by Billy Graham
In ways more significant than we could fully comprehend at the time, the visit to Hungary was not simply an introduction to the Soviet bloc countries. It was also an initiation into the culture and ways of working with authoritarian Communist governments.
At the end of the trip, however, we were not at all certain we would be able to visit any other Communist-dominated countries in the future. Hungary was generally held to be the most liberal country in eastern Europe and in many ways was unique because of its relative openness. As I had done after the Yugoslavia visit, I could not help but wonder if we would ever be able to preach again in this part of the world.
POLAND
As Poland’s featureless landscape unfolded beneath our Russian-built Polish LOT Airlines plane, I could not help but recall how often that country had borne the brunt of foreign invasion. I could see why. The land appeared completely flat, devoid of natural barriers to stop an invading force. No wonder Hitler’s tanks had been able to storm across the entire country in a few days’ time.
In 1978 the country was still a battleground, although of a different sort—not of competing armies but of competing ideologies. More than any other place in Communist central or eastern Europe, the institutional church in Poland had remained strong. And yet I also knew that Christians in Poland were besieged on every hand, their faith sorely tested on a daily basis.
Our invitation—one year after our visit to Hungary—came from the Polish Ecumenical Council, representing the Protestants in the population. Although Protestants were only a tiny minority by comparison, they attempted to maintain good relations with the Roman Catholic majority and also sought to take advantage of their own limited freedom. Again Dr. Alexander Haraszti was our point man. “Come and preach the same Gospel here that you have preached all over the world,” the Polish representatives said.
The invitation materialized only after several visits by Dr. Haraszti to Poland, as well as repeated contacts with the Polish Embassy in Washington by Drs. Haraszti, Akers, and Smyth. The Polish ambassador at the time, Romuald Spasowski, gave us a magnificent dinner at the embassy after the visit; he later caused a stir by defecting to the United States after the imposition of military rule during the rise of the Solidarity movement.
Much of Alex’s time was spent educating church and state officials about our ministry and our goals. He pointed to the Hungarian visit to illustrate what might be accomplished. He promised that I was not going to use the visit as a platform for anti-Communist or antigovernment statements; my goals would be strictly religious.
He also had to allay the fears of some Roman Catholic officials that I was anti-Catholic and would tell the people to leave the Catholic Church. Unknown to us at the time—at least until we arrived at the Warsaw airport—was an action taken by Poland’s Cath-olic episcopate in May or June, supporting my visit and inviting me to preach in four of Poland’s major cathedrals. This turnabout seemed little short of miraculous.
But why was the Communist government really permitting a church group to invite us? That was the question we asked ourselves about every invitation to eastern Europe—and a question we often could not answer in any conclusive way. We could only speculate on the possible reasons—and we always did, hoping to avoid being wrongfully used for political purposes.
In Poland’s case, its government probably hoped to enhance its public image in the United States by appearing to grant religious freedom to their citizens while at the same time maintaining a degree of independence from the Soviet Union.
We also suspected, with some justification, that some of the hard-line Communist officials hoped to use an American Protestant evangelist to weaken the strong authority of the Roman Catholic Church. If so, it was a naive hope; I would not have done or said anything that might be taken as anti-Catholic.
During the month of October, we went to six major cities, proclaiming the Gospel from a variety of pulpits and platforms (including Roman Catholic, Baptist, Reformed, and Lutheran) to many thousands of attentive listeners. As in Hungary, state regulations prohibited any religious activity on nonchurch property, so all meetings had to be confined to churches. That was not a serious problem, however, since some of the largest cathedrals in Europe were located in Poland. Unlike our experience in Hungary, some limited advance announcement within churches was permitted, and in at least one Polish city we saw printed posters on church doors.
Cliff Barrows, who was traveling with us, helped with the arrangement of the program and led some of the music. Several of our Team preached in other cities also. Ruth, along with Walter Smyth’s wife, Ethel, shared the joy of ministering to groups of women in various cities and towns.
People who kept statistics told me that I myself preached or spoke forty-seven times during that month, not only sermons preached in lengthy services in church buildings but also messages and greetings to groups of Protestant, Catholic, Orthodox, and Jewish leaders. Even civic, government, business, and educational leaders gathered to hear what an American clergyman had to say. Both the secretary of the Polish United Workers Party and the deputy prime minister received me most cordially for private visits.
My interpreter was the Reverend Zdzislaw Pawlik, a Polish Baptist Church leader; he spoke excellent English and had a delightful sense of humor. Most of our Team found his first name unpronounceable, so he told us to call him Fred.
Our first stop was Warsaw. After visiting various cultural and historic sites and preaching in the Warsaw Baptist Church, we went to the eastern city of Bial/ ystok, close to the Soviet border. On the way, the driver of our hired bus was caught in a radar speed trap on the edge of a small town; it made us feel right at home! We preached in the modern Baptist church, situated on a large piece of property on the outskirts of the city. In the late October cold, thousands gathered both inside and outside to hear us.
