“EXCUSE ME,” the assistant pastor yelled over me from the pulpit microphone. “EXCUSE ME, BROTHER. YOU ARE IN YOUR FLESH. SIT DOWN NOW AND BE QUIET. Let’s sing another song.”
I opened my eyes. There I was, standing in the midst of thousands of people: co workers, fellow students, teachers, friends, and strangers. The most embarrassing moment of my life. I sank down into my chair and wished I could melt into the floor. I didn’t hear any of the announcements or much of the sermon. All I heard were the verses in the Bible that declare, “Woe to those who say, ‘Thus says the Lord,’ and the Lord has not spoken.”9 I thought about those times in New York and Tennessee when I stood up and gave what I thought was a word from God. Was I off then, too? How could I be so deceived? What about the message to the singles’ group outlining the pastor’s sermon? How could that be of God and this not be God? Same feelings and same promptings. I was utterly confused. I was the first one to the altar when the preacher gave a call for salvation or for backsliders to repent. “Lord,” I cried, “if I’m somehow deeply deceived into bringing forth false words, I am so very, very sorry.”
Someone tapped me on my right shoulder, and I was surprised to see white-haired Brother Jones, the head of the Senior Citizen’s Intercessory Group. I raised my weeping head up from the altar floor. He bent down and whispered into my ear: “Young man, that was one of the clearest prophetic words I’ve ever heard, very similar to the word that came forth in our last elders’ meeting here in the church. It was from God. You were not in your flesh.”
I looked over at the assistant pastor who had rebuked me. Which one of those two leaders was right? “Lord, You say in Your Word that when prophecies come forth, the elders are to judge it.10 These elders are not in one accord. I’m going to get up now and walk out of here. If it was of God, have another elder stop me and confirm it before I get to the back door. Otherwise, I’m leaving here and never coming back, and I’ll never speak prophetically again.”
I didn’t take two steps before another gray-haired elder stopped me. He also told me that the word was from God, then another, and another. One of the teachers and then a few of the students stopped to encourage me as well. It took me half an hour to get to the back of the church.
The next day I made an appointment with the assistant pastor to discuss the situation. He was extremely kind and treated me with great respect. He remembered who I was so we didn’t have to reiterate awkwardly what had happened at Sunday’s service.
“Charles, we have a policy here. If we don’t know who you are, the first time you bring forth a word, we shut you down. And judging your reaction to that, we then allow or disallow future words.”
I was flabbergasted by his explanation and didn’t know how to process it. I quickly changed the subject and started talking about New York City, Mike’s ministry, and David Wilkerson.
Pastor Rintz got up, leaned on the edge of his desk, and took a good long look at me. He said, “Charles, I like your spirit. You can bring forth any words you’d like to from now on. And if you finish the pastoral program here, this ministry will financially support your work in New York City when you return.” I left the ministry office flying high yet bewildered over their shut-the-first-timers-down policy.
The following week, Brother Swaggart’s telecast highlighted the awesome ministry of Bill Wilson. His outreach to the kids in Brooklyn was one of the largest Assemblies of God Sunday schools in the nation. As I watched, the burden for New York City broke my heart all over again. I announced to my roommate that I was thinking of leaving for New York sooner than I had planned. The next day, I came back down to reality and realized that in two years I could finish the pastoral degree program and then go back with the blessing and financial backing of Jimmy Swaggart Ministries. Yet, in my prayer closet, tears for lost New Yorkers flowed. I told my roommate I had to go soon. In a few days, I changed my mind again. Exasperated, he finally said to me, “Charles, why don’t you fast and pray and really hear from God before you drive us both crazy?”
I went on the longest fast of my life. I still had to work full-time and attend classes so it was quite trying. On the last day of the fast, I realized that God had graciously given me eight solid confirmations. Not only was I to return to New York City, but I also was to quit school at the end of the semester and leave immediately after. As an employee and student, all my spare money was put into a special account. The school would graciously match my funds, enabling me not to have to work full-time throughout my specific program of study. I had to get approval from the dean of students to withdraw money prematurely.
When I spoke with him, he bluntly said, “Some young men get very stirred up about ministry, don’t they? If the Lord is telling you to do as you say, He would really confirm it.”
