Called to Controversy

by Ruth Rosen

  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.

  From time to time he looked up from his reading and was thankful that nobody was there to return his gaze. He was trembling so hard that he could hear the box beneath him, clattering against the pavement. He wondered if anyone else could hear it and tried raising his voice to drown out the sound. He finished, and once again the little group sang “’Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus” before trekking back to the mission.

  Before the 3:30 worship service began, Anna Frank got hold of Moishe and, with a sweet smile, said, “Brother Rosen, you worked so hard to bring such a nice message. I know you’re young, but you’re going to be a good preacher. But you know what I think?”

  “No, what, Mrs. Frank?”

  “I think next week, it would be nice if we went where people could hear us.”

  There was nothing for him to do but smile back and agree.

  Moishe realized that the act of facing his fears and getting through his first outdoor meeting was a personal victory. He also knew that the meeting had been an abject failure, and he was determined to learn how to succeed in his assignment.

  Over the course of a month, Moishe observed several outdoor meetings. The first few proved to be of little help since they could not seem to hold a crowd. Then Moishe heard about an outdoor meeting on a Sunday night on Fifty-seventh Street, just south of Columbus Circle. It turned out to be a one-man event from the Catholic Evidence Guild. The speaker had his American flag, and he had defined his space with long tubing and a platform in the middle. He began talking, and it wasn’t long before he drew a very large crowd.

  Moishe recalled, “As I watched the man work, I realized that for the first time I was seeing someone who understood how to interact with people on the streets. The man was personable and confident as he began by calling out to passersby.” The speaker posed the question: “How can Jesus be God and man at the same time?” and asked his listeners if they had ever wondered about that. Apparently some had because they stopped to listen. “He gathered a crowd and got his point across, all in about six minutes,” Moishe said. Then he asked if anyone in the crowd had a question. Some people shuffled off after the first question, but others stopped to listen for a while. The speaker fielded questions for an hour or so. When he finished, a few people from within the crowd handed out invitations to a nearby church.

  Moishe introduced himself to the street preacher and explained that he, too, was an outdoor preacher. The other seemed neither impressed nor interested in conversing. But Moishe needed a teacher, so he continued asking questions until he learned that the man had taken a seminar on street preaching held by the Paulist Fathers.

  Moishe told no one at the mission, but began attending a two-hour Thursday night class at the Paulist Fathers’ headquarters in New York City. The organization offered beginner, intermediate, and advanced classes. Each lasted four weeks; over a year, Moishe took all three classes. He learned how to interest passersby, and he learned about hecklers and how to handle hostility. He also learned how to position himself facing the buildings, so he could bounce his voice off them to amplify his volume.

  Moishe’s intrepid volunteers stayed with him, and a couple more from Bible colleges joined him here and there. Ceil practiced a few hymns and played the organ as needed, though a volunteer named Richard was a more experienced organist and helped at times.

  Until he left New York in 1957, Moishe was out street preaching at least once a week during the school year and four times a week during the summer. The basic value of outdoor preaching, to him, was to raise an image, letting people know that some Jewish people had come to believe in Jesus.

  Meanwhile, his boss, Harold Pretlove, continued to be a mysterious figure. Moishe initially interpreted Pretlove’s strange ways of speaking as an otherworldly kind of godliness. As they interacted more regularly, Moishe began to wonder how the man had achieved his position in this mission to the Jews—it wasn’t merely that he was not Jewish, but he seemed to understand so little about Jewish people on a personal level.

  A painful instance proved itself upon the student missionary when his boss asked him to procure three record albums. The mission had a decent sound system, and Pretlove wanted recordings of Jewish music for the staff to enjoy during their lunch hour. Moishe found this an agreeable task until the boss handed him ten dollars and instructed him to bring back three albums. “But, Mr. Pretlove,” he said, “record albums usually cost $4.95. This is enough to buy two albums; I don’t think I can bring back three.”

  “I know they usually cost five dollars each,” Pretlove agreed, “but you’re a Jew. You’ll be able to get the price down.”

  Embarrassment for the older man and respect for his position suppressed the younger’s ire. He took the money and felt extremely fortunate to find albums that were $3.95. Still, he had been instructed to bring back three, and he had a distaste for haggling. With a sigh, he reached into his pocket to supply the remaining two dollars required for the purchase. In the 1950s, two dollars were not small change for a student with a wife and a child.

  Pretlove smiled expansively when Moishe handed him the three LPs. “I just knew you could do it,” he beamed.

  Moishe did not want to contradict him, but he made a mental note: If I’m ever in charge of anything, I’ ll make sure I know what things cost, and I’ ll never ask anyone to purchase something with insufficient funds. He long remembered the humiliation of that experience as being greater than his first awkward attempt at street preaching.

  Over time, Moishe came to enjoy street preaching. Though he never got over the initial nervousness, once he got going, he found pleasure in hitting his stride. He discovered that the financial district was a good venue, especially during the lunch hour. Other street preachers came there regularly, and they shared a degree of camaraderie.

