Just As I Am

by Billy Graham

  A very large evangelist found a suit to go with his new shirt and tie, but no shoes were big enough. The next day he was seen on the street all dressed up in his new wardrobe—and walking barefoot.

  The gift of a white shirt to every participant especially pleased many. One participant said it would have taken him years to earn enough to buy such a garment.

  Inevitably, with such a cross section of cultures, there were occasional conflicts that showed our human frailties. One group from a country torn by ethnic conflict objected strenuously because a representative of another ethnic group was chosen to carry their nation’s flag in the opening ceremonies. A delegation from one of the Com-munist countries refused at first to carry their flag, fearful because they had not explicitly received their government’s permission to do so. Alex Haraszti, who was working with the delegations from the Soviet bloc countries, eventually persuaded them to do so, pointing out that if they failed to join in the ceremonies, they would surely bring embarrassment to their country.

  Some cultural differences had their humorous side. One group from a very poor country had never seen an elevator before. At first they refused to enter, calling it “the disappearing room.” When the doors closed, the elevator was full of people; when the doors opened again, the elevator was empty!

  One hundred interpreters were kept busy day and night translating plenary addresses, workshops, seminars, even individual counseling sessions into sixteen languages. A Chinese interpreter from Canada put it this way: “When the speaker gets excited, I get excited. It’s almost like preaching myself.”

  Twenty-two international musical groups and soloists, coordinated by Tom Bledsoe, carried out the multicultural emphasis in wide-ranging indigenous styles.

  As at the first conference, busloads of delegates spent a Sunday afternoon witnessing for Christ in parks, on beaches, and at other public places.

  Frank Thielman, son of Dr. Calvin Thielman, the Presbyterian pastor in Montreat, went to the park with a group of others who sang together and then began to share their faith.

  “Why are you so stupid?” an irate woman demanded of Frank in English.

  “Ma’am?” asked Frank.

  “Why are you all being so dumb—so stupid?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Following this Billy Graham.”

  “I’m not following Billy Graham.”

  “Who do you follow then?”

  “I follow Jesus Christ.”

  “Ridiculous!” she exclaimed. “Haven’t you read any books? Haven’t you been to school?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Where did you study?” she asked scornfully.

  “Well, I’m a graduate student at Cambridge University.”

  She shook her head in amazement and walked away, her stereotype of Christians at least shaken, if not shattered.

  Our film crew was working on a new dramatic film entitled Caught. Set in Amsterdam, it told the story of a young American caught in a web of rebellion, confusion, and drugs. The crew was in the city’s notorious red-light district shooting some background scenes when a man came up begging for money to buy an obscene object. Instead of rebuking him, one man said they could not do that but they would like to share Jesus with him. The man wound up kneeling right on the street, tearfully asking God for forgiveness.

  One day I put on my favorite disguise—baseball cap, dark glasses, and casual clothes—and walked from my hotel to nearby Vondel Park. There I sat on the grass with a group of Indonesians who were witnessing to a group of Dutch young people. Some of the young folks were laughing, but others were listening seriously.

  The closing communion service of Amsterdam ’86 was led by Anglican Bishop Maurice Wood, assisted by my Presbyterian friend Don Hoke. At its conclusion, the six torchbearers rekindled their torches from the central flame they had ignited on opening night. Lifting the torches high, they carried them from the meeting to symbolize carrying the light of Christ to all the continents of the world.

  As convener and honorary chairman of the conference, I hoped the participants would return home with my words ringing in their ears. “Our primary motive,” I told them, “is the command of our Commander in Chief, the Lord Jesus Christ. . . . We are under orders. Our Lord has commanded us to go, to preach, to make dis-ciples—and that should be enough for us.”

  32

  A Leader with Experience and Energy

  President George H. W. Bush

  It was January 16, 1991. I had just showered and changed clothes when Barbara Bush tapped on my door with her cane.

  “Welcome!” she said. “How about pushing me down to the Blue Room, and we’ll watch television together?”

  I came out of the Lincoln Bedroom, where I was staying, and pushed her wheelchair down the hall. She was still recovering from a fall off a sled while romping with her grandchildren; her injured leg was stretched out stiffly in front of her.

  I had arrived at the White House only a short time earlier. That morning I had received an urgent phone call asking if I could come to Washington immediately and have lunch with the President.

  Was it a private lunch? I asked.

  I was told yes. It would be at the White House; just the Bushes would be there, but Secretary of State James Baker might drop in.

  It was impossible on such short notice to get from North Carolina to Washington, I replied. An hour or two later, another call arrived asking if I could come instead for dinner. No reason was given for the urgency, and I was somewhat perplexed. Rumors of an impending war in the Persian Gulf in response to Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait had been flying about for days, but I had no way of knowing if there was any connection.

  In the Blue Room, which was made cozy with family pictures and personal mementos, we watched CNN. One or two of the family were there with us, and a bit later Susan Baker, the secretary of state’s wife, came in and sat down. All of a sudden, the commentators in Baghdad, Peter Arnett and Bernard Shaw, exclaimed that anti-aircraft fire was going up; that meant, they said, that there must be a raid on.

