Restoration Review: Leroy Garrett, Editor

The Amsterdam Meeting (3) …

THE NEW CHURCH
W. Carl Ketcherside

For a long time I have known that the methods being used by the organized church to save people were helpless and wholly outdated in the Space Age. They were shot down in the 1960’s by the counter-culture. To continue using them is like firing a bow and arrow at persons armed with nuclear weapons. So it was over four years ago I suggested to the folk at Oak Hill Chapel that we rent a storefront in the inner city and take to the streets with our message. They did so just two months before I left for Amsterdam. During that two months I personally rang six hundred doorbells. The first morning I encountered a man freed from prison the day before, I talked with a man of the streets who was homeless, talked about Jesus with two young prostitutes, and saw several scores of older men and women, typical of the forgotten people swallowed up in the gaping maw of a huge disinterested city.

When I arrived in Amsterdam I was fine-tuned for the work and it was ready and waiting for me. I was in one of the most overtly immoral cities on the face of the modern globe. I was walking to the convention center with a group of participants from Africa the very first day. I saw a young man with a liquor bottle in his hand, staggering all over the sidewalk. I told my companions that if he was there when I came back the next day I was going to encounter him and tell him about Jesus. They suggested I had better not become involved. That night, going home, I saw him in the company of a couple of other fellows and three girls who were immodestly attired according to my standards. The police were talking to all of them so I passed on by.

But the next evening he was there with another bottle of liquor. I “peeled off” from my group and went over to him. He spoke English fluently. When I asked him about Jesus he told me he knew all about him. He had gone to a seminary for two years. He declared that Jesus was a fake. He thought he would get rid of me by using language that would have made a western mule-skinner flinch. But I hung in and presented the claims of Jesus. When he started to walk down the street I walked by his side. We came to the dive where they hung out and I started in.

He told me I could not enter but I went in anyway. I found myself in a place apparently used for vice. The pictures on the wall were the most filthily pornographic I had ever seen. Six mattresses were on the floor. Three young people who had been sitting in front of the place, got up and followed me in. I attempted to shame them and turned and walked out, but ever afterwards when I passed the place the door was closed. I saw the young former theological student three more times. He was always respectful and deferential.

I lost all fear and began to stop young people on the street and talk to them. Many of them shaved their heads except for a scalplock which they called a Mohawk. They died it red, yellow and blue. Some of them were skin-heads, openly asserting their rebellion. When I found three or four of them walking toward me in their skin-tight leather clothing. I stopped them and talked to them, always working it around to Jesus. They listened. Sometimes they would get off a smart remark but, fortunately, I could turn it to the Lord’s account. It was great to be a witness as to who Jesus was and what he could do. The young brainwashed victims of the frightful “punk-rock” era heard of a love and an all-enveloping grace which they had never heard before.

On Thursday it was announced that we would attempt a penetration of the culture on Sunday, starting at noon. It was suggested that we leave our coats at home, wear no ties and unbutton the top button or two on our shirts. Sixty-four buses were lined up inside one of the convention center buildings. Beside each bus was stacked fifty box lunches. The buses were divided into red, yellow and blue. English-speaking people boarded the red, Spanish-speaking the yellow, and Far Eastern the blue. Those who spoke English were to testify on the beaches and in the resorts.

It was my good fortune to sit across from a young French Mennonite and his wife. He had been reared a nominal Catholic. After serving a term in the army he decided against war as having any possibility of settling international differences. I have heard from them twice since returning home and he is working with three small congregations numbering about twenty in French villages. We talked all the way to the battlefield where God was leading us. When the bus was several miles from the resort town and beach we encountered hundreds of cars parked four deep. The scene was a madhouse. We drove for several miles between vehicles crowded so compactly it was almost as if they were one. I have never before seen such a crowd.

A musical group had been sent about one hour in advance to soften up the people. They were all “Deutschlanders.” When I arrived they were singing in the native tongue and interspersing the songs with personal declarations of what Jesus meant. The singing group was composed of about twenty people of all ages from the very young to the very old. I listened to them about five minutes and then plunged into the teeming sea of people. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my bus companions, some of them talking earnestly to two or three people. We were distributing copies of Good News by John, in the Dutch language, and urging people to read it for comfort and strength. It would be the first time many of them had been exposed to the word of the Lord.

I approached three people sitting on a bench looking out across the ocean waves. I asked them if either spoke English and found out that they could only “sprechen sie Deutsch.” I had my work cut out for me. By signs and an occasional word from my limited vocabulary I got through to them. They promised to read the book that night. I gave them two copies, and moved over to where eight people were sitting on a hotel porch enjoying the ocean breeze. I asked if anyone in the group spoke English. One man raised his hand. I asked him to interpret what I was going to say and began to speak. No sooner had I started than Satan interfered in the form of an aging dowager, who deliberately arose, took a stance directly between me and the interpreter and began to talk to him in a loud voice. I got only four of the people to accept a copy of the book.

I moved on to a set of steps where a young man and woman were sitting. I introduced myself and found they were from Haarlem, a few miles away. He was a house-painter but was unemployed. Conditions are bad in the Netherlands for the trades. I talked with them about fifteen minutes about Jesus. I have never found a more alert or inviting couple. They asked questions about the Way. We exchanged addresses and I moved on. Before me was a motorcycle gang from all over northern Europe. There were well over a hundred of them. All were dressed uniformly in black leather suits. I moved in among the Hondas and Suzukis and began to preach about Jesus in a conversational tone. They gathered around. I offered the books to anyone who would promise to read them. Five boys and girls reached out for them. I gave the books with a prayer and started walking down the street.
I had one copy of the Gospel of John remaining. I met two women walking toward me, stopped them, told them what I was doing, and found that one of them was from Ireland. The other was her sister and lived in West Germany. They were awaiting their brother who would join them from France on the morrow. Exacting a promise from them to take turns reading the book I gave the last one to them and turned my steps toward where the bus was due to pick us up after three hours of absence while we were contacting people. It was a thrilling afternoon and I prayed on the bus and again that night for those whom I had met. I could hardly wait to get back to the United States and do the same thing here. —139 Signal Hill Dr., St. Louis 63121