The remarkable true life story of Peter Newman (Part 14)

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An Evangelist, Not a Social Worker

A farm set in the heart of beautiful Cornwall became our new home. The building itself was fairly dilapidated but neither Barbara nor I cared; it was home, cracked walls and all. I'd been right about the new ministry too: we were hosts to drug addicts and alcoholics.
We were scared stiff of the first drug addict who arrived on our doorstep. We'd been expecting him, so we had carefully decorated his room to make him feel welcome; our bedroom was in a terrible state but his was like a palace. Within days of arriving he had painted obscene pictures all over the walls and put filthy captions underneath them. My eyes almost came out on stalks when I first saw them, but I decided that as he was obviously trying to shock me, the best thing to do was to ignore his works of art completely.

We repeatedly told him that our home was his home and that he should treat it as such. He must have taken us at our word because he tried to burn the place down by setting light to a stove in his bedroom. We managed to put it out before too much damage was caused.

We eventually had up to sixteen men and women sharing our home with us. Some of them were saved and allowed the Lord to straighten their lives out for them, while others just went their own sweet way. We needed a lot of grace, wisdom and understanding in dealing with them. Our first rule was not to push the gospel down their throats. I never once stood up and preached to them as a group, but I was quick to take every opportunity to chat about Jesus with individuals as we worked side by side in the fields or the barns.

In early 1967 I was very busy again taking meetings at home and overseas. As always my type of ministry brought me into contact with those on the other side of the track, and I was keen to help them in a more practical way, to make some provision for them other than meetings. I continually came in contact with other people involved with the welfare of drug addicts and began to sit around a few drug centres that had been set up by the medical profession. One of these was in Chelsea, London, the borough that I was born in, and this centre was in a Salvation Army Hall.

The Officers involved in the work encouraged me to go ahead, and when we finally got started some of the Officers came down to the farm and were a great help and encouragement in the beginning.

The one person who was a real help to me throughout all my ministry, especially in the setting up of the farm, was David Foot Nash. Right from the beginning of my tent days he would provide me with equipment as well as spiritual advice. As his profession was that of a solicitor he was able to advise me on many things, and it was by his expert advice that we were able to purchase the farm. There were quite a few problems concerning this, but by prayer and David's skilful handling it was purchased and a company was formed. I had a ú1 share in the company plus, as David said at the time, all the responsibility to keep it going.

Once we got started and people got to know of our place we were continually being contacted by other drug centres, the probation services, psychiatrists, and even judges phoning direct from courts before they decided what to do with a person. Christian ministers from all denominations would phone us; often late at night, as well as the Samaritans and the police. When we were approached by likely candidates we tried to make sure that they had been through most of the rehabilitation programmes and had not responded. The reason for this was that, although we were not professionals in this field, we offered these dear people a home. Not a hostel or a rehabilitation centre, but something they could know as their home and not just ours. Many of them had difficulty with this at first, but when they got the message they began to take an interest in the place and to share some of the responsibility. Their attitudes towards society often changed and they were able to listen and relate to others.

Because most of our guests were addicts, they were very cunning and determined to cling to their habits. Several of them used to try to grow their own cannabis in odd corners of the farm; the Lord used to show me, by His Spirit, where these hiding places were. Once I'd found them I would wait until the growth was well under way, then I'd attack it with weed killer, never letting on to the lads what was happening. Baffled by the sudden death of the plant they would start all over again, and so it went on.

The nearest pub was six miles away, but distance was no object. One day I was standing by an upstairs window when George came staggering up the path on his way back from the boozer. He'd had a skinful and was carring a bag in his hand which I knew was filled with bottles. I watched him look around, then hide the bag in a hedge before sauntering into the house. I nipped down to the kitchen to wait for him. He came in, straightened himself up and said: "Hi, Peter."

I said, "Hello."

He stretched, yawned, then said he was going upstairs for a lie down because he was feeling a bit tired. He wasn't going to admit that he'd been in the pub and I didn't let on that I knew.

I waited until he was asleep before going to the hedge and rescuing his two bottles of cider. I hid them in my room and then went back to the kitchen.

George reappeared after an hour or so. "Hi, Peter," he said, still trying to look as if he hadn't been drinking. "Where are all the others?"