  I turned to Barbara. “Is this the beginning of the war?” I asked.

  She did not say anything, but from the way she looked, I was certain that it was.

  About fifteen minutes later, the President came into the room and sat down with us to watch television. He confirmed that the war had started.

  “I think we should pray for those men and women and for this situation,” I said.

  We prayed about what was happening in Kuwait and Iraq, asking that it would be a short war, that few casualties would be suffered, and that the Lord would have His way.

  Dinner was announced, and the three of us went in to eat. I was asked to say grace.

  The President told us he had to make a speech to the American people in a few minutes. During dinner he received a copy of the speech he had hastily prepared. He read through it again and noted a few more things he wanted to include. “I want it to be exactly right,” he said.

  He left to appear on television, and we returned to the TV set to watch him. Then, some minutes after the telecast, he rejoined Barbara and me and several others in the Blue Room and sat down on the couch.

  I told him he had delivered an excellent speech, adding, “I think you clarified the situation.”

  “I know in my heart I’ve done right,” he replied.

  He then asked me if I would be willing to conduct a prayer service the next morning for the cabinet, some of the congressional leaders, and several hundred Marines at Fort Myer.

  Of course, I said yes.

  When the chief of chaplains called later in the evening, he wanted my ideas about the program and what we should call it. I suggested “A Program for Peace.”

  The next morning, after his sternly uncompromising television announcement the night before, the president of the United States knelt before the Lord in a chapel at Fort Myer, a military compound across the Potomac River in Virginia, about a fifteen-minute ride from
the White House.

  Not knowing exactly what was ahead for me or for the nation, I talked on the three kinds of peace outlined in the Bible, as I had in Moscow during our 1982 visit there. I talked about the peace we find with God (outlining what a Christian is and how we can find peace with God through the Prince of Peace as we receive Christ into our hearts); the peace of God we can experience within us (as He brings peace in the turmoil, stress, and strain of life); and the peace God brings between individuals and nations (a peace that we should work diligently for, although it will not be achieved completely until the Prince of Peace is the Ruler). My prayer was that the war, started the night before, would be very brief and would result in a minimum of casualties, and that afterward we would have a long period of peace in the Middle East.

  The ensuing days convinced me that the Almighty Lord of the nations had heard the heart cries not only of national leaders but also of stricken parents and spouses and children of loyal men and women in the armed forces who had mustered for duty.

  Debates will go on about the Gulf War and its results for a long time, maybe for decades. The President never asked me for any of my thoughts about it, nor did I volunteer them at the time (or since). I was with him as a friend and pastor, not as a political adviser. Neither did he confide his innermost thoughts to me. He was a person who kept things to himself.

  George Bush took the long view on many issues, particularly in international affairs. He was the U.S. envoy to China before full diplomatic relations were established, and he knew more about that country and about Oriental ways of thinking and acting than many of the academic and diplomatic experts. He also understood the enormous complexity of a country such as China, with its very different social and political system and its long history.

  Barbara was an important part of his quiet self-confidence. A lot of Americans seemed to agree with Ruth’s tongue in cheek comment that it was worth having George Bush in the White House if only because it made Barbara the First Lady.

  She and Ruth were two of a kind in so many ways. No wonder they enjoyed being together. Both of them were totally devoted to their husbands and children. Both of them created a stylish but relaxed home atmosphere, where friends and strangers alike always felt welcome. (When George Bush was Vice President and the Bushes were living in a house on the grounds of the National Observatory, Ruth noticed lots of things Barbara did to transform that musty Victorian mansion into a home.) Both of them had a streak of good-humored impulsiveness that added a note of fun and spontaneity to almost any occasion. And both of them were quick with the quip, especially where their husbands were concerned. (When Ruth answered the phone at our house one day, the caller asked, “Is Billy handy?” “Not very,” she retorted, “but he keeps trying!”)

  Ruth recalls with particular delight one visit we made to the Bushes at their summer home in Kennebunkport, Maine. Upon our arrival, Ruth was told to go to Barbara’s bedroom, only to find that Barbara and the neighbors had pushed the bed against the wall, had piled the furniture on top of it to clear an open space, and were all on the floor vigorously exercising in time with a television workout program. Ruth’s back problems forced her to sit on the sidelines, but she was sure she had more fun watching than they did exercising.

  We first met George and Barbara Bush some years earlier, before he became prominent in national politics. I had met his father, Senator Prescott Bush, several times during my visits to Washing-ton; I got to know him better after his retirement from the Senate, as a golfing partner at Hobe Sound, Florida. I also got acquainted with his wife, Dorothy Bush, a delightful and devout woman who was very supportive of our work across the years. The undisputed matriarch of their clan, she attended a Bible study group in Hobe Sound that had been started by some women following our Mad-ison Square Garden Crusade in 1957.

  In December 1988, I visited with the elder Mrs. Bush, and brought along my oldest daughter, Gigi. Of course, I had phoned ahead to see if it was all right to visit. By the time we got there, she had gathered 25 of her neighbors together.