“Sir, if you have fifteen minutes, I have quite a few confirmations to share with you.” He escorted me to his office, and we chatted for over an hour. I shared with him about how much the telecast about Bill Wilson’s ministry touched me. I shared various Scriptures I received in prayer, along with many other confirmations. For instance, on the last day of my fast, a stranger laid his hands on me in the sanctuary while I was praying about the South Bronx, and he told me that six months after arriving there, I would be pastoring a church in the place I was praying about right then. I told the dean that when I first drove into Baton Rouge, I heard this verse on my car radio from a Christian station: “…stay there until I bring you word…” (Matt. 2:13). That was the verse spoken at chapel that morning. It was time to return to my land of promise just as Joseph, Mary, and Baby Jesus did.
The dean was very entertained, blessed, and impressed. “Wow,” he finally replied. “You told the truth. That’s a lot of solid confirmations alright. I’ll release your money, and if you’re ever led back here, you’re always welcome.”
We shook hands at the entrance of his office. He added, “Oh, by the way…one thing to keep in mind: God supernaturally confirms things when He knows we’ll need those confirmations for the battles ahead. You’ll probably need each one of them to endure the opposition you’ll face.”
I prayed about his sobering comments, and the Lord spoke to me, saying, “When you turn your heart toward ministering in the South Bronx, you will see the face of satan.” I didn’t know what He meant by that, but I supposed I’d find out soon enough.
Before leaving Bible college, David Wilkerson was invited to come and minister. He spoke a strange message on Samson and Delilah, surely geared toward us students who would be tempted to destroy our calling by sexual sins. Apparently, the message wasn’t just for us students. A few weeks later, one of my fellow employees at Jimmy Swaggart Ministries told me that Brother Swaggart received a letter from David Wilkerson.
“Brother Dave gave him a prophetic word: ‘Shut the ministry down for a year and get things right between you and the Lord privately, or God will have to do it publicly.’”
“What was his response?” I asked.
“He said, ‘I can’t do that. This ministry is too valuable to the Kingdom of God for me to do that.’ Charles, did you know that a huge chunk of the senior class is leaving at the end of December? They’ve been here three and a half years and now they all feel called to go back home. They’re not going to graduate. What’s happening? Something catastrophic is in the air. I know why you’re leaving, but why are so many others suddenly going back home or transferring to other colleges?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I do know it’s time for me to go.”
5
“Do you have a daily prayer life?”
THE WINTER OF 1987 WAS EXTREMELY COLD IN THE NORTHEAST. IN Baton Rouge, it was short-sleeve weather. In the first week of January, I painfully sold or gave away almost all of my cherished Christian books. I sold my dependable Chevy Nova, packed up all I owned into two large suitcases, bought a one-way Greyhound bus ticket to Manhattan, and said goodbye to my college buddies. When I arrived at the Port Authority in Manhattan, I’d been
on that bus for over a day and a half. A tall, lanky fellow kindly asked if I would like him to carry one of my suitcases up to street level, and I gladly agreed. Wow, this place was more hospitable than I remembered.
When we reached the top, he demanded, “That’ll be twenty bucks!”
“What! You’re crazy!” But I was crazy to think he was just being polite, so I pulled out a five-dollar bill and reluctantly gave it to him. A friend in the Bronx had said I could stay with him. He forgot to inform me that the boiler recently broke in his building so his basement apartment was nothing more than a large freezer. I was grateful for a place to stay, but I knew it would only be temporary when he said that if I used an electric heater, the Con Edison bill would be more than he could afford.
The next day, I couldn’t wait until it was time to attend Times Square Church’s warm Tuesday evening service. The church was a few weeks old and had just moved to a semi-permanent place in the Nederlander Theatre. It was on 41st Street, also known as “Crack Alley.” Crack addicts gathered there at night to get high, leaving the sidewalk littered with glass pipes and other paraphernalia. I arrived an hour early and had a great time getting to know Wally and Alex, the men in charge of the building. We became instant friends.
Before the service began, Pastor Dave was sitting up on the stage. He came over to the edge to greet the people in the front row. I was a few feet away so I stood up, and he reached out his hand to me. I said, “Pastor Dave, I met you years ago at Lincoln Center and Glad Tidings Church. Remember? I just came here from Jimmy Swaggart Bible College. The Lord brought me back to the city, just like he brought you back!” Right when I began speaking, the loud music started. I didn’t know if he heard a word I said. Pastor Dave smiled and made his way back to his seat. Oh well. In spite of that, we had a wonderful communion service.
