Gift of Faith
(continued)

Part Three

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by Lynn Ridenhour

Again, I was learning valuable lessons. I had been at Milldale Bible Conference now for quite a few months. My ministry had not left the campgrounds. That is, the Lord had me ministering entirely during camp meetings to the youth. And in between sessions to our youth of the church. While in Missouri, however, I was preaching here 'n' yonder as a youth evangelist, traveling from church to church while a student at William Jewell. There was quite a contrast. And quite frankly, it had bothered me why I was not traveling.

Perhaps you're wondering how I managed to come up with $1,800 in a few weeks to go to the Holy Land-with no job. And no speaking engagements. All of a sudden I was getting calls from everywhere. In a short time the Lord, through love offerings, raised my airfare and expenses.

Again, the Lord was trying to teach me--it's none of my business how He decides to meet my needs. I'm to trust Him and leave the rest to Him. The how and when is His business. I'm convinced, that's the fight of faith the Bible talks about (I Tim.6:12). To remain as a child as we mature spiritually. I have a child and it would bring me great displeasure if she were constantly questioning my ability to take care of her. "Dad, are you sure you can afford this?" She's a child. I don't want her encumbered with my concerns. I want her love, her responses of joy, as I provide for her. I want to see her face light up. Our heavenly father is no different.

A Review of the Gift of Faith

"Go live with the hippies."

It's the late 60s, early 70s. The flower children have arrived. Young people everywhere are hitchhiking. The parks were turned into pads. The homeless and youth of America slept there. Bob Dylan and the Beatles are heroes. Pot is their god and gold. The drug revolution is on. And so is the Jesus revolution.

I was pastoring a fundamentalist Baptist church in West Monroe, Louisiana, at the time. One Sunday morning, as usual, on my way to worship service, I was meditating on the morning's message-on what I would say. Turning the corner to the church house, I noticed a group of young people congregating, hanging out, most of them hippies. I said a quick prayer for them and continued on. Little did I expect the Lord to answer. He said, "if you really want to help them go live with them. Resign your pastorate and go live with the hippies."

It caught me off guard. I was merely praying for them.

That morning I preached but couldn't keep my mind off the Lord's instructions, "go live with them." For days I kept hearing, "go live with the hippies." I didn't say anything to my wife, Linda, for I knew we were trying to become traditional newly weds, with middle-income values. Weeks go by. So do months. And I continue pastoring and preaching.

We were both working. As months pass, the Lord begins dealing with me about quitting my job. About stepping out in faith and ministering to the hippies in parks and biways. I say nothing to my wife. One day, while driving home from work, Linda says to me, "hon, I know this doesn't make sense, but I believe the Lord wants me to quit my job." That gets my attention. I tell her, "hon, the Lord has been dealing with me for months about quitting my job."

I now had a second witness. We both quit our jobs and hit the road in our 1965 green Fairlane Ford. Like Abraham, we too "went out not knowing whither we went." Linda actually said, "hon, where do you want to go?." We had $14. I said, "we haven't seen your folks in a while. Let's go visit them." Her folks lived a couple hundred miles north in Kansas City. We packed our things, knowing our rent was soon due. And started driving. I filled up the tank. We now had $8.

We arrived safely in KC and had a wonderful visit. While there, I felt impressed to visit a couple I had known while youth pastor at Six-Mile Baptist Church-the Jones'. I drive over to their house, knock on their door, but no one was home. I notice it's still mid afternoon. They're probably at work. So I leave a note attached to the screen door.

That evening the phone rings. It's Mrs. Jones. "Lynn, is that you?" I answered. "You and Linda come on over. I've just made a hot coconut pie. We'd love to see you." I love coconut pie. We had a wonderful visit, getting caught up on old times. Soon it was time to go. My, how time went. Linda and I were putting on our coats, about ready to walk out when Brother Jones grabs my arm. "Wait a minute. I almost forgot." He went into the back room and came out with something in his hand. "Here," he said, handing it to me, "when I read your note today the Lord told me you needed this." I opened the envelope. Inside was a check made out for the exact amount of our rent-to the penny.

