by Billy Graham
The invitation presented serious problems. It was no secret that peace conferences in eastern Europe were ill-disguised showcases for Soviet propaganda. In fact, they were generally assumed to be controlled behind the scenes by Soviet authorities. In addition, they almost inevitably took on a decidedly political and anti-American tone, supporting Soviet policies uniformly and uncritically. There was no guarantee this one would be any different, in spite of its religious sponsorship. If I accepted, would I be an unwitting tool of Communist propaganda?
Alex was able to negotiate three major points in advance.
First, if I went, I would be only an observer, not a full delegate. That way, if any pro-Soviet final statement was adopted by the assembly, I would not be part of it.
Second, he insisted that if I spoke at the conference, I would have complete freedom to speak from the Bible on an appropriate topic of my choice. (“The Christian Faith and Peace in a Nuclear Age” was the title I chose.)
Third, after some discussion, in addition to speaking at the conference, I would be allowed to preach in two Moscow churches, one Orthodox and one Baptist.
These three concessions gave me some comfort. Nevertheless, I have seldom been so unsettled about accepting an invitation. Per-haps it was not from God but was Satan’s way of diverting me or bringing disrepute to the Gospel. For some weeks, Ruth and I debated and prayed—even as I spent time preparing a tentative draft of my conference message.
I contacted former President Richard Nixon for advice about the invitation. He repeated what others had already said: that the Communists would certainly attempt to use my presence for propaganda purposes. Unhesitatingly, though, he urged me to go, and he helped us in many ways.
Publisher Rupert Murdoch agreed, as did some other knowledgeable leaders I consulted. The head of PepsiCo, Don Kendall, who had extensive experience in the Soviet Union, likewise urged me to go. Henry Kissinger was recuperating from a heart operation, but he invited me to come to Boston to discuss the issue with him. He read the draft of my message and urged me to make a more forceful statement on human rights. I gratefully accepted his suggestion.
Some people I spoke with were concerned because it was not a distinctively Christian conference. Others viewed my acceptance of the invitation—coming as it did from a Communist nation—as a serious compromise with the forces of atheism.
Even some on the executive committee of the BGEA board informally suggested that I not make the trip. I always took seriously their combined wisdom, and very rarely had I ever overridden their advice. This was one time I did, however, feeling strongly that if the Lord was directing me, He would look out for His own interests, no matter what happened.
There was a further consideration, however. Alex was convinced that if I turned down the invitation, I would never receive another invitation of any kind to the Soviet Union or anywhere else in eastern Europe. They would be offended by my refusal, and the Soviet government—which had to approve any invitation—would never give its approval again.
The American ambassador to Moscow, Arthur Hartman, strongly opposed my participation. Convinced that the Soviets would use me for propaganda purposes, he registered his objections both with Alex and with his superiors in Washington. But I was confident that my propaganda for Christ would prove stronger than their propaganda. As the Bible says, “Greater is he that is in you, than he that is in the world” (1 John 4:4, KJV).
“Perhaps the Communists in the Soviet Union will try to use me,” I told one friend, “but I’m also going to use them, to preach the Gospel.”
A few weeks before I left for Moscow, Vice President George Bush called me in New York, where some of us were meeting at the Essex Hotel to discuss the whole situation. He expressed his concerns and read me the statement from Ambassador Hartman, but he did not tell me to cancel.
Later, on a Sunday shortly before I was due to depart, I was a luncheon guest of the Bushes, along with Arthur Ochs Sulzberger, publisher of the New York Times. We had been invited to the official vice-presidential residence on the Naval Observatory grounds. “I don’t think the Reagans are busy at lunchtime today,” the Vice President told us. “I’ll call them and invite them over.” They arrived in about half an hour, and we had a good discussion about my proposed Russian trip as well as other subjects. I will never forget President Reagan’s enjoyment and patience as he played with the Sulzberger children.
At one point, President Reagan took me aside. “You know what’s been in the press,” he said. “I believe that God works in mysterious ways. I’ll be praying for you every mile of the way.”
By the beginning of May, after the trip had been announced, the BGEA office in Minneapolis was receiving anywhere from 10,000 to 15,000 letters a day; criticism of the forthcoming trip to Moscow was amounting to less than one-half of 1 percent.
On Friday, May 7, 1982, we arrived in Moscow to a crowded press conference, where we were welcomed by government officials as well as leaders from the Russian Orthodox and Protestant churches. Afterward, as I was going down the stairs to the waiting cars, an American reporter who had come especially for the event thrust into my hands a piece of paper. It was a list of “Soviet prisoners of conscience,” and he demanded that I speak out publicly concerning their plight. I had seen similar lists before; indeed, I already had one with me.
I certainly hoped to be able to share my concerns about alleged abuses of religious freedom privately with high-level Soviet officials. They alone could change the situation. On the other hand, I knew that if I publicly castigated the Soviet government for its policies, I would never have another chance to meet privately with the only people—the leaders—who could bring about change.
Later I presented my list to a ranking official and expressed my concern for those who were being treated unfairly because of their faith. My Russian church hosts strongly applauded my quiet, behind-the-scenes approach. Unfortunately, many in the West never did understand our strategy.
