KENNETH COPELAND PAID FOR 800,000 TENT - Reinhard Bonnke
On Saturday, February 18, 1984, we prepared for the dedication service for the world’s largest tent. As I waited with Anni and my father in a nearby trailer a knock came at my door. My friend Ray McCauley stood there with Kenneth and Gloria Copeland from Ft. Worth, Texas. I asked them to come in. They had been drawn to the reports of our work and had come to see it for themselves. “I want to support CfaN,” Kenneth said. “I preach to the saved, you preach to the unsaved. We should be partners. ”I thanked him for that. But honestly, I had no idea how incredibly powerful his words would prove to be over the decades to come.
Later the news arrived from Cape Town. On Saturday, May 5, the tent erection was complete. That afternoon a storm of wind and rain descended. A few rips appeared in the fabric. They had been quickly repaired. As evening fell the wind increased. Gerhard Ganske, who was in charge of the tent’s anchor system, circled the tent checking the security of the cement reinforced anchors.
Everything held securely.
Milton Kasselman, the chief electrician, went inside the tent. It held the wind at bay. Overhead the twelve masts swayed slightly, as they should. He checked the mounted flood lamps and the speaker towers. All was well.
Tent master, Kobus de Lange, and his assistant, Horst Kosanke, checked the miles of cables that counterbalanced all the forces of wind and gravity. They were doing their job. He ordered the crew back to their quarters to sleep and wait out the storm.
Suddenly, at 4 a.m., they were awakened by the sound of ripping fabric. As they rushed outside, winds were ripping the tent to shreds. It was not a hurricane. It was not even a wind strong enough to cause normal alarm. The damage they were seeing seemed supernatural, as if evil demonic forces in the wind were violently attacking the structure.
They watched helplessly as pieces came loose and flew across the surrounding city of Cape Town. By 9:30 a.m. only a few strands of fabric remained. All of the steel and cable structure remained unhurt. It looked like a huge skeleton with no skin or meat remaining on the bones. Some of the crew were reduced to uncontrolled weeping.
Five years of focused labor was destroyed in five hours.
The atmosphere became like being at a funeral. That Sunday morning churches across Cape Town mourned the loss. Their hopes had been raised so high only to be dashed to pieces by the demonic wind. Shreds of the world’s largest tent became collectors items for the residents of Cape Town. They were found scattered for miles downwind of the tent site.
Curiosity seekers came to the sports field to see the destruction. Some laughed at the calamity. They stood in the high-rise balconies and on bridges and other vantage points from which to view it. Christians gathered on the grounds, weeping, falling to their knees beneath the steel structure, praying. News media made the story front page all that day and the next.
I told my crew chief that God had given me a great peace about this event. He was to encourage the crew and to clean up the site and wait for my return.
I returned to my office I found telephone calls, telegrams, cards, and letters from around the world waiting for me. The news of the disaster had gone as far as the news of the big tent. Most of the response was overwhelmingly encouraging. But a large minority of naysayers had their day.
From the beginning I had dealt with the normal array of critics. Many people criticized the size of the tent. They said it wasn’t practical. It was too risky. The project ate money like a gambling machine. It was not good stewardship. The entire endeavor was ego driven.
With this disaster, those people had much more to say.
“This is God’s judgment on you.” “You’re out of the will of God.” “You’ve moved out from under the umbrella of divine protection.” “There is sin in your camp.” The one that hit the lowest came from a dear Pentecostal sister back in Germany. This lady had supported our work faithfully and substantially over the years. She wrote to tell me that she had seen pictures of the tent dedication in Soweto. The pictures showed that Anni had cut her hair. This sin, she said, had led to this disaster. She pledged that she would no longer send money to CfaN. She would only pray for our repentance. I must confess, that fiery dart of the Enemy got through my armor for a few days.
Even some of my co-workers lost heart. They felt that we’d been overcome by the Enemy. This was one of our darkest days. A rumor circulated that Muslims from Valhalla had marched around our tent site and had called down a curse on it. No one could offer me proof, and I gave no credence to this report. I find that when people believe an urban legend like this, it is because they desperately want to believe it. They have lost sight of their God and Savior and His unlimited power and have looked at the wind and the waves. Like Peter, who started out so well in his walk on water, he began to sink. Some of our people sank right here.
But here is the greater story of the Cape Town disaster. It was not a disaster at all! It was our greatest triumph!
First, God held the weather at bay for a full three weeks.
Local weathercasters described it as an “Indian summer.”
