A Story from the Archives: Kenneth Copeland
August 6, 2026
San Antonio, Texas
By Elise Powers
It’s kind of a miracle that Travis Park Church is still standing today.
The building is old. It came into existence when the youngest Revolutionary War veterans were still alive. It’s seen the Civil War and the end of slavery. It sent its sons to both world wars, celebrated the ones who came home, and grieved the ones who did not. It’s seen the wars in Vietnam and Iraq and the turmoil of modern times.
And it almost hasn’t.
On October 25th, 1955, a short circuit caused by faulty wiring found its way into the century-old timbers that supported the sanctuary floor. Within seconds fire was eating away at the walls. We don’t know how long it sat, munching away at our historic church—no one was in the building at the time, thank God. What we do know is that a young newspaper worker, E. Rodruigez, called the fire department after seeing smoke in the windows of the church.
The firefighters arrived and battled to save the building. By the time they were done, the church was still standing, at least.
The sanctuary was a mess. Beside the altar a gaping charred pit loomed. The chandeliers were shattered and blackened, their glass strewn across the sanctuary—and basement—floor. The great stained glass window on the east side of the church was completely gone, with only a few slivers of smoke-blackened glass clinging to the topmost portion like jagged broken teeth. The ceiling was scorched, its beautifully intricate molding blackened as if gangrenous.
And yet, one glass window remained, its sooty panels offering the words, “I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE.”
Leading our church at the time was Dr. Kenneth Copeland, a man born to preach. In later interviews and sermons, he would speak of conducting mock church services with his childhood playmates. He preached his first sermon at age 14 and was a fully ordained minister by the time he was 19. If there was a man who could lead the tattered church through this disaster, it was Kenneth Copeland.
Yet, Kenneth Copeland didn’t think so. Shortly after the fire, Rev. Copeland contacted the then-bishop Frank Smith, looking for advice. In Copeland’s words: “And I said, ‘Bishop, this is the first time in my life that I have really wanted to run.’”
Bishop Smith lovingly but firmly reminded the pastor that he had men in the church who could build buildings. What those men needed, however, was a leader who could build hearts. The congregation would need a pastor able to be their North Star, to be their lighthouse, to steer them through the treacherous waters ahead.
And they were treacherous indeed. The first thing looming for the congregation was the decision: go or stay? Should the parishioners of Travis Park Church attempt to restore the centenarian original building, or have the church demolished and move to a new location in the suburbs? Either way meant a massive fundraising campaign, as well as a long period spent homeless, without a fixed building to worship in.
By January 1956, the conversation had come to a conclusion. They were staying. The gaping hole in the sanctuary floor would be replaced, the roof repainted, the stained glass cleaned and repaired. New fire protections would be added to the church.
Even after the parishioners had decided on a course of action, the road to recovery was a difficult one. For three and a half years, the church met in various hotels, including the St. Anthony’s right next door. Then, in January 1959, the congregation was finally allowed to come back. Pastor Copeland preached a heartfelt sermon praising the congregation for the steadfastness, personal sacrifice, and devotion from the brand-new pulpit.
And the career of the man who saved the church ended in the happiest way possible. A year and a half after our congregation was finally able to return to their beloved old home, Kenneth Copeland was ordained as a Methodist bishop at the altar of the very church he had fought to save.
It’s not hard to imagine the gratitude and pride and awe that the new Bishop Copeland might have felt, as he looked out over the bishops and churchmen who had just elected him one of their own. In the end, the fire proved an opportunity to build back stronger, and as he stood at the altar that he had saved, I wonder if he thought the church was thanking him, thanking him for saving her old bones.
Bishop Copeland passed away in 1971, but the church he saved still stands today, and I hope he would be proud. The church is still burning, in a way. Only now, it’s burning with the flame of Pentecost.
May we be a beacon of justice to San Antoni for years and years more.