“OK, OK. But when?”
“OK, OK. But when?”
“About three hours from now. Hurry; go and get something prepared. And I’ll be praying for you!”
Somewhat confused, I rushed back to my room and put my pen to paper in that hot, sparsely furnished school dorm. Sweating profusely as I wrote on a piece of paper, I muttered to myself, “How did I get into this embarrassing situation?”
At the appointed time, folding that paper into my Bible and putting on a neatly pressed white shirt and trousers to match, I hurried over to the tent where the contest was soon to take place. As I arrived, I saw the rest of the contestants in different stages of preparation. I went directly to the front table, where I was handed a brand-new Bible and concordance. “What’s this for?” I asked.
“The rules are, you can’t use your own Bible,” I was told.
“OK, then let me at least take my notes out of my Bible.”
“No, you can’t do that. We give you the topic. Then you have thirty minutes to prepare and ten minutes to preach.”
“You’re kidding me!” I gasped.
“No. Those are the rules, and you’d better hurry or you won’t have the time you need.”
There were two hats containing prewritten topics. I dipped into one and opened it. It read, “Elijah.”
“What’s this?” I asked.
“You have selected the Old Testament character Elijah. Now go and prepare a talk on him.”
I was on the verge of tears. “I don’t know a thing about who this man is.” My voice faltered as I spoke.
“Then pick from the other hat. You are given a choice of a character or a theme.”
I dipped into the hat. “The Love of God,” it read. I breathed a sigh of relief, for it had been the story of my life. The love of God pursuing a derelict, lost young man!
“You have thirty minutes to prepare your sermon.”
I just put my head down and starting writing without looking up. After twenty-five minutes, I felt that what I’d written was pretty close to what I wanted to say. I hurried back to the tent, where all of the contestants were being introduced.
There was quite a buzz in the audience, and I recognized most of the judges as they took their seats on the panel. One was Jay Kesler, who later became president of Youth for Christ. There was also Don Ingram, the YFC director for Detroit, and Sam Kamalesan, who was probably the best-known Indian Christian at that time. Sam was a great singer who had a deep baritone voice, a powerful preacher of international fame, and pastor of the Emmanuel Methodist church in Madras.
Sitting next to them were others I recognized because they were the speakers for the week. The whole thing was nerve-racking.
I would be almost the last one to preach. One by one, young people stood and delivered their messages, each putting his or her own convictions and style on the theme. Some were stirring, but one girl in particular stood out. It was clear to everyone that she was the frontrunner. Finally my turn came.
Nervous, but excited as well, I stood up and began my message. At first I could hear myself talking rapidly, spitting out my words at a breakneck pace. But once I calmed a bit, the sermon seemed effortless. The thoughts I had scrambled to write down only minutes before came to me easily, so much so that the time allotment flew by.
Once I finished, my buddies gathered around, wide-eyed: “Ravi, we’re proud of you.” “That was a moving sermon.” “God’s hand was on you.” Fred David was like a bigger brother with his arm around me: “The Lord had a purpose in this man! Thanks for your courage. God will honor you.” I didn’t know enough to be hopeful. The only thing I knew for sure was the peace I’d had as I preached.
Three days later came the announcement. “We have a winner,” the judges declared, and the tent grew quiet. Everyone expected the girl to win, and I was so used to losing in my earlier days that it was no big deal to me now to hear some other name announced. And so the verdict came: They announced a young woman’s name, and the place erupted with applause. I stood on my chair and cheered with the Indian flag, because she was from India.
But the head judge raised his hand to ask for silence. As the cheering died down, another announcement came: “Actually, we have a tie — there is a tie. We have another winner.”
You could have heard a pin drop in that tent. Then —
“It is Ravi Zacharias.”
My buddies went crazy. I was numb — utterly numb — and overcome with emotion. “I cannot believe what I am hearing,” I whispered to myself.
I found out about the judging years later. The panel had been ready to give the prize to the girl when Sam Kamalesan spoke up. “I think,” he suggested to the others, “we are seeing a young man today whom God has put his hand on. Yes, it’s a tough call, and they are both outstanding young people. Let us make them equal winners and have them preach again.”
This time the subject given to me was “the cross of Jesus Christ.” I could not have asked for a more appropriate theme. This was no longer a competition to me; it was the proclamation of the most important message on the face of the earth — the message that in Jesus we have the offer of forgiveness, and the payment of the ultimate price for our lives to be restored to God.
At the end of that sermon, young people streamed forward to make their own commitments. Yes, they awarded me the prize — but it had lost its accolade in the light of the greater message that we could all be winners in Jesus if we received him into our lives by faith and with sincerity. And, yes, I would have been just as much at peace if the young woman had received the prize. With grace and generosity, she came and congratulated me.
As I look back, I don’t know how Sam Kamalesan might have discerned my calling, or how the others might have been influenced by his insight. But their decision that day was a huge turning point in my life, the significance of which none of them — nor I — could have known.
