Just As I Am

by Billy Graham

  Actually, my conversations concerning their case with government officials had not been altogether hopeless. I had based my plea for the Siberian Seven, as they were being called by the media, on the urgent need for improving relations between our two countries. One of the Soviet officials I spoke with did indicate that he thought the problem would be resolved in due time. But they viewed the Pentecostals as lawbreakers, not as refugees, he said. He pointed out that we handled religious leaders in America the same way when they disobeyed our laws; he cited the example of Martin Luther King’s being jailed for alleged civil disobedience. I did not report this to the Siberians in the American Embassy basement, of course, but I thought there might be a pinpoint of light at the end of their tunnel.

  The Seven (now down to six—one had already returned to Siberia) spent much of the hour and a half I was with them plying me with questions about the Bible. A few of their questions were highly political, trying to get me to identify the Antichrist of Scripture with the Communism of the Soviet government—a position they seemed to take.

  As the moment approached for my departure, we all got on our knees and prayed together. Then I went to each one and embraced them, which I could not have done in front of the cameras without it appearing to be a show.

  The Siberian Seven were like the tip of an iceberg compared to the Jews in the Soviet Union who were being denied emigration. One of the conditions I set for going to the conference was to be able to meet with Soviet Jewish leaders. Before leaving home, I discussed the situation of Russian Jews with my friend Rabbi Marc Tanenbaum of the American Jewish Committee, who had urged me to take the trip. In Moscow I met in private with the chief rabbi and other Jewish leaders in Moscow’s lone synagogue. When we arrived at the synagogue, the building was surrounded by dozens of muscular men in ill-fitting suits; I assumed they were police, unsuccessfully trying to look unobtrusive.

  A few of the Western press persisted in trying to get me to criticize the Soviet government in public. When I refused, they attempted to portray me as naive, or even as a Communist sympathizer. During a trip we took outside Moscow to the ancient and historic Orthodox monastery of Zagorsk, it was raining, and we were running late. A police escort had cleared the way for us very efficiently, helping us to meet our schedule. Afterward I thanked them for their assistance. The next day an Amsterdam newspaper carried a photo of me with them, saying I was shaking the hands of the police who were persecuting Christians and thanking them for what they did!

  More serious were some misquotes, or partial quotes taken out of context, of statements I had made concerning religious freedom in the Soviet Union. On one occasion, for example, I said that there was “a measure of religious freedom” in the Soviet Union, which was true. Some Western papers, however, reported that I had claimed there was complete religious freedom.

  Later, as we were about to depart from the airport at the end of the trip, one reporter asked me again about my impressions of church life in the Soviet Union. Casually I mentioned that un-like Great Britain and other European countries that had a “state church,” the Soviet Union had a “free church.” Then we were interrupted, and I did not have a chance to see if he understood the distinction I was drawing.

  Unfortunately, he was not familiar with the technical meaning of these terms. In Europe the term state church or established church refers to a denomination that is officially sanctioned and supported by the government; the Anglican Church in England and the Lutheran Church in Germany are good examples. The term free church indicates denominations that generally operate without government support. Some reporters assumed incorrectly that I was saying that the church in the Soviet Union was free of any state control and had full freedom.

  We left Moscow for London, where I was to receive the Templeton Prize for Progress in Religion, a recognition that I was honored and humbled to receive. The presentation ceremony by Prince Philip was to take place at Buckingham Palace. It immediately became clear, however, that some of my alleged remarks while in Moscow had stirred up a firestorm in the Western press.

  A hastily called news conference in London did little to quiet the storm, nor did a brief television interview by satellite to America on a program that included an unannounced participant who was militant about human rights to the point of vocal confrontation. In some ways, of course, I was handicapped by not being able to reveal the confidential discussions about human rights I’d had with officials in Moscow.

  When Ruth and I arrived at Buckingham Palace, we were escorted up a wide, grand staircase and down a long hall to the room where the presentation was to take place. Ruth—who has the poet’s eye for detail—recalls the sumptuous draperies and appointments, as well as a huge Aubusson carpet, which seemed to stretch forever. At the moment of presentation, Prince Philip picked up the check for $200,000—the largest monetary prize of any type at that time—and handed it not to me but to Ruth, saying with a hearty laugh that he assumed that she handled the family purse strings. Later I had to ask her for the check back to endorse it. (We had already decided to donate it to the cause of world evangelization; much of it was used for scholarships and travel grants for Third World evangelists who would attend the International Conference for Itinerant Evan-gelists the following year in Amsterdam.)

  Immediately after the presentation ceremony, which was followed by a dinner hosted by Sir John Templeton and a speech by me in connection with the Templeton Prize, I left for New York. On arrival, there was another crowded press conference and a barrage of sharp questions. Knowing something of what I had tried to do behind the scenes, Rabbi Marc Tanenbaum spoke in my defense, not only supporting our Soviet trip but commending me for my relationship with the Jewish people. Nevertheless, many people saw only the initial reports and missed the clarifications. The controversy smoldered for a long time afterward.

