One of the overriding principles of my life has been this:

"What shall we do, that we might work the works of God?" (John 6:28)

I'll give you the key right here, in the foreword, before you ever get into the tremendous story of God's power in my life:

"Also I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then said I, Here am I; send me." (Isaiah 6:8)

Surrender.

Commit yourself to give yourself to Christ, fully and completely. There is no secret to being used by God. All you have to do is obey Him. All you have to do is do what God tells you to do, no matter who tells you you're crazy, no matter who laughs at you, no matter what obstacles seem to be in your way. If you have a single-minded devotion to fulfilling God's will.

If you look at the lives of any outstanding character in the Bible, you will find that same dynamic in operation in their lives. They had an intense focus on only one thing: Glorifying God through fulfilling His will.

So as you read the story of my life, receive the anointing that God wants to impart into your life - surrender your heart and your life to Him, and let Him make you what He wants you to be.

God bless you.

Morris Cerullo

When I heard the bones cracking, I knew this wasn't just another meeting.

Moments earlier, a crippled man had caught my eye. I was on the platform, and as I preached, I noticed the man lying on the ground, horribly twisted and deformed. He was curled up into a tiny little ball.

This little man's arms were gnarled in toward his stomach. His legs were wrapped up like a pretzel and he looked as if he couldn't move at all. I have never, before that time or since, seen anyone as horribly deformed as this man. But the reason he had caught my eye was that he indeed had started moving, despite all his deformities.

He was in the front of a crowd of several hundred crippled people and many blind, maimed and deaf people, who all were expecting God to perform a miracle on them.

Some were hideously crippled, bent over canes, hunched up in wheelchairs. Some were unable to even sit upright. Arms were gnarled, legs were shriveled. Eyes were whited out and unseeing. Ears were deformed and unhearing. Fingers were bent painfully over by arthritis that had built up calcium deposits on top of the knuckles, leaving huge humps where knuckles should have been.

Tiny children had braces on their legs, their sad parents sitting with them, eyes crying out for help.

This crowd of needy people was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I was only 27 years old, and I had seen many miracles, but the magnitude of so many hundreds of people needing a touch from God took me aback a bit

I was preaching in Manila, Philippines, and the year was 1959, and here I was in front of crowds of 30,000 people, preaching the Gospel, telling the people to expect God to move on their behalf.

I had never expected so many people, though. I had no idea how I could possibly minister to so many people.

"God," I had said, "You are going to have to do something, because I'm just a Jew from New Jersey. I can't help these people."

The man who had been lying in front of the platform began to move even more. His legs began to unfurl from their previously twisted positions. His arms began straightening out. And his bones were cracking audibly as God began reconstructing them from their hideously deformed places.

All around this precious man, people began experiencing miracles.

I saw mothers take the braces off the legs of their children. I didn't just see one or two, I saw a whole crowd of mothers doing that, shouting to their children to "walk, in Jesus' name!"

It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen.

These tiny children would fall as their little crippled legs gave out under the weight of their bodies. Their mothers, undeterred, would lift them up and shout again: "Walk in Jesus' name!"

The scene was repeated over and over...until one child no longer had to be picked up. His legs straightened themselves up right before our very eyes. He began walking, leaping and spinning as his mother, her eyes filled with tears, cried and worshiped God.

Then another child was healed. Then another. Then it seemed they all were getting healed.

Crutches began to fly all over the place.

Canes cruised through the air as former cripples who no longer needed them cast them as far away as they could.

Crutches began to pile up at the front of the platform as people who once could not walk without leaning on the crutches carried their crutches up to the front and began dumping them.

There was a tremendous shriek from the crowd of people. Then a scream.

A man with a shriveled leg looked down in amazement as bones grew, turning his useless leg into an identical twin of his good leg.

A woman who was hunched over dropped her mouth open as, for the first time in decades, she stood up to her full height, the twisted bones of her back healed, the hump that had pushed her over gone.

The blind began to look around in wonderment, many seeing for the first time ever...

The place had gone into a complete frenzy.

I could barely believe my eyes.

Before my very eyes, the living God, the Creator of the entire universe, the King of all creation had reached through the heavens into the Philippines and had begun divine surgery on hundreds of people all at the same time.

God's sovereign hand was fixing the ills of so many people, I was overwhelmed. It was such a tremendous move of God, tears burst from my eyes involuntarily. I began weeping like a little child. I was awestruck to be in the presence of such a holy God who so easily could perform such incredible, tremendous miracles for so many people.

I didn't know what to do. What does the preacher do when God has stepped in personally and taken over a service so completely?

I did the only thing I thought I could do.

I ran.

I ran off the platform. There was a huge post behind the platform. I ran behind that post and hid.

It seemed I was there for some time when a very large Assembly of God missionary named Alford Cawston came over to me. He looked just as awestruck as I felt. No one in that place could possibly have not been impressed with the power of God that was in action there.

The missionary put his arm around my back.

"Brother Cerullo, you'd better get back to the rostrum or we are going to have a riot on our hands," he said to me. I could see the concern in his face was real. He looked as if he could think of no other solution. "You are the only person who can hold this meeting in order."

I didn't want to go.

When the power of God is being manifested so sovereignly, there is a feeling in the air that everyone knows God is moving - no man in his right mind would want to undermine a move of God so powerful

I almost told the missionary no, I wouldn't go out, he would have to do without me. But right as I was about to protest, God reminded me of the story in the second chapter of Acts, where the power of God was moving similarly on the day of Pentecost.

The apostles had all just received the Holy Ghost, and they were all speaking with other tongues and causing a commotion among the people. That group of people also had a near-riot situation on their hands, but in Acts 2:14, "Peter, standing up with the eleven, lifted up his voice..."

God had used Peter to direct the service, to be a vessel through which God ministered to all the people, not just the ones who had received a miracle...

Gathering all the courage I had in my young, inexperienced body, I stepped back on the platform, and the scene was no different. Canes were still flying. Crutches also were flying. Babies were falling, babies were walking. And I was still weeping in the presence of the Lord.

"God, no one should ever see this much of Your glory and be allowed to live," I said to God in the midst of being overwhelmed by his incredible power. "God, take me home. I want to die."

I wasn't kidding. I did not know what could happen to compare to what I was witnessing. It was like a river of power had washed over a beach full of people, crumpled and broken, and as the tide hit them, they were all straightened and healed.

I truly did not see how I could go on living after seeing such an incredible move of God.

And I fully expected God to take me home right then.

But God did something I didn't expect, and something I will never forget.

God said to me, "Son, you haven't seen anything yet."

The magnitude of that statement didn't hit me just then.

For everything I had seen this night in Roxas Park in Manila, God was promising I would see more in the future. I thought I had seen all anyone could see and still live, but God said I would see more.

Throughout the 53 years of my ministry, God has indeed allowed me to see more.

I have had the privilege of ministering on every inhabitable continent on the face of this Earth, preaching the Gospel of Jesus Christ face-to-face to literally uncountable millions of people.

By the grace of God, I have witnessed more miracles than I can count, with every conceivable kind of illness or deformity healed by the power of God. I have seen literally millions of people turn from the darkness of the devil that had enslaved them and turn to the light of Jesus Christ, receiving forgiveness for a lifetime of sins.

But when I was a little boy in a Jewish orphanage, I could never imagine living such a life.

Instead, my goal as a rebellious young, hurtful boy was to cause trouble and rebel against every kind of authority figure.

My very first memory is of tragedy, though I didn't know it was a tragedy at the time.

Most little boys are all the same; they cling to their mother. They run to her when they've banged up their knee, or when they hear a scary sound. They ask their mother to read a bedtime story to them as they drift off to sleep at night.

Many of us forget how central mothers are to the lives of tiny children. Their entire lives are wrapped up around their mothers.

I was no different. My mother was very kind and loving, and as a little boy, I was very attached to her, I am told, because I have no memory of her.

The earliest thing I can remember is sitting in the back seat of a car, wondering where my mother was. I knew something was going on, but I didn't know exactly what it was.

I didn't know where my father was, either. All I knew was something bad had happened, and I wanted my mother.

My brother and three sisters were in the car with me. They were all older than I was. They all seemed to be upset about something. I didn't know where the car was taking us.

It was the 1930s. Cars were much larger then than they are now. To a very small little boy, however, the car seemed even larger - cavernous. I couldn't see out the windows through the pouring rain. All I could see was my brother and sisters.

The car finally stopped at an orphanage. I don't remember very much about my experience there, because I was too young. I do remember learning that my mother had died, but I didn't understand what that meant. All I knew was that she was no longer around to bandage my scraped knees. She was no longer around to read bedtime stories to me.

When I was four, my brother, my sisters and I were all moved to a foster home in Teaneck, New Jersey, with an Orthodox Jewish family, because my mother, Bertha Rosenblatt, was a Jew.

Although I was only four or five years old, I was already rebellious. I hated authority and did not like being told what to do.

When I entered school, I was already called a problem child by the authorities.

I had run away a few times, and I withstood my teachers and elders when they would tell me to do something. There was a strong bitterness and resentment building up in me. Who stole my mother? Why did she have to die? Where was my father? I was told he was an alcoholic, but I didn't know what that meant.

God has a plan for everyone's life. He had a plan for my life, and even from an early age, the enemy was trying to divert my attentions; he was trying to get me to rebel not against the authority figures in my life, but to rebel against the plan God had for my life. I was a young boy, and I was all too happy to oblige.

When I was six, I was sent to the principal's office - as I had been many times before - for misbehaving.

The principal had bought a paddle just for me - a six-year-old little boy - because I misbehaved that badly.

This time was no different than any other time. She bent me over her lap and paddled me particularly hard.

But I was determined not to give her the satisfaction of knowing her spanking had hurt me. I looked at her defiantly and gave her the meanest look I could scowl on my little face.

Then, cursing under my breath, I turned and left her office.

I heard a voice, which said, "You don't have to take this. Why don't you run away."

It seemed like a good idea.

My life was not fun anyway. I had to sleep in an attic bedroom with my four siblings, and we had to eat our meals in the cellar. I wasn't too keen on being in that situation any longer anyway, and I was mad at the principal, so instead of going back to class, I walked out the door of the school and ran down the sidewalk into the street.

I knew that the railroad tracks that were nearby led to some swamps, and I thought I could hide for quite a while there.

I was a very unhappy little boy.

When the other boys would play little games of kickball or football, they all smiled and laughed, tumbling and roughhousing, but I couldn't have fun like they did, because I was bitter and sullen.