Furthermore, the destruction of our canopy had made us a household word in Cape Town. The media had trumpeted our story to everyone. Incredible stories of believers taking pieces of our canopy and laying it on sick people and seeing them healed were told. Believers and sinners came by the droves to our meetings.
I caught a flight to America. On the long trip I had a new surge of excitement in my soul. I reflected again on Kenneth Copeland’s prophecy that I would see a million souls won in a day. A million? It still seemed unthinkable. But if we were to see a million decisions in one crowd, the entire crowd would have to exceed that number considerably. Not everyone responded in a meeting. To accomplish it, many things about the way we ran a campaign would have to change. I began to feel sure that one of those changes involved moving CfaN from South Africa. The vision of the blood-washed Africa was coming closer to reality.
Unfortunately, with so many powerful thoughts running through my head, I was too excited to sleep on the intercontinental flight.
I had no sooner landed at the Dallas-Ft. Worth Airport than I was whisked away to a pastors’ conference hosted by Kenneth Copeland, already in progress. They seated me on the front row, and Kenneth greeted me. The TV cameras turned my way, and I was on the spot. This was not good. As he preached I was so hammered by jet lag that I pinched myself black and blue to keep my eyes open. It was sheer torment.
After the meeting Kenneth and Gloria invited me to join them at a nice restaurant for dinner. I was too far gone to say no. Somehow I managed to keep moving and not fall prostrate. At dinner Kenneth told me he had heard about the tent. He asked me to tell him what happened. I told him how the fabric had failed in the wind. We had discovered that it had a design flaw. An insurance settlement was tied up in court. It would be years before we saw the verdict. In the meantime, Peter van den Berg had found a new fabric through a company in England that would hold in a hurricane.
“How much will it cost?”
“$800,000.”
“The Lord has told me to give you what you need. I am giving you $800,000. Go buy a new top for the tent.”
I was too stunned and too jet lagged to reply at first.
“When God tells me to give, I get excited. He’s telling me to plant a seed in good soil with CfaN. My faith puts the seed in the ground where God directs. The harvest belongs to the Lord. And let me tell you, His harvest will sweep my little financial troubles away like so much chaff on the wind.
Hallelujah! Praise God.”
It did my heart good to hear this man of faith. “I believe that too,” I said.
When I finally closed my eyes that night my happiness and exhaustion were complete and total. I felt like a body surfer picked up by a tsunami. As I drifted into fitful sleep, I heard my own voice speaking to Anni when we were in Singapore, “I am not worried about the tent. That’s what worries me. I should be worried about it, but I’m not. I feel nothing but peace.”
The schedule for completing our new tent was set, thanks to the generous check from Kenneth Copeland. It allowed us to plan beyond 1985. The new canopy would be delivered and tested in time to erect both tents side by side in Harare. The big tent for the main meetings; the smaller yellow tent for counseling and follow-up.
The Harare Sheraton and Conference Center would house our Fire Conference for evangelists with an auditorium seating 4,500.
- Reinhard Bonnke (Living A Life Of Fire)
On Saturday, February 18, 1984, we prepared for the dedication service for the world’s largest tent. As I waited with Anni and my father in a nearby trailer a knock came at my door. My friend Ray McCauley stood there with Kenneth and Gloria Copeland from Ft. Worth, Texas. I asked them to come in. They had been drawn to the reports of our work and had come to see it for themselves. “I want to support CfaN,” Kenneth said. “I preach to the saved, you preach to the unsaved. We should be partners. ”I thanked him for that. But honestly, I had no idea how incredibly powerful his words would prove to be over the decades to come.
Later the news arrived from Cape Town. On Saturday, May 5, the tent erection was complete. That afternoon a storm of wind and rain descended. A few rips appeared in the fabric. They had been quickly repaired. As evening fell the wind increased. Gerhard Ganske, who was in charge of the tent’s anchor system, circled the tent checking the security of the cement reinforced anchors.
Everything held securely.
Milton Kasselman, the chief electrician, went inside the tent. It held the wind at bay. Overhead the twelve masts swayed slightly, as they should. He checked the mounted flood lamps and the speaker towers. All was well.
Tent master, Kobus de Lange, and his assistant, Horst Kosanke, checked the miles of cables that counterbalanced all the forces of wind and gravity. They were doing their job. He ordered the crew back to their quarters to sleep and wait out the storm.
Suddenly, at 4 a.m., they were awakened by the sound of ripping fabric. As they rushed outside, winds were ripping the tent to shreds. It was not a hurricane. It was not even a wind strong enough to cause normal alarm. The damage they were seeing seemed supernatural, as if evil demonic forces in the wind were violently attacking the structure.
