by Billy Graham
The Crusade was supported by a thousand churches in greater London, two-thirds of them Anglican. Many pastors probably went along reluctantly, expecting no great good and praying that no significant harm would result. British church attendance was at a hundred-year low, and there were few signs of the religious upsurge that was already appearing in the United States.
Back on board the SS United States. . .
Each morning our little party—Grady Wilson, Dawson Trotman (who had been over earlier to set up counseling for the Crusade), Dr. Paul Rees (pastor of First Covenant Church in Minneapolis), Paul Maddox, Dr. and Mrs. Wade Freeman, Ruth, and I—met for prayers and Bible study. I enjoyed spending the rest of the day with Ruth or studying. Every afternoon, Ruth and I took a vigorous walk around the deck, and I was feeling better physically than at any other time in my ministry.
On Sunday morning, at the invitation of the captain, I preached at a service for the passengers, holding tight to the little pulpit and microphone as the ship rocked and rolled. Most of the ship’s passengers and many of the crew came, overtaxing the ballroom. It was the next morning when the captain relayed to us the message that a member of Parliament was planning to challenge in the House of Commons my admission into England.
In hours I had a fuller picture—and it was not encouraging. Under a banner headline two days before in the London Daily Herald, reading “apologise, billy—or stay away,” journalist Hannen Swaffer had written that a calendar, supposedly distributed all over the United States by the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association, included the following statement urging people to pray for the forthcoming London Crusade: “What Hitler’s bombs could not do, Socialism, with its accompanying evils, shortly accomplished.”
It was, he said, a direct, highly political insult to the Labour Party, with its fourteen million supporters, for in Britain the term Socialist was almost synonymous with the term Labour Party. “ Billy Graham has more gravely libelled us than anyone has dared to do since the war,” he wrote. “It is a foul lie . . . [and] I urge the Bishop of Barking [the Crusade’s most visible church supporter] to disown all this ignorant nonsense before the Big Business evangelist whom he sponsors opens his Crusade. . . . And I urge him to call Billy Graham to repentance before he has the effrontery to start converting us!”
At once the uproar splashed across the front pages of London’s other newspapers. The coverage was ironic. Up to this point, hardly a line had been written in a single British newspaper about the upcoming meetings, even though Christians throughout the Com-monwealth and the United States had been praying for the Cru-sade’s success for some time.
Frantically, I checked by radio telephone with Jerry in London and also contacted our Minneapolis office to discover the underlying facts. Slowly, the picture emerged. It seemed that the draft text for a brochure urging prayer and financial support of the London Cru-sade had been written in the United States by someone unfamiliar with Britain. The printer’s proof had indeed used the world socialism (although with a small s; the newspaper had changed it to a capital S, giving it a more political connotation). But as soon as a copy was shown to one of our British supporters, he immediately spotted the possible misunderstanding and changed the word to secularism. Unfortunately, however—through one of those mix-ups that occasionally happen in any organization—the printer in Minneapolis had apparently used an uncorrected version to prepare our annual calendar. Although only two hundred copies were printed before the mistake was caught and corrected, somehow—I never discovered how—one of those copies had landed in the hands of Mr. Swaffer.
As soon as we knew the facts, Jerry issued an explanation to the press. Both George Wilson and I accepted full responsibility and wired apologies to members of Parliament, attempting to explain the error and expressing regret for any misunderstanding we had caused.
When the United States docked briefly the next day in Le Havre, France, a hoard of reporters and photographers came on board, swarming all around us. I tried to be as careful and as pleasant as possible, telling them I would try to straighten out the entire problem when I arrived in England.
One member of that press corps was a reporter from the London Daily Herald, whom I asked to send my warmest greetings to his colleague Hannen Swaffer. Swaffer, who was a Spiritualist (and apparently opposed to Christianity) was unmollified, but the offended Labour member of Parliament, Mr. Geoffrey de Freitas, accepted our apologies; several days later, I met with him and some of his colleagues to apologize in person.
Upon our arrival at Southampton, a tug full of press representatives—twenty-five reporters and a dozen photographers—pulled alongside the liner. There was no doubt they were after my scalp. One well-known movie star was on board with us, but I think only one reporter interviewed her. There was nothing to do but pray for wisdom and be as courteous and gracious as we could.
The reporters raised questions about the calendar furor, of course, but their curiosity went far beyond that issue. They wanted to know, for example, if I carried around a special jug of water for baptism! And they made great sport of the fact that I wore no clerical collar but instead had on a tie with some red in it.
Many of the reporters crowded around my wife as well, some wanting to know if she wore makeup. One of them confided to Ruth that he was disappointed in me. “We had expected bright hand-painted ties, flashy socks, and a sort of mass hysteria, but your husband is quite an ordinary chap,” he complained.
As we stepped on shore, we were immediately on television.
“Who invited you over here, anyway?”
“Don’t you think you’re more needed in your own country?”
“What do you plan to do about Russia?”
