“Well, it’s like this, white boy. Now we know you aren’t prejudiced.”
“And how do you know that?” I asked.
“You got a black man living with you!”
“I do? Oh yeah, I guess I do! I never thought about it. He’s my brother in Christ, and he’s on staff at my church, so naturally I offered for him to live with me.”
“Pretty cool, white boy. Pretty cool.”
Actually, one of the coolest things about having Samuel around was the fact that often at the end of my sermons, God would give me spontaneous songs. Samuel could immediately join in and play along on the keyboard. We flowed together in the heights of Zion and tasted realms of glory that are indescribable.18 But afterward, we would walk out of glorious meetings, right into the hard, gritty, dangerous streets of the South Bronx. But I was glad I was there, and I knew I was both sent by God and protected by God.
One evening, while eating dinner with a family from my church who lived in the Patterson Housing Projects, gunshots erupted right outside the window. Although we were on the ninth floor, the loud popping sounds were deafening. After a few silent minutes passed, we all ran to the windows and saw a young man lying in a big pool of his own blood. The police sirens began to wail, and because the 40th Precinct was only blocks away, by the time I ran down the steps, the police had already taped off the crime scene.
When I ducked under the yellow tape and approached the body, one officer yelled, “Hey, get away from there!”
Another officer who knew me said, “No, it’s OK. Let Father Simpson give him his last rites.” It wasn’t time to explain that I was a pastor and not a priest so I nodded my head in agreement and got on my hands and knees next to the young man. He had been shot in the back of his head at point-blank range, and his brain was oozing out into the huge pool of blood in which he was lying. It smelled like rotten eggs—the most horrible sight and smell I’ve ever experienced. To this day, I don’t know if the rotten smell was his brain or the sulfur from the gunshot. The young man was barely breathing. I knew he was quickly dying. I knelt down even closer and spoke right into his ear. “Brother, my name is Pastor Charles, and you’re about to die. A thief on a cross next to Jesus prayed while he was dying, and he made it into Heaven. That same Jesus brought me here now to lead you in prayer to accept Him as your own personal Savior. Please repeat after me, ‘Dear God in Heaven…’”
The young man moved his lips and began to say the word “Dear,” but he only got the “D” sound out, “Dah,” and his head moved slightly as he breathed his last breath and died.
I stood up and noticed my feet and hands were covered in his blood. I shouldn’t have, but in shock, I stared down at him as the rest of his brain oozed out of that huge wound to the back of his skull. A few long moments later, a veteran cop, who probably knew I was in deep shock, grabbed me by the shoulders and escorted me away from the horrible scene.
I couldn’t sleep for days. Whenever I would close my eyes, I would see that poor boy’s brain coming out of his head. I found out through the grapevine that he was only eighteen. He was dealing drugs and was too slow at paying his suppliers so they made an example out of him. Finally, while deep in prayer one night, I pictured that same young man in Heaven, tapping me on my shoulder and saying to me, “Thank you so much for coming to my neighborhood. Thanks for leading me in the sinner’s prayer that night.” Is the “D” of “Dear Lord, forgive me of my sins and be my Savior” enough? I believe so. I hope so.
I experienced just as many blessings as tragedies in my first pastorate in the South Bronx. For instance, the highlight of my week wasn’t when I stood in the pulpit and preached God’s Word to all the hearty “amens” of my vibrant congregation. It happened about five minutes after the service was completely over, just enough time for an usher to tell the Sunday school teacher that the adult service was finished and the kids could come back into the main sanctuary. When that door opened, out came approximately thirty precious children. And of those thirty, only one had a father at home. The other dads were either in jail, dead, or only God knows where. I was a substitute father to those kids, and we greeted each other with hugs and high fives and with them showing me all the crafts they had made in class.