They watched helplessly as pieces came loose and flew across the surrounding city of Cape Town. By 9:30 a.m. only a few strands of fabric remained. All of the steel and cable structure remained unhurt. It looked like a huge skeleton with no skin or meat remaining on the bones. Some of the crew were reduced to uncontrolled weeping.
Five years of focused labor was destroyed in five hours.
The atmosphere became like being at a funeral. That Sunday morning churches across Cape Town mourned the loss. Their hopes had been raised so high only to be dashed to pieces by the demonic wind. Shreds of the world’s largest tent became collectors items for the residents of Cape Town. They were found scattered for miles downwind of the tent site.
Curiosity seekers came to the sports field to see the destruction. Some laughed at the calamity. They stood in the high-rise balconies and on bridges and other vantage points from which to view it. Christians gathered on the grounds, weeping, falling to their knees beneath the steel structure, praying. News media made the story front page all that day and the next.
I told my crew chief that God had given me a great peace about this event. He was to encourage the crew and to clean up the site and wait for my return.
I returned to my office I found telephone calls, telegrams, cards, and letters from around the world waiting for me. The news of the disaster had gone as far as the news of the big tent. Most of the response was overwhelmingly encouraging. But a large minority of naysayers had their day.
From the beginning I had dealt with the normal array of critics. Many people criticized the size of the tent. They said it wasn’t practical. It was too risky. The project ate money like a gambling machine. It was not good stewardship. The entire endeavor was ego driven.
With this disaster, those people had much more to say.
“This is God’s judgment on you.” “You’re out of the will of God.” “You’ve moved out from under the umbrella of divine protection.” “There is sin in your camp.” The one that hit the lowest came from a dear Pentecostal sister back in Germany. This lady had supported our work faithfully and substantially over the years. She wrote to tell me that she had seen pictures of the tent dedication in Soweto. The pictures showed that Anni had cut her hair. This sin, she said, had led to this disaster. She pledged that she would no longer send money to CfaN. She would only pray for our repentance. I must confess, that fiery dart of the Enemy got through my armor for a few days.
Even some of my co-workers lost heart. They felt that we’d been overcome by the Enemy. This was one of our darkest days. A rumor circulated that Muslims from Valhalla had marched around our tent site and had called down a curse on it. No one could offer me proof, and I gave no credence to this report. I find that when people believe an urban legend like this, it is because they desperately want to believe it. They have lost sight of their God and Savior and His unlimited power and have looked at the wind and the waves. Like Peter, who started out so well in his walk on water, he began to sink. Some of our people sank right here.
But here is the greater story of the Cape Town disaster. It was not a disaster at all! It was our greatest triumph!
First, God held the weather at bay for a full three weeks.
Local weathercasters described it as an “Indian summer.”
Furthermore, the destruction of our canopy had made us a household word in Cape Town. The media had trumpeted our story to everyone. Incredible stories of believers taking pieces of our canopy and laying it on sick people and seeing them healed were told. Believers and sinners came by the droves to our meetings.
I caught a flight to America. On the long trip I had a new surge of excitement in my soul. I reflected again on Kenneth Copeland’s prophecy that I would see a million souls won in a day. A million? It still seemed unthinkable. But if we were to see a million decisions in one crowd, the entire crowd would have to exceed that number considerably. Not everyone responded in a meeting. To accomplish it, many things about the way we ran a campaign would have to change. I began to feel sure that one of those changes involved moving CfaN from South Africa. The vision of the blood-washed Africa was coming closer to reality.
Unfortunately, with so many powerful thoughts running through my head, I was too excited to sleep on the intercontinental flight.
I had no sooner landed at the Dallas-Ft. Worth Airport than I was whisked away to a pastors’ conference hosted by Kenneth Copeland, already in progress. They seated me on the front row, and Kenneth greeted me. The TV cameras turned my way, and I was on the spot. This was not good. As he preached I was so hammered by jet lag that I pinched myself black and blue to keep my eyes open. It was sheer torment.
After the meeting Kenneth and Gloria invited me to join them at a nice restaurant for dinner. I was too far gone to say no. Somehow I managed to keep moving and not fall prostrate. At dinner Kenneth told me he had heard about the tent. He asked me to tell him what happened. I told him how the fabric had failed in the wind. We had discovered that it had a design flaw. An insurance settlement was tied up in court. It would be years before we saw the verdict. In the meantime, Peter van den Berg had found a new fabric through a company in England that would hold in a hurricane.
