Ministry Moments:
"We’ve taken her to all the great
healers"
by Lynn Ridenhour
Linda, my wife, and I were living a life of faith, a
life of extremes. We were barely married a year. My lovely bride was cooking
three meals a day for thirty homeless street people ranging from the ages of
thirteen to thirty five. It was the early 70s and everyone was "…tuning
in, turning on, and dropping out…" We were running & operating
a Christian halfway house on 180 acres sixty miles west of St. Louis. We
called our halfway house The Upper Room.
The name seemed appropriate, for the supernatural was never far away.
A Christian businessman by the name of Bill Shaw had asked us to come to
Missouri and minister to the street people. He was willing to donate the use
of his 180 acre farm if Linda and I would "…go out into the streets and
minister the gospel." We agreed. It wasn’t long before Jim, the drug
dealer, was living with us. And Joe, the ex-con and Randy, the food-aholic,
and Mary, the Baha’i psychic, and Tina & Debbie, two fourteen year-olds
who were molested by their step dads. To name a few.
Often we were up all night, talking to someone about Jesus. Most of the
young people, for some reason or another, had adopted a form of eastern
religion or philosophy as their way of life. Very few, if any, took
Christianity seriously. Slowly but surely the Lord began to convert. I must
clarify. When I say we were up all night talking about the Lord—only if
someone initiated the discussion.
You had to live the gospel before these young people. They had a
sixth sense about who you were; that is, if you were "real" or not.
They were remarkably "street smart" and extremely sensitive about
being "preached to."
That’s where miracles opened the door. It’s amazing what a miracle or
two will do.
It was Sunday afternoon, time for our informal "church service."
I mean—really informal. We typically sat around on the floor in circles,
strumming on a guitar and openly sharing. Girls came in their bikinis and guys
came in their cutoffs. We were ready to begin when I noticed a car pulling up
out front. A green Chevy full of people. It looked like a family. I was about
to open the door and go inside the building when I turned around and walked
down the sidewalk toward the car.
Kids were piling out. It was a family. Then I saw the mother wheeling her
crippled daughter in a wheelchair up the sidewalk towards me.
"…Are you Pastor Ridenhour?" she asked, as we met in the
middle of the sidewalk.
"…I am."
"…Well, I want you to know we’ve taken her to all the great
healers and she’s still not healed," the mother blurted out.
I started to say something.
"…We were told you have the gift of healing. They call you a Jesus
Freak, whatever that means. We want you to pray for our daughter."
I’m looking at the other members of the family and I can see the hurt in
their eyes.
"…Please heal our sister…"
I still hadn’t said a word.
"…Ma’am, I’m curious. How did you hear about us?"
"…O, our pastor told us."
I was looking at her daughter, her arms like toothpicks dangling out of
control, her spine twisted and contorted like a noodle.
"…Well, Ma’am, I don’t have the gift of healing. But I’ve seen
the Lord heal; I don’t do the healing."
"…We’re Pentecostals," she responded, " and we
know that. We’ve taken Sarah to Oral Roberts & to Kenneth Hagin and she’s
still not healed. So we wanted to come and have you pray for Sarah."
"…I would be happy to Ma’am," thinking, "…My
Lord, these men have the gift of healing. What more could I do?"
The Pentecostal family walked inside to worship with the hippies. We had
worship service that afternoon. A Pentecostal family sat around with the rest
of us as Richard strummed his guitar and Mary read her poetry and I said a few
words about the power of the gospel. All the while I was crying out on the
inside for that precious daughter in the wheelchair, almost stalling. For I
knew soon the mother would be asking me to pray for her daughter. I was aching
on the inside. When we were finished, sure enough, the mother wheels her
daughter in front of me, and stands next to me. I so wanted the Lord to
manifest his power about now, especially in front of all these hippies. But
more than that, I simply wanted the daughter healed. With all my heart, I
wanted her healed.
Somehow I ignored my inadequate feelings and began to pray. I prayed aloud.
I laid my hands on the crippled child and rebuked those spirits of infirmity,
commanding them to leave.
Nothing. I mean nothing but silence.
There was no manifestation. I felt no power and no anointing.
The Pentecostal family left the way they came. They loaded their children
into the car and I could feel their disappointment. I stood at the doorway and
waved goodbye. Then I went directly into my bedroom, fell on my knees, and
poured my heart out. "…Why, Lord? Why?…" I checked my
heart. I searched the crevices in my heart, wondering if I had not sinned. I
begged the Lord to forgive my unbelief. And the whole week I felt awful. It
was a bad week.
Two weeks go by and that same family pulls up out front in their
overcrowded car. Again it’s worship time. I’m a little puzzled as I watch
them pile out. Again I go out to meet them. This time the mother, while
walking towards me, bursts into a chronicle of sentences, not letting me get
in a word edgewise. She’s talking much faster than usual. Without her
typical Pentecostal shyness too.
"…Pastor Ridenhour, you’re not going to believe it. Sarah’s back
is straight! Jenny doesn’t believe in God, you know. Thank you. Thank you.
Thank you…"
She was talking a mile a minute and vigorously shaking my hand as we walked
together. I invited her to bring her family inside and worship with us. I
shared that morning and kept staring at a mother who was smiling from ear to
ear. The glow was definitely there. I’m convinced I could have shared on the
Sons of Perdition and it wouldn’t have mattered. No one from heaven or hell
could tamper with this mother’s joy on this particular afternoon. Her
daughter had shown signs of healing. Her spine had been straightened.
Come to find out--one morning Jenny, Sarah’s favorite sister, was rubbing
her sister’s back. She liked to do that. Jenny loved Sarah. But the
wheelchair and the crippling disease and the twisted spine were too much for
Jenny. She blamed God. Jenny’s mother told me, "…She’s always
blamed her sister’s condition on God. ‘Look mom, what God has done to
Sarah,’ she would say as she pointed her accusing finger. Pastor, Jenny didn’t
believe in God."
She continued, "One day this week I heard Jenny scream in the
living room. I was in the kitchen. I thought maybe she’d hurt herself or
that something was wrong with Sarah. I went running into the living room.
Pastor, Jenny was on her knees crying out as she rubbed her hand up and down
her sister’s spine, repeating ‘…it’s straight, mom! It’s straight!…’
Sobbing, I heard her say, ‘I do believe in you, God. I do believe in you…’"
The family left that day rejoicing and full of glory. And I went into my
bedroom and knelt down.
"…O, Lord, the power of your gospel…"