I was constantly in trouble at school, and I felt like the foster home in which I lived was a prison.

I knew that if I was caught running away, the punishment would be severe, so I hurried to make my getaway as quickly and completely as I could. I was upset and angry, and I didn't want to be around any of the people I was around.

It was very cold, but I also didn't care about that. I made my way to the swamps and marshes, more worried about the prospect of getting caught than the dangers that were doubtlessly all around me, a small little boy alone in Teaneck, New Jersey.

Not very long after I left the school, the principal called the police and informed them that I was missing.

The police found me, wandering around the marshes, and put me in the back of one of their cars.

In the back seat of the car, I was lonely and hungry. The policemen seemed to be very nice, but I knew they were taking me back to my prison, back to what I knew would be awful punishment.

As we rounded the corner and I saw the house we lived in, my heart leapt into my throat. I knew what was coming.

The lady of the house thanked the police for finding me and returning me safely. No sooner had they left than her shoe came off and she began beating me with it. She hit me so hard and so many times that my little body gave out. I could no longer kneel upright; my legs gave way and I crumpled to the floor, in too much pain to move, in too much pain to do anything but sob silently.

But inside me, fury raged. There was a violence there that I cannot fully explain. After the beating, I was sent to our little attic room without supper. Still stinging and angry, curses and thoughts of revenge raced through my mind and filled me up where food wouldn't.

It seemed that the enemy was infesting my little mind with the most angry and vindictive thoughts anyone could imagine, and I was not yet seven years old. When we read today's newspapers and watch televesion newscasts, or hear of killings and shootings by young children, I understand the forces that are driving them.

Soon, our family was broken up.

Abraham, my brother, joined the army. My oldest sister, Frances, got married. My sister Pauline went to live with friends. Only Bernice, the youngest next to me, and I were left together, as we were transferred to a gentile-run orphanage in Passaic, New Jersey.

We were only slated to be at the orphanage until the state could find an Orthodox Jewish orphanage to raise us.

Though we were only at the gentile orphanage for a short time, I learned more bad habits there. I was eight years old, and I learned by watching the other boys at the orphanage. They would scour the streets, looking for discarded cigarette butts. The boys would then light the butts and smoke them in the school's basement.

I began going with the boys on their cigarette-gathering expeditions, and I joined them in smoking the cigarettes in the basement of the orphanage.

I was already a scrappy little boy. I would fight at the drop of a hat. I was very hard, very tough. If another boy looked at me funny, I would hit him until he dropped, and when he was on the floor, I would ask him, "why did you look at me like that." Anti-Semitism was engulfing the country. It was the late 30s and early 40s; Hitler was stirring up hatred of the Jews in Europe, and the sentiment had crossed the ocean and was very prevalent in the U.S. Other boys would call me derogatory names they had for "dirty Jews," and they gave me a very hard time about being Jewish. I learned very quickly that the only way to silence their racist banter was to shove a fist in their mouths, so that's how I conducted myself. I hit first and asked questions later.

A few months after Bernice and I arrived at the orphanage, the state was able to locate an Orthodox Jewish orphanage in Clifton, New Jersey, called the Daughters of Miriam.

The Daughters of Miriam was not only an orphanage, it was also a home for the aged. It was a very strict place.

Rabbi and Mrs. Gold were in charge, and when they met me, they already had the scoop.

"I understand you can be quite a problem," Mrs. Gold said, looking down at me as she led me down the hall. "To help you stop getting into so many fights, I've decided to put you in with the older boys; I don't think you'll give them quite the guff you're used to dishing out."

I wasn't scared. It didn't matter to me who it was, if someone bothered me, I was going to silence them any way I could.

The orphanage was a very tough place for a little boy. Our beds had to be made just right; if they weren't, they were ripped apart and we had to start over. I picked tomatoes and ran the potato-peeling machine, along with the other duties like scrubbing floors, cleaning bathrooms and washing windows and dishes.

We attended public school, but we didn't participate in many of the activities because we were Jewish.

One day, a boy at school called me a "kike," a derogatory name for Jew. Immediately, I lashed out at him and began punching and kicking him.

Other boys joined into the fray and, though I gave as good as I got, I came away bloody.

Rabbi Gold was accustomed to seeing me come home bruised or with a busted lip. I frequently fought with other boys after school.

The rabbi told me to put a piece of ice on my nose and get ready to attend Torah class, which started in ten minutes.

As I was walking down the hall, another boy in the orphanage named Joey quipped, "well, Morris, it looks like they got the best of you in school today."

My vision went red. I jumped and began swinging my fists as hard as I could, knocking Joey to the floor. I followed him there and continued punching him. Finally, his head slammed into the floor and bounced back up, chipping my tooth. I felt nothing. I kept pummeling and pounding until Rabbi Gold physically picked me up and held my arms so I couldn't swing them anymore.

My razor-thin temper had erupted again. I was ready at all times to erupt into violence; the enemy was doing his best to turn me into what he had designed for my life so he could keep me from what God had designed for my life.

The orphanage authorities had to restrain me for quite a while before I calmed down. A fury was boiling just below the surface at all times, and when it was released, it took a while to calm down.

Once I had settled down, I was rushed to the hospital so doctors could look at my mouth and my tooth.

That night, while I was lying in bed, I was just a little boy again. My tough facade was gone; I was just a little boy whose tooth was throbbing, whose mouth ached and throbbed with every heartbeat. I hated life in the orphanage. I hated going to school. I hated being a Jew. I hated everything.

I began to cry silently in the darkness of the orphanage dormitory. I would never have let any of the other boys see me cry, but in the darkness, I was alone and I didn't want to live anymore.

I was only eight years old, but I had already decided that I wanted to die.

It was 2:00 in the morning. I quit crying and slipped out of bed.

I silently made my way to the bathroom. Once inside, I craned my neck around the corner to make sure I hadn't awakened any of the other boys. I looked all around the bathroom to make sure no one else was there.

I opened the second-story window and crawled out onto the ledge there. The concrete below beckoned to me, "jump; it will all be over."

It seemed everyone had either deserted me or the ones who had remained hated me. My mother was dead. I had only seen my dad twice since I left what was home, and my brother and two sisters were gone. My classmates at school hated me because I was Jewish. I felt unloved and unwanted.

I squatted down on the ledge and tried to prepare myself to leap. I breathed in very deeply, then let the breath out. This would be just like diving off the diving board at a pool. I closed my eyes and tilted my little head upward, taking another deep breath and holding it inside. It seemed my heart stopped beating for just a moment.

I started to jump, but no sooner had my brain sent the signal to my legs to begin moving, I felt like someone was in the bathroom behind me.

Startled, I whispered out, "who's that?"

No one answered. But I knew someone was there.

I slowly turned around, grabbing the ledge with my hands so I wouldn't lose my balance. As I turned, it became clear to me that the washroom was empty. But I still sensed the presence of someone other than myself.

I turned back around, and the sheer beauty of the night struck me as it never had before. The stars were twinkling; there seemed to be millions of them.

The air smelled fresher, more crisp, cleaner than it ever had before.

The moon glowed brilliantly, hung in the nighttime sky of Clifton, New Jersey, beaming down on me with what seemed to be a brand-new clarity. I had never seen such a beautiful sight.

I felt a warmth coarse over my entire body, from the tip of my head to the soles of my feet. I had never felt anything like it before. I didn't understand what was happening, but the anger was gone. My tooth and nose stopped hurting, but I didn't notice that until later.

I was overwhelmed by a Presence all around me. I knew I was experiencing something supernatural. I knew I was not alone. I climbed back in the window and made my way back into the dorm room. As I passed, I looked at the clock on the wall and saw it was 2:45. It seemed impossible. The experience I had seemed like it had happened in a few seconds, but apparently it had taken three quarters of an hour!

Though God had supernaturally intervened to stop me from committing suicide, I was still rebellious, still disobedient, and still always looking for a way to escape from the orphanage.

By the time I was 13, I was ready to get my Bar Mitzvah. Bar Mitzvah means "son of the commandment," and it denotes that the recipient is an adult, according to Jewish tradition.

When a Jewish boy attains Bar Mitzvah, he is legally obligated to keep the commandments. His vows are considered valid. He can perform acts having legal implications, such as buying and selling property.

The calling up to the reading of the Torah is a symbol of a boy's attaining maturity. He is called up on the first occasion that the Torah is read following his 13th birthday. To a Jewish boy, it's a very big deal.

The boy is required to put on tefillin (which the English Bible translates as "phylacteries") for the morning prayer. The tefillin are two black leather boxes containing scriptural passages that are bound by leather strips on the left arm and on the head.

The boy is required to deliver a derashah ("talmudic discourse"), which he has been well-coached to give in Hebrew, though he may not understand what he is saying.

Since children are not allowed to carry the Torah, it is a statement about a boy reaching maturity when he is allowed to finally carry the Torah when he is Bar Mitzvah.

All the boys in the orphanage looked forward to their Bar Mitzvahs, and I was no different. It was a very big accomplishment, and a very exciting time; something to look forward to.

I didn't understand the spiritual significance of Bar Mitzvah, only the historical tradition that I would be considered an adult - at least in religious matters - by everyone in the orphanage and the synagogue, which was part of the orphanage

When I was fourteen,I and another boy decided to sneak out of the orphanage one night.

The orphanage had a crude alarm system that would sound if the door was opened, but I had been in the orphanage for years, and I knew I could get out without alerting anyone.

I beckoned the other boy to follow me, and I stooped down to the baseboard, removing the wood, exposing two wires. I knew if I disconnected the wires, the alarm system would be disabled, allowing us to exit with impunity.

We quickly rushed out of the building, down the fire escape. We were free (if only for a few hours), and we could do whatever we wanted without any of the orphanage's strict rules or regulations.

By the time the sun started to peek over the horizon, we realized we had to quickly sneak back home to the orphanage. We slipped into the front door and ran to the dormitory, slipping back into our beds, ready to pretend that we had just enjoyed a good night's sleep.

That very same day, the orphanage hired a new nurse, Mrs. Ethel Kerr. Since the Daughters of Miriam was also a facility for the elderly, most of Mrs. Kerr's time would be taken up with helping aged people live their lives.

Mrs. Kerr was a gentile, and a Christian, no less, who somehow had gotten a job at a Jewish Orthodox orphanage.

Most of my experiences with gentiles had been painful. They had called me names and abused me, and I really had no interest in spending time with anyone who was not Jewish.

