As I began to pray, I told Him what was on my heart. “Lord, I’m at the end of my rope. I’m tired and discouraged. I feel like giving up and going home. But Baton Rouge is not my home, and Cleveland, Tennessee, is no longer my home.” I began to cry—a little bit at first, but then deep, heavy sobs came gushing out of my utterly downcast soul.
God promises comfort to those who mourn, and I soon felt the manifest presence of the Lord. I heard Him saying to my heart: “Charles, I am your home. Come running to Me.” I fell to my knees, and then I got on my face and wept even deeper into the chapel’s red carpet on which I was lying. I remembered Jesus’s agony in the garden and His prayers to the Father. From the depths of my soul, I cried out, “Abba Father, please help me! Abba Father, please, please help me!”12
Suddenly, the carpet on which I was lying on became the bosom of our Heavenly Father. I felt His arms around me and His warm bosom underneath me. He simply held me in His arms as I cried out all my pain.
“I’m your home, My precious son. I’m your home,” He whispered over and over to my heart.
I felt like I had a Jabbok experience, similar to when Jacob desperately wrestled with the angel all night. He would not let the angel go until he blessed him.13 Jacob came out of that encounter with God changed forever. God even changed his name to Israel, for as a prince he struggled in prayer and prevailed. I was ready to go job hunting. I somehow knew God would lead and bless me.
I got off the floor and found my notebook, opening the page I had written on earlier. “Father God,” I said out loud, “which one should I try first?”
“Go speak with David Wilkerson today,” I clearly heard the Lord say to my heart as if it were my roommate Bill talking to me. I realized that Pastor Dave had asked me about the spiritual condition of Baby Step Mission weeks earlier because he supported it financially and wanted my honest opinion. Since then, I had found out how messed up things really were. “OK, Lord. I guess I do have a responsibility to inform him. I’ll do that first.” I went out to a phone booth on a cold windy street corner and called Times Square Church’s office.
A sweet lady with a very kind voice answered: “Times Square Church! How can I help you?”
“Well, I need to speak with Pastor Dave today about a sensitive issue. I attend the church, and he asked me about a particular ministry that he supports. I originally told him everything’s fine here, but it isn’t. I need to tell him about it.”
“Here’s what you do,” she replied. “After any of our services—Tuesday evening, Friday evening, Sunday morning or evening—come behind the stage, and Pastor Dave will be glad to speak with you then.”
“OK. Thank you.” When I hung up, I felt like I wasn’t supposed to call. I was supposed to go and speak with David Wilkerson that day. I couldn’t shake off the feeling that I needed to speak with him immediately—not Friday, not next Sunday. Well, I had my suit on, and I was ready to head out. I would just stop by the office first and try to speak with him.
That very morning, Pastor Dave went to the church before going to his office to deal with a sticky situation. He and Wally talked things over and realized they needed to hire another person to assist Wally in caring for the facilities.
“Wally, do you have any suggestions as to whom I should hire?”
“Only one, Pastor Dave. That guy from Tennessee. Charles Simpson.”
About half an hour later, I walked into a very busy office on the second floor of a building on Broadway and 68th Street. After waiting on line, it was my turn to address the receptionist. I hoped she wasn’t the one I had spoken with earlier!
“Hi, can I please speak with Pastor Dave? It will only take about five minutes.”
“What’s it regarding?”
“A sensitive issue regarding a ministry that Times Square Church supports.”
“Young man, aren’t you the one I spoke with on the phone this morning?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What are you doing here? I told you Pastor Dave will speak with you after any one of our services!”
“I know, and I’m sorry if I seem to be rude and non-compliant. I just feel so strongly that I’m supposed to speak with him today about this.”
She sighed very deeply, looked down at a calendar in front of her, and said, “He’s completely booked until 4:45 this afternoon.”
Thinking that would sufficiently deter me, she was shocked when I responded, “That’s fine. I’ll wait.” I sat down on a nearby chair, willing to wait there all day if need be.
