He was so excited that he didn't grasp another possibility. What if the people who followed him from Chapel Hill to his new church didn't want to hear his good news?

"It has a way of wiping out the things that keep you from being authentic," he says of scandal. "All you have left is who you are. The games are gone. All the church tricks that used to work. I am the biological son of my dad's brother. So this is what it is. If there was anything I wanted to say I thought would be unacceptable to the church, now is the time to say it."

He could have never preached that message at Chapel Hill, but court-ordered DNA tests have a way of liberating a pastor. What did he have to fear now? He had survived the worst the church world could throw at him.

"It's not just live and let live," he said of the inclusion message. "It's God in all of these streams. That thing you call Jesus. The thing you call the Prophet Mohammed they call Buddha. It's just different names, but it's the same spirit."

"Religion's nature is to exclude, to see in black and white, to deny exceptions and to maintain dominance by supposedly knowing who qualifies and who does not," he wrote. "Why is it that religion always seems to need a WHIPPING BOY?"

He wrote a book, "I Don't Know... The Way of Knowing," explaining his journey. He wrote that while he was still a "Jesus freak," there is one river, many wells.

D.E. finally had a new church and a new message: "The Gospel of Inclusion." God doesn't exclude: Muslims, Hindus, atheists, Wiccans, gays and lesbians – God accepts them all. There is no hell except what one creates with one's own actions. People don't need a "Man of God" to give them revelations; God is within them.

See inside D.E.'s new church in Atlanta, where he preaches inclusion of all faiths.

In July 2012, D.E. and Brandi created a new incarnation of Chapel Hill. They called it "The Spirit and Truth Sanctuary," and about 300 members from the bishop's old church followed them. So did Don and Clariece Paulk, as well as D.E.'s sister, LaDonna.

He also sought truth in the people he reached out to. He had lunch with Jewish rabbis, talked with Bishop Pearson about universal salvation, placed statues of Buddha throughout his house and walked through Hindu temples in tears because he sensed the same spirit that he felt at Pentecostal revivals.

"I was finding similar truths in these non-Christian books that I saw in the Bible," D.E. says.

He went on a spiritual pilgrimage. He bought hundreds of books on spirituality: "The Power of Now" by Eckhart Tolle; "The Third Jesus," By Deepak Chopra; and "One River, Many Wells," by Matthew Fox.

D.E. took a spiritual detour. He had been leaning in another direction for years, reading about other religions and forms of spirituality. He kicked that into overdrive.

"I was like, 'That's God,'" D.E. says. "All of this 'Thus sayeth the Lord' had nothing to do with that."

He had always been impressed with the bishop's charisma. He became more impressed, though, with his father's compassion.

D.E. had found another spiritual mentor, the one he had all along – his father.

His dad was the one who insisted that Chapel Hill be involved in civil rights, D.E. says. "It was my dad who went first to meet with Daddy King [the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.'s father] and came home from that meeting and said to his brother, 'We need to get involved.'"

D.E. also realized that his father wasn't just driven by compassion, he was driven by a sense of justice.

"Here I am a little black kid, and he took me in and reared me and encouraged me as if I was his own son," Lamar says. "To this day, I call him 'Uncle Don.' He tells me, 'I love you buddy. Call me if you need anything.'"

Today that young man still marvels at Don Paulk's generosity. Lewis Lamar said it didn't stop when he left for college. Don Paulk sent him money and co-signed his first car loan.

His father heard about an African-American high school student in the church who was having trouble growing up in a tumultuous household in a violent housing project. He invited the young man to live with his family. D.E. practically became a second brother to the young man as they grew up sharing Christmas gifts and playing basketball together.

It was his father, Don Paulk. D.E. thought about an episode from his childhood.

D.E. had seen the love of God in action. But he didn't see it in the rousing sermons, the grand building projects or the bold prophecies. He realized he'd seen it in a man who wasn't afraid to ask questions; wasn't afraid to forgive or to be overlooked. It was a man who constantly opened his home to strangers and family members who needed help. It was the man who loved him unconditionally, whether or not he fulfilled a prophecy.

How can you love God if you're driven by so much fear?

D.E. knew something about fear. The bishop feared losing power. His mother feared her secret. Pastors feared losing popularity. And the people in the pews came to church each Sunday fearing hell.

