An extract from The Cross and the Switchblade by David Wilkerson
For most people in Brooklyn, the
morning of August 28, 1961, was just another bright, hot summer morning, but
for us at Teen Challenge Center, the day was dark. That noon we were supposed
to hand over a certified check to the holders of our second mortgage. The
amount needed was $15,000.
"How much money do we have
in the bank?" I asked Paul Dilena. "I don't even want to tell you."
"How much?" "Fourteen dollars." I had been counting so much
on another miracle. Somehow in my heart I had confidence that we weren't going
to lose the Center, and yet we were at our deadline and there was no money.
Noon came and went, and still there was no miracle. I had to ask myself some
serious questions about my own confidence. Was it just self-delusion? Had I
expected too much of God without doing enough myself? "At least," I
said to Julius Fried, our attorney, "I am not going down without a scrap.
Could you arrange for an extension?"
Julius spent the afternoon poring
over documents and signing papers, and when he had finished his day's work, he
announced that he had succeeded in getting an extension. "They've agreed
to wait until September the tenth, David," Julius said. "But if the
money isn't in their hands by that time, they will have foreclosure
proceedings.
Do you have any ideas?"
"Yes," I said, and Julius' face lit up. But it fell again when I
explained just what that idea was. "I am going to pray about it," I
said. Julius was accustomed to the praying ways of the center, but at that
moment I think he wished for a Director who was a little more practical. That
morning, I did a rather brash thing. I called the young people together, drug addicts,
gang members, college boys and girls, staff members and I told them that the
Center was safe. There was a great rejoicing, I think we need to go to the
chapel to thank God, "I said. So we did. We went in, closed the doors, and
praised the Lord for having saved this home for His use. Finally someone looked
up and asked, "Say, David, where did the money come from?" "Oh,
it hasn't come in yet." Twenty-five
blank expressions. Twenty-five frozen smiles "It hasn't come in
yet," I went on. "But before September tenth, the money will be in our
hands, I'm sure. By that date, I'll have a check for $15,000 to show you. I
just thought we ought to thank God ahead of time." And with that I walked
out.
September first came. September second, third, fourth. I spent a great
deal of time on the telephone, seeing if I could find solution to our problem.
Every sign pointed to His wanting us to continue our work. The summer had been
rather successful. Our records showed that 2,500 young people all over New York
had made a real contact with love; they had turned their lives over to Christ.
Hundreds of boys and girls had poured through the Centre on their way to new
jobs, to new outlooks, to creativity. Twelve were actually preparing for the
ministry. "And it all started with that picture in life," I said to
Gwen one night as we were reviewing the year. "Isn't it strange that you
have never been allowed to see those boys from the trial? Said Gwen. It was
strange, I had written, and telephoned, and knocked on doors for nearly four years.
But for reasons beyond my comprehension, I was never allowed to work closely
with the very boys whose tragedy had brought me to New York in the first place.
Their fate and the fate of Israel (ex-president of the Mau Maus) remained for a
while at least in the hands of the state. Perhaps, when the boys were released
from prison I would be allowed tell them about the concern that was still on my
heart for their futures.
There was a boy, however, from
those very first days in New York, whose life still touched mine: Angelo
Morales.
One morning Angelo came to visit
us. Together we relived that first day when he bumped into me on the stairs
outside Luis Alvarez' father's apartment. And now Angelo himself was about to
graduate from seminary. He too would be working with me at the center. "If
there is a center, Angelo," I said, sharing with him our financial
problems. "Is there anything I can do?" Angelo asked. "Yes. Get
into the chapel with the others and pray. While you are praying, we'll be on
the phone." Every member of our Board was busy making phone calls to old
friends of the Center. Help came in, but never in the quantity needed to meet
the $15,000 note on September tenth. Among the telephone calls was one to Clem
Stone's office in Chicago. Harald Bredsen placed it, admitting openly that he
was a little embarrassed. Clem had already been more than generous with the
Center. We tried to keep him in close touch with the progress of our work at
all times, not just when we needed money; but I suspect that when Clem heard a call
was coming from Teen Challenge Center his instinct was to place a quick,
protecting hand over his wallet.
It was Clem's son whom Harald
reached on the telephone, September eight. They had a long talk. Harald told
about the work that had been accomplished already, and he thanked the Stones
for their part in that. Then, with a shrug, he finally got to the point.
"We have got to have $15,000 by the day after tomorrow," he said, and
he explained why. "I have no idea what your position is at this moment.
And I'm certainly not going to ask for a decision while you are on the
telephone. But talk this over with your father. Tell him thanks for what he's
already done to help. And then let's just see what happens." September the
tenth arrived. The morning mail came. We opened it eagerly. There were
envelopes from children sending in their pennies. "Thank you, Lord,"
I said. "We couldn't do without these pennies." And that was all.
The morning chapel service began. Everyone was gathered, everyone prayed and
sang. Here and there I heard our young still thanking God for sending us the
check for $15,000. In the middle of the service, I was called to the door. It
was a Special Delivery. I looked at the postmark: Chicago, Illinios. I opened
the envelope, and inside was a certified check for exactly $15,000. I couldn't
talk when I took that piece of paper into the chapel. I stood before the
fireplace with its sheaf of harvested wheat in bas-relief on the mantel. I
couldn't talk, so I just held up my hand for silence, and when the room was
quiet, Paul Dilena handed the check to the young boy nearest me. "Pass
that around, will you, please?" Paul said, almost inaudibly.
The canceled
check, which Clem Stone now has in his files in Chicago, tells a mute story of
the wonderful leading of God among young people in New York City. It is
properly endorsed, properly deposited. But it is more than that. If you look
closely at that check, you will see that it is stained. It is really quite grubby from having passed
through the hands of two dozen youngsters who have learned what it is to
believe. And perhaps there was a few tear stains on it, too. Tears of gratitude
to a God who moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform.
