Called to Controversy (19 page)

Wesley Olsen was another highly influential teacher, and he, too, had a way of using irony or sarcasm to get Moishe to take a second look at what he was thinking and where it would lead. Olsen taught biblical theology and systematic theology. He encouraged the students to think through carefully the things they thought they knew. When he'd ask a question, any student who tried to give a predigested answer would find that this professor would go along with it just so far, and then, as Moishe described it: “Bang! He would cut you off so dramatically, so logically, so incisively that you had to give up your whole preconceived idea, and then he'd start to teach you. He used the Socratic method. He was very interactive.” When it was his turn to teach, Moishe well remembered Olsen's style and adopted it to train missionaries.

Moishe recalled negative lessons as well. The school had a canteen where students were allowed to dish up their own sundaes, malts, or milkshakes and pay on the honor system. To Moishe's horror, when the school year ended, the “honor system” had landed the school a good fifteen hundred dollars in the red. “It was not just people forgetting to leave money, but to lose that much money, somebody had to be stealing from the money that we did leave. That proved to be the case, and the thief was discovered. But the fact that one of us was stealing—and at a school that charged only a hundred dollars a year in tuition—was upsetting because it showed a frightening level of corruption in our midst. I thought that even among the most dedicated Christians there are wolves among the sheep,” he said.

At the end of Moishe's first year at Northeastern, Dean Bleecker approached him. “His general attitude was serious,” Moishe explained,

and he said, “We've been discussing your adjustment to school.” Well, of course it was quite an adjustment so I was interested to hear his conclusion. He said something like: “You've been doing very well, and we know that academics are a struggle for you. And we can see you working, and we appreciate what you've done for your practical Christian work.” I had been going to Patterson Jail, as well as working with the ABMJ in New York City.

Then the dean said, “I think it might help with your adjustment if you could have a little more of your own family life.” And then to my great surprise—and I felt so privileged—the dean told me that they wanted to excuse me from the rule that said we had to live in the married dorm. He even suggested a nearby neighborhood where I could find affordable outside housing. This solved so many problems for us, because the nearby neighborhood was Montclair, New Jersey, where many Italian families lived. Not only were people's temperaments in that neighborhood far more similar to our own, but what could be better than having an Italian landlady who was proud of her cooking—and who loved the smell of garlic as much as we did? It never occurred to us that the cultural differences we experienced at Northeastern were two-sided . . . and that others were very happy for us to find a home more to our liking off campus.

Among all the adjustments and lessons of that first year of Bible school, Moishe was also still learning what it meant to have a personal relationship with God. Toward the middle of his first semester, Moishe had a paper due that was crucial for his grade, and it had to be typewritten. Unfortunately, Moishe's typewriter needed repair. He only needed $3.50 to get it fixed, but he said, “It might as well have been $3,500 because I didn't have it.

“I was desperate. It was then and there that I learned to petition and pray, and God encouraged me with a swift answer.” When Moishe went to his student mailbox, he found a check for five dollars from the Public Service Company of Colorado. It was the refund from a service deposit. He cashed the check and took his typewriter to be repaired. “I got my typewriter, the paper was finished on time, I was still in school, and I knew that God had answered prayer,” said Moishe. “
So, maybe it's all right to ask for things
, I thought. It wasn't long before I needed to ask again.”

In the move from Denver, his overcoat and other winter clothes had gotten lost. That meant when he went from New Jersey into New York City to do volunteer work at the ABMJ, he had only a suit coat over a sweater to keep him warm. Moishe explained,

As I went to my assigned place and began my work, Hilda Koser, the missionary from Brooklyn, came to me and said, “Mr. Rosen, I hope you don't mind my asking you, but a man from Kalamazoo died, and his wife sent me all of his clothes. He didn't die of anything contagious. He was evidently a rather tall man like you, and all of the people to whom we minister in Brooklyn are much shorter. I wouldn't insult you by offering you secondhand clothes, but I know that the man's wife would be so pleased if she knew who the clothes went to.”

Hilda Koser couldn't have known how much I had been praying for an overcoat! I said I would take a look at them after I finished my work. . . . The man must have been rather well off. There were several Hart, Shaffner, and Marx suits and, best of all, two overcoats! All of the clothes—the shirts, the suits, even the barely worn size thirteen shoes—were exactly my size, and the styles were what I would have chosen. This was too good to be true!

I had barely finished praying before God had greatly answered. That kind of thing went on for several weeks. I would have a need, I would pray, and my prayer would be quickly and decisively answered in a unique way. Then, after perhaps six remarkable answers, I prayed yet again, and what I asked did not happen. It was as though God were telling me, “I've shown you that I can answer prayer and that I will answer prayer, but not every time that you ask it.”

I don't expect God to give me everything I ask of him, but I know that he answers, and I continue to ask, even for little things like parking places, and they often come to pass in remarkable ways.

*
The once-a-week “hash” was made with canned government surplus corned beef, but the ratio of potatoes to meat was very high as the school was on a tight budget.

FOURTEEN

The right enemies help more than the wrong friends.

—MOISHE ROSEN

M
oishe was honored, awed, and perhaps just a little frightened that Harold Pretlove had asked to see him. Pretlove was the acting missionary secretary, which meant he was the chief executive officer of the American Board of Missions to the Jews. He was a mysterious figure to Moishe. A slender man whose suits matched his gray hair, Pretlove regarded the new missionary with a friendly, if somewhat detached, air. He said, “We've been thinking about what to assign you for your volunteer work.”

Moishe nodded. In addition to sponsoring his education at Northeastern, for which the tuition at the time was one hundred dollars per annum, the ABMJ had generously provided a stipend of two hundred dollars per month for living expenses.