Another highlight was our Halloween service, which we named “Free Movie Night.” We decided to offer free candy, popcorn, and soda to the kids in the neighborhood at the conclusion of showing the film The Cross and the Switchblade. Although we handed out thousands of fliers the weeks before, when it was time to begin the film, we had only a few dozen people from our church and a handful of new visitors. Samuel felt we should begin right on time, but I told him to wait a few more minutes while I went outside onto the sidewalk to see if anyone else was coming. When I walked out from around the corner, a caravan of thirty to forty kids came walking up the block, heading our way. There were two adults with them, and as I looked at their costumes, I concluded that those kids had been trick-or-treating together, probably coming from the same block or the same housing project.
I smiled real big at the chaperones and told them (loud enough for all the kids to hear) that we’d love for their group to come to our free movie and have all the popcorn and candy they could eat, and then they could carry home with them any leftover candy. All the kids started cheering and jumping for joy, and the chaperones looked at each other, wondering what to do. How could they say no? It might cause a riot behind them.
“But they’re dressed up as witches and goblins and ghosts,” one of the chaperones objected. “You sure you want them to come into your church dressed like that?”
“No problem,” I said as I opened the front door and escorted them all in, realizing if I asked them to go home and change, we’d surely never see them again. They loved the movie, and we all had a great time, except for some of our regulars who often came up from the mother church to help. They abruptly and angrily left at the end of the movie.
Early Monday morning, Pastor Dave’s secretary called me and said he’d like for me to come to the Tuesday staff meeting a half hour early to speak with him. I spent much of Monday and Tuesday morning wondering what Pastor Dave would want to discuss with me and why it was so urgent that it required a definite appointment. As I nervously made my way into his office and sat down, I noticed he had a puzzled and stern look on his face. He said, “Charles, you’re like a son to me so I’m going to speak frankly with you. Do you feel that we as leaders in the church should try to become like the world in order to reach the world?”
“No, sir.”
“Wouldn’t you agree that Halloween is a very demonic holiday that we Christians should have nothing to do with?”
“Yes, I agree,” I answered.
“Then why did you have a costume party at your church on Halloween night?”
“What? Oh…yeah. Well, we didn’t plan it that way. It was scheduled as a free movie night.” I then explained that when I saw the kids coming around the corner, I knew the only way to get them to come was to allow them to come “just as they were.”
Pastor Dave let out a long and hearty laugh and said, “My, that’s exactly what I would have done! A few of your members told me you had a Halloween costume party!”
“Actually, Pastor Dave, if they had stayed around to help us clean up the huge mess, they would have heard me address the congregation as to what happened and why.”
After a year and a half of ministering almost non-stop, my health began to break down. Pastor Dave’s bright and caring secretary noticed my deep cough and asked how long had it been since I had had a vacation.
“I don’t remember,” I said.
“When’s the last time you had a full week off?”
“Since before I started in the Bronx. It seems a crisis in someone’s family occurs every week.” (It didn’t help that I didn’t have a wife to encourage me to slow down.)
“That’s what we thought. Pastor Dave would like to send you to Texas for a week for some rest. I’ll b
uy your ticket today and you can plan on being gone from next Monday to the following Monday. OK?”
“OK. Thank you.”
Pastor Dave’s World Challenge headquarters, located in Lindale, Texas, was a modest office with a warehouse attached and a small guesthouse located behind it. As I made plans to visit there, I thought about how Lindale must have been quite the place to be in the 1980s—a small east Texas town filled with genuine world changers. Leonard Ravenhill, author of the classic Why Revival Tarries and mentor to Pastor Dave, lived there. Down the street was one of the best Christian singing groups in the nation, the 2nd Chapter of Acts. Keith and Melody Green moved their Last Days Ministries there, and Winkie Pratney’s ministry was also located nearby. I was told that Pastor Dave, who hated flying, chose Lindale as his headquarters because it’s in the central part of the United States, making any domestic trip doable by way of car or bus.