  It distressed me particularly to learn that Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn was offended by comments I allegedly made. He and I had met in 1974, when he received the Nobel Prize for Literature. He had sent a messenger to me in Europe inviting me to join him in Stockholm. I stayed in his hotel, and we had good conversation together. I felt confident that both he and his wife were sincere believers in Christ.

  In 1983, however, when he received the Templeton Award for Progress in Religion (the year after I was the recipient, and the year after the Moscow peace conference), his acceptance speech included a somewhat derogatory allusion to “last year’s winner.” I was saddened over this misunderstanding with someone for whom I had the greatest respect.

  By the grace of God, we weathered all the criticism and controversy. In retrospect, I was still convinced it had been God’s will for me to go, and I took comfort in the promise of Proverbs 16:7: “When a man’s ways are pleasing to the Lord, he makes even his enemies live at peace with him.” It saddened me, though, that some of the critics never relented. And the question came back to haunt me: Would this be the end of our ministry in this part of the world?

  As it turned out, the May 1982 trip to Moscow was a signal to other Communist-dominated countries that they could now invite us without risking a frown from the Kremlin. During the summer, invitations arrived from East Germany and Czechoslovakia, among the most restrictive governments in that part of the world.

  EAST GERMANY

  In October 1982, we arrived in the German Democratic Republic, as East Germany was officially known, for a preaching mission.

  A lot had changed since I was in Berlin years before, when one East German newspaper cartoon had pictured me with a Bible in one hand and an atomic bomb in the other. One byline-hungry reporter had written that I’d been seen in an East Berlin nightclub—or so he claimed—with a blonde by the name of Beverly Shea. (The only Beverly Shea I ever traveled with was our Crusade soloist, George Beverly Shea!)

  Now, however, the authorities were apparently welcoming us, although the East German government had a reputation for taking a hard line in its treatment of the church. During my first m
eetings in West Berlin almost three decades before, large numbers from the East had traveled to the West to attend the meetings. But since August 1961, that mobility was no longer possible; the construction of the Berlin Wall had effectively cut Germany into two parts.

  Furthermore, although the eastern part of Germany was the land of Luther, the course of its churches had been very difficult under Communism. Some churches were still permitted to exist, but only under strict government supervision, including restrictions on open evangelism.

  And I felt uncertain about the Lutheran Church itself. These East German Lutherans were the people of Luther and Bonhoeffer, great heroes of reform and resistance in church history. Now they had to walk a tightrope in relations with a hostile, atheistic government. I wondered if they would feel resentful toward, or at least nervous about, a Baptist from the West.

  My fears proved groundless. The media were respectful, if not enthusiastic, and our meetings got good coverage, at least for a Communist-dominated land. Church and state officials likewise welcomed me, and the president of the East German Parliament received me. For the most part, the Lutherans themselves could not have been more hospitable.

  I preached my first sermon from Martin Luther’s pulpit in the City Church of Wittenberg on Sunday morning. I used the text made famous by Luther himself: “The just shall live by faith” (Romans 1:17, KJV). Afterward we toured the historic town with the mayor.

  Then we visited Wittenberg’s Castle Church, where Luther had nailed his Ninety-five Theses to the door in 1517, thus beginning the Protestant Reformation. We also saw the little room where he gave his table talks—I have read and laughed at and pondered them for years—and visited his grave.

  In the evening, we drove to Dresden’s Lutheran Church of the Cross, largest in Saxony, where 7,000 people, mostly under the age of twenty-five, jammed every space.

  During one of the fiercest and most deadly Allied bombing campaigns of World War II, most of Dresden, including that Lu-theran church, had been almost destroyed. But it need not have been so, the Germans told me with some bitterness; Dresden had little strategic value. Since then the church had been meticulously restored. That evening every available space was taken, with hundreds crowded around the pulpit. As the meeting progressed, a thick haze fogged the air from lack of ventilation; and a fine rain of plaster or paint chips descended from the ceiling, apparently loosened by the heat or humidity.

  When I saw the high number of young people in the audience, attentive to the message and singing Christian hymns, I could not help but think that the Communists in East Germany had already lost the ideological battle for their minds and souls. Nearly a third of them responded when I gave the Invitation after my sermon.

  The next day, in Dresden, I addressed the Synod of Saxony, reputed to be the most sophisticated and intellectual Lutheran body in the world. When I walked in, I shook hands with those charged with greeting me. They were cold and unfriendly, which I thought was strange, especially coming from clergy. Perhaps their reaction had something to do with the government officials accompanying me; after all, the clergy had to wrestle with those officials regularly over the laws pertaining to religious matters. Nevertheless, I felt my irritation rising.

  “When I came in here,” I said to the group bluntly, “those who greeted me were as unfriendly as any group of clergy I’ve addressed anywhere else in the world. When I shook hands with you, your eyes were cold. I don’t think this is the way Christians should be, even though we may disagree theologically and in other matters.” I added that the first thing we should learn as ministers was to love each other (no matter what our differing emphases). I said that I hoped they sensed a spirit of Christian love from me, and thanked them for inviting me to speak.

