God's Smuggler

by Brother Andrew

  Wherever we went, people asked questions about arrests and imprisonment in the Communist countries we had visited. They asked questions, too, that amazed us because of the knowledge they showed of the current world of religion: What about Dave Wilkerson’s Teen Center in New York? Where was Billy Graham now? What was this madness about the “death of God”? That was how we learned that religious publications—even from the United States—were still coming into the country through normal postal channels.

  Several months before our arrival, Castro announced his plan to permit people to leave the country. Hundreds of thousands of people put their names on the list. However, only two planes flew out of Cuba each day. It would take ten years before even the 900,000 people on the original list could be flown out. Meanwhile, those who waited lost their jobs, their houses, and property. Yet 190 a day did leave, and others believed firmly that their turn would soon be coming. It was among these people who wanted to leave Cuba that we felt our trip had the greatest effect.

  As we had in Eastern Europe, we urged our listeners to reconsider the role of a Christian when his country is in trouble. Is it to run, or is it to stand? Life in Cuba in 1965 was not easy. But perhaps God had had His reasons for putting them in this place at this time. Perhaps they were to be His arms and legs and His healing hands in this situation, without whom He would have no representative in this land.

  One evening when I had said something like this, a stout, well-dressed man with a heavy black moustache stood up in the congregation. “I am a Methodist minister,” he told the group. “For the last two years I have worked as a barber. But God has spoken to me this evening. I am going to return to the ministry. I am a shepherd who has left his sheep, but I am going back to them.”

  There was pandemonium. Everyone in the church had to shake his hand. I heard shouts of joy, cries of “Gracias, Pastor!”

  We saw many such decisions. One couple had their long-awaited airline tickets for two weeks from the night we met them. They decided to turn them back. “From now on,” they told us, “Cuba is our mission field.”

  And as we boarded our return plane in Havana, Hans and I knew that Cuba was ours as well. Here was a country wide open to Bibles, to religious books, and to literature of all kinds, and to visitors from all but a few countries. A country where the least spark of encouragement dropped into the generous and emotional Latin heart lit bonfires of love and consecration and self-sacrifice in response.

  ———

  It was as well the Cuban trip came when it did, for the following year we entered at last the most tightly controlled Communist country of them all. It was so difficult to get into, and to achieve anything once in, that we needed every bit of optimism we could muster not to give it up altogether. I’m speaking of course of tiny Albania.

  I was far away in Siberia when our group at last got its chance to enter this country. A French tourist agency scored a history-making first by arranging a two-week Albanian tour. Rolf and Marcus joined the tour as “teachers” from Holland.

  They carried no Bibles with them, for we had discovered years before that no Albanian Bible existed. Worse, there was no Albanian language in which to print a Bible. In this little country of one and one-half million souls, at least three mutually incomprehensible dialects were spoken: Skchip, Gheg, and Tosk. The only Bibles in the country were in Latin, in Roman Catholic churches, and in Greek, in Orthodox churches. The rest of the country was Moslem.

  The American Bible Society wrote that they had a New Testament in Skchip, translated in 1824, in their library, but that no other copy seemed to exist. It was only since the revolution that any progress had been made toward developing a unified Albanian language, and we could hardly hope this included a new Bible.

  However, Rolf and Marcus did carry tracts and portions of Scripture with them in all three Albanian languages. And when the customs officials at the airport did not even open their suitcases, they felt that they had been extremely lucky. There was a strict law in Albania forbidding the importation of any printed matter whatsoever, no matter how brief and how nonpolitical, on the grounds that it constituted “propaganda.” Marcus and Rolf had packed their literature out of habit as much as anything, fully expecting to see it confiscated at the border. And so when they checked into their hotel in Tirana with all of it untouched, they felt very encouraged.

  They had reckoned without the well-trained and obedient Albanians. For the entire two-week trip they tried to give away those portions of Scriptures. The universal reaction of the people was to clasp both hands behind their backs. Not only would they not accept the tracts, they wouldn’t even touch them. Even a Catholic bishop, to whom Rolf tried to give a St. John’s gospel in Gheg, turned and stalked away down the aisle of his cathedral as though he’d been offered poison.

  At last in desperation they left a pile of tracts on a window sill in a street of offices, thinking perhaps passersby would pick them up when no one was looking. To their horror, a full day later and ninety kilometers further along on their tour, two policemen arrived where the group was having lunch and demanded to know who had left those tracts on that street. The detective work did not seem quite so uncanny when they realized that theirs was the only group of foreigners anywhere in the country. To prevent the whole tour’s being expelled, Marcus and Rolf had to confess what they had done and swear to stop all such “political” activity. Not one of the tracts they had left on the street had been taken.

  And so, from the standpoint of any future literature work in Albania, the trip was extremely discouraging. As to other aspects of the country, the two came back with a mixture of emotions. The Albanians themselves were among the warmest, most affectionate people they had ever observed—as far as their relationships with one another went. The same affection was lavished on the country’s leader, Enver Hodscha. For Hodscha was accomplishing things, there was no doubt about that. This small nation, from time immemorial the battleground of other countries’ quarrels, dominated now by Turkey, now by Italy, had—probably for the first time in its history—a government concerned with Albania’s own interests.