My only gentile friend was a boy whose father owned one of the largest trucking companies in New Jersey, Odstdyk Motors. We hung out together at school, but he had never tried to tell me about Christ, so I didn't think about the fact that he called himself a Christian.

The first time Mrs. Kerr, this new gentile nurse, spoke to me, she called me aside.

"I have something special for you, Morris," she said to me, holding out a candy bar.

What kind of game was this?

I became immediately angry. I grabbed the candy bar and threw it on the floor as hard as I could, shouting, " I don't want any of your stupid candy! Just leave me alone!"

I stomped away.

What did she think she was doing? I was unaccustomed to anyone being kind to me, and I was extremely suspicious of Mrs. Kerr's unsolicited offer of a candy bar to me, a boy she didn't know. I had even cursed at her, but she seemed unflapped.

Every time I saw Mrs. Kerr, she was smiling. She always said the same thing, in the same cheerful voice: "Hello, Morris."

It seemed she had forgotten about the candy bar episode altogether. She was never once unkind to me.

My initial fury at her offer had turned to curiosity. What was making this woman so kind to a boy who obviously did not want to give her the time of day?

I made up my mind that I was going to find out what this woman was thinking, why she was being so nice to me. I was very suspicious. In the past, everyone who had been kind to me had some sort of secret agenda or ulterior motive, something they wanted from me. What was her angle? I was going to find out.

Late one night, after I had assured myself that no one would do a surprise room inspection and catch me, I snuck out of my room and down the fire escape. I loitered around the back court a while to make sure I had not been detected while making my exit. Once I was sure the coast was clear, I crept over to the quarters where the hired help were housed.

I walked up and tried to open the door to that wing of the building, but to my chagrin, it was locked.

I muttered a quiet curse and began to think of a way to get to Mrs. Kerr's room. I was determined to find out tonight exactly what she had up her sleeve.

As I was trying to think of a solution to my problem, I noticed that the wall under Mrs. Kerr's window looked like it wouldn't be too hard to climb.

I ran over to the wall, and, placing my fingers gingerly in its crevices, I pulled on the wall to see if I could climb up. It worked, I was able to slowly work my way up the wall, sliding my fingers into the crevices and my feet into crevices below, inching my way toward Mrs. Kerr's window.

When I got to her window sill, I grabbed hold of it with one hand, and with the other, I knocked on her window.

Nothing.

Where could she be? It was too late for her to be out; surely she was there. Maybe she just hadn't heard my knock.

I knocked again.

Still nothing.

I knocked again

Still nothing. I was getting frustrated. Surely my knocking had awakened her. Why wasn't she coming to the window?

Little did I know Mrs. Kerr was inside her room, panicking. She didn't know what to make of the knocks on her window so high off the ground.

On my fifth knock, Mrs. Kerr gathered her courage and peeked out the window at me. Relief washed over her face when she saw my little head popping up over the window sill.

She threw the window wide open and grabbed my hand, helping me climb into her room.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "What brings you out here at this time of night?"

I hadn't expected to have to answer that question. I had expected to be the one asking questions.

"Because," I stammered. "Because I want to what you are up to. Why are you bugging me?"

I was unprepared for her answer. I had half-expected to hear her list of demands. After all, no one would be so nice without wanting something.

But her answer caught me completely off guard.

"God sent me here for you."

WHAT?

I couldn't believe my ears. I had been to Hebrew school nearly every day since coming to the Daughters of Miriam orphanage, and I had never heard such a thing.

God had spoken to Abraham, Moses and the patriarchs, but Rabbi Gold had never claimed to have heard from God. Yet, here was this gentile claiming to have heard from God, and not only to have heard from God, but to have been "sent" for me.

Incredulous, I asked, "what do you mean you were sent here for me?"

She opened up her Bible and read from Isaiah:

"Take counsel, execute judgment; make thy shadow as the night in the midst of the noonday; hide the outcasts; bewray not him that wandereth. Let mine outcasts dwell with thee..." (Isaiah 16:3-4)

"God has sent me to tell you about the Messiah," she continued.

My mind began to race. Why had I come here? It seemed this woman was saying things I just couldn't believe. How could a gentile expect to tell me, a Jew, about the Jewish Messiah?

I knew all about the Messiah, I thought. In Hebrew school, we had learned all about it. We were waiting for the Messiah to come and be the King of Israel. What could she possibly know about the Messiah that I had not already learned from the rabbis?

"You've got to be kidding," I snapped at her. "What can you tell me about the Messiah?"

She began to explain that the Messiah had come already.

"Stop," I said. "We're still waiting for the Messiah. Why are you saying He already came?"

"Because He has," she explained patiently, that now-familiar smile still on her face. She began to explain to me that the Messiah had come to Israel nearly 2,000 years ago, and that He had died for my sins.

"This is too much," I said. "I'm going back to my room."

Abruptly, I crawled back out the window and down the wall.

My mind was racing. This gentile nurse obviously didn't know what she was talking about in my young mind, but she seemed so sure, so peaceful and so kind. I couldn't stop thinking about what she had said about God sending her to tell me about the Messiah.

I stayed awake for many hours, lying in bed, going over the conversation I had just had with this peculiar woman.

The next night, I couldn't contain my curiosity any longer. I crawled back out of my window, snuck down the fire escape again and climbed the wall to Mrs. Kerr's room again.

We continued that pattern for many nights. I would come to Mrs. Kerr's room, and we would debate and discuss the Old Testament heroes of faith: Abraham, Moses, Isaac, Jacob, David, Samuel, Gideon and others.

I questioned Mrs. Kerr on every point she made.

Already, my ambitions had turned toward the future. I wanted to be a lawyer, and I was already honing my skills at debating. Mrs. Kerr would make a statement, and I would challenge her on it.

But over time, I began to listen more. I enjoyed being in Mrs. Kerr's room. It was the most peaceful place I had ever been in.

Slowly, though I didn't realize it, my heart was changing. I was spending so much time learning in Mrs. Kerr's room that I didn't even think about running away anymore, or about stealing.

One night, Mrs. Kerr handed me a small, folded piece of paper. On the outside was a simple title: "Questions."

The tract was written by a Christian lawyer named James Bennett, which immediately piqued my interest.

I read the tract once, and then I read it again. And again.

The tract's title was prophetic: all sorts of questions began popping into my mind.

The next night, I poured out all my questions to poor Mrs. Kerr. I had what seemed to be an unending stream of questions, and with each answer, more questions came to mind!

Mrs. Kerr finally put her foot down: "Morris, it is too dangerous for you to be coming to my room all the time. Eventually someone is going to see you."

She took a little black book from her pocket and handed it to me.

"This is a gift for you," she said. "You don't have to take it if you don't want to. It's a New Testament. Do you want to read it for yourself?"

Did I!

Finally, we were getting somewhere. I couldn't wait to get the book back to my room and begin reading it, looking for the answers to my questions.

As I was about to leave, Mrs. Kerr stopped me.

"You'll need this," she said, holding out a tiny little flashlight. "You'll need to be very careful reading that New Testament. You'll have to read it at night when everyone else is sleeping or in some secret place."

As soon as I got back to my bed, I pulled the covers over my head and flicked on the tiny little flashlight.

This little New Testament was unlike anything I had ever read. Its pages were whisper-thin, and the ink smelled cheap. I eagerly read the first book, Matthew. Before I knew it, I was done with Matthew, so I began reading Mark. I finished Mark, but I was still hungry so I read Luke. I was not yet sated. I read on through to John.

What an incredible person this Jesus was!

His demeanor was loving and caring, but when the rabbis of His day tried to trick Him and trip Him up in His words, He always knew just how to answer them!

And I was fascinated by His teachings. How could a man be born again? His words spoke directly to my soul.

The New Testament revealed a man much different than I had imagined the Messiah would be. Jesus was misunderstood, beaten, laughed at, scourged, ridiculed, persecuted, mocked and reviled. Yet he had a zeal for God that was unmatched by any of the Old Testament prophets I had spent years learning about in Hebrew school.

Jesus had come to earth and had taken upon Himself the life of a lowly carpenter. He taught that we were to love our neighbors, to bless people who cursed us.

When I read about Jesus' sufferings on the cross, how he endured the bitter words and the beatings of those who reviled Him, I remembered my own life, how instead of "turning the other cheek," as Jesus advised, I had been the first to strike, to lash out at those who had hurled hateful words at me.

Jesus, however, had only kindness for those who mistreated Him. He had only love for those who hated Him.

I wanted to be like Him. I wanted to be strong enough to love those who hated me. I wanted to be strong enough, like Jesus, to fear no man, but to fear God alone. I wanted to be compassionate like Him, to be wise like Him.

I eagerly and ravenously read and read. I couldn't get enough. But after I had read the four Gospels, I could no longer keep my eyes open.

Ever mindful that being caught with a New Testament would mean more severe punishment than I cared to think about, I carefully pulled up the mattress to my bed, hiding the New Testament and the pen light between the springs and the mattress.

When I woke up in the morning, I was careful to make my bed discreetly, working to avoid exposing the treasure I had hidden under my mattress.

I went about my chores, picking tomatoes, cleaning and running the potato peeler, but my mind wasn't in my work.

I was in awe, thinking about Jesus.

The New Testament revealed a man much different than I had imagined the Messiah would be. Jesus was misunderstood, beaten, laughed at, scourged, ridiculed, persecuted, mocked and reviled. Yet he had a zeal for God that was unmatched by any of the Old Testament prophets I had spent years learning about in Hebrew school.

Jesus had come to earth and had taken upon Himself the life of a lowly carpenter. He taught that we were to love our neighbors, to bless people who cursed us.

He had done more miracles than Elisha, and His words were filled with such wisdom, I could hardly contain my hunger to know more about Him.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl.

I eagerly awaited bed time.

When bed time came, I listened carefully for signs that everyone had fallen asleep. It was a skill I had perfected during my many jaunts of escape and crime.

I listened to hear the deepening sighs of bodies that had fallen asleep.

It seemed to take forever.

Finally, everyone but me was asleep.

I pulled the covers over my head so fast, I almost pulled them completely off the bed.

I got out my little flashlight and the New Testament and began reading where I had left off.

I began reading about people who had lived my new dream to be like Jesus. Here were Jews, just like me, who had been laughed at because they were born in Galilee, just as I had been laughed at because I was born a Jew. They had been beaten, but just like Jesus, they were kind to those who beat them.