We were on our way.

For the next three years my lovely wife and I ministered to the hippies. Ministering in parks, zoos, bowling alleys, bars, pot parties, on street corners, and in churches. We ministered anywhere and everywhere. Always traveling; always on the go. With no salary and no job. We literally "prayed in" our daily needs. "Give us this day our daily bread." was no nice saying. It was our lifeline.

The Upper Room

It was the early '70s. These were wild times for my wife and me--wild in that our lives seemed like a movie. Life seemed surreal. We expected miracles almost daily. We left Kansas City and went on to my home town. Not to see my relatives, but to do as the book of Acts commands. Start sharing the power of the gospel at home.

"But ye shall receive power after that the Holy Ghost is come upon you, and ye shall be witnesses unto me both in Jerusalem [your home town], and in all Judaea, and in Samaria, and unto the uttermost part of the earth." --Acts 1:8

The Lord says, go home. Linda and I felt as though we were reliving the book of Acts. So I went home. This is where I was burned, this is where I was born again. I grew up in Belle, Missouri. I knew Aunt Tilly and Uncle Lawrence and Terry's Shoe Store and Meb's Dairy Queen and Lorts' Grocery Store and Onnie's Movie House and Mrs. Biles and Coach Kissinger and Principal Jett and the local barber shop. I knew 'em all. I'm saying-I felt an obligation to these people. I had never shared the power of the gospel with them--not really. O, I went to church with these people most of my life. In a small town, that's expected. But I'm talking, sharing the gospel. Really sharing the gospel. That's different.

So I rented a hotel conference room and ran an ad in the local newspaper: "Weekend Seminar on the Holy Spirit by Lynn Ridenhour, 7:30 p.m. White's Hotel, Conference Room."

The place was packed. Methodists, Baptists, Catholics, Pentecostals, and Lutherans showed up. Pastors came. First of all, everyone wanted to know what in the world I was up to. I wasn't up to anything, really. That is, I had no sectarian motives. I've simply come home. Come home to share the good news, hopefully under the unction and power of the Holy Ghost.

I had a friend named Charlie Kumer who had a band. A Jesus Band, as we called it. We scheduled last hour assemblies in neighboring high schools during the day and I spoke for three nights in a row there in my home town. God moved in a marvelous way, especially among the youth of the area. We had taken Christ out into the market place.

The move of the Holy Spirit was so successful, in fact, that we continued our meetings down the road in a neighboring town. I rented a VFW hall for one week. Young people came from all over. People were sitting in the floors, in the windows. We witnessed dramatic healings, eyes were opened, back injuries were healed. Young people were set free from drug addictions. I stayed an extra week. A member of the Hell's Angels was converted. A Christian businessman, Bill Shaw, ended up giving us his 180-acre farm. He didn't actually deed it over to us. He did give us free use of it however-asking us to continue doing our street ministry.

Brother Shaw had some old buildings on his farm that we fixed up. My wife and I would go out into the parks and ask the hippies to come live with us. We lived the gospel before them, and some were converted to the love of God. They became just as radical for Jesus. It wasn't long 'till we hadaround 30 X-hippies living with us. We called our place "The Upper Room."

I want you to meet two X-hippies. Meet Joe & Jim.

Meet Joe.

I never will forget-I was pulling in to our parking lot one afternoon when I glanced over to my right and saw a man with a head full of hair sitting on the porch steps, his head between his legs, his hands disappearing in his bushy afro. I got out of the car, walked over and sat down. "Hi, my name is Lynn. What's yours?"

He didn't even look up. "Joe."

"What's yours?" he asked.

Joe had forgotten that I had just told him my name. And for the next ten minutes we carried on a very fragmented conversation. For you see, Joe's mind was "fried" for doing STP, a very dangerous psychedelic drug. Within ten minutes, Joe had not only forgotten my name, he had forgotten he'd asked for my name! About every three or four minutes he'd say, "what's your name?"

I told him, "Lynn."

Joe stayed with us for six months.

