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E-vangie Tales #90: Hollywood Babble-On, Pt. 2

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(Part 3 follows below)

Darrel Rundus was the man who brought a lawsuit against the Secret Service last June when they busted into his Texas “Great News Network” headquarters, and illegally seized 8,300 million-dollar bill Gospel tracts. He’s a big man, bold, and strong in the Lord—and he led the Boot Camp that met together in the front of Grauman’s.
nullwww.The Great News.com
Because of his leadership, many people are becoming more confident in their evangelistic zeal, and God is using him to raise up an army of open-air preachers and Biblical evangelists.

Unfortunately, on this day there were just too many evangelists for me—all strangers had been inundated with Gospel tracts—so I asked a Boot Camper from Kentucky, Danny Allen, if he’d like to join me as I broke away from the crowd and walked down Hollywood Blvd. where there would be some fresh sinners to catch. I looked for Ed, but he was doing another one of his “Supernatural Day” things so I couldn’t find him.

Danny and I headed East.

We stopped in a Starbucks for some fuel and I struck up a conversation with a barista who was quite affable and willing to talk about eternal things, that is until I said to him, “So by your own admission, you are lying, theiving, blasphemous adulterer-at-heart and you have to face God on Judgment Day. If you were to be judged by the standard of the 10 Commandments, would you be innocent or guil—”

The manager, Ricci, interupted, “You are harassing our workers. You can’t do that here!” she said angrily.

“But, I was just having a conversation—”

“You can’t force your religion on people!”

Trust me, folks. If I was talking about the Dodgers, or Global Warming, or the colors of the sunset, there would not have been a problem. But explain to someone how they will one day stand before a Righteous Judge Who will judge them for their sins… then watch out. You will stir up a hornet’s nest of anti-Christian zeal.

I had no choice. I had to speak over her little five-foot-six frame so the barista’s conscience could be pricked. “Just remember, if you’re found guily on Judgment Day, you will have to spend eternity in Hell paying for your sin,” I said as I made my way out of the establishment. I don’t like doing this. I like to finish the conversation, but sometimes it isn’t possible. At least the barista will know that he will be held accountable. My hope is that he will run to the cross someday.

I met Danny outside, and gave some millions to three Alt-rockers sitting peacefully in their chairs sipping frosted caffeinated beverages. I started another Gospel converation when—wouldn’t you know it? Little Ricci came up to me again and told me to stop. “You can’t harass the customers,” she scolded.

“I’m not harassing them; we were having a nice conversation. And I’m standing on a public sidewalk,” I insisted.

All of a sudden the nice conversation turned sour. The customers turned on me, taking advantage of Ricci’s intrusion. “Yeah,” the spikier guy said. “He is harassing us!”

It was all over. I know when I’m beat and it was time to shake the dust off my feet. I pulled out my camera and snapped a shot of Ricci, The Terminater. null

We moved on from there and encountered some Tony Alamo Ministry people holding huge bundles of their “MASS SUICIDE” papers. I wanted to test them on what they were doing. “I just got knifed in the back and I have three minutes to live. What are you going to tell me?”

With glazed eyes, the kid said robotically, “You need to be bathed in the blood.”

“What? That’s gross. What blood? Why do I need to wash in blood?”

“Because all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, man. Jesus died and his blood will cover you so you can go to Heaven. They nailed Him to a cross and suffered and died for you.”

Still playing along I said, “I didn’t do anything wrong; everybody sins. What the heck is God’s glory, anyway?” At this point I told him I was a Pastor and then explained the more effective and Biblical way of preaching the Gospel using the Law. After thoroughly explaining the principle, I asked him if he understood it.

“Would you like to come to a service tonight?” he asked.

Next Danny and I met with two Germans visiting Hollywood; they were Christians. They were actually able to explain what “born-again” means, and they knew the name of their church AND the Pastor. We laid hands on them and prayed.

A few incursions into an idol shop, a restaurant, a clothier and a bookstore left us a few million poorer, but rich in faith. Danny prayed for a man who urgently needed God’s healing. We stopped and talked, and talked and stopped with all sorts of characters until we saw a homeless man. I gave him a million-dollar bill—and he gave me a dollar! I tried to give it back , but he wouldn’t accept it. “No please, you keep it,” I urged. He didn’t speak very clearly so I didn’t know what he was saying as he pushed the dollar back into my hand.
null He did take the 10 Commandments penny I stuffed in his pouch, though. And Danny—what a guy—wrapped a five-dollar bill in another Gospel tract and slipped it into the homeless guy’s pouch when he wasn’t looking.

Some punkers overheard our conversation with the homeless guy and shouted, “Hey! I’ll take that dollar!”
null “I’ll give you the dollar, but let me talk to you for a moment. I had a captive audience.” null I asked if they had ever lied, stolen, blasphemed, or lusted, and of course, since they were punks, they were all too eager—and proud—to own up to their transgressions. null I had ’em. That is, until they saw a long-lost homeless punker friend across the street. They broke off the conversation, took my dollar and ran off to meet him. null Then we met the Funny Guy.

We gave the young man a million dollars, but he refused it saying, “That’s not funny.”

We handed it to him again; he rejected it and said, “That’s not funny.”

Danny and I looked at each other with a shrug of the shoulders. I whispered to Danny and he agreed. We had a strategy for the “Funny Guy.”

“Hey Danny,” I said, with the Funny Guy standing against the wall behind us. “I want you to be that guy and I’m going to ask you the million-dollar question.”

“Okay,” Danny replied.

“Have you ever lied? Now remember you are that guy,” I reminded pointing to the Funny Guy.

“Yes, I have lied.”

“What does that make you? Now remember Danny, you are that guy,” I said with a nod of my head towards the Funny Guy.

“A liar.”

We continued in this conversation, with Danny as the Funny Guy, all the way to the Hell question. “Now Danny, would you go to Heaven or Hell? Remember, you are that guy.”

“I’d go to Hell.”

I turned towards the Funny Guy, lowered my voice, and fixed my gaze directly into his eyes. “Does that concern you that you would go to Hell?”

Yes, it does,” the Funny Guy replied. He listened attentively as I explained what Jesus did for him. Afterward, we encouraged him to think about these things.

“I will. I will,” he said smiling. We shook hands, gave him a 10 Commandments penny, and blessed him.

We walked down to the end of the block. Across the street was an ominous old building with its name etched out above the entrance: The L. Ron Hubbard Building. We smiled knowingly at each other. Another adventure was about to begin… Click here for part 3!

0 Comments

  1. Yeah!! Sounds like so far, so good. Can’t wait to read what happens next. Good job Steve and Danny! Are we still going to Venice Beach this Sat? Still meeting on the stairs at noon?

  2. Pingback: » Blog Archive » E-vangie Tales #90: Hollywood Babble-On, Part 1

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