I read about New Testament heroes like Peter, John, Paul and Barnabas. I read how Paul and Silas worshiped God and prison doors flew open.

Again, longing was sparked in my heart. I was in my own little prison. I knew how they felt.

Up to this point, Mrs. Kerr had been attending a church that was not very keen on loud displays of worship or operating in the gifts of the Spirit.

One day, Mrs. Kerr went to an Assembly of God in Paterson, New Jersey. After attending the service, Mrs. Kerr came back to the orphanage very excited, and immediately told me about how the people praised the Lord aloud in the service, and how they worshiped God with such feeling!

She handed me a magazine she apparently had gotten at the service.

The magazine was called the Pentecostal Evangel. I knew what Pentecost was; it was a feast that took place 50 days after Passover. And I also knew from reading the New Testament that during the feat of Pentecost, the apostles had started their ministry in Jerusalem.

I was eager to read anything I could about Jesus, so I gladly took the magazine from Mrs. Kerr and began reading it as soon as I got to my room.

Once I read the magazine, however, I discovered it was not what I had expected. I was expecting the magazine to tell me about what Mrs. Kerr had just described to me; I wanted to read about worshiping God aloud, about the feelings she was describing. Instead, what I read was about missions reports and other things I was not interested in at the time.

I didn't think about hiding the magazine at all. Instead, I stuck it in the back pocket of my robe and hung the robe up on my locker.

The very next morning, the orphanage decided to do a locker inspection. I didn't think anything about it. My locker was nice and neat, my shoes lined up just so, my clothes neatly arranged and my school books stacked just right. I had no worries until I heard the horrified gasp of the nurse who was inspecting my locker.

The nurse grabbed the magazine and ran, full-speed, down the corridor, yelling, "Look at this! Look at this! A Pentecostal Evangel!"

In a matter of a few minutes Mrs. Kerr had been called into the rabbi's office. The rabbi immediately knew Mrs. Kerr was responsible for bringing the Pentecostal Evangel into the orphanage.

Rabbi Gold fired Mrs. Kerr, and then immediately called me into his office: "Morris! Morris! Come into my office this second. I want to talk to you!"

I hadn't even completely closed the door when Rabbi Gold thrust the magazine in my face and shouted, "what is this?"

Was this a trick question? I didn't know what he wanted to hear. I began to think of how I would explain what the magazine was, when my thoughts were interrupted by the rabbi speaking again.

"Morris, this is absolute trash," he told me. "I don't know for sure what Mrs. Kerr has been telling you, but I do know it is all wrong. I don't ever want you to see that woman or talk to her again; is that understood?"

My heart sank.

I had never had a person to whom I could talk. I had never been able to really discuss things with anyone. Now he was telling me to no longer talk to Mrs. Kerr.

I began to cry. That in itself was a tremendous change for me. Whenever I had been confronted about things in the past, or when I had been scolded, my first reaction was to rebel, to lash out or to simply ignore whoever it was scolding me.

But my heart had changed, and I was upset. I didn't know, but Mrs. Kerr was out in the corridor, praying, "Oh my God, what is going to happen..."

Her prayers must have helped, because when I spoke to answer the Rabbi, it was with confidence.

"Listen, Rabbi Gold," I said. "I don't know much about what I read in that magazine. I don't even understand it. Even what Mrs. Kerr has been telling me is not completely clear. It's so different from anything I have ever heard, but I know it's real. It's real."

I began sobbing.

"It's real, and you can't take it away from me!"

It was to become a quote I would repeat many times, both to the rabbis who tried to convince me to give up this belief in Jesus, and to my friends in the orphanage who asked me what was going on.

I became accustomed to punishment again, as I began receiving punishment, not for the crimes I formerly had committed, but for my unwillingness to waver from my newfound belief in Jeshua, the Messiah.

Finally, I again was in the basement receiving punishment, but this time, I stood up and said, "I have not fought back all this time, but if you lay your hands on me once more, I am going up to that front door and I am going to walk out and you are not going to stop me."

The rabbi laughed at me.

I didn't have any money. I didn't have any extra clothes. I didn't have a place to sleep.

I turned and walked out the door. I didn't look left or right. I focused only on the front doors to the orphanage. I slowly walked toward the doors. I didn't run, I didn't speed up my pace at all. I fully expected Rabbi Gold to grab me from behind and stop me from leaving, but he didn't.

When I got to the doors, I pushed them open and walked outside.

Freezing sleet and snow pelted me in the face in the cold, snowy, mid-December night.

But I couldn't turn back now.

I walked out into the midst of what must have been a blizzard.

I had nowhere to go. I was completely alone.

After Mrs. Kerr had been fired from the orphanage, she would meet me in the school yard so we could discuss Jesus more. She had given me the phone number of her new job as a registered nurse.

I decided I would call Mrs. Kerr. I walked to the house of my gentile friend from school. After I knocked, the friend's father opened the door and looked quite surprised to see me standing outside.

"Sir," I asked, "can I use your telephone?"

Surprised, he agreed, and I went inside. I and used his phone to call Mrs. Kerr. Miraculously, she was home and answered the phone. I told her what had happened, and we agreed that I would meet her at the Montauk Theatre in Passic, four miles away.

I thanked the friend's father and went back into the blistering cold.

Suddenly I remembered, I had no idea how I was going to get to the theatre. I had no money...

I looked up into the forbidding gray sky, and fear began to rack my body. I had no idea where to go, or how to get to the theatre.

Finally, I thought, "I'll head down to Main Street where there's a lot going on. Maybe I'll know what to do when I got there."

I was terrified. It was snowing and sleeting, and I was wandering along a very busy street. At one point, an angry driver had honked at me and shouted, "watch where you're going, kid!"

I was in desperation. I was not even yet 15 years old, and yet I was on my own with no friends, no food, no house to sleep in and it was very cold.

Right there on that street corner, I cried out to God: "Dear God, if there be such a person as Jesus up there in the heavens, please let Him be with me now!"

Almost immediately, a burst of warm air surrounded me. I did not understand what was happening, but I knew one thing: God had answered my prayer.

I began to weep again. "Thank you, God," I said. "Thank you so much."

I felt a nudge on my right side, just as if someone had walked up to me and elbowed me. I looked, and nobody was there.

Then I felt another nudge, this one on my left side. It was as if God stood right beside me on both sides, protecting me from the elements and the loneliness that had threatened to send me into despair

My countenance was immediately changed. I instantly forgot about the fear and trepidation I had felt up to that point. I began to sing.

I also began to walk while I sang, for two-and-a-half miles, with God's presence surrounding me.

I can't explain the joy I felt. I can't explain the peace I felt.

All I knew was that I was not alone. God was with me, just as he had been with me six years earlier when I had thought about jumping from the orphanage ledge. I knew that everything would be all right, because God was there.

I was in complete joy. I paid absolutely no attention to where I was going. I had no regard for streets or the cars who were zipping by perilously close to where I was.

My right hand opened, and the Presence of God left my right hand. My left hand opened, and the Presence of God left my left hand.

Suddenly, just as quickly as it had appeared, the warming Presence of God had disappeared.

"Oh, God, please don't leave me now," I thought.

Before I could despair, however, I opened my eyes and discovered that I was standing in front of the Montauk Theater, and there, under an umbrella beneath the theater's lights, less than two feet away was Mrs. Kerr, looking more shocked than I had ever seen her.

We both burst into joyful tears!

Mrs. Kerr had been waiting at the theater for a long time, not knowing how or when I would get there.

Little did she know God Himself was guiding me!

Her next question was very welcome: "Are you hungry?"

I was hungry, but I also was still in amazement at the supernatural manifestation we had just witnessed. I could hardly believe what God had just done, directing and protecting me to just the spot where Mrs. Kerr had been patiently waiting for me.

But as God would tell me in the Philippines more than 13 years later, if I thought He had worked His most impressive miracles getting me this far, I hadn't seen anything yet.

When she saw me, Mrs. Maurer's face dropped. She rushed into the kitchen and began moving pots and pans around. I couldn't see her, I could only hear the commotion in the kitchen. While Mrs. Kerr explained to Mr. Maurer what had happened with me leaving the orphanage, I listened intently to the goings-on in the kitchen. I heard water running and what sounded like fire from a stove. But mostly, I was looking around at the home I saw around me. Pretty pictures hung unobtrusively on the walls. The living room furniture, a couch, a coffee table, an easy chair and a rocking chair, all went together nicely, and formed what seemed to me to be a perfect family of furniture.

The dining room table at which I was sitting appeared to be the most-used piece of furniture in the house, as if the family spent a lot of time here, talking, praying and visiting together.

Very quickly, Mrs. Maurer appeared with a bowl of liquid in her hands, steam rising from the bowl through the air.

"Now, eat this slowly, Morris," Mrs. Maurer admonished as she placed the steaming bowl of chicken soup in front of me.

At that moment, I didn't think I had ever seen a more beautiful thing than that bowl of soup. I was suddenly ravenously hungry - I wanted to pick the bowl up and drain it in a few gulps. But I listened to Mrs. Maurer and slowly ate the delicious soup, spoonful by spoonful, savoring the succulent flavor of the broth as it rolled around in my mouth.

The whole time I was eating, Mr. and Mrs. Maurer and Mrs. Kerr went about the business of discussing what to do with this 14-year-old boy who had been placed in their care by the hand of God.

I couldn't pay very close attention to them, though. I was exhausted. After I was finished with my soup, I tried to listen closely to their discussion, but it seemed my eyelids betrayed my interest as they kept trying to close. Periodically, I would notice that my eyes were closing, and I would snap them open in a hurry, but I was fighting a losing battle.

I had been in an emotional war all day long. First, the beating at the orphanage. Then the argument and threat to leave. Then actually leaving, fearing every second that the rabbi would grab me by the shoulder and jerk me into his office. Then making my way through what amounted to a blizzard in a miraculous experience of which I was still in awe.

My body was just too tired to continue anymore. It wanted nothing more than a good night's sleep.

Sometime during their intense conversation, Mrs. Maurer glanced over noticed that the object of their concern was trying his very best to keep from nodding off.

Smiling, she directed me to the room where I would stay. It, too, looked perfect. The bed was neatly made, with a night stand and a lamp. On the night stand, prominently placed, was a Bible. The last thing I remember from that eventful day was climbing in between two of the softest sheets I had ever felt in my life. "She must iron these sheets," I thought. Then, I fell asleep.

The next few days, I read the Bible every chance I could find.