"I am going to take this bucket of water and pour it on the flames of hell," she said, "and then I am going to use this torch to burn down the gates of paradise so that people will not love God for want of peace or fear, but because He is God."

D.E. was driving one day when he heard something on the radio that gave him a hint of what that could be. A talk show guest told a story about Rabia Basri, an 8th century Muslim Sufi saint. Basri was running through her hometown carrying a torch in one hand and a bucket of water in the other when someone asked where she was going.

The thrill was gone. The preening preachers, the "courtesy drops," the sex scandals – he wanted something different.

'The ultimate scandal'

D.E.'s inclusion message went off like a bad product launch. He rhapsodized about Lao Tzu, Buddha and the Bhagavad Gita but his congregation sat stoned-faced in the pews. Some even glared in anger.

The prophet wasn't even accepted in his own home. One Saturday night, he gave Brandi, his wife, sermon notes comparing Jesus to other Christ saviors in religion. He went upstairs and heard her tiny feet storming up the steps.

"Absolutely not!"

D.E. pressed on but the congregation started to drift away. He watched longtime friends who had stood by his side during court cases and embarrassing revelations tell him he had gone too far. They couldn't embrace the message that God accepted people from all religions and sexual orientations.

He witnessed another mass exodus from a church, but this time he was responsible.

"Love, not sex, had actually proved to be the ultimate scandal," he wrote in his book.

It was the lowest he had ever felt in church.

"This wasn't hurt," he said. "This was hopelessness. Are you kidding me? They can tolerate all the sexual scandals and the lawsuits, but when you invite a Muslim or a gay person to church, that's the scandal you leave for?"

His wife told him that not everyone was out to get him.

"I tried to tell him it's not personal," Brandi said. "He shuts down. I've watched him over the years become more closed off to close relationships because he's afraid someone is going to hurt him and walk away."

But D.E. didn't retire; he re-fired. He walked into the pulpit, red-faced with frustration and pointed in the direction of nearby megachurches that they could go to and said, "Get busy!"

On other occasions, he issued a challenge. "Bring your Bibles," he said. "Let's sit down and see who wins."

He started to sound like someone familiar, a man who once told doubting parishioners, "If that's in the Bible, bring it to me and I'll eat it."

He was becoming the bishop.

"I never wanted to be that."

And when he saw what was inside of him, he got spooked. He went before his congregation and asked, "How can I find you again?"

He found them through the Bible. He started anchoring his message in scripture and asked his congregation permission to show similar truths in other religious texts.

The exodus slowed. Then, it stopped. Today, the church is a rarity on many levels: interfaith, interracial, a mosaic of people deep in the Bible Belt where many churches remain segregated. The church has gay couples, college students, agnostics, some Muslims and even a Wiccan priest. Pictures of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. and Mahatma Gandhi adorn the walls.

A stained glass window looming over the pulpit captures the spirit of the church. It's a design that contains a Christian cross, ringed by symbols from Judaism, Islam and Hinduism. In the middle is a dove, which symbolizes the spirit of peace that binds them all together.

The church opens its doors to people of different faiths, races and sexual orientations. D.E. Paulk calls the open-door policy "radical inclusion." E. M. Pio Roda/CNN

D.E.'s preaching is as easy-going as the church's approach to differences. No wagging fingers and thunderous revelations. He treats parishioners as fellow companions on a spiritual journey. He sprinkles his conversational sermons with references to everyone from the Buddha to Teddy Pendergrass's hit song, "Love TKO."

There are no armor bearers at his side. He tells people not to call him bishop, just D.E. He cuts the church lawn and hates asking for money. He's not about to hide a television set in his closet.

"I tell my people all the time, if you invite me to watch a football game, don't let it turn into prayer time because I'm going to get upset. I don't care if 'the spirit fell.' I'm going to be in the other room watching the game."

His family runs the church with him. Don Paulk says he would have left church altogether if it weren't for the inclusion message. Clariece Paulk is still behind the piano. His sister, LaDonna, is the church's administrator, and his wife is a church co-founder and singer (she sounds like Teena Marie).

Most people in the congregation know about the Paulks' past. Some say that makes it easier to follow them, not harder.

David Searcy, who knew the bishop, is a Wiccan priest who attends the church.