Leonard Ravenhill seemed to know how life altering it would be when he handed Brother Dave the Puritan classic The Christian in Complete Armour, saying to him, “This book is going to revolutionize your life. It has had a profound effect on my life, and I believe you are prepared to receive its message now.” Pastor Dave was quoted as saying, “At first I put the book aside; it was too long, too wordy. Out of curiosity, I later scanned the first twenty-five pages. That is all it took to bring me to my knees. Gurnall, the pious Puritan, had touched something deep within me. His were such probing, scorching, searing words that they shook my inner man. I devoured the book with great zeal. I will forever bless the day it was placed in my hands.”
That book caused Pastor Dave to cut back on his evangelistic crusades and return with renewed passion and fervency to his prayer closet. And one day he reappeared in public ministry with a burning message on his heart entitled “Holy Ground.” After that, he went to New York for a series of meetings, and it was then that the Lord spoke to him about returning to the Big Apple to raise up a church in the Times Square section of Manhattan.
The only one that I knew for sure still living in Lindale was Leonard Ravenhill. Perhaps I could meet him while I was there. As soon as I arrived and unloaded my things in the guesthouse, I crashed into bed and spent the rest of the day there. I got up coughing the next day and did nothing more than take naps all day long. I didn’t realize how worn out I’d gotten. On the seventh day of my eight-day vacation, I ventured out to Lindale to a restaurant. On the way back, I stopped at a pay phone and called Brother Ravenhill. I told him who I was, and that I worked with Pastor Dave, and that I was staying in his cottage behind his ministry building. I asked if I could come by and pray with him, but he said he was booked up solid. I told him I’d be leaving about noon tomorrow so maybe I could meet him the next time I came down. I was pretty bummed out about this because I really wanted to meet him. He was very kind to me over the telephone and said he was sorry and hung up. Well, at least I got to speak with him over the phone.
At 9:05 the following morning, one of the guys from the World Challenge office came knocking on the front door of the cottage.
“Hey Charles, Leonard Ravenhill just called and said that his nine o’clock appointment canceled and he’d like to meet with you now, if you’re still available.”
“You bet I am,” I yelled back as I grabbed my sweater and the keys to the ministry van. “Please call him back and tell him I’m on my way.”
When I arrived, I seemed to walk into the home of the prime minister of England. His British accent, British décor, and British tea and shortbread made me feel like royalty. He told me that a pastor from Sydney, Australia, had scheduled a 9:00 a.m. meeting, but his flight was delayed because of storms near the Dallas airport. He said that the president of a Bible college was coming at 10:00, and then the leader of a denomination was scheduled for 11:00 a.m.
“Is it like this every day?” I asked. “People coming to see you from all over the world?”
“Only Mondays through Fridays. I don’t schedule any appointments on the weekends.”
I noticed the time was 9:25 so I said, “Brother Ravenhill, even more than talking with you, I’d love to pray with you.”
Boy, he sure liked that idea! “Splendid,” he said, and we prayed together about everything in our lives, especially for Pastor Dave and Gwen and their kids, my family, Times Square Church, the Bronx, New York City, our country, our president, and other political leaders. The ring of the doorbell soon interrupted our prayers, and we both stopped and listened as his wife greeted the Bible college president and ushered him into the adjacent room.
“Well, Charles, it’s almost ten o’clock and time for my next visitor,” he said as he slowly stood up. “It’s been great meeting you and praying with you. Most of my visitors want to talk and ask questions and get some advice from this old man. But I, like you, would rather pray than talk. Here’s a book on prayer that I’ll sign and give to you as a gift. You remind me of a dear pastor I know in Canada named Carter Conlon. He prays for hours every day. A real touch of God on his life.”
“Brother Ravenhill, before I go, there actually is one question that I’ve been dying to ask you.”
“OK. What is it?”
“Do you think America will experience one last true revival before the end?”
“Of course!” he said without hesitation.
“But how can you be so sure?”