Back home in Delhi, Sunder learned of what had happened. Ever since, he has joked, “I did you a great favor by not showing up.” He did, but of course it was God’s move, not ours. I had been the first one to be disappointed when we learned Sunder couldn’t preach that day. Yet in a profound way, my best friend gave me the greatest opportunity I ever had. Had he not been prevented from coming to Hyderabad, I never would have preached, much less been considered for a prize.
That same year, an American teen preaching team came to India, led by a man named Jim Groen, who eventually would become director of YFC International. My buddies and I were so touched as we listened to those young Americans preach that we were inspired to do something similar.
“We need something like this in India,” I told Fred David. “And it should come from within India. Young people from here need to be ministering to the young people here. I’d love to set up an Indian teen preaching team.”
“Great idea,” Fred agreed. But there was the question of funds. How could we raise the money?
Once again, I pulled a chair up to Fred’s beat-up typewriter and wrote to everyone I could think of: missionaries, YFC workers who had once worked in India, American and English people whom I knew, Indian businesspeople who loved the Youth for Christ ministry.
Within a couple of weeks, the first gift came in — from a man named Brian Reeves in London. He sent ten pounds, giving us about 1/25th of what we needed. Other gifts soon followed: ten dollars, fifteen dollars, twenty dollars. When the time came for our first trip in December of 1965, my letter had raised the entire budget for our team, with nothing to spare.
We called ourselves the “First Indian Teen Team.” Fred was going to lead the group, which included Sunder and me, who would do the preaching, and my two sisters (Sham and Prem), who would do the singing, accompanied by Fred and Sunder on accordions, my soft whistling in the background, and Kenny Gnanakan on the guitar. Kenny had volunteered to go with us to provide music on his guitar, although he said he didn’t know any Christian songs. When we probed further, we discovered he did know the old Christian folk song “Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore,” so he decided to play it wherever we went.
There was still an obstacle I had to overcome before going, and it was a big one. I had to get time off from classes at the Institute of Hotel Management. That was unheard of, even without considering the purpose for my request.
The principal of the Institute was an Englishman, Mr. Alex Simms, who at one time had been the manager of the Savoy Hotel in London. I knew he had a nasty reputation, but I was determined to be absolutely straightforward with him when I went to his office to request the days off.
“Mr. Simms,” I said, “I have a dream that’s coming true. I’m going to be a preacher on a team of five.” I told him the four cities where we planned to go and the sorts of speaking engagements we were going to have. Then I made my plea: “I need a week off from classes.”
My words were met with stony silence.
“Sir, if I had a letter from you,” I continued, “I know that all my teachers would agree to give me the time off. I promise to make up all of the work. In fact, I would ask you to request the assignments from my professors.”
Mr. Simms leaned back in his chair.
“Zacharias” — he always addressed students by their last name — “I’ve always been proud of you as a student here, with your honored accomplishments academically and your brilliance with the cricket team and all of that. I will grant you permission,” he said, “but I will hold you to everything you say you’re going to do. And if you don’t do it, you’re going to answer to me.”
I could barely believe what I’d just heard. It’s going to happen! As I walked out of Mr. Simms’ office, I could have jumped and clicked my heels in midair.
It was no secret to my teachers and classmates why I was taking the time off from school. Yet they all celebrated with me. Even my Hindu buddies were happy for me, shouting, “Good luck, Zach. Have a great week!”
We did it all on a shoestring budget, traveling across the country on trains by third class (which was the lowest class). We hit four cities by train — Delhi, Calcutta, Hyderabad, and Madras — staying in people’s homes and eating whatever they served. Sunder and I traded off preaching at the various events, deciding whose turn it would be according to whose style best suited the audience.
One of my first sermons was in Madras at Emmanuel Methodist Church. Sitting in the audience that day was Sam Kamalesan, the senior pastor who had graciously invited the team to host the service and me to preach. His presence did not make it easy. But we had a great service, and Sam became one of my true heroes.
Yet even more challenging would be my next engagement — to preach at Madras Christian College. In the school’s eyes, I had credentials because of my family’s history there, but our team had been warned that it was going to be one tough crowd. I sensed it even before I stepped behind the pulpit. As I began speaking, a slow handclap was started by some, trying to silence me. I decided to just keep going. Soon the clapping died down, and I got the feeling that people were actually listening to me. It turned out I was right: when I gave the invitation at the end, the response was overwhelming — nearly one hundred in that audience of just over two hundred people responded to the invitation to turn their lives over to Christ.
It was an amazing ten-day trip, with Sunder and me preaching and Kenny and my sisters drawing in crowds with their music. And when it was over, hundreds of people had committed their lives to Christ. I realized I had preached twenty-nine times, from only five sermons I had written out to bring along.