“How much will it cost?”
“$800,000.”
“The Lord has told me to give you what you need. I am giving you $800,000. Go buy a new top for the tent.”
I was too stunned and too jet lagged to reply at first.
“When God tells me to give, I get excited. He’s telling me to plant a seed in good soil with CfaN. My faith puts the seed in the ground where God directs. The harvest belongs to the Lord. And let me tell you, His harvest will sweep my little financial troubles away like so much chaff on the wind.
Hallelujah! Praise God.”
It did my heart good to hear this man of faith. “I believe that too,” I said.
When I finally closed my eyes that night my happiness and exhaustion were complete and total. I felt like a body surfer picked up by a tsunami. As I drifted into fitful sleep, I heard my own voice speaking to Anni when we were in Singapore, “I am not worried about the tent. That’s what worries me. I should be worried about it, but I’m not. I feel nothing but peace.”
The schedule for completing our new tent was set, thanks to the generous check from Kenneth Copeland. It allowed us to plan beyond 1985. The new canopy would be delivered and tested in time to erect both tents side by side in Harare. The big tent for the main meetings; the smaller yellow tent for counseling and follow-up.
The Harare Sheraton and Conference Center would house our Fire Conference for evangelists with an auditorium seating 4,500.
- Reinhard Bonnke (Living A Life Of Fire)
KENNETH COPELAND PAID FOR 800,000 TENT βΊπͺπ² - Reinhard Bonnke
On Saturday, February 18, 1984, we prepared for the dedication service for the world’s largest tent. As I waited with Anni and my father in a nearby trailer a knock came at my door. My friend Ray McCauley stood there with Kenneth and Gloria Copeland from Ft. Worth, Texas. I asked them to come in. They had been drawn to the reports of our work and had come to see it for themselves. “I want to support CfaN,” Kenneth said. “I preach to the saved, you preach to the unsaved. We should be partners. ”I thanked him for that. But honestly, I had no idea how incredibly powerful his words would prove to be over the decades to come.
Later the news arrived from Cape Town. On Saturday, May 5, the tent erection was complete. That afternoon a storm of wind and rain descended. A few rips appeared in the fabric. They had been quickly repaired. As evening fell the wind increased. Gerhard Ganske, who was in charge of the tent’s anchor system, circled the tent checking the security of the cement reinforced anchors.
Everything held securely.
Milton Kasselman, the chief electrician, went inside the tent. It held the wind at bay. Overhead the twelve masts swayed slightly, as they should. He checked the mounted flood lamps and the speaker towers. All was well.
Tent master, Kobus de Lange, and his assistant, Horst Kosanke, checked the miles of cables that counterbalanced all the forces of wind and gravity. They were doing their job. He ordered the crew back to their quarters to sleep and wait out the storm.
Suddenly, at 4 a.m., they were awakened by the sound of ripping fabric. As they rushed outside, winds were ripping the tent to shreds. It was not a hurricane. It was not even a wind strong enough to cause normal alarm. The damage they were seeing seemed supernatural, as if evil demonic forces in the wind were violently attacking the structure.
They watched helplessly as pieces came loose and flew across the surrounding city of Cape Town. By 9:30 a.m. only a few strands of fabric remained. All of the steel and cable structure remained unhurt. It looked like a huge skeleton with no skin or meat remaining on the bones. Some of the crew were reduced to uncontrolled weeping.
Five years of focused labor was destroyed in five hours.
The atmosphere became like being at a funeral. That Sunday morning churches across Cape Town mourned the loss. Their hopes had been raised so high only to be dashed to pieces by the demonic wind. Shreds of the world’s largest tent became collectors items for the residents of Cape Town. They were found scattered for miles downwind of the tent site.
Curiosity seekers came to the sports field to see the destruction. Some laughed at the calamity. They stood in the high-rise balconies and on bridges and other vantage points from which to view it. Christians gathered on the grounds, weeping, falling to their knees beneath the steel structure, praying. News media made the story front page all that day and the next.
I told my crew chief that God had given me a great peace about this event. He was to encourage the crew and to clean up the site and wait for my return.
I returned to my office I found telephone calls, telegrams, cards, and letters from around the world waiting for me. The news of the disaster had gone as far as the news of the big tent. Most of the response was overwhelmingly encouraging. But a large minority of naysayers had their day.
From the beginning I had dealt with the normal array of critics. Many people criticized the size of the tent. They said it wasn’t practical. It was too risky. The project ate money like a gambling machine. It was not good stewardship. The entire endeavor was ego driven.