Suddenly, the telephone stopped ringing, and the front doorbell stopped buzzing, and all was quiet. The only ones around were the kind receptionist and me. After doodling on her calendar for a while, she looked up and said, “Where are you from?”
I told her that I was from Tennessee and had moved to New York City as a teenager to be a missionary. I told her about hearing Pastor Dave a few years ago at Lincoln Center and meeting him that same day at Glad Tidings. She was noticeably touched when I told her that from that day on, Pastor Dave had been on my daily prayer list, right under the names of my family members. I told her about my time in Bible college and the various confirmations the Lord had given me that I was to come back to the city.
David Wilkerson’s office door opened, and he walked out, heading toward the receptionist. She swung around in her swivel chair and enthusiastically said to him, “Honey, you’ve got to speak with this young man. He’s a missionary to New York City from Tennessee. He’s been praying for you every day for years!” This lady was Gwen Wilkerson, Pastor Dave’s sweet wife.
He shook my hand as though it was the first time and said, “I’ve got a few minutes before my next appointment. Step into my office.”
I walked into a beautiful corner office with glass walls overlooking Broadway. “Have a seat,” he said, pointing to a comfortable chair in front of a large mahogany desk. Even before I was seated, he asked, “So what can I do for you?”
“Well, Pastor Dave, it’s a sensitive issue.”
“I can handle sensitive issues. Get to the point.”
“Well, I attend Times Square Church. You asked me a few weeks ago how things are at Baby Step Mission, and I said everything was fine. I now know everything’s not fine. I felt I had an obligation to come and tell you.”
Pastor Dave leaned forward, looked right into my eyes (and right through my soul), and said, “The director’s husband is fornicating with the women in the program, isn’t he?”
“Uh, yes. That’s what…how do you know this?” He leaned back into his chair and said, “The Holy Spirit just now told me. I’m right, aren’t I?”
I nodded my head slowly, realizing I was in the presence of a real, live, honest-to-goodness prophet. I was temporarily frozen with fear and admiration. He jumped to his feet and began to escort me toward the door. I guess prophets don’t bother with small talk.
“What’s your name again?” he asked.
“Charles Simpson.”
“Charles Simpson from Tennessee?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Charles, I have a job for you if you’re interested. We need another man to assist Wally in caring for the building. It’s room and board. Well, it does include a small salary and some benefits. Are you interested?”
“Very interested, sir.”
“Good. I’ll tell my son Greg to go over the details with you this afternoon. He’ll be at the church from four to eight o’clock today. Speak with him about the room backstage you can move into. He can show you where to cook your food and things like that. Oh, before we make this final, I require one thing of every employee of mine. I need to ask you one question. Tell me the truth.”
I nodded my head and felt like if I lied, I’d probably drop dead right there. I said to myself, “No matter how much I want this job, I must not lie. I must not lie. I hope it’s an easy question. Lord, let it be an easy question.”
Pastor Dave once again zeroed in on the back walls of my eyes an
d asked me, “Do you have a daily prayer life?”
I looked deep into his eyes with confidence and a smile and said, “Yes, sir, I do,” like a happy, newly enlisted Marine!
“Good. Welcome aboard!” He finally cracked a smile and shook my hand to seal the deal. “You were at Jimmy Swaggart Bible College last year, weren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, Pastor Dave. I left in January along with much of the senior class. We knew something was wrong. We were told that you warned him to shut things down and get things right between him and the Lord.”
“Yes, I spoke briefly with him while I was there. A week or so later I wrote him a three-page warning. I said if he didn’t shut things down for a season, then God would have to shut him down completely. He told me he couldn’t do that. What a shame,” he concluded as he opened his office door to escort me out. I walked into the reception area and shook Gwen’s hand. I thanked her exuberantly as tears welled up in my grateful eyes.