  Eventually Moishe commissioned a carpenter to make him a folding pulpit with a handle, and he carried it on the subway along with books and tracts. Nobody in Manhattan used electronic amplification, and neither did he. But he’d learned how to project his voice and he enjoyed interacting with the crowds.

  He learned to appreciate the hecklers; they often drew the interest of the crowd and could really make the meeting a success. Most hecklers were not vicious; they liked the attention and interchange, and they liked to try to stump their “competition.” Moishe recognized it as a kind of urban sport and grew to enjoy the game as well. Occasionally he got to know his opponents and was able to speak to them privately about spiritual matters.

  Once, when Moishe was talking about the Son of God, an older man shouted out, “God doesn’t have a Son!”

  “Did you say God doesn’t have a Son?” Moishe asked.

  “That’s
right.”

  “Then how come I believe it?”

  “Because you’re stupid.”

  “It seems to me it says so some place in the Bible.”

  “In your Bible, maybe, but not in mine. I’m a Jew. If you can find a place in the Bible where it says God has a Son—I mean in the real Bible, not the New Testament—then I’ll convert and preach your religion myself.

  “Do you have a Jewish Bible with you?”

  “Do I look stupid, that I should carry a Bible around like you?”

  “I’ve got a Jewish Bible. Can you read?”

  “Of course I can read.”

  “Well, you sound like a Hebrew scholar, but I wasn’t so sure if you could read English.”

  “Well, I can read fine.”

  Moishe turned to Proverbs 30:4. “Okay, read it out loud.”

  “‘Who hath ascended up into heaven and descended?’” the heckler read.

  “Now that’s God, right?”

  “Right,” the heckler agreed. “Next it says, ‘Who hath gathered the wind in his fists?’ That’s God, not the Son of God.”

  “Keep going,” Moishe prompted.

  “‘Who hath bound the waters in his garment?’”

  “Now that’s poetry, it just means. . . .”

  “Okay, okay, that’s God,” the heckler interrupted, then proceeded, ‘Who hath established all the ends of the earth?’ That’s God! God! God!”

  “Keep reading,” Moishe said.

  “‘What is his name?’ Not Jesus! It’s Adonai!”

  “Yes, now read it louder, read the next line.”

  “‘And what is his son’s name, if thou knowest . . . .’” As the man’s voice trailed off, Moishe began preaching.

  Another time, on Wall Street, a heckler stood right in front of Moishe, gazing straight up as though he was watching something of marvelous interest on top of a building. Before long, everybody’s neck was craned, trying to see whatever this man was seeing. Moishe lost the crowd until, in one of those moments that he believed was from God, a quotation from the New Testament book of Acts popped into his head. He called out, “Men of Galilee, why stand ye gazing up into heaven? This same Jesus, which is taken up from you into heaven, shall so come in like manner.” By then, he had leather lungs and a voice like a trumpet, and his pronouncement rang out all over that busy street corner. He launched into a talk on how Jesus was going to return to earth, and he was able to regain the crowd’s attention.

  Afterward, the man who’d started it all approached Moishe. “You really trumped me on that one, didn’t you?” he observed good-naturedly. Moishe smiled and asked his name. Leon was Jewish, but not religious. Years later their paths crossed again, and once again it was a friendly encounter.*

  Moishe had come a long way from that first meeting. He had recognized and approached his inadequacy as a problem to be solved, and he succeeded in solving it. Occasionally the crowds he drew were large enough that the police had to clear a path on the sidewalk. Eventually they asked to be notified when he planned to hold a street meeting, so that there’d be an officer nearby if crowd control was needed.

  The large crowds also attracted the attention of the Anti-Shmad League, a group that opposed the mission and its representatives. One Sunday afternoon while a volunteer was giving her testimony, a man pushed his way to the front and began yelling into Moishe’s face. Someone grabbed his left arm and someone else tried to grab his right arm, but he thrust it straight up into the air so they couldn’t reach it or the Bible that he held aloft.

  The man who was shouting began punching Moishe in the stomach. To the young missionary’s relief, he soon heard police sirens wailing, and an officer quickly made his way to the front of the crowd. To his dismay, however, Moishe was accused of punching the fellow who was shouting, and the man produced a pair of broken glasses as evidence of the supposed assault.

  Suddenly, several people in the crowd nodded their heads in agreement with the story, and the officer ordered Moishe to come down to the station. Moishe told his volunteers to return to the mission and not to worry. He spoke to them with a confidence he did not entirely feel. He was weeks away from graduating from Bible school, and Northeastern had strict rules. One student who was arrested for failing to pay parking tickets had been suspended, and Moishe did not remember him returning to school, much less graduating.

  Moishe, the policeman, and thirteen “witnesses” walked to the station, where the desk sergeant began filling out a report. After all of the “witnesses” had made their statements and signed the report, another man came forward.

