I was in my dorm room doing homework the second week of December, 1971. The guy at the front desk called on the intercom. “McLarty, you there?”
“Yea.”
“You have a phone call.”
“I’ll be right down.”
The first thing I noticed when I picked up the phone was the voice–cheery and British.
“Hey ole chap. Colin Cook here. Your brother said you might be interested in coming to help us here in New York.”
Arthur had talked to me about this guy when we met at a Bible conference a couple of weeks earlier in upstate New York.
The Bible conference was a student-organized event growing out of a revival sweeping Adventist campuses in the United States. On some campuses, the spark was preaching by Adventist Jesus Freaks. At Southern the preaching of Morris Venden was the catalyst.
Student organizers at SMC chartered a couple of buses for the trip north. Faculty at the school tried to dissuade the leaders, then tried to dissuade the rest of us. But it was a hopelessly lopsided contest. Revival, mission, preparing for the end of time and taking the gospel to the world on one side. On the other, normal class schedules, protocols for approving trips that took students out of classes, concerns about the credentials of the conference’s organizers.
We boarded the busses Thursday night with grudging faculty approval and pulled into Camp Berkshire about four o’clock Friday. The kids from the other three schools–Andrews U. in Michigan, Atlantic Union College near Boston and Columbia Union College near Washington, D. C.–were already there. I asked around for Arthur, but nobody knew anything about him.
Camp Berkshire had been built in the 1920s as a summer resort in the Taconic hills an hour or so north of New York City. Adventists bought it in the sixties long after the Catskill region ceased being a summer destination. There were still hints of the resort’s former glory. The porch of the “Lodge” was built around two massive red oaks. The broad front steps spilled down onto a paved patio that wrapped around another three or four grand oaks.
The Lodge housed the kitchen and dining room on the ground floor and had a few sleeping rooms on the second floor. Across the patio from the lodge was the “Hotel.” It had four floors of sleeping rooms. Both buildings were ancient wooden structures. The floors felt soft when you ran down the halls. If your room was not on the ground floor, it was wise to look out your window to see if you could find a way to climb down or a reasonably soft place to land in case of a fire in the night.
After supper that first night, we gathered in the hotel’s solarium, a large room on the south side of the second floor. It was jammed. There were no chairs. We all sat on the floor.
The music was folk songs accompanied by guitar. (This was 1971.) Elder Taylor, the youth director for the New York City Conference spoke. He was warm and fatherly, not particularly compelling as a speaker. But the kids who knew him all liked him. He was real, they said. So I listened.
At the end of his sermon, he invited kids to share their testimonies, to tell how God had been working in their lives. A girl told of growing up religious, going to church, going through the motions, but God never seemed real. He voice was low and almost apologetic. She seemed on the verge of tears as she talked. “The whole religious thing was just habit,” she said. “There was nothing about it that was real.
“Then one night I had a dream. In my dream I was walking downtown surrounded by all these people, strangers. They were hurrying somewhere. All of a sudden I heard someone call my name. I stopped and looked around but didn’t see anyone. I started walking again. And again I heard my name. I looked around. Then the crowd parted and I saw the kindest man in the world looking right at me. I realized it was Jesus. He smiled then disappeared.
“I went back to sleep. It was the sweetest sleep I’ve ever had. The next morning when I picked up my Bible, it was like God was right there talking to me. I can hardly wait open the Word now and see what God will tell me.”
Guys and girls talked. A few students told of playing with alcohol and drugs before God got through to them. One fellow told of struggling to come up with the money for college this year. His parents weren’t Christians. They wanted him to go to the local college at home, but he was sure God wanted him in a Christian school. He had gotten a good job at the beginning of the summer but had an accident on the job at the end of June. He spent a week in the hospital and two more weeks at home recuperating. There was no way he was going to pull together enough money for registration, never mind tuition.
He fretted and worried. Then in the middle of August he finally told God. “I can’t do it. I’ve done the best I can. I still owe $800 for last year. I can’t register until that is paid off, and I have to have a thousand for registration, books and first tuition payment by the time school starts. If you want me to go to college, you’re going to have to do it.
“After that, I had a real peace about it.” He said. “It was like God told me, ‘Don’t worry. I can handle it.’
“A week before school started my pastor called me and told me that a member of the church had offered to pay my back tuition and my registration and to give two hundred dollars a month toward my tuition.
“I was amazed. I shouldn’t have been. God keeps his word. He promises that if we put him first, he will make sure we have everything else.”
Another guy talked of growing up in a minister’s home. “My dad and mom are good people, but I just didn’t connect. God seemed so unreal. In high school, I became an atheist. My parents didn’t pressure me, they just prayed.
“I did the smoking and drinking routine, but mostly I read books. Belief in God seemed so naive. I went to University of Pittsburgh my freshman year as a philosophy major. My professor was brilliant, but the more convinced I became of atheism the more miserable I became.
