Like millions of other young men growing up in the heart of south India, Philip was just another village lad, whose life revolved around home, school, and friends. He belonged to a large, devout, Hindu family, which like most traditional Indian families was very closely knit. Nothing out of the ordinary seemed to break the monotony of his life until one day when he was in his teens, he was recruited by a militant political organization called the RSS. This is the same radical faction which assassinated Mahatma Gandhi for acceding to the dismemberment of India at the time of independence. Rabidly nationalistic, their motto is “India for the Hindus.” Their goal, as might be expected, is to drive out all western influences, including Christianity, from the country. Now there was some excitement to Philip’s life. Marching beside his fanatical peers, shouting patriotic slogans, vandalizing the local Christian churches while persecuting those belonging to this despicable foreign religion, he discovered the euphoria of an adrenaline rush, and perhaps even some meaning, however distorted, to his otherwise humdrum existence. Little did he realize at the time that his life of excitement had only just begun, that soon he would be experiencing euphoria of a different sort; compared to which his past adrenaline highs would pale into insignificance. For One mightier than all the Hindu gods he worshipped had chosen him as a brand from the burning, just as He had done Saul, the persecutor, two millennia before.
Just when it seemed that life was going great, Philip fell ill and all four of his extremities developed severe, crippling contractures. He calls it a “polio attack,” although the precise medical diagnosis is unknown. In any case, he was rendered unable to use his hands or feet. He was only fifteen years old, his entire life stretching before him, but now he was for all practical purposes relegated to the sidelines, a mere cipher in the eyes of society. His self-worth hit rock bottom, as dark, devastating despair rolled over him. Selling a portion of his ancestral properties, his father made the rounds of all the doctors and hospitals in the region in a futile bid to find healing for his son. Everywhere the answer was the same: It is hopeless; his condition is incurable; don’t waste your money on human help. So they turned next to the Hindu gods they revered, but to no avail. They even sought out the Muslim mosques and Allah, but help was always out of reach as he sank deeper into the abyss of depression. At one point he even considered ending his misery by drinking poison out of a bottle, but at the last moment his courage failed him. Perhaps he knew in his heart that he had not totally exhausted his avenues of help. Nevertheless he carried the bottle in his pocket.
For six years Philip suffered unimaginable agony of spirit. All his friends deserted him, and even his family just endured him. He was a pitiful wretch, if ever there was one. But finally, swallowing his pride, he decided to give the Christians one last chance before ending it all. And so it was that one Sunday morning found Philip hobbling toward the local Pentecostal church he had vandalized in the past. This time, however, he was not about to break its doors or destroy its tile roof. Slowly making his way to the front of the congregation he requested that the pastor pray for him. The surprised pastor, of course, was glad to oblige. But just as on numerous previous occasions, nothing happened. Three more months dragged by. Then one day the pastor dropped by for a visit. Greeting Philip he asked how he was doing. “I’m not even one percent better,” said Philip dejectedly. The pastor tried to encourage him and exhorted him to give God glory and recognize Him as the true God whether he was healed or not. So this is what Philip did right then on his knees. But nothing happened outwardly to break the long drought which was withering his parched, despairing soul. Thus another week passed into history.
The following Friday Philip was alone in the inner room of his house. It was past noon. He had been praying and crying for several hours already, but the walls appeared to be closing in relentlessly on him. The darkness of his soul was blacker than midnight. He had obtained a Bible by now and was trying to read it, but his desperation was driving him to the breaking point. And then it happened, the moment which will live in his memory through life, even into eternity. Suddenly the gloomy, palpable silence was shattered by a “divine, heavenly” voice. “Get up, get up,” it urged, “Let your hands down. Don’t keep them tied up.” Scrambling to his feet, Philip whirled around, his whole frame quaking with fear. But his terror-stricken eyes saw nothing unusual. Not sure if he had been dreaming, he glanced around the room to get a grip on himself. No he was not dreaming. The voice sounded again, more insistent, “Let your hands down; don’t keep them tied up,” while a strange dizziness came over him. At this he realized what was happening. The Holy Spirit was taking possession of his body! Raising his eyes heavenward he cried, “Oh God, this is the turning point of my life! You are going to heal me today. You are the only true living God! I will proclaim your name wherever I go.” Immediately his arms, which for six years had been contracted at the elbows, pressing against his chest, and his hands which had shriveled like claws, dropped to his side completely normal! And his feet and toes, which had contracted inwards so that he shuffled about on the outside edges, instantly straightened out.
Philip is at a loss for language to describe his feelings at this point. From the blackest depths of despair his spirits were propelled into the stratosphere, nay, into the very courts of heaven itself! Unable to contain himself he dashed outdoors screaming, “I’m healed, I’m healed.” Just like the beggar healed by the apostle Peter outside the temple in Jerusalem, he wasn’t sure whether to walk or run or jump or all three at once. Grabbing a bicycle, he pedaled furiously to his parent’s home as the neighbors came running out of their houses to see what the commotion was all about. Their eyes grew big as saucers and their mouths fell open as they realized what they were witnessing.
But Philip didn’t stay long at his home. He remembered his promise to proclaim the name of Jesus, so getting back on the bicycle he rode a total of more than sixty kilometers that day, covering over twenty-five of the surrounding villages. All he knew to say was, “Jesus is the true God. He healed me. If you want peace and joy and happiness in your life, just come and bow before Him.” The news was electrifying! Hordes of Hindus acknowledged that day that something unexplainable had happened before their eyes. Their gods had suffered an ignominious defeat at the hands of a superior God being proclaimed by Philip. The seeds of truth began to take root in their hearts. And some years later when Philip returned with a fuller knowledge of the Three Angels’ Messages, more than two hundred of them stepped forward and joined the Remnant church of Bible prophecy! Praise God!
Philip’s healing occurred in 1977, but it was five years before he became a Seventh-day Adventist, having learned the truth from a pastor of our faith. And what is almost as remarkable as his own healing is the gifts of the Spirit that the Lord has entrusted to him. His ministry has seen some truly astonishing instances of healing from diseases of the mind and body which were considered incurable by medical science. Some of these “healings,” as may be expected in the rank heathen culture, have occurred after hair-raising encounters with evil spirits. But the narration of these marvelous, faith-building stories must wait until later because of the constraints of time and space.
What must wait, too, are his spine-tingling experiences of deliverance as God interposed to save him from near-certain death at the hands of his former political friends, who became his mortal enemies following his conversion to the “foreign religion.”
Today Philip carries on a vigorous work which encompasses the full spectrum of the gospel; namely, healing, teaching, and preaching. He lives in a tiny, one room shack with his wife and two young sons. His wife operates a day school while he spends all his time in “village evangelism.” As noted, more than two hundred pagans, who look to him as their pastor, are today rejoicing in the Three Angels’ Messages on account of his labors. No human hands may have been placed on his head to ordain him to the ministry, but from his fruits it is obvious that Heaven has been pleased to separate him to the ministry to the Hindus of South India. Praise God!
Let all God’s faithful recognize this fact. Amen.