Pastor Dave hired me right after I experienced one of the most amazing prayer times of my life. Just as when Jacob, way back in the Book of Genesis, first won the victory in prayer, the outward sign was subsequent favor with man. Jacob soon exclaimed to a smiling Esau, “I have seen your face as though I had seen the face of God, and you were pleased with me” (Gen. 33:10). Wow! I was hired to work on staff and to live in Times Square Church!
On the subway ride to the Bronx to get my few belongings, I felt like the Lord was telling me something profound. Because I had looked to my Heavenly Father in a time of total desperation, He was going to bless me with a true spiritual father—one whom I was never to worship, and never dishonor.
6
“When you have authority, you don’t have to yell.”
LIVING IN TIMES SQUARE CHURCH WAS SUCH A DREAM JOB. I HAD MY own room, plenty of heat, and access to a kitchen stocked with all kinds of food and vitamins! With my small salary, I could even go to the local Christian bookstore and buy one book a week. Yippee! I was soon promoted to an usher, a security guard, and a counselor to assist the busy altar ministry. A few weeks into the job, Greg Wilkerson came down to the church one morning. He found me vacuuming the sanctuary and Wally cleaning the large nursery. Alex had left, and Mark had joined our little crew. Greg gathered us together and asked some specific questions about our various tasks.
He computed hours in his head and said, “This is what my dad would like for you guys to do: get up at the same time, but spend the entire morning in prayer for the various needs of the church. Then you can clean in the afternoons. OK?”
“Sure,” Wally replied as the spokesman with the most seniority. “That sounds great! That’s the one thing we’ve been struggling to find time to do lately.”
Greg said, “Let’s have a word of prayer together.” He bowed his head and prayed, “Lord, we thank You for how much You’ve blessed this church so far, and for bringing faithful workers to help us, and… and…” He stopped and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe away the flowing tears. Such a tender heart Greg has toward the Lord. “Wally,” he whispered, “go ahead and close in prayer,” as tears kept streaming down his face.
After Greg left, I said to Wally and Mark, “I can’t believe this! We’re being paid to pray! I’ve never heard of anything like this in my whole life!”
During one Sunday morning service, I felt a dormant volcano rumbling deep within my spirit. “Oh Lord,” I protested, “I don’t think I could ever again bring forth a prophetic word in a church service. Not after what happened in Baton Rouge.” I made friends with and confided in Pastor Dave’s oldest son, Gary, about the gift of prophecy in which I had once operated and how I was terrified of being openly rebuked again.
Gary heard me out fully and said, “Charles, I really feel that the Lord has given you this gift. Let’s pray that the Lord heals the hurts and hindrances. If you ever have a word while I’m leading the service, you can bring it forth anytime. And if I feel that it’s off, even way off, I’ll wait until after the service to discuss it with you privately.”
That really freed me up, and the very next Sunday morning I felt the rumblings of this gift within my spirit. I clearly heard the Lord say, “Get up and exhort the church to fast and pray for their loved ones.”
“But Lord,” I objected as the music died down, “if I stand up and say, ‘Thus says the Lord,’ Pastor Dave might get up and rebuke me.”
The Lord said to me, “If you don’t obey Me, I will rebuke you.”
When I stood and said, “Thus says the Lord,” I sensed the fear of man rolling off me, never to be taken back into my heart again.14 The word was, “I am calling this church to fast, a time of fasting and prayer for your loved ones and for this city.”
Before I even sat down, Pastor Dave headed to the microphone and said he was planning on exhorting the congregation to fast and pray for our families. He immediately announced a corporate fast for the following Sunday.
