Compiled from his own personal recollections and taped sermons, especially "Saved from Infidelity" and "Watching Men Die," Barnard's Sermon Notes, and from correspondence with his daughter, Mrs. R. C. Moser, of Clemmons, North Carolina I well recall when Rolfe Barnard first came to my hometown, Ashland, Kentucky. It was the spring of 1950. I was a teenage boy and attended, along with my mother, younger sister and brother, a large Baptist Church. It was one of the most influential churches in Eastern Kentucky with a membership of about 1,000. Some way, I do not recall how, they scheduled Rolfe Barnard to come and speak. In those days evangelistic services were conducted annually, sometimes more often. They were known as "revival meetings." Some of the most prominent evangelists in America came to our church. Evangelistic services were extravaganzas: there was almost a "show biz" atmosphere. They featured fancy musicians, former boxers, convicts and entertainers as speakers, and all kinds of gimmicks and goodies for the youth. Aeroplane rides were offered for those who brought enough people to church and there were rewards for those who induced others to walk down the church aisles after the sermons. It was the big boom and everyone seemed to enjoy it.
I do not recall there being much permanent good effect of these "revivals." After all the excitement died down, people usually went about their sinful ways of living as before.Like all the guest-evangelists who came, the picture of Barnard was placed on posters and nailed all over town. Beneath his picture was an interesting slogan. It said, "The evangelist who is different." Exactly what was different about him the posters did not say. The man looked to be in his late forties. The only thing noticeably different about his appearance was that he came across as somewhat sombre–there was a slighly menacing look on his face. Normally, evangelists had broad smiles and shining faces advertising the jolly good fellows they were. After a few sermons in the church, folk knew just how different Rolfe Barnard was from the evangelists who had visited the church before. There was none of the flashy demeanor, but a grave and dignified bearing like one who had been sent on a mission. One soon got the impression that he was not there to whip up religious excitement, but to deliver a message from God.
The message was as startling as it was different. It centered around the character of God, a God about whom most had never heard before. The deity most were acquainted with was a nice sort of fellow who did his best to save people, but was often frustrated in the attempt. Many times I have heard preachers say, "God has done all He can for you, now it is up to you." I used to listen with astonishment to this statement, for I wondered why I should seek help from a being who could not help me. Barnard, on the other hand, preached a God Who was sovereign and omnipotent, One Who dispensed His mercy according to His own discretion. He preached that sinners were not to come to God with the idea of helping Him out of His dilemma, but they were to come as guilty sinners, suing for mercy. He exalted the holiness of God and the strictness of His Law. This, you can be sure, was different. Rumors began to spread all over town that a Calvinist had come to Ashland. Some reacted with amazement, some with confusion, others with down-right anger. But a small group rejoiced and said, "We have been wanting to hear this for years." My father, who believed in the doctrines of grace, started attending the services and announced to all of us that there was one at the church preaching the theology in which he believed.
The pastor, after much heart-searching and Bible study, came to believe in the doctrines of grace as a result of this meeting, and invited Barnard back in the summer of 1951 to hold a tent meeting in a large park downtown. In the intervening months a division developed over the so-called "five points" of Calvinism with the majority becoming more hostile. The pastor was a very talented and gracious man with a winsome personality, and he tried to woo as many as possible to the "new" view, but most stiffened and gave him trouble. The church had a very active youth group, including a choir. I was a member of this choir and also sang in a quartet with others about my age. I had been baptized at the age of 12, but was utterly without any vital relationship with God in my life. There was in fact a terrible, aching void in my heart which I could not understand. Still, I did not even want to consider that I was not a Christian. The two-week meeting in the park was a memorable event. The crowds were fairly large, considering the type of preaching which was sounding out. Barnard boldly preached the Gospel as he understood it, often denouncing the superficiality of modern religion. We were all fascinated with his style, though he seemed awfully stern and rough. Plain truths of the Word of God were set forth, even the harshest, in their naked reality. One of his favorite texts was "God will have mercy upon whom He will have mercy," Romans 9:15.