With this disaster, those people had much more to say.
“This is God’s judgment on you.” “You’re out of the will of God.” “You’ve moved out from under the umbrella of divine protection.” “There is sin in your camp.” The one that hit the lowest came from a dear Pentecostal sister back in Germany. This lady had supported our work faithfully and substantially over the years. She wrote to tell me that she had seen pictures of the tent dedication in Soweto. The pictures showed that Anni had cut her hair. This sin, she said, had led to this disaster. She pledged that she would no longer send money to CfaN. She would only pray for our repentance. I must confess, that fiery dart of the Enemy got through my armor for a few days.
Even some of my co-workers lost heart. They felt that we’d been overcome by the Enemy. This was one of our darkest days. A rumor circulated that Muslims from Valhalla had marched around our tent site and had called down a curse on it. No one could offer me proof, and I gave no credence to this report. I find that when people believe an urban legend like this, it is because they desperately want to believe it. They have lost sight of their God and Savior and His unlimited power and have looked at the wind and the waves. Like Peter, who started out so well in his walk on water, he began to sink. Some of our people sank right here.
But here is the greater story of the Cape Town disaster. It was not a disaster at all! It was our greatest triumph!
First, God held the weather at bay for a full three weeks.
Local weathercasters described it as an “Indian summer.”
Furthermore, the destruction of our canopy had made us a household word in Cape Town. The media had trumpeted our story to everyone. Incredible stories of believers taking pieces of our canopy and laying it on sick people and seeing them healed were told. Believers and sinners came by the droves to our meetings.
I caught a flight to America. On the long trip I had a new surge of excitement in my soul. I reflected again on Kenneth Copeland’s prophecy that I would see a million souls won in a day. A million? It still seemed unthinkable. But if we were to see a million decisions in one crowd, the entire crowd would have to exceed that number considerably. Not everyone responded in a meeting. To accomplish it, many things about the way we ran a campaign would have to change. I began to feel sure that one of those changes involved moving CfaN from South Africa. The vision of the blood-washed Africa was coming closer to reality.
Unfortunately, with so many powerful thoughts running through my head, I was too excited to sleep on the intercontinental flight.
I had no sooner landed at the Dallas-Ft. Worth Airport than I was whisked away to a pastors’ conference hosted by Kenneth Copeland, already in progress. They seated me on the front row, and Kenneth greeted me. The TV cameras turned my way, and I was on the spot. This was not good. As he preached I was so hammered by jet lag that I pinched myself black and blue to keep my eyes open. It was sheer torment.
After the meeting Kenneth and Gloria invited me to join them at a nice restaurant for dinner. I was too far gone to say no. Somehow I managed to keep moving and not fall prostrate. At dinner Kenneth told me he had heard about the tent. He asked me to tell him what happened. I told him how the fabric had failed in the wind. We had discovered that it had a design flaw. An insurance settlement was tied up in court. It would be years before we saw the verdict. In the meantime, Peter van den Berg had found a new fabric through a company in England that would hold in a hurricane.
“How much will it cost?”
“$800,000.”
“The Lord has told me to give you what you need. I am giving you $800,000. Go buy a new top for the tent.”
I was too stunned and too jet lagged to reply at first.
“When God tells me to give, I get excited. He’s telling me to plant a seed in good soil with CfaN. My faith puts the seed in the ground where God directs. The harvest belongs to the Lord. And let me tell you, His harvest will sweep my little financial troubles away like so much chaff on the wind.
Hallelujah! Praise God.”
It did my heart good to hear this man of faith. “I believe that too,” I said.
When I finally closed my eyes that night my happiness and exhaustion were complete and total. I felt like a body surfer picked up by a tsunami. As I drifted into fitful sleep, I heard my own voice speaking to Anni when we were in Singapore, “I am not worried about the tent. That’s what worries me. I should be worried about it, but I’m not. I feel nothing but peace.”
The schedule for completing our new tent was set, thanks to the generous check from Kenneth Copeland. It allowed us to plan beyond 1985. The new canopy would be delivered and tested in time to erect both tents side by side in Harare. The big tent for the main meetings; the smaller yellow tent for counseling and follow-up.
The Harare Sheraton and Conference Center would house our Fire Conference for evangelists with an auditorium seating 4,500.
- Reinhard Bonnke (Living A Life Of Fire)
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek
ΰ€Ήΰ€Ώΰ€¨ΰ₯ΰ€¦ΰ₯