On Tuesday evenings, I ushered in the aisle next to the book and cassette tape table. We sold hundreds of recordings of the rich sermons from the three main pastors: Dave; his brother, Don; and Bob Phillips. Word was getting out all over the Tri-State region that there was some great spiritual food there, and not just from Pastor Dave. Pastor Bob was the best Bible teacher I’d ever heard. His knowledge of the Old Testament and how it applies to the New was amazing. Pastor Don’s messages were always encouraging and often funny. It’s not like he was trying to be a Christian comedian. It happened naturally, spontaneously, and often. Pastor Dave’s sermons were like scalpels that cut us open to the core. Pastor Bob then came along and inspected and cleaned out the wound, and then Pastor Don stitched us up and left us in stitches, literally, with his humor and encouragement!
We were getting our share of crazy people, too. One Tuesday evening before the service was about to begin, a small lady walked up to me and began to share her story. “Mister, I need help,” she announced as she clung to me. “I have a demon inside of me,” she said, the volume of her voice intensifying with every word. “And when I tell people about him, he gets mad and BEGINS TO SCREAM THROUGH ME,” she yelled at the top of her lungs.
I pulled her over to a corner, laid hands on her, and began to rebuke the enemy and command him to “GO!” She got even louder so I started praying louder and faster. We were creating a noisy scene! Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pastor Dave walking through the front door and heading our way, thank God! I stopped and stepped back a bit as the lady just continued screaming.
Pastor Dave walked up to her and said, “Be quiet.”
She stopped and looked around at who else was talking to her. She began her speech again, saying, “I have this evil thing in me, and when…”
“Lady,” Pastor Dave interrupted, “I said, be quiet. Do you want to be set free?” She nodded her head yes. “Then go sit down right over there on the front row, and don’t say a word for the entire service. When the meeting is over, come to the front. We’ll pray for you, and Jesus will set you free. OK?”
She nodded her head again and went to her assigned seat like an obedient child.
Pastor Dave turned to me and said with a faint smile, “Charles, when you have authority, you don’t have to yell.” I nodded my head like another obedient child and went to my assigned usher’s seat. After the service, the lady received prayer and was instantly delivered.
It was around this time that the incident with the purse thief and his razor-sharp screwdriver happened. That episode brought to the forefront a deep-seated fear in my heart, a dread of being stabbed and bleeding to death on the streets of New York City. Perhaps I shouldn’t have seen West Side Story after all!
As Wally, Mark, and I spent more and more time in prayer, the burden for Miguel’s neighborhood in the South Bronx grew in my heart. I decided to start prayer walking the South Bronx on my days off. In my heart, I set my face toward the Bronx. I was standing in front of the Nederlander Theatre one afternoon, talking to a sweet lady named Dolores
, one of the elderly sisters who faithfully attended the church.
A tourist with a camera and theater brochures in hand walked up and asked me what kind of play this was: “Times Square Church? What’s this play about?”
“It’s all about Jesus!” I remarked joyfully. “Actually, it’s not a play. This is a church that meets in a theater. We have a service tonight at 7:00 P.M. Why don’t you join us?”
From the corner of my eye, I saw a man about five feet six inches tall staring at me with pure demonic hatred in his eyes. I glanced at him, looked away, and then glanced back again, and POW! He smacked me in my face as hard as he could. He then ran down Crack Alley, heading toward the Port Authority Bus Station.
My glasses shattered and went flying. A broken piece cut my face an inch under my left eye. Within seconds, my face was covered with blood. “Why did you do that?” I asked as I turned in the blurry direction that my assailant had gone. Standing there bleeding profusely on the streets of New York City, I realized a number of things. I had set my face toward ministry in the Bronx. I had seen pure evil in that poor man’s face, like I was looking into the very face of satan himself. Yet the peace of God was pouring down upon me faster than the blood was pouring out. The Lord is peace, and the Lord was with me no matter where I went and no matter what happened to me.15 Dolores had some nurse’s training and kicked into gear. She pulled out a wad of tissues from her purse, applied it to my cut, grabbed my arm, and escorted me into the church. Blood was dripping everywhere. The front of my shirt was soaked.
Walking in the Footsteps of David Wilkerson Page 7