  Out of a full heart, I told them about my visit to the Luther sites in Wittenberg and how much his life and thought had influenced me. The next year they would be celebrating the five hundredth anniversary of his birth, and I confessed how that knowledge had affected me as I stood at his grave: “I am now ten months older than he was when he died, and look at all he accomplished. It made me feel very small.”

  After I finished my remarks, I invited their questions. By the time I left the meeting, with their standing ovation ringing in my ears, I felt there truly was nothing but love in their hearts.

  I preached in four other East German cities: Görlitz, Stendal, Stralsund, and Berlin. I also paid a memorable visit to the Sachsen-hausen concentration camp, where many Christians, along with tens of thousands of Jews, had been killed for their faith. As part of that visit, there was to be a wreath-laying ceremony. At first some of the local Christian leaders were reluctant to participate, since the ceremony had been organized by the local Communist officials rather than by our hosts. Dr. Haraszti, however, quickly pointed out that if they did not participate, the Communists would take their place. They joined me in laying the wreath.

  Compared with West Germany, East Germany appeared drab and colorless, although there was a surprising amount of automobile traffic and an apparently higher standard of living than in most other eastern European countries. Some of our Team toured a church-run home for the mentally retarded and were impressed by the love and patience of the staff. Their guide said the churches were glad to demonstrate the love of Christ in this way, and that the government allowed the churches to do this work because it had no interest in caring for those who would never become productive workers.

  Several times we drove along the Berlin Wall. Our government hosts pointedly avoided mentioning it, although they were quite ready to point out the other local attractions. Once or twice, however, the pastor sitting next to me discreetly nudged me and nodded toward the ugly barrier.

  Another pastor told us how he had been only a few days away from leaving East Germany when the wall went up, making it impossible for him and his family to depart. He said God had given him peace about it; he believed that God had called him to minister in East Berlin and that it would have been disobedient of him to leave.

  Still another pastor pointed to the giant modern television tower the government had erected in East Berlin several years before. Near its top was a huge globe-shaped structure housing a restaurant and other facilities. The remarkable thing was that once it was finished, the people discovered that sunlight always reflected off the globe in the shape of a cross! The authorities had tried everything they could think of to prevent this optical phenomenon (known as asterism), even covering the dome with paint. But nothing worked. “No matter how hard they try, they can’t get rid of the cross,” the pastor who had pointed out the tower commented wryly.

  While in East Berlin, we met a number of people who had come over from West Berlin to attend the meetings. (Although travel out of East Berlin was tightly restricted, people from West Berlin could visit in East Berlin with comparative ease.) Among them was my longtime friend and interpreter in West Germany, Peter Schneider, and his wife, Margot. Dr. Irmhild Barend, editor of the German edition of Decision magazine, also joined us. They, like countless other Christians in West Germany, had prayed for years that God would open the door for us in East Germany.

  CZECHOSLOVAKIA

  Czechoslovakia had a history of being much more restrictive on the churches than Hungary, Poland, or East Germany. In spite of repeated efforts, our trip there did not materialize until almost the last minute. When I heard that the trip was on, Walter Smyth and I decided to fly from Berlin to Vienna for a few days’ rest and preparation before going on to Prague.

  As we drove to East Berlin’s Schönefeld Airport, we could see fog rolling in. We were able to take off as scheduled, however. The pilot pointed out Prague as we flew over, but we couldn’t see the ground for the fog. Why hadn’t we taken the train? I wondered.

  As we began to circle Vienna, the fog over the Danube was impenetrable. The plane descended toward what I hoped was a runway. I kept looking out the window, but I couldn’t see or feel anything until we actually touched down.
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  The next day was Walter’s seventieth birthday. His wife, Ethel, had given us a birthday card for him, and we took him to dinner in one of Vienna’s old picturesque restaurants. It was one of the few moments of relaxation during that whirlwind schedule.

  While I was resting in Vienna, most of our Team went by air from East Berlin to Prague and flew right into trouble. Customs officials appeared to have no knowledge of our trip and refused to allow our television or sound equipment into the country. In fact, they impounded it until officials from the government office overseeing church affairs secured its release.

  A few days later, we too found ourselves in Czechoslovakia, for meetings in Prague, Brno, and Bratislava. The churches lived under heavy restrictions, yet God providentially arranged for me to be interviewed on Prague television for a nationwide prime-time program; the interview was also carried over the radio and reported in newspapers. Local church leaders told me the Gospel cause had never received such high visibility in their country.

  Our hosts were the Baptist Union of Czechoslovakia, whose churches were mostly small. Some of their leaders still carried emotional scars from their oppression by the government and were intimidated by their contacts with officials.

  One of the most delightful Christians I met there was a pastor who had been an international tennis champion. He had been imprisoned some years before, he told us, but a week later they threw him out of jail. He asked his captors why.

  “Because a prison is supposed to be a jail,” they said, “and you’re making it a happy place!”