Introduction: The Heart of an Evangelist

TO HEAL A DIVIDED WORLD

On a humid morning in late June 2002, I hopped in a car with a friend and embarked on the 230-mile trip southward from Oberlin, Ohio, to Cincinnati. I don't travel as much as I used to, and even if I did, Cincinnati is not a city I have much cause to visit these days. But on this day I wanted to go there. My friend and former employer Billy Graham was in town, and we needed to talk.

   What brought Billy to the area was the Greater Cincinnati / Northern Kentucky evangelistic crusade (or "mission," as they're now called). More than 200,000 people were predicted to attend the event, which many expected would be one of Billy's final appearances given his increasingly fragile health. What set this crusade apart from most others was the backdrop of racial unrest that plagued the city of Cincinnati.

   A year earlier, in April 2001, a nineteen-year-old black man named Timothy Thomas refused to halt when approached

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by a Cincinnati police officer and was shot and killed as a result. Thomas, it turned out, had been unarmed. Had it been just an isolated occurrence, the incident might have gone unnoticed. After all, the Over-the-Rhine neighborhood where the shooting took place was a predominantly African-American community where frequent interactions between law enforcement and alleged lawbreakers was not uncommon. But Thomas's death marked the fifteenth police killing of a black man since 1995, and the fourth since November 2000. The African-American community was incensed — and tired.

   Three days after the killing, the city was put on edge as an already tragic situation took a bad turn. What began as angry protests by black citizens erupted into a full-blown race riot. A crowd, which at one point swelled to nearly eight hundred people, threw rocks and bottles at police officers. They looted stores, broke windows, and set fire to a market in the heart of the city. Police fired tear gas and rubber bullets at the demonstrators. A citywide curfew was initiated, and the people of Cincinnati became prisoners in their own homes.

   The angry crowds dwindled after a few hours, but not before dozens of people were injured, and at least twenty were arrested on charges of disorderly conduct. It was the end of the rioting, but the beginning of a long soul-searching that catapulted Cincinnati into the national spotlight as the latest symbol of racial division in America.

   In the months that followed, the city attempted to heal itself in a number of ways — some of them more constructive than others. Community groups formed to discuss the issues of racial profiling, police brutality, and social injustice that had contributed to the uprising. Churches worked harder to

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reach across racial lines as an example to the city. But several community activists who, dissatisfied with the city's response to the implicit racism displayed by the Cincinnati police, called for a boycott of the city's hotels, entertainment venues, and other revenue-generating institutions. Many in Cincinnati's black community supported the boycott, and many national entertainers — of all races — canceled engagements in Cincinnati as a show of support.

   Billy's Cincinnati crusade had been on the docket long before the racial turmoil in the city. When Billy was asked by activists to observe the boycott and cancel his Cincinnati rally, he gave it serious thought. But after much prayer, he and his team decided that, more than ever, it was important for the event to go on as planned. And, ignoring the pressure of boycotters, most African-American church leaders in the community agreed with his decision.

   "We're trying to bring healing to the city of Cincinnati," said the Reverend Damon Lynch, Jr., a local pastor who was a cochair of the crusade. "What we're dealing with is mission and evangelism — not politics."

   And so Billy went to Cincinnati, despite the pressure to stay away. There had been many other times when Billy followed his heart and did what he believed to be right, regardless of public or political pressure. One of those times was when he brought me on board his evangelistic team forty-five years earlier.

THE JACKIE ROBINSON MODEL

   In 1957 I was a young black pastor with a heart for evangelism, and Billy had reached a point in his ministry where he

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was convinced that God wanted him to integrate his organization. No amount of words on this page could underscore enough how risky and noteworthy it was for a prominent white preacher such as Billy Graham to mess with the racial conventions of the day. Yet Billy did. And consequently, I became the first black evangelist on his team — and really the first African American to fill a high-profile role within a white evangelical organization.

   When Christianity Today magazine did a story on me a few years ago, they called me "the Jackie Robinson of American evangelism." I didn't like that title then. I had never thought about what I've done in my life and ministry in terms of race. I'm a black man. That's an indisputable fact. But the gospel of Jesus Christ has always transcended whatever racial or cultural boundaries we've constructed to limit it. I've preached to white crowds, black crowds, African crowds, British crowds, Hispanic crowds, Native American crowds, and the list goes on. I'll preach anywhere God takes me and to anyone He places before me.

