Chapter 17. The Call . . . Again

Girls and theological questions were not the only things occupying my mind that fall. I couldn’t get away from the crazy idea that I was supposed to be a minister. Every night, I spent most of my prayer time explaining to God it was just a comic mistake, a joke actually. I wasn’t really going to be a minister. I didn’t want to be a minister. I couldn’t imagine being a minister. Yes, I had stood up in a revival meeting in response to Elder Atchley’s call. But that had just been a moment of high emotion. It was not connected with reality.

I could do so much more good as an Adventist doctor than as an Adventist minister. For starters, I would have some intellectual credibility. Scientists on the Calypso or the Alvin would never go to an evangelistic meeting. They were unlikely to come to church to hear some preacher talk. But if I won their respect through quality scientific work, then perhaps I would have a chance to share Jesus with them. Besides, as a doctor I would have surplus income to share with the church.

I was struggling in calculus. I had enrolled with great confidence. And sitting in class, I was reassured by the familiarity of the content. We had covered much of this stuff last year in DeVasher’s class at Highland. Then I would sit down in my room in the dorm at night to do my home work. But instead of solving problems, I would sit and stare at my book for fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes. Nothing made any sense. I couldn’t get the first problem done. My mind would wander from the numbers and symbols in front of me to the insistent notion in the back of my mind–You’re supposed to be a minister. I would try to shake it off and get my mind back on calculus, but I could not focus.

Finally, in desperation, I would pray. “Look, God. I’ll be a minister, if that’s what you want. I’ll be anything you want. But please, let me get this calculus done. I can’t stay up all night working on these problems.”

My mind would clear. I would finish the problems in half an hour or forty-five minutes.

The next night it would start all over. I would sit staring at my calculus textbook, the numbers a blur on the page until finally I prayed, “All right. All right. I’ll be a minister. Just leave me alone.”

Then I would finish the assignment comfortably.



The second Thursday in November, just a week after the Ingathering adventure, I went for a long walk. Headed up the range of hills behind the college. I kept going until I reached the highest ridge, White Oak Mountain. The day was gray and drippy. The leaves on the trails were soggy, all color gone except for the rich chocolate of some of the oak leaves. At the ridge crest I turned north, sometimes on a trail, sometimes just boulder hopping through the trees along the crest, the whole time arguing with God, or with my heart or with something.

What should I do? Did God really want me to be a minister? How could I ever fit into the ministerial mold? Would I end up like Elder Schute, fifty-five and stuck in a meaningless career with a family to support and no options? Could I imagine myself in the role of Elder Thurmon, the pastor of my church back home–a kind old man who was good to people and boring in the pulpit? And wouldn’t I miss the sea? Would I always regret not doing something exciting and interesting?

But if God really wanted me to be a minister, then, of course, that’s what I should do. Maybe, if God was calling me, I might even enjoy ministry. I tried not to remember remarks by people back in Memphis. Mrs. Powell, the Baptist lady across the street said she figured I’d be a preacher if I didn’t become a doctor like my daddy. Uncle Gilbert (a “Southern” uncle, not a relative), invited me to work with him on projects around the church. He thought I’d make a “fine preacher,” which coming from him was a high affirmation. I had always adamantly resisted these comments. I was going to be a doctor. But out here in the wet woods as I argued with God against the preposterousness of my being a preacher, their remarks formed part of the divine rebuttal. And there were the kids and even a couple of faculty at Highland who thought I ought to become a minister.

But what would Dad think if one of his sons became a minister? How would that go over at home?

Eventually the ridge dropped to a road. I turned left hoping it would take me back toward the college. In a mile or so, I reached an intersection I recognized and turned left again. The argument continued nonstop.

The road climbed a hill then swept into the valley in front of the college. As I left the road and headed up the circular drive into campus, I prayed, “God, if you want me to be a minister, you need to make it really, really clear. I need a sign, because being a minister makes no sense at all.”

Just before I reached the sidewalk to the dorm, a car slowed beside me. I looked over, but in the dull light couldn’t see who it was. The passenger rolled down his window. It was Elder Johnson, the president of the Kentucky-Tennessee Conference. The driver was Elder Schornstien, the conference secretary.

“Hi Johnny. I saw your folks last week when I was down in Memphis. How’s college going?

“Fine.” I wasn’t really interested in a conversation with Elder Johnson. My dad ranked him with most other clergy–not bad, not too bright, not too honest, not too competent. But he was an adult and a minister so I was required to be polite.

“How’s it going with the girls?” He asked. I couldn’t believe his impertinence. The man hardly knew me. What business did he have asking about my social life? But then that was a typical preacher for you. The only thing at college that mattered to them was finding a nice Adventist girl. Why didn’t he ask about calculus or chemistry? Why didn’t he ask how my writing was going in Honors English? No wonder people joked that SMC stood for Southern Matrimonial College.

“Fine.” I answered. “There are lots of nice girls here.”

“Anyone special in your life?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, don’t forget that you’ll never be in a better place to find a good Christian
girl.”

“Yes sir, so I’ve heard.”

“Say, Johnny, have you ever considered going into the ministry?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, if you do decide to take theology, let me know. I’ll have a job for you. Okay?”

“Thank you, sir. That’s kind of you. But I’m planning to go into medicine.”

“That’s great. Your daddy must be proud. And that’s a great way to serve the Lord, too.

“Look, Johnny, I’m sorry to have to run, but we have a meeting with the president. It’s been real nice to see you. And remember, if you change your mind about the ministry, give me a call. You have a job waiting.”

They drove off.



I headed into the dorm. Was that a sign?

That night I repeated my usual mental block/prayer/calculus routine. On Monday, I went into the registrar’s office to change my major to theology. I went to Elder Holbrook’s office in the theology department to figure out what classes I should take second semester. I wasn’t too thrilled about it, but God had won.