Shortly after the meetings started, there began to be a breaking up. Many, mostly adults, began to go forward after the messages and state publicly that they were lost and wanted prayer. These, and others who sat trembling in the audience, were under "conviction of sin." The amazing thing is that most of them were church members. I remember one night the piano stopped playing during the invitation and the pianist went to the front seat and sat down sobbing. We all knew she meant that she wanted to be saved. Prominent church leaders such as deacons, Sunday School teachers, and youth workers began to acknowledge that they had been false professors or deceived about their state before God. Our male quartet was singing each night under the big tent, and as it turned out later, not one of us was converted at that time. One night Don, one of the members of the quartet, went to the front where the pastor and evangelist were standing and asked for prayer. It was announced that he was lost and needed Christ.
It was at this point that I became involved in the picture. God was about to set me straight.
At that time I had the notion that anyone who had any religious feelings such as "seeking after God" was a true Christian. I misunderstood the text in Romans which says that there is none that seeketh after God (Romans 3:11). At any rate, it rankled me somewhat that my friend had been disturbed by the evangelist. At this very time my own soul was torn asunder because I had no real assurance of salvation, but I had a reputation of being a young theologian who believed in Calvinistic doctrine. I thought this would be a good time for me to show my skill in counselling and to help my friend who was in trouble.I went to the front of the tent where Barnard and the pastor were talking to Don. Butting in like the immature, upstart youth I was, I said to him, "Don, you do not need to worry. You are seeking God. The lost man does not seek God. Therefore you have the life of God in you, you are saved," or words to that effect. Never, till the day I die, will I forget what Rolfe Barnard said to me. Looking straight at me with his piercing eyes, he said, "Young man, a believer is not seeking Christ, he has found Christ!"
Ten pointed arrows piercing my body, or a jolt of electricity would not have shaken me more than those words. Barnard had not only corrected a false notion which would have led Don astray, but also he put his finger on a raw nerve in my own life. With this statement, through the work of the Holy Spirit in my heart, he stripped aside the shroud of pseudo-religion in which I had been hiding, and left me standing exposed to my true condition. I did not know Christ! I was angry. As my parents drove home, I said little, but within I was seething as I resisted the prickings of the Holy Spirit on my conscience. Was this abrasive preacher right? Was it true that seeking is not enough, one must actually find Christ? If so, I knew I was lost, a fact I did not want to face. That night, I told my mother that I wanted her to pray for me, because I thought I might not be saved. I expected her to have some words of comfort, for after all I was a good boy, supposedly, one of the model young men in the church. She had no soothing balm for me, but only said, "Son, I'll pray for you."
What went on in the next 24 hours would take many pages to tell, but briefly I will say that I spent the most miserable night of my life that night wrestling with the condition of my soul. The next morning, somewhat humbled, I told the pastor and the evangelist (there were morning services) that I was lost. I recall well the pastor's words. He said, "John, this is not surprising, since most of our best young people are coming to realize that they have never had a real experience of grace." There were no words of counsel given me except these, "God saves sinners." This is all that was said to me about how to get relief. This seemed like a brush-off, but I went away. Before the day was over, God used the words of the song, "Jesus Paid It All," to bring peace to my heart. Through this song, Christ and His substitutionary work came before my mind. The Holy Spirit seemed to be telling me that it was for me that Jesus had died, and that all my sins were put away forever. That night I joyfully confessed Christ to the crowd and later was baptized, along with twenty or so others who were converted in the tent meeting.
I have given this firsthand account of Barnard's ministry in one city because it illustrates in a capsule way the leading elements of his evangelistic preaching. What happened in the church in Ashland is a sample of what occurred in dozens of places throughout America and parts of Canada. While different churches and communities responded differently to Barnard's preaching, there were many instances, in the 1950's and 1960's, especially where churches were claimed for truth, and many sinners were converted.
(I think this is from John Thornbury, but I am not sure)
Heshimu
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