  He was the retired captain of a nearby precinct. Within moments, the situation was entirely reversed. The man announced that he saw the whole thing and stated that he was Jewish and didn’t believe a word of what Moishe was saying, but he was ashamed of his own people for what they had done: “This guy didn’t do anything,” he said, indicating Moishe with a jerk of his head. “He was just standing there, and they grabbed him and started hitting him.” He then pointed out who had done the grabbing and who had done the hitting. “And,” he added, “nobody was wearing glasses.”

  As some of Moishe’s accusers began moving toward the door, the desk sergeant stopped them and said, “You have all committed a felony by turning in a false police report. You can’t leave, but even if you do it won’t matter. I’ve got your names and addresses right here.” Turning to Moishe, he said, “It’s up to Mr. Rosen if he wants to file a complaint.”

  Moishe, overwhelmed by the situation, said to no one in particular, “I need to pray about whether to make a complaint.” He sat down on a bench and silently prayed. He soon returned to the desk sergeant and said, “I’m willing to forgo the charges on one condition. I want these guys to come to our outdoor meetings every Sunday to keep the peace.”

  The desk sergeant replied, “That is your prerogative, Mr. Rosen, but I’ll make a notation on my report that if you decide to file charges, you’ve got the next ninety days to do so.”

  Moishe nodded. He had only two months left until his graduation, and then he would leave for his next post. He didn’t know of anyone else who planned to continue the outdoor meetings after he left.

  The sergeant asked the accusers if they agreed to the terms. After gathering the group into a huddle, the leader said yes.

  Moishe recalled, “This was a glorious turn of events, because after that, each Sunday when I arrived to begin the outdoor meeting, a small, ready-made, albeit less than enthusiastic crowd was waiting for me.”

  In the years that followed, Moishe often retold this incident as he trained other missionaries. He described it as the perfect illustration of the value of a hostile witness. One person with integrity and absolutely no particular fondness for the accused can give a far more credible defense than any number of friends. This was one of many reasons why Moishe always appreciated good, honest opposition.

  * Years later, Moishe was in Southern California, preaching in MacArthur Park to a fairly good crowd. Suddenly they all began looking up. Then he saw Leon, who apparently had not recognized him. Moishe smiled and called out, “Leon, don’t worry. Jesus really is coming; you don’t have to keep looking up.”

  FIFTEEN

  The truth is never cheap, but the righteous can always afford it.

  —MOISHE ROSEN

  Moishe passed his destination—Caldwell’s National Newark and Essex Bank—and pulled into the parking lot of a church. He had no idea how he would pay the doctor and hospital bills for the baby girl who was born six days earlier. He was fond of telling people that “Ruth came into the world with a full head of black hair,” a fact that made far more of a first impression on him than had the initially yellowish complexion. Now, rosy pink and healthy, his new daughter was ready to come home.

  Although they had planned this pregnancy, the thrifty young couple hadn’t exactly planned how to pay for it—and that was highly unusual for them. The Rosens had all of one hundred dollars in the bank,
and Moishe knew that would not be nearly enough to pay for the medical costs. He hoped that he could negotiate the rest and pay over time.

  When Moishe entered the bank, only one teller stood behind a window, but fortunately there were no other customers. Moishe was eager to get back to the hospital in Newark, arrange payment, and take his wife and new daughter home.

  To Moishe’s chagrin, the teller was engrossed in a sociable conversation with another employee. She did not even turn to acknowledge him as he stepped up to her window. Why don’t you stop your yammering and try doing your job already? he silently excoriated the teller. When at last she acknowledged him, he pushed his bank book toward her and said tersely, “I want to withdraw the balance from my account and close it.” The teller resumed her conversation with her coworker as she checked the records. He had $103 in the account.

  Well, it is three dollars more than I expected, he thought as he signed the withdrawal slip. He watched distractedly as she counted out three single bills into one pile and ten other bills into a second pile, once again talking to the other employee. He didn’t bother to examine the bills; he shoved them into his pocket and strode out the door.

  He was halfway down the block before he pulled the money out of his pocket to straighten the crumpled bills and realized the teller had given him three single bills and ten twenties! Her lack of attention had resulted in a one-hundred-dollar error in his favor. For a moment he was elated. Praise God for how he’s provided! he thought. But within seconds he sighed because he knew that God didn’t provide that way, and he knew that he had to go back to the bank.

  This time, adding insult to injury, he had to wait in line for the teller. When it came his turn he informed her, “You made a mistake when you counted my money.” She eyed him somewhat disdainfully and said, “I’m sorry sir, once you leave the window, the transaction is final.”

  Making every effort to remain calm Moishe replied, “Well, you better hope that’s not true because you gave me two hundred dollars instead of one hundred. I don’t know what you believe, but you can be thankful that I believe in Jesus because he’s the only reason I came back.” Then he counted back five of the ten twenty dollar bills and returned them to her with a grumpy glare. It was not the most gracious expression of faith, just proof of the genuine difference beliefs can make. The teller did not thank him for possibly saving her job, nor did he expect her to.