The next evening, our hosts took me to visit (but not to preach in) three Russian Orthodox churches that held Saturday evening services. Each was packed with people standing shoulder to shoulder. (Russian Orthodox churches have no pews or chairs.) One reason Moscow churches were so packed was that the authorities sharply restricted the number that were permitted to be open. The splendid liturgical music and the obvious devotion of the worshipers moved me greatly.
Offhandedly, I commented to a television reporter from North Carolina that he had certainly never seen churches in Charlotte jammed on a Saturday evening. (Of course, most American churches don’t hold services on Saturday evening.) My point was that Soviet believers had a depth of devotion not found among many American Christians; they were willing to sacrifice their Saturday evening to prepare their hearts for worship on Sunday. That offhand comment was picked up by the reporter but unfortunately was taken out of context: somehow the phrase “on a Saturday evening” got dropped from stories that were printed in the United States, making it sound as if I had claimed that more people went to church in Moscow than in Charlotte or any other American city!
The next day, Sunday, I was up early to preach in the Moscow Baptist Church, the same church I had attended as a tourist in 1959. The service was originally scheduled for late in the day, but word had leaked out, and the authorities, fearing a huge crowd, forced the church at the last minute to reschedule the service for early morning. Nevertheless, the building was still jammed, its aisles and doorways absolutely crammed with people standing shoulder to shoulder. Constantly throughout the service, small groups would leave to permit others to take their place.
One of the pastors of the church, the Reverend Mikhail Zhidkov, interpreted for me. He and the general secretary of the Baptists in the Soviet Union, the Reverend Alexei Bichkov, had met with me in Hungary in 1977 and since then had worked diligently with the Russian Orthodox Church and the government to gain an invitation for us.
During my sermon, I was told later, a woman from
a dissident group unfurled from the balcony a banner protesting the Soviet government’s treatment of believers. Within seconds other church members quietly expelled her, because her behavior could have caused them difficulty in their relations with the government. Later some of the international press demanded to know why I had not stopped preaching and made some sympathetic comment. I told them I hadn’t noticed the banner and was unaware of the incident at the time. I suspect some of them did not believe me.
At the close of my sermon, I was whisked out the door to be driven immediately to preach at the Cathedral of the Epiphany, the church of the Russian Orthodox patriarch. As we rushed away to the next service—we were running late and the Orthodox service was already in progress—I did not notice the several hundred people I was later told were standing behind a barricade about a block away from the Baptist church, people who had apparently not been permitted to come near the building. No one called my attention to them at the time; I only wish I had been able at least to greet them.
Patriarch Pimen introduced me about halfway through the Di-vine Liturgy. Surrounded by bearded Orthodox clergy wearing black robes, I rose and looked out at the sea of faces in front of me. Stand-ing in front of an elaborate golden icon screen, I began to preach. I was a bit uneasy at first because there was no podium available; I didn’t have a place to rest my sermon notes or lay my Bible down. Then, only a minute or two into my sermon, people began to shout. For a moment, I feared that some kind of demonstration was breaking out. However, the worshipers were only calling for my interpreter to speak louder; there was no effective sound system in the huge cathedral. It was my first experience preaching in an Orthodox service, and I was honored to be there. The steadfastness of Russia’s Orthodox believers even in the worst of times remains one of the great examples of courage in the history of the church.
The other formal speaking opportunity came at the peace conference itself. I attended only one morning and one afternoon session of the five-day conference; the rest of my time was filled with private meetings with officials and other events.
The speaker before me, who I think was a Syrian delegate, was supposed to take ten minutes; he took forty. As his speech grew longer and longer, I hastily began to make cuts on the manuscript of my talk. Metropolitan Filaret of Minsk and Byelorussia (metropolitan is the title given to the leader of an ecclesiastical province within the Orthodox Church) saw me scribbling and whispered, “Give your full speech.”
When I finally rose, I spoke from the Bible on peace. I stated frankly that although I was aware that many of them came from non-Christian backgrounds, I was speaking to them as a Christian, noting that “everything I have ever been, or am, or ever hope to be in this life or the future life, I owe to Jesus Christ.”
I made it clear that I was not a pacifist, nor did I support unilateral disarmament; nations and peoples had a right to defend themselves against an aggressor. I then pointed out that the Bible dealt with peace in three dimensions: peace with God through Christ, peace within ourselves, and peace with each other. God was concerned about all three aspects, I said, and none was to be ignored if we were to have true peace.
In addition, I noted that the arms race was not just a political issue, but a moral and spiritual issue as well. For that reason, Christians had a responsibility to be peacemakers in whatever ways God opened for them, although we knew our ultimate hope for lasting peace was only in the kingdom of God. Then I suggested a series of steps toward peace that religious leaders could take, beginning with a call for repentance: “Let us call the nations and the leaders of our world to repentance. . . . No nation, large or small, is exempt from blame for the present state of international affairs.”
I also declared that “we should urge all governments to respect the rights of religious believers as outlined in the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights. We must hope that someday all nations (as all those who signed the Final Act of Helsinki declared) ‘will recognize and respect the freedom of the individual to profess and practice, alone or in community with others, religion or belief acting in accordance with the dictates of his own conscience.’”