  “Billy,” she said in her no-nonsense way, “I want you to teach the Bible. Tell us about Christ. Some of these people need to know.”

  I went there to have a pastoral prayer with a sick elderly lady, but here she was giving me an evangelistic platform. So I pulled the New Testament out of my pocket and went right to work, as ordered.

  Another hilarious incident comes to my mind, which took place in 1979.

  Both George and I were invited to address the Young Presidents’ Organization at their annual meeting in Acapulco, Mexico. The Bushes, like us, were combining the speaking engagement with some vacation, and we ended up spending a great deal of time together. They were staying at the Princess Hotel, while we were staying with some friends who had a condominium several miles away.

  One night Barbara showed slides of their time in Beijing, from which they had recently returned. Ruth especially enjoyed the glimpses of the land of her birth.

  Another day a Mexican businessman invited the Bushes and us onto his yacht for a picnic on the beach a few miles away. Not having a pair of swimming trunks with me, I borrowed a pair of George’s, which were white. Shortly after lunch, I got tired and wanted a nap. Instead of waiting for the rest of the group, I decided to walk back along the beach to the condominium.

  As I turned a corner, I was stopped by an armed military guard. The beach where we’d had our picnic apparently was on the grounds of a Mexican naval base, and I was trespassing. To my horror, I realized I had no identification with me—I was still in George’s swim trunks—nor did I even have a key to the condominium. To complicate matters, the guard didn’t speak English, and I didn’t speak Spanish. He ordered me to sit on a bench until a superior officer could be summoned.

  After much waiting and much explaining, the officer finally released me and allowed me to walk home, barefoot on the hot concrete. Only when I finally reached the condominium did I realize the bench had just been repainted and George’s trunks had big smears of green paint across the rear! No amount of laundering could get them clean, but George said it was well worth sacrificing a pair of swim trunks just to enjoy a good laugh over my dilemma.

  Times like those in Acapulco, I came to realize, were somewhat unusual for the Bushes. Usually, they did not spend vacation moments alone; mostly, they were surrounded by their family. No other presidential couple has impressed me so much with their family orientation. Family formed the center of their value system, along with their devout Episcopalian Christianity. The Bushes liked to surround themselves not only with family photos but also with the living—and lively—subjects of those pictures, the grandchildren. They did not give the children unlimited free run of the White House, certainly, but up at Kennebunkport the big old frame house shook and rattled constantly with scampering, shouting kids. One vivid memory was of watching their son, Jeb, round up his children and camp out on the lawn in a tent all night.

  We stayed with the Bushes for a weekend during many of the summers of his vice presidency and presidency. In August 1990, just when the invasion of Kuwait by Iraq was occurring, we tried to get out of our scheduled weekend. We thought George would have far too much on his mind to tolerate us underfoot. But that was the very reason they insisted that we come. He wanted to talk with me, he said. We went.

  Normally, at Kennebunkport everybody went to bed early, between nine and ten. And they got up early—always off and running, literally, from the first minute, contrary to my pattern of easing into the day. They played tennis like pros, set after set, all day long. And for keeps. Sometimes they played with pros such as Chris Evert.

  If not on the court, the President was at the wheel of his speedboat, Fidelity. Their house was on a peninsula jutting out into the sea. The waves pounded the rocky coast relentlessly. To get to the boat, we had to climb down a wooden ladder. I always had trouble with that, but Ruth (with her perfect balance) had no problem. We put on white lifejackets and got into the boat.
When George opened the throttle fully, I understood why we needed the jackets. He dodged in and out among the hundreds of different-colored lobster traps with the relaxed abandon of Lyndon Johnson careening around his ranch in a jeep. It must be congenital with Texans! He was a skillful navigator, but once in a while he nicked one of those lobster traps—and then paid reparation to the owner. If your heart could take the gravity pull, it was exhilarating. One of George’s favorite spots for more moderate cruising was just off an island not far from his home—one covered with seals.

  The Secret Service always had to keep up with him in their boat. There was also a larger boat keeping an eye on his place. When the war was on, security was increased; there were two or three boats out there then.

  One summer years ago, George asked Ruth, “Would it be imposing on Billy if we asked him to speak to the young people tonight?”

  “He’d be a whole lot more comfortable with a question-and-answer session,” she responded.

  That was the way I liked best to operate when I spoke to college students. So that was what we did at Kennebunkport. The young people sat around me—“wall-to-wall grandchildren and their friends,” as Ruth described it—and asked me questions. Good ones about life and theology that challenged my thinking. And I tried to answer with what the Bible said. The next year, and the year after that, the children asked for another Q&A session. Those experiences helped form a personal bond between me and the four Bush sons and one daughter—a bond that has continued on an individual basis.

  Always on Sundays at Kennebunkport, no matter what other activities might have been on the crammed vacation schedule, George and Barbara and Ruth and I would attend a church service (and sometimes two). Often he arranged for me to preach at the picturesque little St. Ann’s Episcopal Church on the way into town.

  One Sunday a new driver took us all to church. He drove rather quickly toward someone riding a bicycle. “You’d better watch that little old lady on a bike,” said the President. “That happens to be my mother!”