The ordinary people of Great Britain, though, were warm and welcoming. As we went through customs, an official greeted us. “Welcome to England, and good luck, sir,” he said. “We need you.” I’ll never forget his warm handshake.
Outside the customs hall a great crowd of people from all over southern England was waiting.
“I’m praying for you, sir,” a dockworker said to me.
“God bless you, sir,” said a soldier.
It was great to see Cliff Barrows, Luverne Gustavson, and other Team members who had driven down from London to welcome us. They returned directly to London; and by the time they got back, about seven-thirty, the evening papers already had our pictures on the front page. Whatever awaited us in the days to come, we at least knew the British press was no longer ignoring us!
That night Ruth and I, along with Grady Wilson and Paul Rees (who were going to be preaching throughout the London area during the Crusade), spent the night not far from Southampton at the home of an old friend, Oliver Stott. As we boarded our third-class train compartment for London the next day, the conductor had a good word for me. “I’m not much on religion,” he said, “but I could do with some.”
Our Team met for Bible reading and prayer. Clearly, we were in a serious situation, with news coming in that many supporters had already deserted us because of the bad press. Those who still stood by us were being abused by both the press and their fellow clergy. I had no idea what to expect.
When we arrived at Waterloo Station that Wednesday, we were overwhelmed by the number of people. The newspaper coverage the next day said that the group that had gathered to welcome us was the biggest crowd since the arrival in 1924 of Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks. One newspaper headline said, “FILM STARS— SO WHY NOT BILLY?” When we stepped into the tightly packed throng, cheers rose, but the pressure of the crowd was fearsome. We thought we might be crushed or that somebody might be hurt, but the mood was reassuring: everyone had a wonderful smile, and the air was filled with shouts of “God bless you; welcome to England.” Suddenly, the crowd began singing a hymn.
The press descended on us again just outside the station. One of the reporters wanted to know if I didn’t think that this tremendous crowd at Waterloo was made up of religious fanatics.
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p; “Not unless you consider some of your leading clergymen, leading generals, members of Parliament, and the good Christian people who have been praying for these meetings,” I managed to say in the crush, “not unless you consider them fanatics.”
I had gotten separated from Ruth by the crowd. She too was surrounded by reporters asking questions.
“Is your husband difficult to live with?”
“Do you have to handle him with kid gloves?”
“Do you ever feel a twinge of jealousy over the attention your husband receives?”
Jerry had tried in advance of our arrival to get the police to assign more officers to the station, but they had declined, saying that they expected only a small crowd to greet us. They had to call in more officers eventually, though—I could hear the sirens wailing just after we got there. But it took us twenty minutes to navigate the hundred yards between the station and the waiting cars. If Donn Moomaw, a former all-American football player for the University of California at Los Angeles whom we brought in to help with the Crusade, had not led the way, I doubt that we would have made it! Luverne, who had also come to the station to meet us, was pressed against a fence that soon began to sway alarmingly, but she finally found Ruth and got a taxi with her.
We stayed at the Stratford Court hotel just off Oxford Street. It had one distinction: it was probably the smallest and cheapest hotel in London. We had chosen it deliberately, knowing that criticisms would result if we appeared extravagant.
The only luxury we enjoyed while in London was given us courtesy of the Ford Motor Company. They furnished us with two small automobiles with chauffeurs for our use the entire time we were in Britain. This came about largely because of the help of two people: our friend Horace Hull, an automobile dealer in Memphis, Tennessee, and Ernie Breech, the executive vice president of the Ford Motor Company. We had met Mr. Breech during our recent five-week crusade in Detroit. A number of top people from the car companies had come to that Crusade, and Mr. Breech had entertained us in his home.
After the crowds at the Stratford Court dispersed and the reporters left, we had a closed meeting of the Team at six o’clock in the lounge. I talked to them on how they should act as Americans in Britain. General Wilson-Haffenden, chairman of the Crusade committee, said some words as well. Then we discussed a newspaper article, published just that day, that had been extremely unkind to the bishop of Barking. In the London Daily Herald, Hannen Swaffer had asked how any bishop of the Church of England could possibly support such an evangelist as Billy Graham. We had just requested prayer for the bishop when in he walked.
“Don’t bother to pray for the bishop,” said General Wilson-Haffenden. “He’s where Christ put him. You get busy and pray for Hannen Swaffer.”
“Don’t worry about me, Billy,” agreed the bishop. “If for a few days the newspapers have made you appear a fool for Christ’s sake, I shall be only too happy to appear a fool with you.”
In spite of my anxiety, I enjoyed a deep sense of God’s presence. We were told that 800 of the faithful had spent the previous night in an unheated building, praying on their knees for the Crusade.
A press conference had been arranged for the next morning at Central Hall, Westminster. About 150 journalists and photographers jostled for position—one of the biggest press conferences for any person in years, one of the committee members told me. I began with a prepared statement on why we were coming to Britain.
