night about Christ. They said they didn't need Him, that I'd needed Him because I was really bad, but they didn't. They said they'd think about religion when they got older. I said, 'You need to do it now, because it's great,' but they wouldn't.

``They were both killed.

``The Lord spoke to me and said, 'You were the last Jesus they ever saw.' I began beating my fists on the sofa and crying out to God, 'That's not fair, because I don't know much about Him! I just met Him!'

``God answered, 'But you knew Him.' The Bible says it is 'Christ in you, the hope of glory.' ''

``Colossians 1:27!'' Bethany interjects.

``They walked away from me,'' Nissley finishes, shaking his head sadly, ``and they never had another opportunity for salvation.''

He attended a Bible college in Dallas called Christ for the Nations and, having chosen ``street evangelism'' to satisfy an active ministry requirement, was soon approaching pimps and prostitutes.

``The first girl slapped me across the face, the second took off her high heel and hit me in the head, and the pimp said, 'If you hang around here, you'll be in a body bag.' '' Nissley says he still made some friends and saved some souls -- and discovered how he wanted to spend his life.