God's Mercy and The Fall and Rise of a Convicted Felon

Mark Story/Terea Neumann Reporting : Dec 9, 2005
The Herald Leader

In the early 1980s, Whit Criswell was a Mount Sterling, Kentucky, former banker, city councilman and school board member masking a secret life as an over-the-top sports gambler. His addiction made chaos out of his personal finances and when he was caught embezzling almost $200,000 from his own bank to pay off bookies, he spent two years in a federal prison before getting out five months early for good behavior.

Needless to say, it wasn't easy returning home to his wife and family in the same small town where everyone knew what he had done. Criswell came back with the attitude that he had paid his debt and was ready to resume his standing in life, but the folks in Mount Sterling didn't necessarily see it that way, says reporter Mark Story. No one would hire him. Criswell admits that he had returned home with a bad attitude. "I expected forgiveness," he says. "I had paid my dues, so to speak. I did not understand that their reactions were up to them. It was their choice."

Despite the stress on his family, however, his wife Sandra, never left him. She says she knew even on the morning of May 10, 1984 -- when her husband returned home after spending the night on the verge of suicide -- that she would not leave her marriage. Even in the dark times, she notes, she "never lost sight of a man with a good heart who had always reached out to help others. A husband who loved going to the beach with his wife. A father who would get down on the floor and romp with his kids."

"I never directed my energies in any other way but to keep my family together" said Sandra.

Knowing they had to relocate in order for Whit to get a decent job to support his family, the Criswell's moved to Lexington in 1987. There, Wayne Smith, a prominent minister, who had stayed in touch throughout Criswell's incarceration, allowed Whit to volunteer at his church, Southland Christian, after Whit still could not find a job there.

Criswell started visiting the sick and imprisoned. He became Smith's unofficial driver and was an eager Sunday school substitute teacher. Soon, he was volunteering nearly 50 hours per week. It was during this time that Whit realized that he hadn't even thought of gambling in weeks. Something had changed. Pastor Smith saw a calling in Criswell and in 1990, at the age of 43, Whit Criswell delivered his first sermon at Southland. He was now an associate pastor.

Then one day in late 1999, says Story, a man named Jerry Herndon asked Criswell to apply for the position of senior pastor at a little Lexington church called Northern Heights Christian. During the job interview, Whit gave a list of reasons why the church should not hire him: "I do not have a Bible college degree. My wife has her own career and her own life and is not the kind of traditional minister's spouse in the church every time the door opens. Did I mention I'm a convicted felon?"

Criswell preached two sermons before the congregation voted. One was his life testimony and the other held his vision of the future. He received 100 percent of the vote. His stock saying is, "You can't go back and make a brand new start. You can start today and make a brand new ending." Today, NorthEast has blossomed with membership growing from 170 to 1,300. (More...)

"I think none of us realized how powerful (Criswell's) personal story is," Herndon says. "It's amazing what that alone does."

Greg Horn, an associate minister at the church, agrees. In his previous life, he lost his business, filed for bankruptcy and found out his wife was leaving him, all in one day. "How many churches would have a guy with my past in the pulpit?" Horn says.

Tom Carr was in a prison in Marion County for drug trafficking and writing bad checks when a choral group from Criswell's church came to perform a musical written from the minister's life. That very night, Carr told a fellow inmate that one day he would be part of that choir. Now, says Story, he is.

A ex-alcoholic, Marilyn Mitchell has been sober for eight years. "You think of a minister being more pious," she says. "But Whit, because of his own past, is so approachable I always feel I can talk to him about my alcoholism if I need to. Because of him, there are a lot of people who might not feel worthy of church (anywhere else) who get a second chance."

Some ask the question: What if Sandra Criswell had left her husband? Would he have been able to forgive himself? Would a divorce on top of a felony conviction have disqualified him in conservative Christian circles?

"My mom is a real hero in this," says Criswell's son, Chad. There's nothing random in life.

Whit is the first to admit that the internal hunger that once consumed him -- the need to place a bet -- still flares. But from the night that he almost killed himself, he has never "laid a bet" - no matter how strong the urge.

"I'm sure it's a constant temptation for him," says Chad of his dad. "That's the fight he has to make."