  But if the language of the land had been Chinese, Rolf and Marcus could not have felt more frustrated in their attempt to establish any kind of real contact with the people. Marcus spoke a little Italian and had hoped, occasionally, to have a chat with an Italian-speaking Albanian, free of the ever-present filter of the government translator. But even when the situation appeared to be ideal, there was an almost total freeze-out of communication. It was a land where nobody knew anybody, nobody had any facts, nobody remembered.

  “Say, friend!” Marcus would greet a factory worker in a deserted corridor. “You been working here long?”

  A smile and a shrug. “It’s hard to say, signore.”

  “What kind of hours do you work?”

  “Ah! It varies! Different every day.”

  “Well, ah—how many people work at the factory here?”

  The smile broadens, the shrug is enormous. “Who can say? Who has counted?”

  Marcus and Rolf felt there was a kind of voluntary obtuseness about it, a sort of censorship by mutual consent of all that concerned Albania against all inquisitiveness by foreigners.

  The only time when the barrier went down a little was in conversation with a few clergymen. And even here communication was a matter of delicate wording, when what was not said became more important than what was. One young Catholic priest in particular, they felt, was genuinely glad to see them, eager to hear about the West and to tell them about his own situation. His church had been Roman Catholic until the Mao hard-line forced it to break all ties outside the country. Now it called itself the National Catholic Church.

  “And within the country?” Marcus asked. “Does the government leave you pretty much alone?”

  “The government does not officially interfere with religion.”

  “You have religious freedom then?”

  “By law, we do.”

&nbs
p; “Can you say what you like from your pulpit, for example?”

  “The proper answer is yes.”

  And so it went, the long, tedious circumlocution that apparently said nothing and in fact told everything. It was from this young priest that they had heard news they could scarcely believe: In one of the Greek Orthodox churches there was said to be a Bible in the new Albanian language!

  Marcus and Rolf immediately requested a visit to this church. The Orthodox priest greeted them and their guide graciously. Yes, there was a brand new translation of the gospels on the high altar of the church. They would like to see it? But of course!

  He led the way down the nave of the ancient basilica. Even from a distance they could see the Book on the altar, an enormous volume studded with jewels. Then all at once, four yards from the altar, the priest stopped—so abruptly that Rolf bumped against him. For several moments the four stood in silence, gazing at the treasure before them. When the priest turned to go, Rolf burst out, “But—I want to go closer! Can’t I look at it? I mean, open it. See the pages.”

  As the guide translated, the priest’s eyes widened in horror. Closer! But no unordained person ever stood closer than four yards to the Holy Scriptures!

  Then, faltered Rolf, what was the sense of the new translation? Since the priests read Greek, what was this Bible used for?

  Why, to be carried in solemn procession. To receive the homage and adulation of the people. What else would a Bible be used for? And think what solace the faithful must gain from knowing that God Himself had spoken in the new language of the great people of Albania.

  ———

  And so Marcus and Rolf returned home having seen only the outside of a book, with the feeling indeed that they had seen only the outside of a people and a nation.

  Meanwhile our work in the rest of Europe was gaining momentum: Each month we were making more trips than the month before. With the new frequency, of course, the danger of being recognized also increased. We tried never to send the same two partners to the same country on consecutive trips. If two men had gone the first time, the next trip we tried to send a man and a woman.

  And it was Rolf and Elena, on a trip to Russia in 1966, who had our closest call yet. With increased travel into Russia, smuggling of all sorts was also on the increase, and the guard at the border had been trebled. The papers were full of stories of arrests, fines, imprisonments. This time Rolf and Elena were carrying a particularly large cargo of Bibles in the Opel station wagon. Corry and I prayed with them all night long before they left.

  “Remember,” I said, “that these people getting caught are depending on their own cleverness. Their motives are probably another disadvantage. Hatred and greed are heavy loads. Your motive, on the other hand, is love. And instead of priding yourselves on your cunning, you recognize how weak you are . . . so weak that you must depend totally upon the Spirit of God. . . .”

  As Rolf recounted it to us later, our premonitions of trouble were correct. As they neared the border they saw not one but six security officers waiting for them. He told Elena to start praying that God would confuse these men’s thinking. “And don’t stop until they’re through, Elena.”

  They pulled up to the stop line. “Dah zvi dahnya!” said Rolf heartily. He jumped out of the car and went around to hold the door for Elena.

  In his hand one of the officers held a piece of paper. Rolf and Elena were chatting casually about what an unusual honeymoon they were having, visiting a number of East European countries.

  “This is not the first time either,” said the officer holding the paper. And then he read off one by one the cities Rolf and I had visited on our last trip to Russia.

  This really shook Rolf.