Moishe felt it was right that he be expected to do some work in return. He and Ceil had been coming on Tuesday and Thursday nights to attend training classes that the ABMJ provided for staff and laypeople who were interested in Jewish evangelism. They also took part in the mission's weekly worship service on Sunday afternoons. But Moishe expected an additional assignment and had been somewhat surprised by the lack of direction he'd received in the first few weeks. Nevertheless, he was totally unprepared for what came next.

“I think that it would be good for you to take charge of our outdoor meetings.” Pretlove smiled beneficently.

Swallowing hard, Moishe hoped he could respond to Pretlove's assignment without stammering: “I'd be glad to participate, Mr. Pretlove, but I don't think I can be in charge of something I don't know anything about.”

The boss had a solution: “Well, the Lord himself will teach you, just as he taught Moses how to lead.”

Moishe tried to imagine that it might possibly happen that way. His Yiddish name, after all, was a derivative of the Hebrew name Moshe (in English, Moses).
If only I
could
have a rod to throw down, and it would become a snake to impress people,
he thought. But he feared he would have to make do without any signs or wonders.

Pretlove continued with optimism: “You'll have a couple of weeks to get volunteers, and if you stand up at next Sunday's service and ask for people to join you, I'm sure that you'll find many, many who will want to help.”

With a combination of dread and hope, Moishe stood before the congregation of some eighty people the following Sunday and said, “We're going to have an outdoor meeting next week before the service, and we're wondering if there are any volunteers to help us. If you'd like to volunteer, will you raise your hands?” All hands remained motionless. Perhaps if no one volunteered, he would be let off the hook. “Well,” he added, “think about it, and if you'd like to help, let me know after the service.”

After the service, up came up Madiline Osbourne, a Bible college graduate who she said she didn't know anything about outdoor meetings, but would help if Mr. Rosen would tell her what to do. “And,” she added, “Maybe I can get my dad to come, too.”

“Can he preach?” Moishe asked hopefully.

“Well, no, and he can't hear either; he's deaf.”

Then came Anna Frank, a dear lady who was bent over with age and with scoliosis. She smiled warmly as she cocked her head to look up at the rookie missionary. “I know about outdoor meetings, Brother Rosen; I've been to many. I can't speak because I'm too old, and if I open my mouth wide, my teeth fall down. But I'll go and I'll pray for you, and I'll help.”

With three volunteers and the possibility of a fourth, the outdoor meeting was now inescapable. Moishe felt he'd best not wait for “God himself” to teach him how to lead such a meeting. After the service, he went to Joseph Serafin, an older missionary, and Serafin told him to come back Tuesday and he would show him “the ropes.”

On Tuesday, Serafin provided Moishe with a real soapbox to use as a portable platform, a portable organ, and the American flag. Serafin explained that Moishe would need to find someone to play the organ and that he had to display the flag: “New York law requires that we display it. Shows we're not Communists and all that. You sing a hymn or two, have each of your volunteers get up and give a little testimony, and then you give your message.”

“Mr. Serafin, will you come with me?” This was the most instruction Moishe had received, and it would be a big relief to have someone with Serafin's experience come along. Unfortunately, the older man would be at his own church at that time.

Over the next few days Moishe prepared a message based on Hebrew Scriptures that predicted the Messiah, and Ceil typed it, some eight pages, single-spaced. The appointed day came. The Rosens went to their own church in New Jersey and had a quick lunch before Moishe headed into the city. He was at the mission center by 2:30.

The small group prayed, then prayed some more. Then Mrs. Frank, also known as Momma Frank spoke up, but not to the Almighty. “Brother Rosen, don't you think it's time we go now?” Moishe smiled wanly and agreed. He wrote a note to Mr. Osbourne, who must have been about 80 years old, and the note said, “We're going to ask you to give a five-minute testimony.”

Mr. Osbourne had not been born deaf and could talk well enough. When he saw the note he asked rather loudly, “What's a testimony?”

“Just tell how you came to believe in Jesus,” Moishe wrote, and Mr. Osbourne nodded.

They prepared to go. The “portable” organ required two people to carry it. With all of the other things they had to take, they decided to leave it behind. Moishe folded his notes into his Bible and grabbed the soapbox. Someone else took the flag, others took hymnals, and out the door they went.

Moishe had picked a location a couple of blocks from the mission, which stood at Seventy-second Street and Broadway on the upper west side of Manhattan. The group set up shop and began to sing “'Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus.” But Moishe was tone deaf, and the others found it difficult to hold the melody—all except for Mr. Osbourne. He had a strong voice, and once he got going, the rest of the group followed him. He had absolutely no idea that he was leading the singing.

Mr. Osbourne also had the distinction of being the first to speak. The others stood there as he proclaimed to no one in particular, “I didn't know anything about religion, and I really didn't care and, Madiline, that's my daughter over there, she got saved and went away to Bible college and when she came home, she told me that I needed to accept Jesus, so I did.” Then he stepped down.

Daughter Madiline was a graduate of a reputable Bible school and knew a great deal more than Moishe, a first-year Bible student. She began to tell why she believed in Jesus, and she had worked her story into a four-point sermon. Unlike her father, she was not content to deliver her message to the empty sidewalk. She lifted her voice in an attempt to send it soaring across the street to some passersby. She sounded a bit shrill, but her speech was well organized.
Why didn't they ask her to lead this?
Moishe wondered.
She seems to know what she's doing.
Then it was Anna Frank's turn, and she told her story. It was very moving—at least Moishe thought so. He was the last one left.

For the first of what would be a hundred times or more, he mounted that soapbox. He held his Bible open in one hand and clutched his notes in the other. He began reading from the sheets, attempting to refer to the Bible when appropriate.
Please, God, don't let there be a gust of wind,
he pleaded silently.