"They're real," Searcy says. "What could they do now to blow my mind? Nothing. What could come out of the woodwork or the news to freak me out? They've done a lot of crazy mess, and they've freaked out a lot of people, but they're real."

Some say it's still hard to digest what happened between the bishop and Clariece Paulk.

Amnesia helps.

"I still can't judge her," says Fred Hayes, who was part of the bishop's security detail at Chapel Hill. "I put it in the back of my mind and leave it alone. We love her for the gifts she brings."

Those who knew the Paulks during their glory days, though, are more suspicious of D.E.'s new direction.

Thumma, the seminary professor, says D.E. grew up in an atmosphere of lies and deception and he may have become good at it. He's not surprised that D.E. has such a bold new message.

"He's Earl's son," Thumma says. "Earl Paulk was a religious genius. He was entrepreneurial. They were doing things that were far ahead of other churches. D.E. is a part of it. He's looking at where the American church is going."

Thumma says D.E. is in denial. "He's just fooling himself. He's never really renounced it, all of that suffering, and come to grips with how insidious and sick it was."

Thumma's anger may seem mystifying, but there are many ex-Chapel Hill members who are still hurt years later. The bishop was their hero, a surrogate father; their conduit to God. And Chapel Hill wasn't just a church; it was a movement. People sacrificed careers, uprooted families and gave everything to the Paulks. Some were so devastated by their experience with certain Paulk ministers that they never returned to any church; some became atheists.

Some of these same people won't allow D.E. to escape his family's history, no matter what he does. They say he should have left Chapel Hill and never returned; that he can't help but be a deceiver because it's literally in his blood. His new message sounds heretical to them – some think it's just another family con.

If the Paulk family had a scrap of honor left, they would get out of the church business and sell used cars, says Royston, leader of an online support group for former Chapel Hill members.

"The fact that D.E. is still preaching is proof that God doesn't exist," says Royston, who is now an atheist.

She says D.E. is trying to repackage himself, that he will never draw the crowds the bishop inspired.

"He can get a few, but he'll never get the thousands that Earl had. He'll never get back the prestige, the honor that people gave to them."

D.E. says he doesn't want another megachurch.

"The bigger we get, the less I go to my children's basketball games, the less I see of my wife at home," he says. "I don't want to build a kingdom. I saw what kingdom building does."

For those who question D.E.'s religious convictions, Swilley, his cousin, offers this:

"I've heard people say I don't like his theology. I say you should be impressed that he has any theology at all."

It's D.E.'s attitude toward his family that also seems baffling. Isn't he angry at his family for deceiving him for so long?

"It was kept from me for my protection," he says. "How many families have skeletons that they won't show to their children? It's not out of spite. It's out of love."

And what does D.E. feel about the bishop?

"He never said he was sorry," he says.

But his anger at his uncle has mellowed. "If you look at Earl Paulk's life and say he never did anything wrong and he's a man of God, you're blind. If you look at Earl Paulk and you only see a monster and sexual predator, you're blind."

And what does D.E. see when he looks within himself? Does he see the face of the bishop staring back? Is he like the bishop?

D.E. pauses and thinks about that question. He sighs and leans back in a chair at his parent's house before answering.

"I hope I am," he says.

The bishop was a man ahead of his time, he says, someone who was willing to preach an unpopular message. That's what he wants to claim from the man.

"I'm definitely a chip off the old block. He was a trailblazer. I know I carry that spirit."

He also knows he carries some of the bishop's pugnaciousness.

"I could easily become like my uncle," he says. "I'm not saying that I won't, but at this point of my life I'm so introspective: Why do I think the way I do? Why do I talk the way I do? I think I have a system of checks and balances in me." He also has someone willing to get in his face.

"My sister has seen enough of it, she would be like, 'Dude, don't even go there.'" The Paulks say that in an odd way the secret helped D.E. If he had grown up as the bishop's son, it might not have worked. D.E. agrees.

"We would have fought," D.E. says. "I wouldn't put up with him trying to dominate me. I'm too much like him."

After the results of the DNA test went public, Don Paulk delivered the same message. He took D.E. aside for a father-son chat.

"Look Donnie Earl, I love you. There's no way for me to tell you how much I love you," he said. "But because of biological things and because of being raised in my home, you have the ability to pick up the best traits of both of us. Capitalize on that."