The weeks went by rapidly. Since I was working on my master's degree, I happened to be on campus the last day of class before our Christmas break. I looked at my watch. Quickly I crossed the campus to Whitehall building. I knew that in about five minutes Dr. Davis would begin his final class period before the Christmas break.

I walked around the halls and stood in the open doorway. Several other curiosity seekers peered into the large classroom that housed David's Anthropology 201 session. Stomach knotted, I stood perspiring. "What if it doesn't work?" I asked myself. Then I shook my head trying to rid the nagging doubt.

Finally the moment came.

Up stood the infamous Dr. Davis, wearing what looked like the same T-shirt and jeans I had seen him in as a student seven years earlier. Walking around to the front of the desk he asked, "After two months in this class, is there anybody here who still believes in the ridiculous notion of religion and prayer?" He had rehearsed his part many times before. And he was gloating. In his right hand he held a new piece of chalk. He looked at the chalk. There was utter silence. Again he taunted, "Is there anyone here who still believes in God and prayer?"

My young employee was sitting near the right side of the auditorium. There were more than 500 students in the class. In fact, it was one of the largest classes on the entire campus. Slowly, David stood up and walked to the aisle. Then he methodically moved toward the front. He stopped in front of the instructor. "Dr. Davis," he said in clear, confident tones, "I do."

"Well, how about this," said Dr. Davis. "We have before us a real live person who claims he believes in the stupid notion that God can answer his prayer. Is that right?"

"Yes, sir," he replied. "I know God will answer my prayer."

"Well, how about this," the professor continued. "I'll tell you what. Just in case you misunderstood, I'll explain again exactly what I am going to do."

He went through the well-known sequence of events step by step. How he would hold the chalk up, open his fingers and let it fall. Then how it would shatter into a dozen fragments, and that no power in the universe could stop it from shattering. When he had finished his little discourse he chided, "Do you still want to pray?" David said, "Yes, professor, I sure do."

The professor reveled in this glorious moment of victory, "Well, isn't this something. All right, class. I want you all to be real quiet and reverent-like while this boy prays." He almost spewed the word prays from his lips. He turned to David. "Are you ready?"

"Professor," he replied. "I have been preparing for this moment all my life."

Sacrilegiously, the instructor intoned, "We'll all be real quiet while you pray."

The sneering smile was now gone from Professor Davis’ face. "Is that it?"

David breathed a humble, "Yes."

The professor grasped the chalk in his right hand and held it above his head in defiance. Then he let it fall. But that day a miracle happened. As the chalk tumbled to earth it fell against the leg of his jeans. Then it toppled onto his canvas sneakers. With a muffled tinkle it rolled to a stop on the concrete floor—unbroken!

The silence was deafening. Then a student burst into laughter. Soon another joined. In seconds the entire auditorium was laughing at the red-faced professor. I smiled and shouted at the top of my voice, "You did it, David." He turned, looked at me, and smiled. One of those disciplining grins. Then he simply pointed upward. I understood immediately.

On my way home I thought: "Lord, why could I not have had the courage and faith to stand up for You like little scrawny David? I ask Your forgiveness. May I never again be ashamed to stand up for You"

(Worldwide Challenge, January 1982, pp. 14-16)