By Norris Burkes, Jan 30 2026

In June 1971, Rev. Billy Graham was in final preparation to preach a one-week crusade in the Oakland Coliseum. Those preparations included getting area churches to plaster local neighborhoods with flyers.

As a13-year-old boy who already hoped to follow in Graham’s footsteps, I was eager to help spread the word. 

The opportunity came when I joined a church team to distribute crusade fliers in my nearby neighborhood of Richmond, Calif. We made quick work of our sector and were preparing to return home when someone noticed we’d missed a short block. 

Anxious to wear myself out for God, I sprinted the block to drop off our remaining fliers. Like the Blues Brothers, I was on a mission from God. 

I was under orders “not to engage” residents, so I swept under the radar to place the fliers on doorsteps or pinch them into screen doors. I was leaping porches in a single bound, flying in my Keds High-Tops. 

My job was easy: a little FBR — Fly-By Religion.

However, somewhere in the midst of jetting for Jesus, I lost my balance and fell spread-eagle across a porch. At that point I did two things. 

First, like any healthy junior high boy, I sprang to my feet to make sure no one was laughing at me. 

Second, I examined my wrist and found it broken. No matter, I thought. I was determined to finish my grid for God. I immobilized my arm by sliding it inside my half-buttoned shirt, and like a little Napoleon, I conquered my remaining territory. 

According to the sermons I’d heard in church camp, this was the kind of thing that could add an extra star to my heavenly crown.

In Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, I learned there would be a great reward in suffering for Jesus. 

But, it wasn’t until years later that I realized my “suffering” didn’t count for much. 

The scripture actually says, “Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” 

The little word “because” gives a stipulation I hadn’t counted on. Yes, there is a blessing on those who suffer, but only when the suffering is “because of righteousness.” 

It’s the kind of suffering that Martin Luther King Jr. and Gandhi endured. But it wasn’t the kind of suffering I had experienced.

I wasn’t suffering because of righteousness. I was suffering because I’d been a righteous fool – an impatient show-off. No one had tripped me or persecuted me.

I was suffering from a complex we all suffer from on occasion — a martyr complex. It’s a complex we get by tricking ourselves into thinking we are suffering for our faith instead of our poor personal choices.

The truth is, it always has more to do with our pride than it ever has anything to do with our faith. 

Fortunately, my mom brought me to the emergency room that night where I got a cast so I could begin collecting signatures.

Four weeks later, on a cool July night, I went to Oakland with my family to hear Graham preach. After the meeting’s closing prayer, Graham’s team escorted him off the stage toward the player’s tunnel.  

I leaned over the front row of the coliseum waving my casted arm at him, hoping to get him to acknowledge how I’d suffered for him and Jesus.

“Dr. Graham, Dr. Graham!” I called waving my broken wing. “I busted my arm for you! Please sign my cast.”

I assumed he hadn’t heard me until I noticed how his security team quickened their pace toward shelter, away from the crazy screaming kid.

When I returned to the family car that night, I recounted my weeks of suffering and how my travail failed to gain even the smallest of signatures.

“Your story sounds more like Proverbs 16:18,” my mom concluded.

I managed a squint of not understanding.

“Pride goes before the fall,” she said. “But I’ll sign it.”

“Ugh,” said the 13-year-old.

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