Afterward, I asked, “Hey Wally, that hallway above the balcony sure would make a good prayer room. You mind if I come by tomorrow and spend some time up there praying?”
“No problem. You can come anytime and stay as long as you want. Maybe I’ll join you tomorrow for a little while. Just ask for me when you come, and I’ll let you in.” I came on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday! Not only was it a great place to pray, but also it was so nice and toasty. Besides, every time I asked what He wanted me to do, the Lord prompted me to focus in on prayer. So that’s what I did. I soon completely ran out of money. One of my new friends, named Bill, could surely sympathize with me. He had been a professional window installer. He fell into a crack addiction that ruined his life and reduced him to being a homeless addict. He found his way somehow to the Bowery Mission, where he was saved and discipled. He completed their nine-month program and then joined Times Square Church.
“Hey Charles, I’m staying in a place called Baby Step Mission in the Bronx [not the real name]. It’s for people coming out of drug programs or prison. You get a free room and meals. I’ll ask if you can stay there for a while. They have a one-year limit, but I’m sure things will open up for you. Times Square Church even supports them on a monthly basis because they sometimes take in homeless people who get saved here.”
Bill got permission for me to stay there temporarily. However, there were no empty beds so all they could offer me was to sleep on the floor of Bill’s tiny room. At least it was warm, and there were meals. Well, kind of. There was a kitchen and we were welcome to cook and eat whatever we could find in the cabinets. All that was left in those cabinets were three items: oatmeal, canned beef stew, and peanut butter. Day after day after day we cooked oatmeal or beef stew. We got creative and had a choice of regular oatmeal or peanut butter-flavored oatmeal. It actually is quite good, and it sticks to your ribs during cold winter days.
After the next service, Pastor Dave shook my hand again and asked me where I was staying. I was a little embarrassed to say, but when he asked you something with those piercing eyes, lying even slightly was out of the question. “I’m staying at Baby Step Mission in the Bronx.”
“We support them financially,” he commented. “Is everything OK there?”
“Yes, they’re kind people and everything’s fine.”
Not long after that brief conversation, I found out that everything was not fine. The ministry had another building where the director, her unsaved husband, and the women lived. Word got out that the husband was having sex with a number of those women. They were trapped. If they refused, they’d be out on the streets in no time, with no place to go. That nauseated me. Something had to be done. One of the men in my building, in whom a desperate female tenant had confided, wrote a letter to the ministry board addressing this woman’s concerns. I asked if I could attend their monthly ministry board meeting. It consisted of the director, her secretary, and a few local pastors. After they skirted the issue for over an hour, I asked to speak. “Look, you have a wonderful ministry here, helping a lot of people in desperate need, including myself, for which I’m truly grateful. However, you have an unsaved husband who can’t or won’t control himself. Therefore, you should put all the men in your building and move the women over to the other building.”
The pastors all nodded their heads in agreement, and one of them said, “I don’t know who this guy is, but he speaks as a prophet.”
While the board agreed upon and then voted in my suggestions, I heard the Lord say to me, “Within a few weeks, they will decide to change their minds and keep things exactly the way they are. I want you to leave here then.”
The next morning I woke up cold and depressed. I was in no mood to eat oatmeal—regular or peanut butter flavored. I laid on the hard floor and vividly recalled all the supernatural confirmations that had been given to me. Had God really called me back to New York City in the middle of such a harsh winter? My mind went back to my warm, soft bed in the college dorm, and I mentally strolled to the sunny college cafeteria. Happy students ate all they wanted from a yummy breakfast smorgasbord. Eggs, biscuits, bacon, sausage, French toast, pancakes, muffins, cantaloupe, honeydew, orange juice, coffee. Boy, if I missed it, I really missed it big. After the next Tuesday night service was over, however, I was very grateful that I was not in Baton Rouge.