He looked at his watch and said, “How many people in this town do you think got up and prayed before they went to work today?”
“Oh, probably a handful, I guess.”
“And how many of those spent quality, heartfelt time with their Lord?”
“Probably not very many of them.”
“Well, does that sound to you like His wife has made herself ready for the marriage?” I shook my head no and realized he was referring to the verse in Revelation that says:
Let us be glad and rejoice and give Him glory, for the marriage of the Lamb has come, and His wife has made herself ready (Revelation 19:7).
I thanked him, took the book in one hand, vigorously shook his other hand, and left. Brother Ravenhill’s comments gave me a lot of hope that the Church will become revived and passionate about her Groom in the years to come. For those who have never been blessed by Brother Ravenhill’s sermons or books (which I encourage you to listen to and read), here are some of my favorite quotes of his regarding prayer, the Church, revival, and holiness:
“How do you learn to pray? Well, how do you learn to swim? Do you sit in a chair with your feet up, drinking coke, learning to swim? No, you get down and you struggle. That’s how you learn to pray.”
“No man is greater than his prayer life. If you tell me this, I’ll tell you how spiritual you are: will you tell me how much you pray?”
“This generation of Christians is responsible for this generation of lost souls!”
“You never have to advertise a fire. Everyone comes running when there’s a fire. Likewise, if your church is on fire, you will not have to advertise it. The community will already know it.”
“I want to see the glory of God come among us so that our young people don’t have to be told to go to church but instead will long to get to the sanctuary where God is.”
“To graduate a preacher from a seminary without a prayer life is like sending a car from the assembly line without a motor.”
“The king in America—[you say] there isn’t one. Yes there is, his name is King Sport and his wife is Queen Entertainment. The devil’s substitute for joy is entertainment. Where there is no joy, you have to fill it up with entertainment. The more joy you have in God, the less entertainment you need outside of yourself.”
8
“It’s the backbone of Times Square Church.”
WHEN I RETURNED TO THE BRONX, THE CYCLE OF OVERWORKING AND under-resting began all over again. A case of bronchitis set in that I simply could not shake. I tried fasting and praying and standing on the Word and going to healing services. Nothing helped. I then tried a
routine of strong antibiotics prescribed by a local physician, and then another round of even stronger antibiotics. Still no improvement. A friend named Arnie, a member of Times Square Church who would eventually move to Israel as a missionary, came to visit me in the Bronx.
“Charles, are you sure you have bronchitis?”
“That’s what the doctors say I have!”
“Well, for years my wife was misdiagnosed, and when we finally found out what she really had, the right medicine cleared it up in a few weeks.”
“How did you find that out?”
“By going to one of the best doctors in Manhattan, a diagnostic expert named Dr. Boxhill. His office is on Central Park West, but he’s not cheap.”
“I don’t know,” I slowly replied.
“Charles, he’s a genius, and he’s worth it. He doesn’t take any insurance and he charges 250 dollars a visit. Please, Charles, go to him,” Arnie insisted as he handed me his contact information and a wad of twenty-dollar bills, totaling 260 dollars.
“OK. I’ll go.”
I could tell right away how brilliant Dr. Boxhill was, not just because of the many degrees on his wall, but also because of the way he asked probing questions that no one else had ever bothered to ask me.
“It looks like you have the Epstein-Barr virus.”
“What is that?” I asked in shock.
“Well, it’s also called the yuppie disease or mononucleosis.”
“How did I get it?”
“Probably by working too hard. I won’t know for sure until the test results come back, but I’m 99 percent sure that’s what you have. I need to warn you…in three days you will be almost too weak to stand. You’ll need complete bed rest for a month, and then it will take six to nine months to recover, if you ever do fully recover. Mr. Simpson, if you don’t stop and get some bed rest, you’re an inch away from getting tuberculosis. I highly recommend you take my advice.”
Walking in the Footsteps of David Wilkerson Page 9