The possibility never entered my mind that someday I would
be a teacher. In fact, the possibility was slim that someday
I would amount to anything worthwhile.
Born in the tenements of Buffalo, New York, I grew up
with no hope of better days. Violence there was a way of life.
When I was eight, the thunder of gunshots woke me. Looking
out the window, I saw a man die in the glare of a streetlight.
Oddly, it didn’t seem that unusual.
We knew little of law and order. Even in our apartment,
brawls often erupted.
Our dad was a part-time prizefighter and a full-time
alcoholic. Combined with seven brothers, that made for a real
physical family. Following the tradition, at thirteen I beat up a
guy and spent eighteen months in a training school.
After serving my sentence, I rejoined my street buddies
stealing hubcaps—and anything else we could find. Later, many
of them either died in jail or from alcohol and drug abuse,
products of an impoverished neighborhood that knew only
hopelessness and despair.
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Somehow I scraped by in high school. Then, after trying a
few no-future jobs, I joined the Marine Corps. Four years of
military service opened a new door for me. For the first time,
I learned that there was a life beyond the ghetto. But that life
required education. The G.I. Bill paid tuition for veterans
and I accepted—my one-way ticket out of the slums by way of New
York University.
I was a twenty-nine-year-old college freshman when a
friend tricked me into going to Rochester to hear some guys
sing. He didn’t tell me the program would be in church—a place
foreign to me. After the singing ended, a giant Purdue football
player spoke. John Ducharte was six feet five, 255 pounds, and
talked about being intimate with Jesus Christ.
Having played a little minor league baseball, I wanted to
meet this dude—another athlete. After the program I walked
up and shook John’s hand. “Do you really believe all that
rubbish?” I blurted out.
“I certainly do.” John said, then added, “Do you have a
minute?”
I followed him into a little room where he pulled out a
couple of vinyl chairs. We sat down and he opened up his Bible.
“Of course you know John 3:16, don’t you?”
I lied and said yes. John Ducharte saw right through me
and started reading that verse from the Gospel of John, “For
God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son,
that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have
everlasting life” (John 3:16, KJV).
Then he read Romans 10:13, “For whosoever shall call upon
the name of the Lord shall be saved” (Romans 10:13. KJV).
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About then the door burst open and John’s little four-year old
daughter swooped in. He didn’t scold her for interrupting.
Instead, he put his big arm around her and gave her a kiss. I was
embarrassed. I had been taught that real men don’t do stuff like
that, especially in front of another man!
Before I could recover, John’s wife rushed in. “I’m sorry,
John,” she began. But he just put his other arm around her
and kissed her. I marveled at that scene, those two muscular
arms around his loved ones. This man had something special,
something I’d never seen before.
After the ladies left, John asked if we could pray, this time
putting that huge arm around my shoulders. When this guy
prayed, I glimpsed God! For the first time I saw that it was
possible for ordinary people, even street people like me, to get
to know God on a personal basis.
I cried.
“What’s the matter, friend?” asked that gentle giant.
“I feel terribly far away from God,” I managed.
He replied, “Good.”
“What’s good about that?”
“Because,” he explained, “that’s what Jesus is all about. He’s
the bridge to God. He’s the mediator. You want God to come
into your life—Jesus is the bridge. Would you like that?”
“I know I want whatever it is that you’ve got,” I told him.
Right on the spot I prayed to accept Jesus Christ into my life.
And that life has never been the same.
Back home in Buffalo, I found an old, inner-city church
where the people accepted me. Barely a month later, another
door opened when I returned to Rochester, this time as athletic
director at a youth camp.
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Leading the Christian training there all week were young,
just-starting-out Billy Graham, Cliff Barrows and George
Beverly Shea. What a privilege for a brand-new believer, getting
to work with those three. We were all put to the test, though,
as rain played havoc with our schedule. I grumbled because I
couldn’t lead the outside activities I had planned; the youth
were boisterous with no way to work off excess energy. Yet
the Graham team remained calm and patient. I learned much
from their worship sessions. I learned even more from their
actions.
I could hardly wait to tell others the good news of Jesus. My
opportunity came soon thereafter when I landed a part-time job
at a Buffalo radio station. Each day I did ten minutes of news,
often bad news. Then—with a quartet standing by ready to sing
gospel songs or someone to give a Christian testimony—I’d say,
“But hang on, we’ve got some ‘Good News at Noon!’”
After college, I migrated southward and devoted the next
thirty-seven years as a public school teacher, administrator and
counselor. I coached high school baseball, basketball, and soccer.
Often, while working with students—some in trouble with the
law or the school—I called upon the patience Billy Graham
taught me years earlier. And I called upon the memories of my
ghetto days—the anger, the frustration. . . . Most of those young
people needed to know God’s love just as I did.
I retired in Gainesville, Georgia, and returned to the ghetto.
This time, however, I went to help others find a way out. My
wife, Margie, and I sold our home across town and moved into
a little house next-door to the Melrose Housing Project so that
we could be accessible to the people.
When I decided to start a feeding program at Melrose,
Margie made the meatloaf, a neighbor furnished green beans
and cornbread, and we put out the word: “Anybody hungry
is invited to lunch.” So it was that “Good News at Noon” was
reborn.
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I began working with all age groups, facing their many
needs: countless hungry and homeless, gang-related trouble,
drug and alcohol addiction, AIDS, frightened children who
endure family strife. I saw again that insidious problem that
prevails among those born into poverty, a problem I knew only
too well—hopelessness.
I particularly wanted to reach the children, to somehow
build self-esteem in them. I know how that child feels who gets
on the school bus with not so much as a pencil, only to have
to compete all day with children who sport shiny new lunch
boxes. Remembering how John Ducharte helped change my life
by telling me of God’s love, I wanted to do the same for these
children and their families.
Gradually, surprisingly, volunteers began to appear. Today,
fifteen years later, they number in the hundreds—professionals
and lay people, civic clubs and churches. We receive no federal
money. Instead, business groups organize fund-raising golf
tournaments; schoolchildren collect canned goods; groups
coming to serve meals bring the food with them; retired
physicians contribute their time, skills, even equipment. All
desire to share the Good News: The Gospel of Jesus Christ.
Good News at Noon now feeds hundreds every day,
provides a homeless shelter, medical clinic and dental clinic.
Volunteers teach, mentor, and counsel. Each person who
receives physical or mental help receives spiritual help as well.
We tell each one, “God loves you. God’s love can give you
hope—hope, and help, for a better life.”
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God is blessing. Many lives have been turned around—drug
addicts rehabilitated, jobs regained, families restored, little
children playing without fear.
These are proud people; they just need a little help, that’s
all. I try to serve them in a non-judgmental manner, because
someone once saw some worth in me. Thank you, John
Ducharte. And thank you Billy Graham, Cliff Barrows, and
George Beverly Shea. Thank you for sharing with me—The
Good News.
Note: Gene Beckstein, lovingly known as “Mr.B,” and his “Good
News at Noon” have practically become household names, and well respected
in Northeast Georgia.
Now eighty-three and recovering from a stroke, Mr. B. says,
“Besides the early Christian training Billy Graham gave me, he
continues to set an example. For in spite of advancing age and serious
health problems, he just keeps going. And so do I.” Both continue
to minister in the name of Jesus Christ, planting seeds of faith—and
hope—in yet another generation.
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