From Russia With Love
by R.C. Sproul Jr.

While I consider myself a strong reader, I don't have much of a memory. It's not unusual for me to read more than a few chapters into a book before I realize I've already read it. Not only can I rarely quote chapter and verse, I rarely remember where a particular idea comes from. Once again, I don't remember the book, hut I remember the description. Like the missing eighteen minutes of tape, I know it has some connection to Nixon, but that's about all I remember. It might have been one of Colson's early books. It might have been one of Nixon's books. It might have been Bill Simon's A Time for Truth . Whomever was writing, they told the story of the end of one of Nixon's historic visits to the Soviet Union . He noted that as Air Force One's wheels left Soviet soil, the normally staid atmosphere went up in smoke as the entire entourage whooped and hollered in celebration of leaving.

That scene stuck with mime. I was amazed that the spiritual oppression was so tangible that even a bunch of knuckle dragging nabobs could feel it. Ten years after the collapse of the iron curtain, you can still feel it. My plane landed in Saint Petersburg , the most European, and most beautiful of the great cities of Russia . The first thing I noticed was the ice on the runway, as we landed. The next thing I noticed was the countless Russian airliner derelicts that clogged the snow covered tarmac during our seemingly endless taxiing. Once we made it there, terminal took on a whole other meaning. From the moment I left the plane I made my way through unheated basement hallways to the unheated basement baggage claim, through the unheated basement customs out into the unheated great outdoors. Once inside Blake's car, I warmed up.

Blake Purcell is the kind of missionary I would be, if only God would sanctify me more quickly. He is both deeply committed to the Reformed faith, and to winning the lost. He is at the same time historical in his understanding of the church and her worship, but innovative in his approach to training men for the ministry. He and his lovely wife not only have homeschooled their six children, but have unofficially adopted a charming Russian boy whose love for the Purcells is only matched by their love for him. The Purcells welcomed me into their home, and then humbled me. I explained how honored I was to have the opportunity. They explained it was no honor at all. Of all the pastors they spoke to during their latest furlough about teaching at the seminary (and one made that list by virtue of crossing paths with Blake during that trip stateside), I was the only one that called back to arrange a time. It was a delight to be there not because of whose son I am, but because of who my Father is.

I arrived on a Saturday. Sunday I attended worship at the church Blake planted. While the service was in Russian, because the liturgy was so much like our own, I was able to follow what was going on. After the service an elder explained to the congregation why he and his wife were joining the Russian Orthodox church. The congregation chastened the two, wept over their betrayal, and prayed for their repentance. It was then that I first began to understand that long before Lenin laid waste to the fatherland of the revolution, that Orthodoxy had already killed it. Russia, in fact, is not so much a mystery inside a riddle, wrapped up in an enigma. Instead it is a dead horse that has been beaten by centuries of Gnostic irreligion, then by czarist oligarchy, and only then by the deified state.

But where there is death, our Lord brings life. Monday morning I began my lectures on apologetics to the seven young men enrolled at the Reformed Seminary of Saint Petersburg, with the help of my Lutheran interpreter. The zeal of the students, their hunger for the Word of God stood in stark contrast to the listlessness of the rest of the city. As I taught from the ministry of Elijah in another wicked land I told them I pray that one day they together would be known as the "troublers of Saint Petersburg."

The rest of the week was spent teaching six or more hours each day to the seminary students. Friday and Saturday, however, I spoke six times on the doctrine of the Holy Spirit at a conference put on by Blake, the church, and the seminary. The money I was able to bring, thanks to the generosity of Saint Peter church, and many of you, financed the conference, including food and lodging to the over 100 participants. Nearly a dozen young folks had taken a four day train ride from the Ukraine to attend the conference. It was particularly delightful to teach on the Holy Spirit in a time and place where his presence was so palpable.

Sunday I preached at Blake's church, with the help of a translator. Monday I taught at the seminary all day again, this time on a biblical view of economics. I was pleasantly surprised at the economic sophistication of the students. I suppose 1 shouldn't have been. There is probably no better place to learn how destructive government is to the economy than the Soviet Union . The Ukraine crowd stuck around for this as well.

Tuesday I went through much the same joy that Nixon's cronies enjoyed thirty years earlier, as Delta flew me away. But as so often happens with short term missions, you leave a part of yourself behind. Russia will, henceforth, hold a part of me. I pray that one day I will return, not only to teach again at the seminary, but to see firsthand the labors of the faithful students. I pray also for Blake and his family, remembering their gracious spirits not just to me, but to to the men placed under their care and tutelage. And I pray with hope, knowing that our King riles even in the darkest corners, and He will, in His time, shine forth His glory.