I prayed daily for Joe that God would restore his mind. He had lost all cognitive reasoning and really sounded much like a five-year old. Joe was 33 years old, just out of the penitentiary in Jefferson City, and didn't know how to dial a telephone.

Joe had been staying with us for about three weeks now when something miraculous began to occur. I noticed-Joe's mind was coming back. Slowly, but surely. Almost weekly you could tell a difference. Joe was making progress. One evening, about the third week, we were all over at Jim & Betty Coons' house for barbecue and fun. I'll never forget that evening as long as I live. It's been twenty-six years. I remember it as though it were last night. It was on a Wednesday evening-1973. There were about 25 of us over at the Coons' house for some fun and fellowship.

About dark, after a good game of volleyball, conversation had turned to religion, and matters had turned real serious. For three weeks Joe had witnessed firsthand the joy, the liberty, and serenity that comes from living the Christian life. That evening in the Coons' living room three brothers were gently nudging Joe in the direction of the gospel. We were all listening. I was standing over in the corner as an observer, watching this sensitive moment. I could see the struggle on Joe's face. Finally, he broke loose.

With slow gut-wrenching sounds, he began...

"But I can't become a Christian. I've killed for a cigarette. There's no way God could love me. I've always taken." Tears were now dropping on to Joe's coat sleeve.

Everyone in the room knew this was serious stuff. Here was a man serious with heaven. He began to pound his fist on the coffee table. "I'm not worthy! I'm not worthy! I've always taken! I've always taken!"

The brothers now each had their arms around Joe as he sobbed, circling him in a circle of love. You could sense the love flowing from that circle. Every person in that room was deeply touched, moved, some were sniffling. Here was a grown man--pounding his way into heaven. Finally, having been convinced that none of us were worthy, that all of us had lived self-centered lives-that he was really not unlike the rest of us, Joe gave his heart to God that night. And never looked back!

I'm telling you-after that night I never saw such child-like faith! Such gratitude! Joe was continually grateful for the smallest of things. He thanked God for his mind. For learning how to dial a telephone. For shoes. For laughter. For shaving cream. For "being able to remember again." Joe was a man but like a child with a child's heart in a man's body.

Joe lived with us for six months and acquired a steadfast testimony of the gospel. Always unhindered by the temptations of the "night life," he wasn't in the least afraid to go with us into the taverns. Joe was "bubbly" with the gospel. He really didn't have to say much. Sinners and friends alike took to Joe like jam on bread. He hadn't an enemy in this world. It really was a joy to be Joe's friend.

I'll never forget the two Joe Jupinos I had come to know. The one who kept asking that afternoon my name about every two or three minutes and the other one who later joyfully shared how the Lord had restored his mind--and gave him a new heart. Joe was something else.

Joe always had that same joyful countenance-whether sharing the gospel in a beer joint or a church house. And I loved his laugh.

Meet Jim-Jim Reed.

Jim was the local drug dealer. He kept the whole area supplied, getting his drugs out of St. Louis. Of course, we didn't know this at the time.

For about six weeks, a long-haired, skinny-looking guy would show up every Sunday afternoon at two o'clock for worship. (We had our worship services at two o'clock on Sundays.) Actually, our worship services were more like informal get-togethers. Young people would come dressed in their cut-offs. Girls would show up in bikinis. Some sat on the floor; others sat on chairs. We usually sat in a circle, singing psalms while someone strummed the guitar.

As I said, Jim would show up-always stoned. He would "shoot up" morphine right before the service, leave his needle in the car, and come worship. I could tell he was "high." His eyes were glazed, he staggered a lot, and slurred his words. During our sharing time, Jim would stand (barely able) and tell how much he loved God.

I think the Lord has a sense of humor. One Sunday the Lord had had enough. Sure enough, in comes Jim high as a kite. He shares with the rest of the group, slurring his words, weaving back and forth a bit, and telling how much he loves God. No one ever said anything. We all knew. Well.that particular Sunday afternoon the Lord truly intervened. I felt impressed to pray for Jim, so after worship I asked him to come with me. We went into a back room with three other brothers. I laid my hands on Jim's head and began to pray. Jim fell to the floor and came up praising the Lord in another language-as sober as a judge! The Lord had instantly converted him-and brought him down from the influence of morphine. It was truly one of the most miraculous conversions I had ever witnessed.