Coming home on the train, however, I was struck by a strange feeling. I realized that during the trip, what I had to say was what people had wanted to listen to. Our team and our message had actually attracted crowds — and I found that unnerving. Through it all, I wasn’t sure of myself, but I was very sure of my message.
The sensation wasn’t so much a matter of ego but the fact that it was simply incredibly and unnervingly new to me — going from being nothing, a nobody, to being listened to by so many in different walks of life. Yet I couldn’t quite be sure what was happening both in me and through me. I knew who I was in Christ because of my conversion, but in terms of my preaching, I was completely in the dark. It was all too new and too beautiful to fully absorb.
We all were saddened when John Teibe announced that he and Anne were moving back to Canada. The Teibes had spent nine years in India as missionaries with Youth for Christ. Now, John said, it was time for them to go back home.
On his last day in India, John took me to dinner. As I look back on it now, I think about all the things he had to take care of before departing, all the things that must have been running through his mind. But none of that ever came across in his time with me that evening. He took me to one of Delhi’s favorite restaurants, Moti Mahal, famous for its tandoori chicken. And at one point, between bites of the three chickens we devoured (Indian chickens are small!), John said something curious to me: “I want you to know, your life is going to go one of two ways.”
This took me somewhat aback.
“I believe that you either will make a very profound impact with your life and God will use you mightily,” he said, “or you will be a colossal wreck.”
It was a sobering thought — and quite an astonishing thing for someone to tell a teenager. But I know now exactly what John was saying. He was nervous because he couldn’t see a place for me to continue to grow beyond my formative years at YFC. He knew that it wasn’t the church so much that had spawned my growth as it was the Youth for Christ environment. John had seen all of us grow up fast in two years’ time, but now, as we faced another stage of life, he wouldn’t be around to guide us.
Most churches simply didn’t give young people the kinds of opportunities we had been handed. First of all, it wasn’t customary to allow teenagers to deliver sermons. Those opportunities came to us for one reason — the extraordinary men who led Youth for Christ. YFC had offered me a sequence of opportunities that were absolutely key at that crucial point in my life: Bible studies, youth rallies, camp, Youth Congress, and chances to share my faith. If it weren’t for YFC and the men of giant character who devoted themselves to our growth, my friends and I would not have been rescued. Fred David and John Teibe invested in us everything they had.
After the humiliation of my suicide attempt, no one had ever sat down with me and said, “You’ve got something going for you. Can I help you reach it?” Fred and John were the first ones to help me see my way in the light. My mother had always supported me through everything — loving me, embracing me, and looking after me. But these men added the words to her touch. They saw something in me, and they not only encouraged it; they worked hard to see it come to fruition.
Much has come from their labors in Delhi in that short time. After being trained by John Teibe, Victor Manogaram, an Indian national, the humble man who was instrumental in Sunder’s conversion, eventually became director of Youth for Christ in Asia. Kenny Gnanakan, the incredible musician, went on to study theology in Australia. He and I remain friends, and today Ken is the director of International Needs, an important work that trains Christians for careers in trades, farming, and other vocations. Sunder has become the pastor of a large church in Toronto, Canada.
In later years, John Teibe and I have often talked about the brief time we had together in Delhi. All in all, it was only two years, and he marvels now at what the Lord did in so short a span. “I wouldn’t know what to do to regain that kind of impact for Youth for Christ,” he says. We agree it will take someone who can cross both cultures — East and West — to capture the minds and imaginations of Eastern young people.
Saturdays at the college were when we did all our baking, and on this particular day our class had baked some fresh dinner rolls and topped them off with a sweet buttery glaze. I also had made some tomato soup from a recipe I devised, and that afternoon I went by the kitchen to pick up some of the goods. I was taking them home to my family.
It was a beautiful day, and I spent the wonderful half-hour bike ride home navigating the weekend traffic. As I pulled up to the front gate of our home, my parents were out in the front yard. They were delighted as I held up the bag of food, and they came over to the gate where I stood, my mother calling for the cook to come and take the food inside and to serve the fresh rolls with tea.
We talked for the longest time as I leaned against my bike and they sat on the lawn furniture. We bit into the rolls I had made, fresh from the oven and enhanced with a touch of butter and homemade jam, and sipped on the tea as we enjoyed the glorious spring weather and the jasmine flowers in the background. We chatted as parents and son, indeed, as friends. I remember that day as one of immense delight in my heart, as I marveled at the deep pleasure of being right with all around me, chatting so casually and openly with both my mother and father. I had never dreamed of the day I would be in this setting, where both my parents were proud of everything that was happening in my life. I will never forget the look of utter fulfillment on their faces.
I think my father knew I had found my niche. Yet I would tell you the smile on that tough man’s face wasn’t just from a sense of satisfaction over my career path. He was reveling at the change he had seen in my life. It was a true change.
I know my dad could not have envisioned anything greater. And I believe such times were crucial in moving him forward on his own journey — although he would have one more major hurdle to cross in the years ahead.