   Still, after pondering it, I grew to appreciate the Jackie Robinson comparison. Robinson was more than a baseball player. As the first black ballplayer to integrate the Major Leagues in 1947, he became a symbol for the hope of racial progress in America.

   When Brooklyn Dodgers owner Branch Rickey decided to add a black player to his team's roster, he knew it would be a controversial move. The famous account of Rickey's initial meeting with Robinson plays out like an early scene from an epic war movie — except this was real life, and the battle field would be a ball diamond. Rickey warned Robinson that it wouldn't be easy, that he would be called hurtful names and

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be on the receiving end of physical taunts and wild pitches aimed at his head. Rickey tested Robinson by playing the role of a foul-mouthed bigot. He got in the ballplayer's face and spewed a sampling of some of the epithets he'd likely hear. Then he reportedly took a swing at Robinson, but missed.

   Rickey had made his point, though. "You're going to have to put up with a lot of this kind of stuff," he told Robinson.

   The tall, athletic black man was clearly wound up by Rickey's no-holds-barred role-playing. "Well, Mr. Rickey, do you want a player who doesn't have the guts to fight back?" he said. And that's when Rickey delivered his most memorable line: "Jackie, I want a ballplayer with the guts not to fight back."

   And thus began baseball's historic "experiment" in integration. As Rickey had predicted, the epithets did come, as did the bean balls, and physical taunts. Through it all, Robinson's task was to turn the other cheek. And because he did, he opened the door for other black athletes to integrate professional sports in America. But more importantly, his example provided a model of hope that transcended baseball and sports and inspired a generation to have the guts to confront the ugly institution of racism in every part of our society.

   I don't pretend to have the courage of a Jackie Robinson. After all, I was not in a position every night where I faced the prospect of errant fastballs zooming toward my head. But I do thank God that He used me to open new doors for the preaching of His Word in places both near (white American churches) and far (the bush countries of West Africa). I have no doubt God placed me where He did. It was not by my doing.

   The truth is, God hates the way we've commandeered

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race and culture to divide ourselves and set one group up as better than others. And when one of His influential servants does something radical to buck the status quo — the way Billy Graham did when he named me as one of his associates — I believe it should be remembered.

   That's one of the reasons I felt strongly about getting to Cincinnati to see Billy that hot June in 2002. Once again, he found himself at the center of a controversy simply because he was being faithful to the call of the gospel. I wanted to encourage him to remember the great odds we were able to overcome so many years earlier and encourage him to continue to do what he knows is right. I also knew it might be one of the last opportunities for Billy and me to see each other.

A FLOOD OF MEMORIES

   So I decided to make a trip south to attend one evening's crusade. My friend Maurice Shave, a successful North Ridgeville, Ohio businessman with an enormous heart for God, was my driving buddy. Actually, he was the driver. At eighty-two, I can still do the driving I need to do around my hometown of Oberlin. But for longer road trips, or when it involves negotiating the twists and turns at the airport to pick up a friend or family member, Maurice is always there to help.

   When we arrived in Cincinnati, a few boycotters stood outside Paul Brown Stadium, protesting the event. But their presence did not discourage the tens of thousands of people who flocked into the venue to worship, pray, and hear God's Word.

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I was able to visit briefly with Billy before the program. We laughed together and reminisced about all the great history we shared. He told me his earthly frame was getting weaker. "Howard, I'm looking forward to heaven," he said. He knew I could relate. I encouraged him to stay focused on the Good News, despite all the obvious distractions.

   As Maurice and I drove home the next morning, a flood of memories filled my mind: good times with Billy; a life-time of joy and fulfillment with my dear wife, Wanda, who had passed away in November; the faces of countless men and women, boys and girls who came forward to receive Christ as a result of my preaching, even on those many occasions when I felt like I had fumbled the message. There were travels to Africa, Korea, England, France, South America, Switzerland, Brazil — you name it.

   I cannot begin to recall every locale I've visited and every person I've met during my fifty-plus years of ministry. Yet in the pages that follow I endeavor to give you at least a glimpse — a quick taste — of the incredible adventure and excitement that have accompanied my journeys as a pastor, missionary, and evangelist.

   It's been said that old preachers never die; they just ramble on and on and on.

   Are you ready to ramble? 

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