I no longer had to hide my New Testament under the sheets after all the other boys had fallen asleep. Instead of the little pen flashlight Mrs. Kerr had given me, I now could simply turn on the lamp by my bed, or read in the living room by the light of the winter sun.

I began to understand a little bit of how the Israelites must have felt when they were delivered from the bondage in Egypt.

Where before I had to be careful of my every move, making sure the rabbi didn't find out about my new interest in the Messiah, now I could read, pray and meditate on the goodness of Jesus Christ with impunity. I was free! It was as if an incredible weight had fallen off my shoulders. Even the air was easier to breathe.

It was an experience I would never forget. Years later, as I struggled with every bit of my being to take the Gospel of Jesus Christ into countries where the people were forbidden to even speak His name, I remembered vividly my own struggle, my own exodus from the oppression of not being able to worship Him. My compassion for these precious souls was forged through the restrictions I myself had suffered, though in many cases, they could not compare to the oppression many of the world's Christians face daily in their attempts to worship the one true God.

Those who never know bondage truly can never appreciate freedom when they have it.

But I had been oppressed. I had been restrained from worshiping Jesus. I understood the precious value of the freedom Jesus had brought me to through my exodus from the orphanage. Though, as a 14-year-old little boy, I couldn't yet articulate the value of my deliverance, I had a powerful understanding of just what Jesus had done for me.

Every sight held new meaning for me. Every experience had a new perspective. My small little world had just expanded beyond my wildest imaginations.

The thankfulness I had in my heart has never left

When Sunday came around, I had no way of knowing it, but my life was about to undergo yet another radical change, another transformation deeper into the reality of the New Covenant of which I had been made a partaker.

It started simply enough.

Brother Maurer came up to me and explained to me that it was his family's practice to attend church every Sunday morning and Sunday night.

"Do you want to go with us, Morris?"

He didn't know it, but he didn't even need to ask. I was hungry. I was anxious to do anything that would help me learn more about Jesus and my newfound relationship with Him. My answer was an immediate yes.

I had left the orphanage with only the clothes on my back, and they were nothing to brag about, so I had to depend on the Maurers, who generously provided me with clothes to wear; a suit nicer than I had ever worn, with a nice pair of freshly polished shoes.

I was so excited to experience anything I could that had to do with Jesus, I could hardly wait to get in the church - though I had never attended one before. My whole experience was centered on the synagogue, which was nothing like a church, I was soon to find out.

As we approached the Bethany Assembly of God on Broadway in Paterson, New Jersey, I could hardly believe my eyes.

The building was enormous.

Bethany Assembly had been built to seat 1,000 people. In those days, that was a huge church. I was awestruck.

The church had recently been bought by the Assembly of God from a Presbyterian congregation at a cost of $1 million. This was in about 1946, when a car sold for a few hundred dollars. One stained glass window in this enormous church was worth more than $30,000. Everything about the church spoke of fine workmanship and great care taken in craftsmanship.

I was very impressed.

But that impression was not to last long.

Mr. Maurer led the way into the church through the oak doors in the front. As we passed through the foyer, it seemed like a busy day at Grand Central Station. People were everywhere. Mr. Maurer began to head down toward the front of the church in the main auditorium.

I couldn't believe my eyes. Even the rows of pews impressed me. It seemed they stretched on forever, row after row after row of pews. Where would they find enough people to sit in so many seats?

I began to get nervous as Mr. Maurer continued toward the front of the church. He kept going. And going.

"Is he going to get up on the platform?" I wondered to myself.

My heart was pounding. I was ready to go to church, but I had not been prepared to be on a platform in front of so many people.

Each time we passed a row of pews, I would secretly wish, "let this be the one we sit in." But it seemed every time, we would keep on walking, closer and closer to the front.

Just as I was about to tug on Mr. Maurer's sleeve and ask him to stop, he stopped and moved into one of the rows of pews

I don't know if I made an audible noise, but I know I was tremendously relieved. Apparently, Mr. Maurer had a favorite place he was accustomed to sitting in near the front of the church, and we had finally arrived at it. It was close enough to the front of the church that I felt I could probably reach out and touch the platform from my seat.

I sat in the pew with the Maurer family and began craning my neck around, watching what seemed to me to be an immense crowd of people as they filed into the building, all dressed in their Sunday best.

Men were wearing suit coats and colorful ties, covered with dark trench coats and topped with hats, which they all promptly removed as they entered the sanctuary. Again, this was different from the synagogue, where it was customary to don a yarmulke upon entrance.

All the women were smartly dressed in long dresses, and most had gloves on their hands. Many of the children were dressed just like their parents, the little boys wearing miniature versions of their dads' suits, and the little girls wearing tiny copies of their mothers' dresses.

Another thing I noticed immediately was everyone seemed to have a Bible tucked under their arm. Even most of the children had tiny little New Testaments clutched in their chubby little hands.

This, too, was a change from the synagogue in which I had been raised. In the synagogue, the Torah was stored in a special cabinet designed specifically for it. It was usually written on real lambskin, and rolled up as a scroll on two ornate spools.

It was a very solemn occasion when someone would take the Torah out of its cabinet and prepare it to be read.

The person who was to carry the Torah had to pray special prayers and sing special songs; he had to be specially prepared, and he had to be Bar Mitzvah.

But here, every person carried their own Bible. Every person was able to open it up at any time and read every word - in English.

It wasn't until several years later that I was able to articulate the significance of the difference I observed that very first time I went to a church: Jesus had come to give the Word to EVERYONE, who could access it at any time and ponder the truth therein

My thoughts were interrupted by the vibrato hum of the church's organ as everyone seemed to take their seats at the same time and begin to sing from the church's hymnal.

The pastor was an Englishman named the Rev. David Leigh. He was not prone to displays of emotionalism. By all accounts, he was a very dignified man who preached in measured tones, rarely descending into emotionalism, but this Sunday would be different. Only a few minutes after the service had started, a tremendous move of the Spirit of God began to sweep through the sanctuary.

Somewhere toward the back of the congregation, a man lifted his hands and shouted "Hallelujah!"

I just about jumped completely out of my seat.

I whirled around in my seat to see who was causing all the commotion. I thought this might be some kind of isolated outburst. The man hadn't stopped his ruckus, though. In fact, other people began doing the same thing.

"What have I gotten myself into?" I thought. I had never in my wildest dreams thought something like this was going to happen. Not only had these people begun making noise, but it had begun to spread throughout the sanctuary.

People all over the place were shouting and raising their hands to God.

I nervously glanced over at Mr. Maurer. Beads of sweat were running down his forehead.

The poor man was sweating in more ways than one.

I found out later that he was praying to God that the church wouldn't be wild that day so it wouldn't spook me.

But God had other plans.

If I thought the service would calm down after the congregation was done singing, I had another thing coming.

Brother Leigh, normally serene and collected, made his way to the pulpit, and the service just got wilder.

As he preached, his voice rose and fell like the mountains and valleys of the Himalayas. He paced back and forth on the church's huge platform like a caged tiger eyeing his next meal.

Periodically, he would stop at the pulpit for a few seconds and give it a good whack with the palm of his hand before springing off in another direction, preaching ever louder through the service.

I had never seen a rabbi behave this way. They were always calm and dispassionate, delivering their messages and prayers in a practiced, measured tone.

But this preacher was on fire.

His words weren't just loud, they were laced with the conviction of a man who knows what he's saying is the absolute truth. The power of his delivery did nothing to diminish the bullseye aim of his message - a message clearly flowing directly from heaven.

I was amazed at his athleticism. A professional athlete couldn't have run with this much energy for so long, but the preacher continued to pace and speak, sweat pouring down his face and saturating his shirt. The congregation seemed to hang on every word. As if choreographed, they would shout "amen" and "preach it" when the preacher delivered a particularly powerful point.

Though I squirmed a bit at the beginning of this man of God's message, by a few minutes in, I, too was hanging on every word. I didn't shout "amen" with the rest of the congregation, but somewhere deep inside, I wanted to. I could understand their enthusiasm.

Finally, the service neared an end.

It was the custom in that church that at the end of the service, the congregation would be dismissed with prayer and the pastor would make his way toward the back of the sanctuary, where he would shake hands with everyone as they left.

But this morning, the pastor changed the routine. He called everyone down to the altar at the front of the church for prayer.

It seemed like the ocean at high tide. People from all over the congregation began edging their way out of their pews and heading toward the front of the sanctuary as the organ hummed in the background.

I had no way of knowing it at the time, but my presence in the church was responsible for some of the excitement. Apparently, the church had been praying corporately for God to save my soul and bring me out of the orphanage. When the congregation saw me walk in the church with Mrs. Kerr and Mr. Maurer, they began rejoicing at the answer to their prayers.

I looked at Mr. Maurer, sweat still beading on his face, a little more heavily now.

"Do you want to go to the altar, Morris?" Mr. Maurer asked me.

"Go to the altar?" I thought. I looked at the altar, and then I looked back at Mr. Maurer. We couldn't have been more than 15 feet from it anyway. "I've come this far, a few more rows surely cannot hurt me."

I timidly stepped forward, made my way through the people who already were at the front of the church, and knelt down at the altar to pray.

To tell the truth, I did more looking around than praying.

I had placed my hands over my eyes, but I had separated my fingers just enough to sneak a glimpse through them.

I would periodically close my eyes and pray, but more often than not, I peeked through my fingers and watched the people around me pray. Just as everything else this Sunday morning, the congregation's prayers were completely new to me.

Many people prayed out loud - VERY loud. I was accustomed to a very quiet volume in prayer. Some rocked back and forth. Some raised their hands.

And many, many of the people had tears streaming down their cheeks as they made their petitions to God, hands stretched toward heaven, lips rapidly moving in words I could not distinguish because of the noise of so many gathered people all praying at once.

I had never witnessed anything like the service that morning. Mr. Maurer must have been walking on pins and needles, wondering how I was going to take what many people of the day doubtlessly called fanaticism.

But I didn't regard what was happening as fanaticism, or as emotionalism. It was unusual to me, but instead of being put off by the commotion, I was made hungrier.

The people in this congregation seemed to me to be reaching out to a God they knew would answer their petitions. They were praising a God they knew would hear and appreciate their worship. They were speaking prayers of adoration to a God they knew had delivered them from bondage to sin. I wanted what they had.

After the service, I thought of all the men of God I had learned about in Hebrew school who had spontaneously burst into worship of God; Abraham, Isaac, Moses, Joshua, Gideon, Samuel. David had even worshiped God so hard that some of his clothes had fallen off by the sheer force of his dancing.