Returning to Warsaw that night, our bus stopped briefly at the infamous Nazi concentration camp of Treblinka, some fifty miles from the capital city; by the end of World War II, 800,000 Jewish men, women, and children had been put to death there. It was eight or nine at night, too late for guides. The place was pitch-black and seemed totally isolated from civilization, adding to the sense of horror at what had taken place there. We read by flashlight the inscription on the monument at the entrance and paused to pray that such a horrible thing would never happen again.
In the western city of Poznan, I spoke in the large Catholic cathedral. Although I had occasionally spoken in Catholic churches (at funerals, for example) and had even received an honorary degree from Belmont Abbey College in North Carolina in 1967, this was the first time I had ever been invited to preach a full evangelistic sermon in a Roman Catholic church.
A few days later, I spoke again in a Catholic church, this time in the huge Cathedral of Christ the King in the coal-mining city of Katowice in southern Poland. The massive building was jammed with about 10,000 people standing shoulder to shoulder. Bishop Bednorz introduced me to the gathering, and then I preached. Pointing to the modern sculpture of a cross hanging over the altar, I spoke from the Bible on the meaning of the Cross and explained why the death of Christ on the Cross and the resurrection were central for Christians of all backgrounds. After the conclusion of the service, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” Martin Luther’s Refor-mation hymn, sounded forth from the magnificent organ in the loft at the rear of the cathedral.
In Cracow, permission to preach in the baroque splendor of St. Ann’s Church had been given to me earlier by Cardinal Karol Wojtyla, with whom I was scheduled to have tea. But when I arrived in the city, the cardinal was not there. Pope John Paul I had died quite unexpectedly, and Cardinal Wojtyla had rushed to Rome for a meeting of the College of Cardinals, the body that would elect the new pope. When our plane had landed in Warsaw, I later learned, the plane carrying Cardinal Wojtyla was at the end of the runway, ready to take off for Rome. St. Ann’s Church was overflowing for our service; some had traveled from East Germany to urge us to visi
t their country.
As in Hungary, I observed the constructive witness of devout Christians in their neighborhoods and workplaces. Yes, they suffered from discrimination and restriction in some ways because of their faith, but they were indomitable. Their dependability on the job and their demonstration of brotherly love in daily life had an impact that honored the name of Christ. With their fellow Poles, they shared a tenacious survival spirit that had preserved a national identity throughout a difficult history.
The religious devotion in that largely Catholic country impressed me. We visited various shrines and churches, including in Czestochowa the shrine of the Black Madonna, Poland’s most famous icon, dating back to 1382, which was housed in a basilica that was the most renowned Catholic shrine in central Europe. We were guests of the gracious abbot there. He invited me to come some year to preach at the annual pilgrimage, where upward of 1 million people would be present.
By stark contrast, human depravity and suffering never hit me harder than when Ruth and I viewed the grim sites of Auschwitz and Birkenau, the twin concentration camps where approximately 4 million perished in the gas chambers during World War II. The incredible horror that took place there will always be burned into my heart and mind.
Without question, the Jews suffered the most in those camps, being shipped not only from Poland itself but from throughout the Nazi empire. Many died before they even got there, unable to survive the brutal journey in boxcars and cattle cars. Other persecuted groups lost their lives there as well, including Polish patriots and political and religious leaders from various countries. Later, back in Cracow, I met with leaders from the small remaining Jewish community, a practice I have followed in many other countries.
As we toured the appalling death camp of Auschwitz, Ruth and I laid a wreath of red and white carnations at the Wall of Death, where firing squads had executed some 20,000, and we knelt in prayer. At this very spot, just before the Allies captured the prison camp toward the end of World War II, Nazi authorities had carefully removed the blood-soaked sand at the base of the shooting wall, hoping to conceal their crime. I shivered with more than cold as I stood at that wall, and it was one of the few times in my life that I was so choked with emotion I could hardly speak.
“Auschwitz . . . stands as a warning for all humanity . . . that man is still capable of repeating and even multiplying the barbarism of Auschwitz,” I said. “I . . . call upon Christians everywhere to work and pray for peace. . . . The issues we face are not only political; they are also moral.”
We were followed around the camp by a large group of press people with cameras and microphones. The click of the cameras, Ruth told me later, gave her the eerie feeling that guns were being cocked behind us; for one brief moment, she felt that we were the condemned.
For several years, I had been making statements on peace, although the press had seldom picked them up. Visits to places like Auschwitz, though, made me reflect long and hard on the hawkish sentiments of my youthful years. I felt that I needed to speak out even more concerning the need for efforts toward international peace in the nuclear age.
On the one hand, I believed in the inevitability of war throughout human history. My reason was simple: human rebellion against God alienated us from each other—and still does. But on the other hand, I was becoming more and more appalled at the frightening capacity of nuclear and biochemical weapons to produce global genocide. On one occasion, military experts from the Pentagon had briefed me at my home on the unimaginable dangers we faced from nuclear war. For another thing, I was becoming more sensitive to the numerous biblical injunctions for us to work for peace and to live at peace with each other as far as possible (see Romans 12:18). Peace was a moral issue and not just a political issue, and we were to be instruments of His peace whenever possible.