  The inspection seemed to last for hours. Two officers poked into every corner of the station wagon on the inside, while three others spent their time on the outside . . . the motor, the tires, the hubcaps. They rolled windows up and down to see if they stuck halfway. They thumped the paneling.

  “Confuse their thinking. . . .”

  And all the while, one officer took no part in the inspection but spent his entire time scrutinizing the faces of Rolf and Elena. It was a masterful game of psychological war. The officer was depending on that too-casual laugh, that darting glance, that bead of perspiration, to tell him what he needed to know.

  “Let me give you a hand,” said Rolf to one of the men as he was struggling to take the camping tent out of the wagon. He volunteered to open glove compartments, take out spare tires, lift the tops off air and oil filters. And all the while Elena was praying.

  At the end of an interminable time the inspection stopped for lack of anywhere else to look. The man who had held the piece of paper walked up to Rolf. “You were in Russia just a few weeks ago. Tell me, why is it that you take these frequent trips into our country?”

  Rolf was leaning into the rear of the wagon, folding up the tent. He gave the canvas a resounding slap. “Well,” he said, “my friend and I had such a wonderful time in your country that I decided to bring my bride here too. But there’s another reason. We have a love for the Russian people. A special Love.”

  The officer stared at Rolf as though he would like to climb inside his mind. But they had found nothing in the car. So he gave Rolf back his papers and with obvious reluctance signaled the barrier bar open.

  Rolf and Elena could hardly believe what had happened. As they drove away from the border, they were laughing and crying both at once. For safe and secure in their wagon were hundreds of Bibles. The officers had been within millimeters of them. Certainly they were hidden no better than even an amateur adventurer could contrive. What was the difference?

  Rolf and Elena knew.

  ———

  One year after he joined us, Marcus too got married. So now we were seven: Corry and I, Rolf and Elena, Marcus and Paula, and bachelor Hans. Then Klaas and Eduard and their wives came to be part of our work.

  Klaas and Eduard were teachers in a public school in the south of Holland; Klaas taught French, and Eduard mathematics. They came with their wives to the house, one day, after hearing a talk about the work, and asked many questions. They did not tell us that they wanted to join us. They kept their motive a secret, wanting to give the Lord a chance to open the door for them in an unmistakable way.

  And at precisely the same time I was going through the same thought pattern. Just as soon as I met these four, I “knew” that they belonged with us. Yet how could I ask them to leave their good positions to take up work that had no salary, that was dangerous, that meant long separations, unless I was absolutely certain the Lord Himself had caused our paths to cross? So I too mentioned my hope to no one but Corry.

  There we all were, then, praying for exactly the same thing yet not sharing our desires lest one influence the other.

  God’s answer came, several months later, in such an unexpected way that at first we almost missed the guidance. One day Klaas and Eduard each discovered a registered letter in his mail at school. The directors of the school informed them that unless they stopped using their French and Math classes for evangelization of students, and unless they agreed to stop holding prayer meetings for students in their homes in the evenings, they would be asked to leave at the end of the current term.

  At first Klaas and Eduard were upset, and so was nearly every parent in the community, for their reputation was excellent among pupils and parents alike. When they wrote us the news I was upset too and was wondering how Christians might fight such a decision. Their “evangelization” during school hours had consisted only of mentioning the evening meetings to be held away from school property. And then suddenly, I got it!

  “Corry!” I called, “Corry, look at this great piece of news!”

  Corry came running from the kitchen. “What is it?”

  “Klaas and Ed may lose their jobs!”

  Corry looked at me as if I were joking. And then she got it too. Of course! Couldn’t this be God’s way of say
ing that Klaas and Ed were intended to join us? That same week we drove down to the school and shared with the two couples our long prayers that they might be part of our team.

  Klaas and Ed looked at each other and began to laugh. Then they told us that for months they had been asking God to show them whether or not they were intended to leave school to join our teams. Then, for me, came the best news of all.

  “There is just one thing I would like to ask you,” said Eduard.

  “What’s that, Ed?”

  “What I should like most to do is help with the correspondence and administration.” And then, talking rapidly as if to persuade me: “I am precise and accurate, and it’s the kind of work I love to do. Do you think there is any chance that I might be able to help you in the office?”

  I looked at Corry. She was having a hard time keeping a straight face. The letters even at that moment were stacked so high that one of her coffee cups had been missing beneath them for weeks. And here, handed to us without our even asking for it, was God’s solution.

  “Why, Eduard,” I said, “I think perhaps that could be arranged.”

  The twelfth member of our team is a strange fellow: He is made up of many different segments. As we gave talks to various groups in Europe and America, we were constantly being asked, “Could I go with you for just one trip?”

  We began to pray about these requests. Was there some way, we wondered, to incorporate part-timers into our teams?

  As an experiment we began occasionally to say yes and discovered one of the most dynamic and far-reaching applications of our work so far. The system gives us a chance to spend concentrated time with one individual, teaching him what we have learned about the life of faith. It gives us a new prayer partner, after the actual physical connection is broken. But the greatest and most unexpected benefit has been the spawning of groups similar to our own in other countries.