“At home on Christmas break I told God I was going to give him one more chance. (It was kind of funny. Here I was, an atheist, telling God I was going to give him one more chance.)” A ripple of sympathetic laughter ran through the crowd. “I was going to read the New Testament. If he showed up, fine. It not, well he couldn’t say I didn’t try.
“I sat down and started reading Matthew. By the time I was reading the story in Luke about the shepherds going to search for the baby in the manger, I found myself hoping they would find him. I found myself wishing I could go find him.
“The next day as I was reading the gospel of John, I knew something was happening. I could hardly put it down. God was showing up. I was being born again.
“I finished out last year at the University. Nearly everyday I would find something new in the Bible. God gave me chances to talk with other students about faith. This fall I went to Columbia Union College. I love it. Sabbath afternoons, a group of us spend time with kids in a project, doing crafts with them, telling them stories, trying to share Jesus’ love with them. I’ve never been happier.”
A guy named Tim told of going back and forth for months over whether he should be a teacher or nurse. It was driving him crazy. Finally, one night he prayed, “God, I need you to show me. I don’t know what to do. I have to make a decision. You’ve promised to speak to your people through your word. Please show me what to do.”
“I took my Bible, set it on my desk and let it fall open. I plunked my finger down on the page, then looked to see what it said. My finger was on Jeremiah 30:17. Guess what it says. ‘For I will restore health unto thee, and I will heal thee of thy wounds, saith the LORD.’”
“I figured that was pretty obvious. I’m trying to spend an hour every day reading my Bible, because I know that God speaks through his word. He talks to me, that’s for sure.”
I loved the stories. They made God real. But I also listened with envy. Why did God give everyone else experiences they could talk about? I read the Bible every day. I believed God was present when I read it. But God did not talk to me personally when I read it. I had memorized whole chapters. I was formidable in arguments about Bible doctrines because I knew so many passages by heart. But I never received personal guidance. I didn’t encounter texts that solved my great dilemmas. No Bible verse ever answered my question about whether or not I should be a minister. The Bible didn’t give me any particular guidance about dating or breaking up with a particular girl. The Bible gave no information about what summer job God wanted me to do.
The experiential part of my religious life felt like an uncertain quest for a God who could not be touched or pleased. I knew what theologians said about God. I could quote Bible verses about God’s love, about his promises to answer our prayers. I had mastered the language Morris Venden used to describe a relationship with God. But what I felt was inadequacy, incompleteness, unworthiness, existential loneliness.
It was 11:30 before the meeting broke up. Afterwards, I ran into Arthur and his friends. I had read about their work in a church paper. They had created a coffee house, The Catacombs, in a former coalery under the 11th Street Adventist Church in Greenwich Village. They were sharing Jesus with hippies and street people. They themselves looked the part–the guys with their great shaggy beards and long hair, the women with long dresses, long hair, sunny faces and gentle spirits. They were all so . . . so Bohemian, so carefree. The chemistry among them was electric. They offered a sirenic glimpse of real community, of belonging. I admired the rawness and directness of their ministry. They all looked poor. They had struggled to come up with gas money to make the drive up from NYC.
I gave Arthur twenty bucks. It was really Dad’s money since Dad was paying my way through college. Dad and Arthur were not on the best of terms at that point, but sharing Dad’s money with Arthur seemed right. It was a sweet moment for me. For the first time in my life, Arthur appeared genuinely pleased with something I had done. He invited me to share a room with him and a couple of other guys.
The next morning, we were back in the solarium for Sabbath School and church. The sun came out. When the hotel was built, the solarium had overlooked the lake. Since then the trees had grown up and the lake was invisible, but the sky and views of distant hills filled the glass walls. It was a perfect setting for worship.
After lunch I went for a walk with several other kids. It had snowed over a foot on Thursday and the ground was still covered with heavy slush, but the roads were mostly clear. We walked north. The road was bordered with the remnants of ancient stone walls, stones dragged from the fields over a hundred years ago by farmers trying to pull a living from the ground. On the right, the fields had been completely taken over by trees–not that long ago. Beyond the large trees along the road, the trees formed a dense thicket of small diameter trunks. On the left the fields were still open, pasture apparently. The barbed wire fence along the road strung haphazardly on fence posts and trees.
Later in the afternoon there was more music, testimony and preaching. Saturday night was supposed to be recreation–snowmobiling, snow shoeing, a bonfire. But too much snow had melted for any decent snow activities. It was kind of rainy.
Arthur and his Jesus Freak friends saw this as divine intervention. God had more spiritual work he wanted us to do. About half the students joined them in the solarium for an evening of Bible study and prayer, especially prayer, using a novel format.
They called it conversational prayer. A person prayed for a sentence or paragraph or two then stopped. Someone else would pick up and pray whatever was on his or her mind. Then someone else. There was no particular order. We didn’t pray around the circle. We didn’t kneel. We didn’t always keep our eyes shut. The idea was to spend time together in the presence of God. Prayers began and ended without the customary formalities of “Our father in heaven . . . in Jesus’ name, Amen.”
