In the 1970's the phone stopped ringing. Not because Leonard Ravenhill retired. Not because he lost his voice. Not because his messages had changed. But because the church had changed. The modern church wanted speakers who made them comfortable. He made them convicted. They wanted teachers who affirmed their programs. He exposed their powerlessness. They wanted preachers who filled the auditorium. He wanted people who would fill the altar, with tears. So the invitations dried up and the doors for ministry opportunities closed. The prophet who once shook nations now stood alone. Closed pulpits; silent phone; fewer letters; open dates. But every night he went to the secret place. Because when the modern church rejects you, you discover something beautiful: God is enough. Leonard Ravenhill proved that the loneliest path is also the most powerful.
It didn't start this way. In the 1940's and 50's, he was in demand. Churches invited him. Conferences wanted him. Crowds gathered to hear him. But something happened between those years and the 70's. The message didn't change. The church did. Leonard kept preaching the same fiery sermons on prayer, holiness, consecration, and the high cost of revival. But the church began walking a different path. They wanted seeker-sensitive services; he preached sin-exposing sermons. They wanted positive thinking; he preached repentance. They wanted church-growth strategies; he preached prayer-closet agonies. Slowly, systematically, the doors closed. Denominational leaders called him too harsh. Pastors said he was out of touch. Critics dismissed him as old-school, irrelevant, too extreme, harsh and mean. One church board wrote, “Brother Ravenhill, we appreciate your zeal, but our congregation needs encouragement, not condemnation.” Another pastor told him directly, “Your message is too heavy. People leave feeling worse than when they came.” Too heavy—that’s what they called Holy Ghost conviction. That’s what they called the prophetic word. That’s what they called the voice of God.
Leonard Ravenhill knew what was happening, for he wrote, “The prophet in his day is fully accepted of God and totally rejected by men.” Fully accepted of God, totally rejected by men. That’s the prophetic calling. Not both—never both. You get God’s approval or man’s applause, but you don’t get both. And Ravenhill chose God. So the invitations stopped coming. The conferences stopped calling. The publishers stopped printing. And Leonard Ravenhill, the man who once preached to thousands, found himself preaching to dozens—sometimes less.
But he never stopped because he understood something the comfortable church never would: You cannot silence a man whose pulpit is the floor of humility. You cannot stop a man whose audience is God. You cannot tame a man who has experienced God's glory in the secret place. They could close their doors. They could cancel his meetings. They could ignore his message. But they couldn’t stop him from praying. And that’s where real power was found.
While the church slept, Leonard Ravenhill prayed. While pastors built their brands, he built his altar. While conferences celebrated their attendance numbers, he wept over a nation’s prayerlessness. Eight hours a day. That’s how long he spent in the secret place—not once a week, not during a special season, but every single day. And it cost him everything—his health, his reputation, his comfort, his popularity. But it gave him something the comfortable church could never have: the presence of an almighty God.
He wrote in his journal, “If I lose His presence, I lose everything.” Not if I lose my platform. Not if I lose my influence. Not if I lose my invitations. BUT IF I LOSE HIS PRESENCE! That was his fear. That was his standard. That was all that mattered to him. He guarded it like his life depended on it—because it did. He wrote, “The secret of praying is praying in secret. The pulpit can be a shop window to display one’s talents. The prayer closet allows no showing off—no cameras, no crowds, no applause—just you and God.” And Leonard Ravenhill discovered that’s where the fire burns hottest. That’s where the iron is forged. That’s where the unshakable become unbreakable. When you’ve experienced His presence—when you’ve heard His voice—nothing else matters. Not comfort. Not approval. Not invitations. Not recognition. He wrote, “I’d rather have ten minutes of God’s presence than ten years of man’s applause.” And he meant it.
While churches debated carpet colors and building campaigns, Leonard Ravenhill was meeting with God. While pastors networked at conferences, he was wrestling in prayer. While the church measured success by attendance, he measured it by anointing. And the gap between them grew wider every year—not because Leonard changed, but because he refused to. This is a pattern in Scripture. Every true prophet walks alone—not by choice, but by calling. Elijah alone at the brook while Israel feasted with Baal. Jeremiah alone in the pit while Jerusalem celebrated compromise. John the Baptist alone in the wilderness while the religious elite built their kingdoms. And Leonard Ravenhill alone in the prayer room, while the church built its empires.