Pastor Dave got up and announced, “Folks, we really need to pray tonight. People all over the world are about to be shocked. Tom Brokaw called me from NBC News and confirmed that another television evangelist has fallen into sin: Jimmy Swaggart.” At the same time, six people in the congregation let out a loud, “Noooo,” in anguish and shock and pain. I was one of them. I had been an employee, a student, and a member of Family Worship Center. Brother Swaggart was our beloved pastor. (I still love him and wish him and his family the best.)
The next few days, I contacted some friends on campus. They all said the same thing. I was so blessed not to be there. There were ten times more reporters on campus than students—reporters from every major media organization from around the globe. Everywhere you went, someone would stick a microphone in your face and ask you a stupid question, hoping to get a silly remark they could use on the air. If you said anything to those reporters, you were immediately kicked out of the college. A couple of friends reminded me of the word I gave in the main sanctuary a few months back. One friend tearfully said to me over the phone, “Thanks, Charles, for bringing forth that word. Strangely, it’s been a real comfort to the shattered student body. It has reminded us that Jesus is still the Lord over His Church, and He sees and knows everything.”
A few weeks later, I started feeling really weird. “Lord, I haven’t eaten any fresh fruit or vegetables in many weeks, only oatmeal, beef stew, and peanut butter. I hope I’m not coming down with scurvy like those guys in the clipper ship days as they journeyed to America without any fresh fruit. Please, Lord, lead me to a good-paying job somewhere, and maybe one with a signing bonus. I need to buy some vitamin C real soon.” I pulled out the classifieds from The New York Times. Before I could begin my search, I heard the gentle whisper of God.
“Go to Times Square Chur
ch today and spend the day with Me in prayer and worship.”
“OK, Lord.”
Wally was too busy cleaning to pray, which was fine because I was in desperation mode. I felt like I was at the end of my rope and I needed to cry mightily to the Lord. I was soon pacing back and forth in my warm prayer closet hallway, praying in the Spirit at the top of my lungs. I knew that I didn’t have to yell to be heard by God, but the Word does say that even Jesus offered up prayers with strong crying and tears.11 That’s what I felt like doing—offering up prayers to God with strong crying and tears. Wally was vacuuming the sanctuary below. No one could hear me up there anyway, except the One to whom I was crying. “Lord, put it in someone’s heart in the congregation to ask if I need a job. Let them ask me tonight, Lord, at the Tuesday evening service. I believe You can do this for me, because I’m at the end of my rope. I feel sick and vitamin deprived. Lord, please help me! Please rescue me!”
I didn’t know this until a few days later, but at about 11:00 a.m. Pastor Dave came to the sanctuary on his way to the office. He needed to ask Wally something about the church’s boiler. When Wally saw him coming down the aisle, he turned off the loud vacuum cleaner. From the top of the balcony, my voice bellowed out, filling the whole sanctuary.
“What in the world is that?” a startled Pastor Dave asked, looking up and around, trying to figure out from where my voice was coming.
“Oh, that’s the guy from Tennessee. Charles Simpson. He comes here often and spends the day up there in prayer. He’s alright.”
“Oh, OK,” Pastor Dave said.
The next day I woke up to reality. Although I’d been faithful to obey everything I felt the Lord had put on my heart, my wallet was still empty. My body was hurting. My mind was filled with fears that I would die of scurvy. My eight confirmations all seemed like cruel jokes. No one at church offered me a job, although I spent the whole day fasting and praying and believing God for it. Well, thank God Wally slipped subway tokens into my hands every time he saw me. Otherwise, I’d have had no way of getting around. I reluctantly got up and ironed my one suit, put on one of my two ties, and spit-shined my dress shoes. I started mapping out on a spiral notebook the companies I’d worked for in the past, knowing I’d have a better chance of landing a much-needed job with one of them. Let’s see: General Nutrition Center, Nature Food Center, and IHOP. I’d try those places first. I forced myself to eat some beef stew, knowing I might not be home until late. I cleaned my dishes and headed toward the front door. I had to walk past the first floor chapel entrance. When I did, I realized that I actually didn’t have a burning desire to spend time with God that morning. Was I upset with Him? Unlike New Yorkers, we southerners sometimes have a hard time getting in touch with our actual feelings, especially if they’re feelings we’re not supposed to have. I felt the Lord nudging me to put down my notebook and take my coat off and spend time with Him.
Walking in the Footsteps of David Wilkerson Page 6