On our last day back in Warsaw, before departing from Po-land, I made a few remarks about my impressions of eastern Euro-pean Christianity at a press conference: “I have come to see that the church can and does exist in every kind of society, including those with Communist governments. I also have discovered that many Christians in these countries have a depth of commitment that puts me to shame. I also am convinced that there are changes taking place within the countries of eastern Europe as they discover that those who are true followers of Jesus Christ are seeking to be loyal and constructive citizens and workers. I believe, as time passes, Christians in these countries will be seen more and more as an asset to their societies, and as a consequence the governments will give more and more recognition to churches and to individual Christians.
“That is not to say,” I added, “that there will not be problems in the future, but I am optimistic about the trends I see from personal observation.”
In what I suppose was yet another tactical afterthought, I closed my formal statement to the press with these words: “If I receive official invitations from recognized church bodies in other countries in this part of the world, I certainly would give them very careful and prayerful consideration.”
By the way, Cardinal Wojtyla never did return to his post in Cracow; it was he whom the other cardinals elected to be the successor pope. He took the name John Paul II. His election was announced shortly after our final press conference in Warsaw. When I got off the plane in Paris, I was besieged by reporters wondering if we had met in Cracow; they even wanted me to tell them how to pronounce his name!
BACK TO POLAND AND HUNGARY
Both Poland and Hungary welcomed us back in January 1981 to confer on me undeserved academic honors.
In Warsaw, on January 6, the Christian Theological Academy gave me an honorary Doctor of Theology degree in recognition of the 1978 preaching mission. That evening we were the guests of honor at a dinner hosted by the churches of Poland. Many changes had resulted from the 1978 mission, notably the formation of vital follow-up discipleship groups involving hundreds of Catholics and Protestants. Not surprisingly, then, they described stronger cooperation among diverse Polish Christian communions.
I sat beside a monsignor who told me about his own spiritual background. Some years before, he had been in Chicago, riding a bus, when a black lady sitting in the seat behind him tapped him on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, sir, but have you ever been born again?”
He was somewhat taken aback, but he did manage a reply: “I’m a priest.”
“That isn’t the question I asked. I asked if you have ever been born again.”
The priest thought about her question all the way back to his residence. He got out his Bible and turned to the passage in John 3 where Jesus told Nicodemus he must be born again. Having read and reread that passage, the priest knelt beside his bed and prayed. He told me he didn’t know what to call that incident—recommitment, rededication, or new birth—but for him it was the beginning of a new relationship with God.
A few days later, on January 9, an honorary doctorate was given me by the Reformed Theological Academy of Debrecen, Hungary. Founded in 1538, it is the oldest Protestant seminary in the world. My co-hosts were Bishop Tibor Bartha of the Hungarian Reformed Church and Imre Miklos, secretary of state for church affairs of the Hungarian government (who had been extremely helpful to us during our 1977 visit). On a special train to Debrecen, provided for us by the government, I had an unparalleled opportunity to explain evangelical beliefs to a number of government officials and church leaders who were accompanying us to the ceremony.
I noted to myself that the rails on that journey must have been almost perfect; there was hardly a bump or a shake of the train. The special train itself was extremely comfortable. We were in the private car often used by Prime Minister Janos Kadar. It was one of the coldest evenings I could remember, and when we got to Debrecen, we found that we were lodged in unheated quarters. The Hungari-ans were used to the cold, but we weren’t. I went to bed with my clothes on, under all the blankets and quilts they gave me, and still I was cold! Journalist Ed Plowman had to decide whether to put the short b
edclothes over his feet or over his bald head; he ended up sleeping in his hat. In the dark I turned on my flashlight, trying to read and to pronounce the many names of the people I would be meeting the next day.
At a formal academic ceremony steeped in centuries-old tradition, Bishop Bartha conferred the degree on me. The event was in the academy’s main auditorium, with the faculty in full academic regalia (as was I). The audience included not only students and pastors but also a number of Communist officials. The American ambassador had driven from Budapest for the ceremony. In accepting the degree, I had to give a brief statement in Latin, which I read from a note held unobtrusively in my hand. I wasn’t sure exactly what I said—and I doubt that Bishop Bartha understood my fractured Latin pronunciation either!
When we left Hungary, we set off on a brief trip to the Vatican. Years before, I had visited the city-state as a tourist, but on this trip I was to be received by Pope John Paul II, my first visit with a pope. We were met by a contingent of Swiss Guards, in their colorful medieval uniforms, and escorted into a private elevator leading to the papal apartments. Our first reaction was that the magnificence of the public areas of the Vatican was surpassed, if anything, by that of the private areas.
The person meeting with the pope ahead of us was Archbishop Pio Laghi, who had just been named papal nuncio to Washington, D.C. As he left the papal chamber, he paused to chat with us for a few minutes, warmly expressing the hope that we could meet in Washington when he took up his duties there.
As I was ushered into his quarters, Pope John Paul II greeted me, and we shook hands warmly. I found him extremely cordial and very interested in our ministry, especially in his homeland. After only a few minutes, I felt as if we had known each other for many years. He was very interested in an album of pictures taken during our Japan Crusade a few months before; he was scheduled to make his first trip there shortly.