Free At Last

THE FRUIT OF SAYING "YES, LORD"

I knew early on that I would not leave Nyack the same man as when I arrived. But I had no idea how radically God would deal with me throughout my three years at the school.

   The most significant event in my gradual transformation happened early in my senior year. I always looked forward to Friday night, because that was the evening Wanda and I finally got to go out on our weekly date. It didn't matter that the date was always to the school missionary meeting and that it had to be with at least two other couples. (At least we were permitted to have dinner together prior to the service.) It was the highlight of my week. Wanda was always beautiful. I called her "my dove." I was thankful I could sit next to her for a few hours.

   The hardest part about Friday nights was the invitation that climaxed each missionary service. After an inspirational message, the visiting missionary would always challenge us

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to ask God if it was His will for us to answer the call to take the gospel abroad "to the farthest reaches of the earth." This part of the service always made me feel queasy. I didn't like it, because in my heart I knew that Howard Jones didn't want to go abroad; he wanted to be a pastor right here in the States.

   Wanda had responded to the invitation early on during our freshmen year. In fact, both she and her sister, Ruth, went forward that Friday. But I wouldn't go. My feet were planted. Wanda often told me, "You should do it so our lives will be completely yielded." But I wasn't budging.

   I managed to withstand the pressure to go forward for two full school years. In the meantime, I did things that expressed my commitment to "support the work of missionaries." I joined the Africa Prayer Band, a small club of students who prayed regularly for Africa and African missions. But I saw no need to avail myself to that particular work. Besides, what sending agency would accept a Negro missionary anyway? Wanda told me that was beside the point, that our obligation was to be available to God and that He would take care of the rest. Nevertheless, I remained noncommittal.

   Finally, on a fateful Friday in 1943, a missionary from some South American nation that I cannot recall anymore delivered a stirring sermon. He spoke of dying to oneself for the sake of the gospel, of recklessly abandoning oneself to the work of God's kingdom.

   In truth, I'd heard a lot of those themes before — like every Friday night. But this time, for whatever reason, the Holy Spirit would not leave me alone. That missionary's words lodged in my heart and I knew my perfect Friday night record of avoidance was over. Before I could wrest control of my emotions, tears were running down my cheeks. I stood to

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my feet and walked forward without a second thought." Here I am, Lord," I said. "Whatever You want is what I want. I'll go wherever You want me to go."

   And just like that, Howard Jones was once again transformed. Just three years before, I had been saved from sin, emptiness, and death. Now, my "salvation" was from something that for the longest while seemed even more enslaving — my plans for ministry. Finally, I was liberated from my own ideas of how I should serve God and was made free to answer His call to wherever and whatever.

AN INVITATION TO HARLEM

   Throughout my final year at Nyack, I preached each weekend in New York, usually at a small Bible class for teenagers in Harlem. The women who started the class, Lydia Borchert and Doris Woolward, hoped to eventually turn the class into a church plant. One day they approached me with a request: Would I become the founding pastor of the church after I graduated? Lydia, who worked as a secretary of the Nyack headquarters of The Christian and Missionary Alliance denomination, was white, while Doris, a seamstress in a downtown factory, was black. Several years before, they had started holding Bible classes in homes of a few young people who lived in a neighborhood that the Lord had placed upon their hearts. The vision to start a church had sprouted, and now the group was established enough to need a pastor.

   Wanda and I agreed to pray and give serious consideration to the opportunity. I remained wide open to go wherever God directed. Somewhere in the deepest parts of my heart, I sensed that our ultimate destination would be somewhere

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abroad. However, Wanda and I realized that there did not seem to be any wide-open doors for us to travel to a foreign mission field, but that maybe God was calling us to a "mission field" right here in the States, in the heart of the inner city.

   We continued to pray, until finally the answer seemed clear. Yes, we would take the job.

   Goodbye, Nyack. Next stop: Harlem.

   But first, we had some business to attend to back home in Oberlin.

Chapter Eight  ||  Table of Contents