This is the loneliness of a true prayer ministry—not the loneliness of being forgotten, but the loneliness of being misunderstood. They called him extreme; he called it obedience. They called him harsh; he called it honesty. They called him outdated; he called it unchanging truth. And the gap between their language and his grew so wide, that eventually they stopped speaking the same language entirely. He wrote, “A man who is intimate with God will never be intimidated by man.” But here’s what he didn’t write: that same man will be isolated by men, because intimacy with God makes you incompatible with the world’s systems—even the church’s systems. You simply can’t pray eight hours a day and play the political games. You can’t carry the fire of God and carry the favor of men. You can’t speak Biblical truth and keep your platform. You have to choose. And Leonard Ravenhill chose God—every single time.
His diary entries from the 1970s reveal the cost: “Lord, the phone doesn’t ring anymore. The invitations have stopped. But I have You, and You are enough. They say I’m too old, too harsh, too outdated, too uncompromising. Maybe they’re right. But I’d rather be right with You than relevant to them. Tonight, I preached to 17 people—17. But Your presence was there, and that’s all that matters.” Seventeen people—the man who once filled auditoriums now preaching to seventeen. And he called it worth it because he understood something the comfortable church never would: God doesn’t measure success by size. He measures it by surrender. Not how many showed up but did God show up. Not the size of the crowd, but the size of the consecration. And in that room of seventeen, there was more of God than in megachurches with thousands who came for carnal entertainment instead of an encounter with holiness.
He wrote, “The prophet is violated during his ministry, but he is vindicated by history.” Violated during his ministry. Vindicated by history. That’s the prophetic timeline. You don’t get vindication while you’re alive; you get it after you’re gone. You don’t get applause while you’re speaking; you get it decades later. You don’t get understood in your generation; you get understood by the next. And Leonard Ravenhill knew it. He knew he was planting seeds he’d never see harvested. He knew he was lighting fires that wouldn’t blaze until after he was gone. He knew he was speaking to a generation that wasn’t listening so the next generation could hear. That’s the loneliness—not being rejected, but being rejected for something that’s right. Being isolated for something that’s true. Being misunderstood for something that’s holy—and carrying it anyway.
But here’s what the church didn’t understand: the rejection didn’t break him; it made him. Every closed door drove him deeper into God. Every canceled invitation sent him longer into prayer. Every critic’s voice made God’s voice clearer. They thought they were silencing him. They were refining him. Like gold in the furnace, like steel in the fire—the pressure didn’t crush him; it purified him. And what emerged was something the comfortable church could never produce: a man completely untouchable by human opinion. A man who couldn’t be bought or bribed. A man whose only fear was losing God’s presence. A man whose only ambition was God’s glory. A man the church could not tame.
In his final years, something beautiful happened: the young generation discovered him. The ones tired of entertainment found his substance. The ones hungry for reality found his authenticity. The ones desperate for God found his desperation. And they realized this is what we've been missing—not better production, not cooler branding, not trendier messaging. A man who actually knew God. Someone who didn’t just talk about prayer—he lived in it. Someone who didn’t just preach about holiness—he walked in it. Someone who didn’t just write about revival—he carried it in his bones. And it burned from within. He wrote near the end of his life, “I’ve spent my life in the furnace, and I’d do it again, because what God forges in the fire, the world cannot break.” What God forges in the fire, the world cannot break. That’s the beauty through sorrow. That’s the glory through rejection. That’s the power through pain. The church wanted to tame him. But God had already claimed him—consecrated him, made him into something they couldn’t contain: a prophet fully accepted by God, totally rejected by men. And he wouldn’t have traded it for anything. Leonard Ravenhill stayed hidden for a reason—not because God forgot him, but because God was protecting him. Protecting him from the platform that would have destroyed his prayer life. Protecting him from the fame that would have stolen his intimacy. Protecting him from the church’s approval that would have cost him God’s presence.
And right now, God is doing the same thing. There are people in prayer rooms you’ve never heard of. There are intercessors in secret places carrying more fire than the stages you see. There are voices crying in the wilderness that will never trend on social media—and they’re exactly where God wants them. Maybe you’re one of them. Maybe you’ve felt the rejection, the isolation, the loneliness. Maybe you’ve wondered why God isn’t opening doors, why the invitations aren’t coming, why you’re still in the wilderness. Maybe it’s because He’s protecting you—from a platform you’re not ready for, from a crowd that would dilute your message, or from success that would cost you your secret place.
Leonard Ravenhill proved that the loneliest path is also the most powerful. Rejection by men is often approval by God. The furnace isn’t punishment—it’s preparation. And if you’re in that furnace right now, hear this: God sees you. God knows you. And He’s forging something in you that cannot be tamed. Stay in the fire. Stay in the secret place. Stay unshakable. Because the world doesn’t need more celebrities—it needs more prophets.
Leonard Ravenhill gave us a roadmap through rejection. He showed us that you can lose everything the worldly church values and gain the only thing that matters: God’s holy presence.
Author Unknown. Collected from transcripts on this YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/@FIRE.