Though it was strange to see in person, I innately understood that the display I had witnessed that morning was simply a manifestation of people who were deeply and fundamentally changed by God, and they were expressing their thanks to Him in the only way they knew how.

I wanted what they had. I wanted to worship God with the freedom they displayed.

Just a few nights earlier, I had been reflecting on the freedom I felt in being delivered from the orphanage, in being able to worship Jesus without worrying about repercussions, but this Sunday morning service demonstrated to me that I could be even more free than I currently was in worshiping Him - there was something deeper that these people had and I wanted.

I could hardly wait to return to the church Sunday night.

My soul longed to reach closer to Jesus, to dive into whatever He had for me. I wanted to get what the people in the congregation had. I wanted everything my new Lord had for me.

That night, I was no longer worried as Mr. Maurer and I approached the front of the sanctuary.

During the song service, I didn't turn around when people started shouting and praising. During the preaching, I concentrated on the message, not how the preacher was delivering it. I was focused. I knew within myself that tonight was a turning point in my life; a point where I would leave much different than I had come. I didn't understand how, but I knew something was coming.

And when the altar call came, no one had to ask me if I wanted to go.

I was the first person to jump out of his seat and make my way to the altar. I immediately knelt down and lifted my hands, tears streaming down my cheeks, praising God for delivering me, for revealing to me that Jesus is the Messiah!

I began to praise and worship God for removing the scales from my eyes, for allowing me to see clearly where so many other Jewish people still could not, that Jesus is the Son of God.

As I worshiped, the entire world seemed to disappear from my attention. My ears no longer heard the music, and my eyes were squeezed tightly shut. All my attention and focus was on my Messiah.

I praised God like that for about ten minutes, when my life was changed forever.

In the midst of praising God, I felt something like a hand on my forehead. With that touch, my entire body just gave out from underneath me.

I fell to the floor. No one had touched me; I was touched by the very hand of God.

I knew I was on the floor, but I couldn't do anything about it. I was embarrassed. I had no idea that this sort of thing happened all the time in some churches. All I knew was I was on the floor, and I had never seen anything like that happen to anyone else.

I tried to get up, but I couldn't. All I could do was praise God. More and more praise flowed from my lips. Bit by bit, I became enveloped again in worshiping God and forgot completely that I was on the floor as the world disappeared once again and I became completely focused again on the Prince of Peace.

Gradually, I began to see a vision of the sky.

I had never seen the sky look so beautiful, though. The blue was brilliant and resplendent deeper and more clear than I had ever seen it. The clouds were the purest white I had ever seen - it seemed as if they were tiny puffs of cotton gently floating on the most brilliant blue lake.

Within a short time, beads of water began to form in the sky, and as they gathered more mass of completely transparent water, they would drop. Each drop had a word written across it in a language I had never seen before, and I couldn't understand.

As each drop came closer to me, it engulfed my entire body, my whole being, like being completely immersed in a warm, relaxing pool.

About ten minutes later, I was speaking in unknown heavenly tongues, praising God. God was baptizing me with the Holy Spirit, though I didn't know that terminology at the time.

I didn't understand what was happening to me at the time; all I knew was that God was answering my heart's cry. All I wanted was to know more of God, to wrap myself up in Him. All I wanted was to live my entire life in Him. I knew that whatever this was that was happening to me was Him answering that heart's cry. As each drop of water enveloped my being, it seemed I was overtaken with a wave of holiness - with a massive overwhelming tide of the very presence of God that ebbed and flowed in increasingly intense pulses of power.

Later, I remembered Acts chapter 2, where the Apostles had spoken with unknown tongues after they had been baptized with the Holy Spirit.

I stayed on the floor at the altar a very long time. It was all I could do - praise God. I didn't want to leave. By the time we made our way back to the Maurers' house, it was one o'clock in the morning, and I was still speaking in tongues, magnifying God, still basking in the waves of God's glory that had been enveloping my body for hours at the altar.

When we got to the Maurers' home, we all intuitively knew God was not done.

The Maurers had not yet been fully committed to the Pentecostal experience. They had not yet decided if it was for them. They had been "dabbling" in Pentecostalism, using their words, but they had not yet made the commitment to involve themselves in it and receive the baptism of the Holy Ghost - they were Baptists.

But when we got to their home, they and Mrs. Kerr all realized what a tremendous work God had just done in me, and they all fell to their knees to receive the baptism in the Holy Spirit as God moved in another tremendous demonstration of power, baptizing each one of them tremendously in the Holy Spirit.

That night, a few hours after we got home, the Spirit of God moved on me again, and I began speaking in tongues.

As I spoke in the heavenly language, I began to understand the words that otherwise would have sounded like gibberish. I didn't quite understand what was happening. I knew that I wasn't speaking in English, but just the same, I knew what it was I was saying. After some prompting by the Holy Spirit, I began to offer interpretations of the tongues I was speaking in English.

I was astounded. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. I had read in 1 Corinthians where Paul encouraged the Christians to pray for interpretations of tongues, but I had never seen or heard anyone actually do it. I was simply obeying what God led me to do. Judging from the expressions on their faces, Mr. and Mrs. Maurer and Mrs. Kerr were astounded too - their faces literally shone with amazement. But God was not done, yet. A few minutes later, following the same prompting by the Holy Spirit, I began to prophesy. God spoke through me that He had called me to do a special work.

I had no idea what God meant by a "special work," but I knew something revolutionary had taken place.

In the course of a few short hours, God had moved in such a tremendous way that I had received the baptism of the Holy Spirit, spoken with unknown tongues of a heavenly prayer language, interpreted unknown tongues and prophesied in the Spirit of God

I knew that I had participated in an experience the saints of the Old Testament had dreamed about, had prayed for, and had died awaiting.

I knew that God had bestowed on me a tremendous gift, a gift that could not be ignored or shut up.

I didn't know exactly what God intended, but I had a sense within myself that what I had experienced that night was not ordinary. I knew God had pulled out all the stops for a reason - a reason I didn't yet understand.

Much as my statement to Rabbi Gold that "It's real, and you can't take it away from me," I knew that what I had just experienced would be with me forever, that God had separated me for a special reason. I knew that God had powerfully answered my heart's cry to know Him deeper.

But, as He would tell me thirteen years later on a platform in the Philippines in front of 30,000 people, I hadn't seen anything yet.

The vision

Almost immediately, God began to thrust me into the ministry, though I didn't know it at the time. I have often wondered, "why me, God?"

I was just a Jewish orphan boy who had run away from his orphanage. I had no special training to minister. I had never been interested in ministering. I was the last person anyone would pick if they were choosing someone to share the message of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. But as I questioned why God would use me to deliver the message of the Gospel, a passage of scripture would always come to mind:

"But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty And base things of the world, and things which are despised, hath God chosen, yea, and things which are not, to bring to nought things that are, That no flesh should glory in his presence" (1 Corinthians 1:27-29)

I had not been to any Bible school. I had not learned the fundamentals of homiletics or of composing a three-point sermon. I never learned that the preacher should use humorous anecdotes to bring the sermon home to his congregation.

And though those things are all fine, God had chosen another way for me; he had begun with a shapeless lump of clay and started shaping and molding it into a minister - though I didn't know it, and probably would have resisted if I knew that's what was happening.

Nevertheless, by the time I was 15, God was using me to preach or witness or testify an average of three to four times a week. I had preached in churches of all denominations, and had seen many people saved by the power of God.

I never knew what to say when God would call upon me to minister. I would stand in front of a crowd of people who all seemed older than me, and who all had certainly been in church longer than I had, and I knew within myself that if God didn't speak through me, there would be no speaking at all - I had no reserve of predigested sermons, no years of ministerial experience to fall back on. I was literally an empty vessel waiting for the Lord to flow through me - and if He hadn't, the services simply would have been without preaching.

But God always came through, and His power began leading many people to the Lord through this little Jewish orphan boy who had surrendered his life to the Messiah.

I had stood in front of congregations of hundreds at a time. Me! Only 15 years of age! A nobody, by my estimation. You can probably imagine my trepidation the first time I got up on a platform and saw several hundred eyes peering out from the congregation at me. In those days, I was what the old-timers would probably call a whippersnapper. What could people who had been in church for 50 years possibly hope to learn from a 15-year-old boy? But God knew what He was doing.

My goal was never to be a minister.

I wanted to be a lawyer. I wanted to serve Christ by being an advocate for Christian people, by giving Christians an honest attorney who would honestly represent them as an advocate before the judge.

I had read many stories and had witnessed lawyers firsthand. I was in enough trouble as a youngster to understand that a lawyer could be your best friend or your worst enemy.

When a lawyer was prosecuting you, his attacks could know no bounds. Nothing was sacred. He could attack your character, your past, your family, your friends, your actions, even your attitude. There was nothing quite as intimidating as facing a very talented lawyer whose single goal was to see you put behind bars or to see you lose a judgment.

Conversely, though, I also knew that a talented defense lawyer could bring immense relief and provide protection from the barbs of a vicious prosecutor. When the prosecutor's accusations strayed out of bounds, a good defense lawyer would stand up and shout, "I object!"

When his grounds were justified (and a good lawyer's grounds almost always were), the judge would agree with him and rein in the prosecutor.

When someone was in court facing the accusations of a zealous prosecutor, he could have no better friend or advocate than a good defense lawyer.

I wanted to be that kind of friend, that kind of advocate. Not only as a defense lawyer, but as a lawyer to represent Christian people in all legal matters. A shield against those who would seek to take advantage of Christians, knowing that Christians by nature wouldn't put up too much of a fight, even if they knew they were getting the shaft.

I had always been scrappy, so I figured a career in law would fit my personality just right - I would fight now, however, for the rights of those I represented, instead of using my fists, I would use the brain God had given me.

But God continued to stir up a fervor in me, a desire to reach out to those who had not known the Jesus who had set me free - a hunger to lead more souls into the exodus I had experienced.

Each time I preached, the results were tremendous, with God reaching into the souls of the listeners, reaching beyond the day-to-day religion they had become accustomed to and pulling the strings of their very hearts. Salvations and other miracles seemed to flow like a mighty river.

One of my most vivid memories of those early days was when I preached in a Baptist church in Nutley, New Jersey.

I had no way of knowing the spiritual condition of the people at that church. By all appearances, the congregation was just like any other congregation - completely committed to God. In my six short months out of the orphanage, I had met many Baptists who were wholly wrapped up in God and completely committed to serving Him, and I had no reason to think that this congregation was any different.