“I have come to preach Christ,” I stated. “You may ask me, ‘Do you feel this is a message we need in Britain?’ I should answer that it is the message the whole world needs. . . . I am calling for a revival that will cause men and women to return to their offices and shops to live out the teaching of Christ in their daily relationships. I am going to preach a gospel not of despair but of hope—hope for the individual, for society, and for the world.”
Afterward they asked me a whole range of questions, from my personal opinion of Senator Joseph McCarthy to whether or not I believed in Hell. With every question, I prayed that God would give me the right answer.
That evening saw Ruth and me in formal dress for the first time in our lives. The Lord and Lady Luke of Pavenham gave a dinner in our honor at Claridge’s hotel. Some of the guests arrived in Rolls-Royces; we were pleased to drive up in our small Ford. The engraved invitations read, “Full dress and decorations.”
Before we knew it, we were shaking hands and introducing ourselves.
I had not met our hosts before that evening. When I was introduced to Lord Luke, I was surprised to find him young, jovial, and handsome. I told him that I had expected an English lord to be old and have a long beard, and he laughed with great delight. He put me immediately at ease in what could have been an awkward or intimidating situation.
The next day I addressed 1,000 ministers at a luncheon. Who paid for it? Sid Richardson—who had never given us money before. He had sent me a check along with this note: “I’m glad you’re going to England. Those people over there like to drink—here’s some entertaining money.” The check was for $25,000! We used Mr. Sid’s gift to subsidize this and similar gatherings.
That evening I was guest of honor in the House of Commons. The press coverage about the calendar had aroused much interest, and everyone wanted to get a look at this foreign intruder. Henry Luce had encouraged me to try to get a brief story in one of the papers, but I knew the coverage to date was not the kind he’d had in mind. I could not wait until Monday when the long-awaited Crusade would get under way. In the end, in God’s providence, the entire flap over the misprinted calendar got us publicity far beyond anything we could have imagined.
During those days, I was slowed down much of the time with a sore throat, resting as much as I could between appearances and engagements in an effort to regain my voice in time for the Crusade itself. The Hungarian valet at our hotel gave me a bit of advice in his broken English. “Dr. Graham, leave windows open night and day, even if cold.” There was little heat in the hotel, but I was desperate. I left the windows open, as he suggested, and soon I was feeling better.
On Sunday we decided to go to church as a Team. We chose to attend All Souls, Langham Place. We had never heard of it before, nor had we ever met the rector, John Stott, though later he became one of my best friends.
Even now, more than forty years later, Monday, March 1, 1954, remains one of the most memorable days of my ministry. I kept my schedule clear and spent the entire day praying and studying in my room. There seemed to be a lot of interest and support for our Crusade, but the press coverage and the controversy had given me deep doubts about whether people would come. And if they did come, would they respond to my style of preaching? By the afternoon, I had developed a headache. Then came a phone call I did not want.
Senator Symington informed me that he and Senator Bridges were in London as planned but had decided against appearing on the Crusade platform with me. “It might be misunderstood,” he said, “if we endorsed your meetings from the platform. I don’t think we had better come. We’ve accepted a dinner invitation this evening with Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden, and we may see you later on in your schedule.”
I was disappointed, but I understood his position and told him so. Later I learned that American Ambassador Aldrich had said that it might not look right if they attended. Given the ruckus that had resulted from our calendar miscue, I could see why the U.S. Senate—and the American Ambassador to Great Britain—might want to distance themselves from us, at least for the present.
One newspaper account that day—the day of the first meeting—referred to me as having “all the tricks of the modern demagogue.”
“Only the people seem to be for Billy,” another wrote, making it appear that we had been abandoned by the government, the leaders, and the clergy.
When I hung up from my call with Senator Symington, I fell to my knees with a sinking feeling. “Lord,” I prayed, “I can only commit the entire matter to You. I know that what You want to happen wil
l happen. It’s out of my hands.”
A few hours of turmoil later, I took a call from Jerry at Harringay Arena. He sounded down, and by now I myself was nearly despairing. I saw sleet outside and asked if the weather was the same where he was.
“I’m afraid so,” he said. “Only a few people have trickled in so far. By now we should be half-filled.”
I sighed. “How about the press?”
“Oh, they’re here,” he said. “Right now it seems there’s more of them than us. They’re taking pictures of the empty seats.”
In my soul, I was willing to become a laughingstock if that was what was supposed to happen, but the prospect was terrifying.
Half an hour later, Jerry called back with the news that there were now about 2,000 people in the massive arena. That meant that 10,000 seats were still empty.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“It looks like we’ve had it,” he replied.
When it was time for us to leave the hotel, Ruth and I got on our knees and had a last prayer. I could envision people all over the world praying for us. For the first time, my gloom lifted and I had confidence that whatever happened that night, God would be glorified.
During the half-hour ride to the arena, Ruth and I sat holding hands. I had often been caught in traffic heading to our meetings, but that night we arrived in good time and saw no lines of cars or people.
“Honey,” I said to her, “let’s just go and face it and believe God had a purpose in it.”
As we reached the door, Willis Haymaker rushed out to meet us.
“The arena is jammed!” he said.