We evangelicals have become a nation of fun junkies, always looking to add creature comforts to our environments. If anything would cure us, it’s a trip to an oppressed country.
More than twenty years ago, before the fall of Communism and the assassination of dictator Nicolae Ceausescu, I traveled to Romania with evangelist Sammy Tippit. The trip was an eye-opener.
The regime allowed Christians to meet together but considered their religion an opiate and restricted the peddling of their drug. Outside speakers were not allowed. So when it came time for the American evangelist to speak, knowing full well the meeting had been infiltrated by informants, the pastor asked who had come the farthest for the service.
Several volunteered that they had come from between twenty and fifty kilometers away. Finally the pastor recognized Sammy’s raised hand. “Who are you and how far did you travel?”
“Sammy Tippit, and I am here from San Antonio, Texas.”
“Oh, you win! You must bring us a greeting from the United States.”
And so Sammy brought a forty-five minute greeting.
I found it interesting that the people displayed a deep joy but also a deep sense of sadness and frustration with daily life. God used Sammy’s powerful preaching to bring several to Christ.
The local pastor was a weary laborer known for defending the rights of the citizens against the senseless harassment of the secret police.
I asked him if the people in his congregation were happy. He seemed to struggle with the concept. Happiness was not a goal, he said, and not obtainable anyway. Joy was expressed in a smile and a greeting of “peace” (pronounced PAH-chey) between believers.
Poignant truth from the pulpit elicited weeping. Happiness was not an issue, he concluded.
This is a land where people stood in line for a kilo of beef per month. That’s just 2.2 pounds. Think of it. How long would your family last on the equivalent of a half pound of butter a month? A decent salary approximated $250 a month. Only one in ten wage earners owned a car, but all the cars were identical except for color.
Virtually everyone lived in cramped apartments, short of money, short of food, bereft of mobility (should you even own a car, you could go as far as 10 liters of fuel would take you each month). Power was conserved. Streets were dark. Buildings cold and colorless. Depressing.
Oppressive.
Any Romanian who spoke with a foreigner had to report details to the secret police: name, date, subject matter. Outsiders were followed, their Romanian contacts interrogated. Our brief meeting with one pastor in his home was interrupted by a phone call from the secret police. He was required to come in immediately and report on his visitors.
Still, more than three thousand packed one sanctuary where Sammy spoke. They jammed every pew, every aisle, every corridor, every room in the darkness. They stood for two hours, eyes shining, faces expectant. Full of joy.
Fire marshals in the U.S. would never have allowed such a gathering. The secret police in Romania couldn't stop it.
Two years later the Berlin Wall came down, Communism fell, the Iron Curtain was shredded, and Romania was changed forever.