But as I stood up on the platform (again, I wouldn't have had anything to say if God had not moved), God began moving through me to preach a salvation message.

"Someone must have brought some unsaved loved ones," I thought to myself as I continued to preach the message God had given me. As I preached, every eye in the congregation was trained on me. They watched my every movement, seemed to listen intently to every word.

As I began to drive the message home, it seemed most of the people in the church began leaning forward in their seats.

"Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in thy name? and in thy name have cast out devils? and in thy name done many wonderful works? And then will I profess unto them, I never knew you: depart from me, ye that work iniquity." (Matthew 7:22-23)

I could see tears welling up in many of the congregation members' eyes. I could see husbands looking at their wives, children looking at their parents as if seeking confirmation for what they were feeling in their hearts.

As I closed the sermon, people began weeping openly. As I called the congregation to come to the front to pray and receive Jesus as their Lord, I expected for a few people to come to the front of their own volition. I expected that maybe one or more people would coax a relative nearby to come to the altar to receive Christ.

But what I saw completely amazed me.

By the time God was done in that church, the pastor, his wife and 35 of his congregation members had come to the altar to be born again by the power of God.

I was shocked. I knew right then an important truth that would stick by me until this very day: "...no man can come unto me, except it were given unto him of my Father" (John 6:65)

If God could use an uneducated, brand-new believer to lead people of this caliber to Himself, it was certain and undebatable

God revealed to me then (although not in these exact words): "This is not the work of a man, but the work of the Holy Spirit."

Appearances almost never tell the whole story. In almost any church, large numbers of people may not even know Jesus, but oftentimes, preachers assume everyone is saved, so they don't reach out to those souls. I was so young and inexperienced that God was able to reach those people through the simplicity of my child-like delivery and willingness to do whatever He said.

It seemed like every time I preached, when I gave the altar call for people to meet my Messiah, tears would stream down my cheeks as I wept for a tremendous harvest of souls. I couldn't help thinking of Jesus' indictment of the workers:

"The harvest truly is plenteous, but the labourers are few." (Matthew 9:37)

I wept for those souls who weren't being reached. It seemed my singular goal in life was to reach out to lost and dying souls. I would have rather ministered the Gospel than eat or sleep. It consumed my every thought. Every day, I was thinking of new ways I could spread the good news that had brought me freedom and had introduced me to the Messiah.

But still I resisted the call of God that gently tugged on my heart, that gently called me to surrender to His will for my life: preaching.

I had only been out of the orphanage for six months, but already, God was dealing with me in a tremendous way.

I was in prayer one day at Bethany Assembly of God, when I felt God's hand on my forehead again. I have only felt that hand twice in my life; once when I was baptized in the Holy Spirit, and again this time in prayer.

I had never seen a vision up to that point. I had heard about it, and understood that it happened frequently in the Bible, but I didn't even have any idea what a vision would be like.

In today's world of televisions in every room of the house and instant access to the Internet, it's not hard for many people to imagine what a vision from God should be like. They've had years of movies produced with multi-millions of dollars by imaginative and creative Hollywood directors to shape and mold their idea of what visions and dreams should look like.

I had no such background to shape my perception. Sure, I had seen a movie or two, but I had no indication at all what a vision from God was supposed to look like. I really didn't give it much thought, either. Until this day.

As I felt the hand on my forehead, I again was slain in the Spirit, laying prostrate on the floor.

At first, nothing else happened. I was simply lying on the floor before God for what seemed to be quite a long time.

After a while, a vision began to unfold and assemble itself before my very eyes, as pieces of a puzzle that are miraculously putting themselves together to form a whole.

As the vision assembled, from one end of my field of vision to the other, I saw a beautiful blue sky.

This was not a normal-looking sky, however. Normally, as you look to the sky and the horizon, the sky fades from a darker blue at the top to a lighter blue the closer you get to the horizon. It's a natural result of your vision and the angles at which light is hitting the earth's atmosphere.

But the sky I saw was all one shade of blue. It was completely blue and the deepest, most beautiful blue I had ever seen - it immediately had the feel of something supernatural. No natural sky could ever look so incredible.

I became very nervous and confused. I didn't know what to think of what was going on.

Was I in heaven?

Had I died, and was this what happened before I was taken to heaven?

Was this the Second Coming I had been reading about? Would I soon see Christ come through the sky, and rise up to meet with Him in the air?

My heart was pounding.

But as these and a thousand other thoughts raced through my mind, I knew they could not be what was happening. I knew within myself that I was lying on the floor of Bethany Assembly of God, not up in the air or dead.

I was startled out of my wondering by a flash that brought an image of a multitude of people, all seated in concentric rows, radiating outward from my position as far as the eye could see, people upon people. They flashed before my eyes, one at a time in rapid succession.

Even more amazing, right in the front row, I saw myself sitting with the rest of the multitude of people.

When I saw myself, my brain completely lost contact with my body. I no longer was aware that I was lying on the floor at Bethany Assembly. I no longer felt the church's carpet against the back of my neck. I no longer felt the sweat that was beading down my forehead. I no longer felt the gentle pinching of my sock against my calf. I no longer heard my breathing or felt the breath.

My spirit had been lifted from earth and taken into the heavens.

The sensation is like I had looked into a mirror, and had been sucked into the mirror to become part of the scene I had just seen.

My entire spirit was vibrating with pulses of excitement and awe.

I could hardly believe my eyes, as before me and the incredible crowd of people, the godhead was manifested.

I saw a flaming ball of brightness and glory, about as tall as a man and about two feet wide. I don't know how I knew that this flaming ball represented the glory of God - I just knew. There were no human-like features to it at all. It had no mouth, no hands, no legs, no nose and no eyes.

I began to shake and tremble, just as the people around me did, in the presence of the holiness of God.

To this point, the entire vision had been silent - the tremendous, holy presence of God commanded reverent silence.

The presence of God was brighter than anything I had ever seen. It was ten thousand times brighter than the sun in its radiance. But this incredible, resplendent, brilliant light - as bright as it was - did not hurt my eyes at all. I could look directly at it, and understanding that it was too bright to not leave me blind, I had no worry at all; I knew the light of God would not damage my eyes.

The color was a color I had never seen. It was both a warm and cool color at the same time. It was simply the crystallization of the glory of God. Through the years, I have tried to describe this presence of God, and I have never been able to - my human words have no way of representing what I saw. The best I can say is it was the radiant glory of God, and it illuminated the entire sky and shone everywhere.

While I was sitting in awe of this tremendous glory I was seeing, I lost track of time. I don't know how long I had been there when a tremendous beam of light began to emanate from the right side of the glory of God, much as a person would stretch forth their arm in front of their body.

The light headed toward me as I sat there. I could see that this ray of light was filled with glory. The beam struck my body, and immediately, I was paralyzed by its glory. Every muscle in my entire body seemed to yield. Before I knew what was going on, I was standing.

My mind hadn't told my body to stand up. As far as I know, my leg muscles hadn't moved to lift my body. None of my muscles seemed to be working. I simply found myself standing, without having going through the action of standing up from my sitting position.

My legs began moving, and I began walking toward the light.

I cannot adequately describe the emotions I felt at that time.

I felt completely humble as one cannot feel until he finds himself in the presence of almighty God. Suddenly everything about me was wholly overshadowed by the presence of the One I was approaching. Everything about Him seemed so much higher, so much cleaner, so much holier, that I could do nothing but reflect in myself that God is indeed holy - I had a brand-new understanding of that word, holy. I understood that even the presence of shoes on top of ground that Holiness is standing on is an affront to the Holiness.

I suddenly knew how Moses must have felt when God, in the bush that was burning but was not consumed, commanded him to take his shoes off, because he was on holy ground.

How could something made by man, like shoes, even dare to appear in the presence of a God whose creative power was so much higher? His holiness demanded that the feet He had created walk the ground in His presence.

My body was still walking me toward the presence of God - the presence of the triune Godhead; the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.

I walked until I stood about an arm's length from the Presence of God - this brilliant light that outshone the sun in its radiance. Everything was still silent.

Every fiber of my being was in complete ecstasy. Every cell, every molecule, every atom seemed to be rejoicing to be standing in the presence of the holy Creator of all things. I felt completely and utterly full of the glory of God. I could not imagine ever receiving any more and living to tell about it. My entire being was on fire with the glory of the living God. I was completely overwhelmed.

Just then, the presence of God that had been no more than an arm's length away from me moved about a foot away from Its previous location, a foot further away from me.

I had just been reflecting on the tremendous blessing that God had drawn me so close to His presence. I was just rejoicing in the nearness I felt to God, but now He had moved away. I could not understand why He would draw me so close to only move away from me.

But I didn't have very much time to dwell on my disappointment that He had moved away.

My eyes were drawn to where the Presence of God had been standing.

Where He had moved away, there were two footprints. It looked just as if someone had cut two footprint-shaped holes in a giant cheesecake upon which I was standing.

I looked through those footprints, and what I saw changed the course of my life forever.

As I looked through those footprints, I saw the very flames of hell licking upward toward where I was. It is surely one of the most unusual things anyone could ever experience to be standing in the holy presence of the living God and to be looking at the same time into the pit of hell.

I had never imagined that such torment could exist.

The flesh of the people seemed to be on fire, but they were not burned up. They were continually scorched by the red-hot flames, but they were never consumed.

There seemed to be no relief. No matter where the people were, the flames seemed to burn them equally. Every inch of every person's body was engulfed in the flames continually.

The horror in their eyes was uniform in every person I saw. They were the eyes of people who knew there was no escape from the utter damnation they were experiencing; people who knew they would never have relief, never again have a moment's peace from pain more intense than any they had felt when they were alive.

The pit seemed to go on forever, lined with people who were tormented by the flames.

As they were burned, the multitude - I could see thousands upon thousands of people - were screaming out for mercy. Children were crying out to their parents that they would obey now if they could only have a second chance.

Others were crying out, hoping futilely that the prayers of their loved ones would rescue them.

Backsliders were crying out for another chance to serve God.

Adulterers were crying out that they would now be faithful.

Fathers were screaming that they would raise their children right, in the knowledge of the Lord.

Ministers were crying out that they would preach the Gospel now if they could only have a chance.

Some were screaming at others, asking why they had not told them of the Gospel and salvation.

