The angry Sixties were troubled times. In the San Francisco Bay Area, Jerry Rubin, Abbie Hoffman and other radicals conducted mass rallies at the University of California at Berkeley. Like slaughterhouse sheep following the “Judas-goat,” hundreds gathered to imbibe socialism and anarchy. The students were called on to rise against every form of authority (except the leaders of the movement, of course). On many occasions, they were incited to violence.
Amid this troubled sea, stood a fiery-tongued evangelist named Hubert Lindsey. This voice crying in the moral wilderness often drew an even larger crowd than the anarchists. Then Governor Ronald Reagan was quoted as saying that Hubert Lindsey had saved the taxpayers of California ten million dollars in riot control.
The man nicknamed “Holy Hubert” was confrontational and controversal. Having memorized the entire New Testament, his message was often filled with Bible references. As he warned young people to turn from their wicked ways to Christ, he became the object of verbal and physical abuse. When those who opposed him realized how serious a hindrance he was, they beat him to unconsciousness. In those years of violent protest, Lindsey received a dozen such beatings. But his love for the unsaved never waned. He labored for the lost at Berkeley for more than eight years. When times were roughest on campus, it is said that Governor Reagan asked his staff to pray for “Holy Hubert.” No doubt the prayers of Bay Area Christians sustained him during those difficult days.
One student from that period says: “As a hippie, I often saw Holy Hubert surrounded by a group of hostile radicals who were making comments and shooting questions with the rapidity of a machine gun. He always had an answer. One day, a long-haired student pushed his way from the outer perimeter of a large crowd and screamed at Hubert: ‘It takes an idiot to be a Christian. It takes an idiot to be a Christian!’
“‘You qualify! You qualify!’ Holy Hubert responded.
“Holy Hubert’s replies had the effect of silencing the hecklers and calming the crowd so God’s message could go forth. I stood on the outskirts listening attentively but did not mock or even ask any questions. The preacher’s knowledge of the Scriptures and his control of the belligerent crowd was impressive. I never imagined that, after my conversion, five years later, I’d be doing the same thing.”
From that period, a number of open-air campus preachers rose to the challenge, most of them quite eccentric. Bob Engle (Bobby Bible), Harvey Baldwin (Jeremiah Christian), and Paul Mitchell started preaching on campus about the same time. They come on campus, raising banners high: READ THE BIBLE BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE, and JESUS SAVES FROM HELL. These colorful banners quickly draw the attention of a crowd. They regularly preach throughout the afternoon.
Perhaps the most notorious campus preachers are Jed and Cindy Smock, who have preached on more than six hundred campuses in the last fifteen years. They have spoken to crowds as large as three thousand in the open air and have had the dubious distinction of having their pictures on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine. They preach long on judgment and hold a holiness doctrine similar to that taught by Charles Finney.
But for the more serious mind, there is a campus preacher, named Cliffe Kneckle, who has worked for years under the auspices of Intervarsity Christian Fellowship. He has earned the respect of thousands of godly believers.
Many Christians cannot endorse the outrageous statements of men like Jed Smock, and therefore discount all campus open-air work. This is a mistake. Though not many, there are some faithful, sound, and steady men who are seeing fruit that remains. Presently the campuses of North America have a degree of openness seldom found elsewhere in our society. May this open door be used for the sake of the Gospel.