I deliberately included the exact wording of the Helsinki Ac-cord (as the Final Act of Helsinki is usually called), hoping it might stir the conscience of the Soviet government, which had signed the agreement but was widely judged to be ignoring some of its provisions. The speech seemed to be well received; the audience responded with applause that grew into a standing ovation.
Unfortunately, some of the speakers, as we had feared, did take a highly political and pro-Soviet stance, even speaking openly against policies of the American government. I was seated on the rostrum in full view of the audience. In the midst of one particularly abusive statement, I protested by deliberately taking off my translation headset.
Later I met with Boris Ponomarev, chairman of the Foreign Affairs Committee of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR and a member of the Politburo. I told him that if the conference continued to be blatantly anti-American, it would lose all credibility and become a negative influence in Soviet-American relations. The next day, I was told, the tone changed.
That visit with Mr. Ponomarev was one of the most unexpected events of my life. Before going to the Soviet Union I had prayed that I might have an opportunity to meet with someone on that level, although—humanly speaking—I knew it was almost impossible. As I was driven through the Kremlin gate reserved for officials, I knew that we were entering the very center of Soviet power, but the thought did not alarm me or make me nervous. I had the feeling that God was with me, and I knew the Lord was going to give me the words to say and the boldness to speak about Christ. Through-out our meeting I was praying for my host, and I felt (as I have on similar occasions) a surge of inner strength and confidence, similar to that which often comes to me when I am preaching, and which I can only attribute to the Holy Spirit.
We sat at a round table in his high-ceilinged office, which had gray damask-covered walls with matching drapes and upholstery and a glittering crystal chandelier. Some Soviet church leaders told me later that I was probably the first foreign clergyman he, or any other member of the Politburo, had ever met, and certainly one of the few Americans. I found him to be quite different from the Western stereotype of a Soviet official. He was gentle, courteous, thoughtful, and well-informed on America and its views.
I was not there representing my country, I told him, although I did have a concern for better relations. We discussed in some detail the problems and barriers between our two nations. We discussed also the plight of two Siberian Pentecostal families who were living as refugees in the basement of the American Embassy in Moscow, having taken refuge there when they were denied permission to emigrate from the Soviet Union. I urged him and his colleagues to find a solution to their problem. As I have always tried to do in meetings with political leaders, I also sought to share my own convictions as a Christian.
Afterward he personally escorted me on a tour of the Kremlin. He showed me around President Leonid Brezhnev’s office, just down the hall from his; Brezhnev himself lay dying in a clinic elsewhere. As we continued the tour, doors seemed to open automatically and people bowed dutifully. He introduced me to staff in several offices, all of whom greeted me with great courtesy—not surprising, considering who my guide was.
I found the Kremlin offices to be sumptuously appointed and elegant in an old-fashioned way. As for the people working there, I sensed a certain pride; they knew they were working in one of the great power centers of the world. After leaving the Kremlin, I told one of my associates that I seriously doubted that those Soviet leaders would ever start a nuclear war; they would not want to lose their perks and comforts.
Although my hosts were very reluctant, I was determined to visit the Siberian Pentecostals at the American Embassy. Their situation had become a major and highly visible irritant in relations between the United States and the USSR, although I wanted to visit them not for political reaso
ns but as a pastor.
“Why does he insist on visiting those people?” the man assigned to accompany us during our stay in Moscow asked Alex and John in exasperation. “Why does he want to do something that will probably close the door on his ever coming here again?” Their answer—that I wanted to pay a pastoral visit on my fellow believers—probably was incomprehensible to him. Nevertheless, we persevered, and plans were finally made for a visit to the embassy one evening.
That man was a most unlikely helper. I knew that the KGB kept a close watch on foreign guests and could, if they chose to, make great difficulty. In our pre-trip negotiations, therefore, I requested that a man “who knew how to get things done” be assigned to accompany us. The gentleman who showed up spoke excellent English and had full power to act, though he never acknowledged any ties to the KGB (nor did we ask). We never had any problems with arrangements as a result. He was with us throughout our 1982 trip and joined us once again in 1984.
The press got wind of the embassy visit and was waiting for us there, perhaps hoping I would do something to embarrass myself or my hosts. As our car approached, several dozen journalists were clustered around the embassy’s archway. One of their own, a seasoned correspondent for one of the major American networks, had quietly tipped me off in advance. “You’re doing this in exactly the right way, unofficial and low-key, not saying a word about it,” he told me. “When we reporters start clamoring for a statement from you, I will be yelling louder than all the rest. Don’t answer me, or any of us. Just keep quiet or say, ‘No comment.’”
For almost an hour, I waited in an embassy office upstairs while John and Alex tried to work out some ground rules with the Pen-tecostals for the visit. For a while, it looked as if the meeting was off; one woman in the group was demanding full press coverage of my visit inside their living quarters. When I put my foot down firmly against making the visit into a media event, she wanted to let photographers at least shoot pictures through the basement windows. I could sympathize with her, but I did not want a pastoral visit to be turned into a media circus. Finally, they reluctantly agreed to a private visit.