The Cross and the Switchblade

IT WAS A BLUSTERING, gray February morning, almost exactly two years from that other February day when I sold the television set and found myself launched on this strange adventure.

I was standing inside the glass doors on the Staten Island Ferry, hardly realizing myself what a giant stride we had just made toward my dream. Spume splashed up on the deck from a choppy sea. Off the starboard was the Statue of Liberty, and I found myself thinking how appropriate it was that I would pass here each morning. Because I was going to Staten Island on a specific and hopeful mission: to rent offices for our new program aimed at setting youngsters free.

I had an address in my pocket which sounded appropriate too: 1865 Victory Boulevard. This had been suggested as the site of our headquarters suite. But when I got to this “headquarters suite” I had to smile. It consisted of three rather grubby rooms in a less-than-chic neighborhood. There was an outer office, an inner office and a shipping room.

Teen-Age Evangelism got its start in these three rooms. We had one paid employee: myself. And I didn’t receive enough salary to afford even the cheapest room in the cheapest boarding house. I set up a couch next to my desk in the middle office. I ate what I could cook on a hot plate or, on special occasions, with friends around New York who would look at my slender frame and ask me to share a meal with them.

But the part of the arrangement that was hardest was having the family divided. Gwen remained in Pittsburgh with her folks, and she longed to join me at the earliest moment.

“I know what you’re doing is right, Dave,” she said on one of our visits-by-telephone. “But I’m lonesome. Gary’s growing up without even knowing what you look like.”

We agreed that we would move the family to New York as soon as the school year was over for Bonnie and Debbie, even if it meant sleeping on a park bench. But in the meantime, I found certain advantages in my monastic existence. My little cell of a home was a perfect place for prayer. There were no physical comforts to offer distraction. The ten-by-twelve room had just one desk, a hard straight-backed chair, and my couch. I found that it was a pleasure to pray in this setting of austerity, and each night I looked forward to my old television-viewing time—midnight to two A.M.—as a time of renewal. Never did I get up without being refreshed, encouraged and filled with new enthusiasm.

Those early days were exciting. The Spanish- and English-speaking Assemblies churches in the New York area had supplied me with $1,000 to launch our work. I used most of this money conducting two experiments. The first we called “Operation Saturation.” This was a literature program aimed at reaching every high school student in the city’s trouble areas. In our literature we tackled problems such as drug addiction, promiscuity, drinking, masturbation and gang violence, offering help from the Bible. We worked hard on this program, bringing hundreds of young people from local churches into the operation to distribute our booklets. At the end of three months, however, we could point to just a handful of boys and girls who had been truly changed as a result.

So we turned to our second experiment: television. I gathered together one hundred boys and girls who had been in trouble and found the way out. We formed an all teen-age choir and every week for thirteen weeks we put on a television show. The format was simple and fresh. The kids sang, then one of the boys or girls told his story.

We were encouraged by the rating this show received: we were apparently very popular among the teen-agers of the city. But there was one trouble. Television is expensive. Kids all over the metropolitan area sent in their nickels and dimes to help support the show, but even so, at the end of our first thirteen weeks we were $4,500 in debt.

“It looks like we’re going to have to cancel the series before we can really measure results,” I said to our committee, in a special meeting called to consider the crisis.

Suddenly a man stood up in the rear of the meeting. I had never seen him before: he wore a round collar and I thought at first that he was an Episcopal priest.

“I would like to make a suggestion,” this gentleman said. He introduced himself to us: he was the Reverend Harald Bredesen, a Dutch Reformed minister from Mount Vernon, New York. “I’ve seen your shows, and they have a fresh quality about them that I like. Before you decide definitely to cancel, I wonder if you’d come talk to a friend of mine.”

I agreed with a shrug, not understanding what it was all about, but knowing enough about the strange methods of the Holy Spirit to wonder if He was about to open doors for us.

The next day Harald and I went to visit Chase Walker, a magazine editor in Manhattan. Mr. Walker listened attentively to the story of our work and how it got started. He seemed interested, but at the end of the conversation, he also seemed puzzled.

Then Mr. Walker began to laugh. “Well, I appreciate the compliment anyhow. But I certainly don’t have $10,000. And fund raising is out of my line. How did you happen to think of me in connection with this need?”

“I can’t really answer that question,” said Harald. “I’ve had the most remarkable feeling, ever since I learned that this program might have to be canceled, that somehow you held the key. Every time I’d think about it I’d think, Chase Walker! Nothing more specific than that.” Harald paused hopefully. Mr. Walker said nothing. “Well,” said Harald, disconsolately, “I was wrong. But these hunches, when they come so strong, usually mean something.”

Mr. Walker rose from his chair, bringing the interview to a close. “I’ll let you know if I get any ideas. In the meanwhile, thanks for sharing the story with me.”

We turned around and went back into Walker’s office. “Something funny has just occurred to me. I got a telegram today I don’t understand at all.” He fished around among the papers on his desk and came up with it. It was from W. Clement Stone, President of the Combined Insurance Company of Chicago, a friend of Walker’s. “Disregard previous telegram,” it said. “I will be at the Savoy Hilton Wednesday.”

“That’s today,” said Mr. Walker. “But I never got any previous telegram. And why should he let me know he’s in town when we had no plans to get together? I wondered whether his secretary got my name confused with someone else’s ...”

Walker stared curiously at Harald for a moment, then picked up a pen and scribbled a note. “Go up to the Savoy,’ he said, handing us the note in an unsealed envelope. “Ask for Mr. Clement Stone. If he’s in, you can use this as an introduction, and just see what develops. Read it if you want to.”

We did, waiting for the elevator out in the hall. “Dear Gem,” it said. “This is to introduce David Wilkerson who is doing a remarkable job with teen-agers in this city. David needs $10,000 for his work. You might listen to his story carefully, and, if it interests you, help him out. Chase.”

Twenty minutes later we were knocking on the door of a suite in the Savoy. It was now five thirty in the afternoon. A gentleman came to the door tying a large bow tie. He was obviously dressing for dinner.

Mr. Stone stood in the doorway and read the note, then asked us in. He seemed as puzzled as we were about the situation. He said that he was due downstairs in a few moments, but that if we wanted to talk while he finished dressing, he’d be glad to listen.

“I have to go now,” said Mr. Stone, gently. “But if Chase Walker recommends you, that’s good enough for me. I like the sound of your work. Send me your bills. I’ll pay them up to ten thousand.”

“And now if you’ll excuse me, please.” Mr. Stone edged toward the door. “Why don’t you finish that story on tape and send it to me? I’ll pay you a visit next time I’m in New York ... we’ll work out details ...” and he was gone.

The $10,000 went to pay our debt, and it also paid for the second thirteen weeks, and for a film, Vulture on My Veins, about dope addiction among teen-agers in New York. But this money purchased more than just film and television time. It brought us a new respect for this ministry. It was becoming increasingly clear to us that the hand of the Lord was in our work. As long as we really let Him lead, miracles all along the path were going to be ours to enjoy.