Others were just screaming. Screaming in pain and horror. Screaming in sadness and grief. I had seen people grieving at funerals before, but the people above the ground were not grieving even the tiniest percentage as much as these people who were below it, their flesh constantly torched with undying flame.

Many people were screaming through clenched teeth as they gnashed them together against the pain, to no avail. In this pit, there was no death to end the pain, no morning to end the nightmare, no water to quench the fire.

Through all the cries, the same voice was heard: anguish. All were reaching their hands upward, seeking someone to come and pull them out of the flames.

But no one answered their cries.

My heart was moved with compassion beyond anything I have ever felt. How would people be saved from such a tremendously hideous fate if no one would tell them of the saving love of Jesus?

It was then that the scripture came to life to me: "How then shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? and how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher?" (Romans 10:14)

I was presented with a choice.

I could serve as a friend and advocate for people as a Christian lawyer, representing them in temporal matters before earthly judges and eventually as the governor of New Jersey.

Or I could serve as the messenger for the true Advocate, Jesus Christ, who came to represent them in eternal matters before the Judge of all things.

My reaction was instantaneous. When God had presented me with this tremendous vision of the ultimate end of sinners, I did not hesitate. I knew what I had to do.

I stepped over and put my feet in the footprints the presence of God had left when He stepped away.

To my complete astonishment, my feet fit the footprints perfectly.

I realized that God had called me to this vision for a specific purpose, to "... make up the hedge, and stand in the gap..." (Ezekiel 22:30)

God had called me to surrender completely to His will, to dedicate my life to fulfilling the purpose for which He had called me. As a result, my life - dedicated to and directed by Him - would make a difference for thousands and thousands of souls who otherwise may never walk through the gates of glory.

But how could I, a 15-year-old Jewish orphan boy, hope to reach so many people?

How would I possibly make a difference in their lives? I had no formal training, I didn't understand why God would want me. I began to get nervous and fear that I would be inadequate to the task God had called me to do.

No sooner had I made the decision to surrender than I felt a warmth all over my body. I turned around, and the presence of God was right next to me, right by my side; I had moved closer when I had stepped in His footprints.

The ray that had emanated from the presence of God and drawn me to Him was now engulfing me, glowing all around my shoulders.

Immediately, all my fear and nervousness fell away. I felt strength flow into my body. I felt power from God strengthen me completely.

Until this point, the brilliant light that was the presence of God had spoken nothing.

But now, the voice of a man, kind, gentle, young and full of gentle authority, spoke from the light. It was a voice that sent waves of glory all over my body. It was the richest, most comforting voice I had ever heard. The words were not in English - they were in a language I had never heard, but I understood them in English:

"My son, arise, shine, for thy light is come and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee. Thou shalt not be afraid, for thou shalt not stand in thine own strength; neither shall thou stand in thine own place, but you shall stand in the place I have made for thee and My strength shall uphold and guard thee."

Then with a tremendously powerful force, the glorious presence of God began to shoot forth rays of bright light and glory over the heads of the sea of humanity that were gathered.

Once again, He spoke to me: "When you see My glory in the midst of My people, know then that I am there in the midst to bless you as you minister to My people."

And then, as suddenly as it had started, the vision was over.

I again was lying on the floor of Bethany Assembly of God. I began to praise God for the call he had just demonstrated so powerfully in my life.

From that point forward, my life changed. Though I had been preaching before this vision, I had never preached like I soon would.

From that point forward, my life was dedicated to keeping more souls from entering that fiery eternal grave.

The vision was still vivid in my memory, and every day, it drove me to reach out more fervently to the souls who were crying for help all over the world.

But I hadn't seen anything yet.

I spent as much time with him as I could, like a sponge, soaking up all the knowledge he released.

I would ask him all the questions that came to my mind.

We spoke on subjects ranging from sin to heaven, from dedication to tithing to faithfulness and evangelism. Dr. Nikolof, like me, had a tremendous heart for souls. He originally came from Russia, so he understood the need overseas firsthand, but he also understood the need right in his own neighborhood.

He was a minister of tremendous integrity, and I grew to love and respect him very deeply.

When I was almost 17 years old, Dr. Nikolof and I were nearly inseparable. Every chance I could, I spent time with him, he and I discussing the Bible and the church. The Bible college moved from North Bergen, New Jersey, to Suffern, in upstate New York.

One day, during one of our long conversations, almost out of the blue, Dr. Nikolof asked me to speak at a chapel service at the Bible college.

I was always glad to minister, but it was a bit intimidating, speaking in front of a group of Bible students who were in classes to become ministers day in and day out.

But I loved and respected Dr. Nikolof very much, and so I agreed.

When the day came, I was still a bit nervous, but I spent a very long time in prayer with God before the service, as my practice had become. I remembered vividly God's words to me in the vision I had had when I was 15: "When you see My glory in the midst of My people, know then that I am there in the midst to bless you as you minister to My people."

It immediately had become my practice to pray and worship God until I saw His glory - until I was sure that it was Him, not me, ministering to the people.

This morning was no different.

Once I was sure God's glory was in the place, and that God was there to bless the people, I walked up to the pulpit and delivered my message to the Bible college students.

When the service was over, Dr. Nikolof invited me to eat lunch with him. As we entered the cafeteria, the table was already set up, with plates, knives and forks at each setting.

I sat down, and soon found myself sitting next to the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

During the meal, we talked very little, but I did learn that her name was Theresa LePari. I knew right then that this was the girl I would spend the rest of my life with.

I've never been shy, so after the meal, I called Theresa into the hallway with me because I had something I wanted to say to her.

There's no telling what was going through her mind at the time. I had never laid eyes on her before; this was the first time she had met me. Doubtlessly, she was wondering what I could possibly have to say to her in the hallway.

My heart was pounding, but I've never been one to mince words, so I just blurted it out: "I want to tell you something before I leave this Bible college. One day, I'm coming back here, and I just want you to know that I'm going to marry you."

Her reaction was not exactly what I had hoped for or envisioned.

I had hoped she would be swept off her feet and rejoice at the news that I was going to marry her.

Her reaction was a bit less encouraging, though.

Theresa's eyes got about as big as grapefruits. Her mouth formed a big "O" as her jaw dropped. She threw her hands on top of her head, slammed her eyes shut and screamed.

She whirled around like a spinning top, and still screaming, ran away as fast as her legs could carry her.

You would figure a move like that would discourage the most persistent of suitors, but I was not in the least bit deterred.

I went home to the Maurers' house, and as soon as I opened the door, I told the Maurers, "Today, I saw the young lady I'm going to marry."

They didn't react quite as surprised as Theresa did, but I could tell they were not convinced. I wasn't worried, though. I knew I would marry her, and that was settled.

In fact, Theresa was one of the main reasons I decided to go to Bible college that September. I also wanted to learn more from Dr. Nikolof, but still, Theresa was a the reason.

At the time, she was engaged to another boy, who ended up being my roommate at the college.

But I didn't see Theresa for the entire summer after I had made my surprise announcement to her. I thought of her often, but I didn't pursue her yet; I knew everything would work out in God's timing.

In fact, Theresa, although she was engaged to my roommate, was beginning to have second thoughts about her relationship with him.

As I found out later, Theresa's entire life is wrapped up in pleasing God. She wants everything God has for her, and nothing God doesn't have for her. I have never met a more dedicated woman in my entire life.

Her parents were not crazy about the idea of her marrying this other boy, and their opinions had always mattered a lot to the young Bible school student, but more importantly, Theresa began to feel in prayer like she was making a mistake.

Unwilling to do anything out of the will of God, Theresa placed a fleece before God.

"God," she had told the Lord, "If I am not supposed to marry this boy, please have him write a letter telling me we should separate for a while."

Much to her surprise, a few days later, he had called her on the telephone, panicking.

"Theresa," he said to her. "I sent you a letter the other day, I don't even know what I was thinking when I wrote it. I didn't realize what I had done until I had already closed the envelope and put on the stamp and mailed it. Please, when you get the letter, don't read it."

"I can't do that," Theresa told him. "I asked God to have you write that letter. I think we should separate for a while, and see what God does."

After a time, the boy grudgingly agreed, and he left the Bible college Theresa and I were attending, and he began attending Central Bible College in Springfield, Missouri.

By the time six months had passed, the two had grown apart, and Theresa knew he was not the man God had for her to marry.

I knew some of the story at the time, but I didn't immediately begin courting Theresa. I knew God would work in His time, and I was in no rush.

Those were different days; boys and girls didn't just go out on dates, they spent time together in the worship of God and the reading of His Word.

By the time I was ready to begin courting Theresa, I knew the way to her was through her mother. Theresa loved and respected her mother, and I had a great deal of respect for her, too.

I called one day, and before Theresa could object, her mother had invited me over to the house.

When I arrived, I had a fistful of flowers in one hand and the other hand was full of a box of candy. But if Theresa thought those goodies were for her, she had another thing coming. I had brought them for her mother, who fixed a large meal of spaghetti that was some of the best food I ate while I was in college.

To this day, every once in awhile, Theresa teases me about how her mother got candy and flowers and she got nothing.

Theresa worked at the kitchen in the college, and one day, I was assigned kitchen duties.

In between washing dishes and cleaning tables, Theresa and I began to talk. Talking eventually led to courtship.

I studied very hard at the college during the week, and worked odd jobs during the evenings and weekends to earn money for necessities like socks and toothpaste.

I became the pitcher for the college's softball team. But as far as I'm concerned, "softball" is a misnomer. Those balls are anything but soft.

During one game, I delivered a pitch like I always did. The guy I was pitching to was huge - he was 6-foot-2 and looked like he spent a lot of time at the gym

The ball I pitched apparently was perfect - perfect for him to give it a good whack and drive it right into my face.

I had just turned my head a bit, and the ball slammed into my head like a freight train. All I remember is a burst of light, and then I was out like a light.

Students rushed to me and took me to the hospital.

Doctors didn't like what they saw there. My mouth was hanging open, and blood was everywhere.

The ball had broken my jaw in two places, and it had splintered my cheekbone.

The time was 1949, and the doctor told me he would not be able to fix my jaw completely. In these days of modern reconstructive surgery, such a thing is almost unthinkable. It seems like a small thing for doctors to reconstruct a bone, augmenting it with high-tech compounds, molding it with high-tech computers and setting it to perfection.

But this was 1949, not today. The doctor said he was almost certain I would never be able to speak or preach with a normal movement in my jaw.

He had to send to New Jersey for a brace to put on my jaw to hold my mouth shut for