Jim became steady as a rock. He fell in love with the Lord and His scriptures. I asked him to move in with us and help us out on the streets. He did. Jim became my "right hand man," with a tremendous influence on the youth in the area. Most knew him. He supplied them. Now he stands tall and straight for the gospel, and never wavering in his testimony.

I came home one evening, and noticed-Jim was sullen, sitting in a chair in deep thought. I could tell something was bothering him.

"What's the matter, brother?"

"I'm supposed to meet my connection tonight."

I didn't understand. Then he told me. Jim had been getting his drugs from a supplier out of St. Louis. It was that time of the month again. Then he dropped a bombshell.

"I'm a member of the Mafia. And every month one of the members meets me."

I was floored.

"You don't cross the Mafia. Or want out," he said. "They'll bump you off. I'm really scared not to go."

Now I'm really listening. And have a huge pit in my stomach. I can't believe this is happening. Sure makes church attendance a piece of cake. This is the real thing. I didn't know what to tell him.

"What if you don't show up?"

"O, they know where I am."

I suggested we pray. We got on our knees, begging the Lord to show us what to do. Does Jim go out of fear of the Mafia and pick up the drugs, or does he stay, knowing they might come after him? We hadn't a clue.

After earnest prayer, seeking His direction, both of us got up off our knees, believing the Lord wanted Jim to go meet his connection that night. So.with Godspeed, asking the Lord to send His angels before him, I watched Jim get in his car and drive off. I really prayed. I mean-really prayed.

Two hours later Jim came home. I could tell he was relieved the moment I saw him.

"They never showed up. I waited at our usual spot, but they never showed up."

And that was the last we ever heard from the mob. Jim served the Lord relentlessly.

We invited drug addicts, hippies, the homeless, convicts & prostitutes to come live with us. We literally lived with the hippies for two and a half years-and shared the gospel. I said.shared, for you could in no way "preach" to these extremely sensitive young souls. You had to live the gospel before them. Believe me, they had a "sixth sense." These young people were remarkably "street-wise." And could spot a "preacher" or religious person a mile off. I say-young people. They ranged from 13 to 38 years old. Tina and Debbie, for instance, had just turned 13. Tina's step dad had been taking her to motel rooms, getting her drunk, and molesting her. Debbie's dad was the town drunk and her mother was hooked on legal prescriptions. Both Tina and Debbie lived with us for six months. And both received the gospel. They became angels. Their countenances, at times, literally shined (no joke) and the rough edges on their faces slowly disappeared. It really was something to see-the gospel in action. These girls became Mary Magdalenes. Clean.

We only had one rule--you could stay with us for six months. Actually we had another rule-no smoking pot on our premises, for we couldn't take the risk of getting busted. At times my lovely wife cooked meals for as many as 30 young people. Where did we get the money to feed all those hungry stomachs? Without intending to sound pious, we prayed our meals in every day. To be quite candid, most of the religious folks in the area distrusted us, including churches-especially pastors--for we still looked like hippies. But for two and a half years, the Lord met out needs. We never went hungry and we never missed a meal.

We owned a van. I remember a cop pulling us over one day and searching the van for drugs. He found nothing but copies of the Word of God strung around on carpeted floor. That particular afternoon we were on our way to a pool hall to play "Jesus Rock" music. It was Halloween night. We had formed a rock band and called it "The Voice." One of the members of the band, Jerry, used to play the sax for Ike & Tina Turner before they broke up. This young person could make that sax yak!

What was the Lord teaching us? That he is the God of the insignificant. Little things matter to him-and us. The Lord was concerned that Joe did not know how to dial a telephone. He knew that my wife needed a button for her blouse. He cared that we had but a quarter of a tank of gas. He is our "daily" God.

It mattered not-the gift of faith operated for buttons and millions. If you can't believe God for a button, I'm not sure you can believe Him for a million.

(to be continued.)

The Gift of Faith Continuation: