February 15, 2003
Barry M.- Former Hell's Angels leader surrendered to God!
My name is Barry. For years I had gone dutifully to Sunday school and listened to my mother talk about God and how He loved us. That sounded right to me until I was 16 and my step-dad, a man I loved a lot, caught malaria overseas while flying for an international airline.I prayed and asked the Lord to let him live, but he died. His death hit me hard, really hard, and I decided that if God allowed such terrible things to happen, then I wasn’t going to have anything more to do with Him. My mother tried to change my mind. But I told her to keep all that Bible stuff.
It seemed to me that the guys who were having fun did all the things Mother had warned me not to do. I began to get a new set of friends, and when my mother learned about the kind of guys I was running with and said she’d pray for me every day, I laughed.
Only one thing really fascinated me; the rough and tough life of bikers. By the time I was 22, I had joined a motorcycle club in Charleston, South Carolina. We supported our rough, vagabond life-style through gambling, drug dealing and other vices; we protected it with violence. Before long the Hell’s Angels, the most brutal motorcycle gang of all, took us into their national network.
Through terror and intimidation the Angels always got what they wanted; their black leather jackets and loud bikes had become a symbol of crime, an object of fear across the country.
It used to surprise me that my mother didn’t disown me. I knew she hated everything about my life, but whenever I’d roar up to her door to catch a shower and crash for the night, she welcomed me.
She still said she never stopped praying for me. “Turn back to Jesus,” she’d beg again and again. “It’s not too late. Confess your sins. His mighty forces will help you find what you really want.” I’d grin as I mounted my bike. “Ma, there ain’t nothing mightier than the Hell’s Angels!” Laughing, I’d do a wheelie as I spun out of her yard.
The years went by: Even my marriage to Fran didn’t keep me off the road. And then one night I ran into trouble. At a Hell’s Angels meeting in San Mateo, California, one of our leaders, a man called Wolf, was blowing his top about a rival gang leader in South Carolina. “I want him dead,” he snarled at me. “You’re in charge of South Carolina. You take care of it!”
I had bloodied men in fights, slashed faces and gouged eyes. But murder a man? Maybe it was those Sunday school days that made me say it, I don’t know, but I stood up to Wolf. “I’m a Hell’s Angels,” I told him, “but I’m no murderer.” From that moment on, I was on the Hell’s Angels’ death list.
That very night I discovered that they were out to get me. I raced up to San Francisco. I needed to get out of California, but I didn’t have the money for a plane ticket. I didn’t dare ask any of my so-called friends. They might turn me over to the Angels. Suddenly the only two people in the world that I could trust were my wife and my mother, who were both together with my baby daughter in my mother’s house in South Carolina.
My mother answered the phone. “Yes of course,” she said. “I’ll wire you the money.” Then I cowered all night in a cheap hotel room waiting for the Western Union office to open in the morning. At 9:00 a.m. I headed for the telegraph office. Suddenly, staring at me from across the street was a big blond man with a red beard. I had seen him before. He was a Hell’s Angel. Two other leather jacketed guys were with him. He nudged one, pointed to me, and the three of them headed across the street.
I pushed through the crowd, searching for the Western Union sign, and then... ahead, two more faces glared at me. They signaled to the men behind me. They were closing in on me.
I rushed on, panting, my knees wobbling. A red neon cafeteria sign flashed in front of me and I ducked inside. I headed for the rear where pay phones lined a wall. I had to call those two women at home. I had to tell them that I loved them, before those guys grabbed me.
I dialed Mother’s number and told the operator that Barry Mayson was calling collect. Someone answer, please! “Hello?” It was Fran. “Hey, baby,” I choked. “Where are you? We’ve been worried!”
My throat swelled. “Baby,” I whispered. “I just wanted to tell you....how much I love you.” I blinked back tears. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve treated you and Mother....Can you forgive me?” “Yes, Barry, yes!”
I glanced over my shoulder. Two of the Angels had come into the cafeteria; the others had grouped outside. My hands turned icy. “The Hell’s Angels are after me,” I whispered. “They’re right on my back.” “But we sent you money. We’ll meet you here at the airport.”
“Sweetie, there’s no way. They’re all around me. I just called to say good-bye.” A shadow fell across the phone. I turned; two men were standing behind me. “We want to use the phone.”
I pointed to the others. “We want that phone, man!” snarled the other. “Well, I’m using it!” I figured as long as I gripped the phone I’d be safe. It would make too much of a ruckus for them to drag me out while I held on to the receiver. I was right. They stepped back.
My mother’s voice came on. “Son, I’ve been listening on the extension. Now listen, everything’s going to be all right.” “Mother, you don’t understand. These guys are going to kill me. I just want to tell you how sorry I am for the terrible things I have done.“
“Son,” my mother told me, “I love you. All of those things are forgiven. Barry, listen; there’s hope for you.” “Mother, there are two guys here who are about to kill me. What kind of hope could there be?” “Son, your hope is in Jesus Christ.”
I stared down at the cafeteria floor littered with cigarette butts and candy wrappers, “Mother,” I said quietly, “Jesus Christ couldn’t care for me. When Dad died, I cursed God.” Her voice was gentle, but measured. “Son, it doesn’t matter. Jesus loves you. Two thousand years ago He gave His life for you. He shed His blood for you.”
Her words swept me years back to my Sunday school classes again. I could see the picture on a classroom wall, of Jesus hanging o n the cross. “He died for your sins.” My mother’s voice was insistent. “All you have to do is ask Him to forgive you and He will.”
Would He? Could He? I found myself desperately wanting to believe. “Mother, I don’t even know how to talk with God.” “It doesn’t matter what you say,” she said. “I’ll pray, and you pray with me.” “All right,” I sighed, slumping against the phone.
“Lord Jesus,” said Mother, “I know I’m a sinner. I just ask that You forgive me of my sins, come into my heart, and help me live for You.”
As I repeated her words, something broke inside of me. I found myself crying. I felt a rush of love. I felt peace and warmth. I knew. I knew that Jesus had forgiven me and that He had come into my heart. I could hear Him saying: “I love you. I forgive you for everything.” Through the drugs, drinking and depravity, I had been struggling for some kind of acceptance. Now I’d found it. For the first time in my life I felt free. I glanced behind me. The two Hell’s Angels looked puzzled. Bikers don’t cry.
The rest of the gang still hung around outside. I got scared all over again as I thought about what would happen as soon as I hung up the phone. “Mother,” I choked, “I know that God loves me and I know that I’m going to be with Him. I just wish I could get home to see you all again.”
Now her voice was direct and cool. “There is a way, Barry. Look through the book now and give me a number.” With the phone pressed against my shoulder, I started paging through the phone book on its chain. I found the listing marked “Clergy” and looked down the long columns of ministers’ names. Which one? Which one? My finger stopped at “Browner, Avery B.* ” I read off the number.
“All right,” Mother said, “Fran will call him from our neighbor’s phone right now and tell him to come get you. You stay right there. Don’t hang up.” As I waited - another hour, then two, all the while talking with my mother- the two men behind me joined the others outside. I thought of calling the police, but with my record, that seemed just as bad as facing my former “brothers.”
My mother kept talking to me. She read from her Bible, John 10:29 (RVS), where Jesus said, “My Father, Who has given them to Me, is greater than all, and no one is able to snatch them out of the Father’s hand.”
I glanced at the killers lurking outside. I knew now that God loved and forgave me. But I still wasn’t sure of His power. A tall, husky man in a navy blue suit strode through the cafeteria toward me. “Are you Barry Mayson?” he asked.
“Who are you?” I replied suspiciously. “Avery Browner,” he said. “Assembly of God. Your wife asked me to come down here. She said you needed help.” “The minister is here,” I told my mother. “What now?”
“Son, you have given your life to Jesus. Now you have to trust Him.” Then her voice took on a tone I hadn’t heard since I was a little boy. “Son, go with that minister now. I’m going to hang up.” I was silent for a moment. Was this that step of faith I used to hear about?
“All right, Mother. Good-bye.” Then I turned to the minister, “Well, let’s go.” We walked out onto Market street. The men waiting there backed up. The minister was a big man; the Angels must have thought he was a plainclothes cop. The minister and I stopped and looked at each other.
“What’s your problem?” he asked. “I just quit the Hell’s Angels,” I said, glancing toward the group, “and these guys are out to kill me.” “What do you want me to do?”
“Just walk down to Western Union with me so I can get my money for plane fare out of here.” “I can’t do that,“ he said. “Why? I thought you guys were supposed to help people in trouble.” “Yes,” he said, and then added thoughtfully, “but this is something you must do yourself.”
I stared at him, stunned. Yet I could tell there was no use arguing with him. I had already taken that first step of faith by leaving the phone. Now I faced an even rougher one. I wheeled and started toward Western Union. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Hell’s Angels move along behind me.
“Oh, Lord,” I breathed, forcing one foot after the other, “let me get home. Let me get the money and get out of here.” I walked faster, trying to mix in with the crowd on the sidewalk. And then I saw the big yellow sign: “Western Union.” I slipped into the door and stepped up to a woman sitting behind a glass partition. “Do you have a money gram for Charles Barry Mayson?”
She riffled through some papers and asked for my identification. As she counted out the money, I saw two Hell’s Angels reflected in the glass; they were standing outside, arms folded. The lady slid the money under the window to me. As I stuck the bills in my pocket, I vowed that if they got me, I would go kicking and screaming.
The two men flanked me as I walked to the door. Well, Lord, this is it, I thought, stepping out onto the street. As the other Hell’s Angels closed in, I looked up. Over one of my attacker’s shoulders I could see the bulk of Mr. Browner hurrying toward me. “Hey, man, hey!” I shouted. As he lumbered up, the Angels fell back. I grabbed Mr. Browner’s arm. “Man, I’m glad to see you. They were just fixing to get me!”
He placed beefy hands on my shoulders. “You know, Barry, the Lord seemed to have a reason for my letting you go on alone at first. And then He told me; “That man is in real trouble and now he needs your help”.”
A couple of hours later, I was on a plane bound for South Carolina, and I found myself wondering, What will happen now? will my life always be in danger? But overpowering the fear was the strong assurance that I belonged to Him. When I surrendered to God in that cafeteria, His mighty power did come to my aid, just as my mother had promised. As that Scripture guaranteed, no one could snatch me away from Him now.
My window blazed with sunlight. Together we were beginning the greatest journey yet.
*name has been changed
*Barry wrote his testimony in 1983. To find out more about Barry and his ministries visit www.barrymayson.com
[PRINTER FRIENDLY VERSION]
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