Kids prayed about what they thought God might be calling them to do back at their schools. They prayed about old habits they wanted to change. At some point Arthur prayed someone would be called to take to gospel back to our home church in Memphis.
As he prayed, I felt a call in my heart. I would be that person. I loved my home town. I liked the people in the church. I wanted them to experience some of the excitement and enthusiasm I saw people experiencing at this Bible conference. I wanted them to know the good news that God is not waiting for us to become “good enough” before he will accept us and pardon us. God accepts us the way we are.
I knew the misery of feeling unworthy and guilty. I figured many other people in my home church felt the same. Maybe I could help them understand God’s grace. I prayed out loud saying I accepted the call to go back to Memphis to preach the gospel.
Sunday morning we boarded the bus for the return trip to SMC. Two weeks later Colin called.
When I talked with my parents about taking a year off from school to work at The New York Center, they were not thrilled. My mother was the most vocal. Why did I have to go so far away? Why didn’t I finish college first? New York was a dangerous place full of muggers.
Dad offered a few vague comments questioning the wisdom of working with a thirty-five-year-old minister who was single and living in Times Square. I could tell he wasn’t excited, but I was determined to go. My dad was a libertarian parent regarding anything that was not explicitly prescribed or proscribed by our church. Outside the rules of our religion, we kids were free to make our own decisions, however haywire and cock-eyed they might be. Dad bought my plane ticket.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Chapter 18. Morris Venden
Spring Week of Prayer came the second week of April. The speaker was someone named Morris Venden. He was the pastor at the La Sierra College Church. He had an unusual approach for a Week of Prayer. He had no drug experience or sexual adventures to spice up his “pre-conversion story.” In fact, he didn’t even tell a conversion story at all in his first sermon.
He began with Pascal’s wager. Give me a fifty-fifty chance that God is real, that the Bible is true. I’ll give you a fifty-fifty chance that it’s all a fairy tale.
If you’re right and I’m wrong, what have I lost? Maybe a few momentary pleasures that I avoided because I thought they were wrong. But in general, following Jesus, especially in the United States, does not take away from one’s quality of life. If you’re right and there is no God, no heaven, no hell, what have I lost? Not much.
But if I’m right and you’re wrong. What have you lost? Everything. Heaven. God. A billion years of joy and happiness. And that is just the beginning.
My cousin Ricky, who wasn’t particularly religious found Venden’s approach intriguing. He would have rejected the pushy revival approach. But Venden’s laid back, conversational style sneaked past his defenses. He actually found himself listening.
Another evening, Venden began with an imaginative story about an encounter with the Devil: You are riding the elevator in the Empire State Building. On the 33rd floor someone gets on the elevator with you. He looks vaguely familiar, but you try not to stare. He speaks to you. He has a proposition. He’ll give you ten million dollars on two conditions. One, you’ve got to spend it all in the next twelve months. And two, at the end of the twelve months you agree to return to the Empire State Building, take the elevator to the observation deck and jump off.
Venden wanted to know, would you do it? Again, Ricky found himself hooked. Venden engaged his imagination, his spirit of adventure. But I was troubled. Venden was interesting, but there was something wrong with his theology.
Venden told of getting a phone call while he was a young pastor. The woman on the phone wanted to know, do you know God?
Venden was a preacher. He knew all kinds of things about God. He could give Bible studies on multiple religious topics. But this woman was asking if he knew God? He was already struggling with his sense of disconnection with God. This phone call brought it into devastating focus. He realized he did not know God.
He decided to read the book Steps to Christ written by our prophet. Surely, this book would help him get to know God. He underlined everything that seemed important. When he was done, he had underlined nearly the entire book underlined. Which wasn’t very helpful. So he went back through the book. This time he underlined only those passages that offered concrete, understandable instructions. He skipped all the poetic stuff, phrases like “fall on the rock and be broken,” “look to the Lamb,” “be washed in the blood.” He had heard these all his life. Everyone used them, but he didn’t have the foggiest idea of what they really meant. How do you fall on the rock? How can you take a bath in blood?
He underlined only explicit, comprehensible commands. Do this. Do that. When he got all the way through he could summarize the entire book in three sentences: Read your Bible. Pray. Tell other people what you found in doing the first two.
Venden insisted if a person did these three things, they would be in relationship with God, i.e. saved. That’s it. That’s all there is to it. Read your Bible, pray and witness . . . and you are . . . saved.
This was the refrain of his sermons all week. The longer I listened the more uncomfortable I became. What about doing right? What about conquering bad habits like sexual fantasizing and masturbation and exaggerating and eating sweets?
He sounded like a Baptist. All you had to do to be saved was believe. You could sin all you wanted. You didn’t even have to make any particular effort. Just believe and everything would be all right. There was no way this could prepare a person to live through the time of trouble without a heavenly mediator. It was way too simple.
Venden kept preaching. I kept listening. I was drawn. He quoted from Ellen White and the apostles Paul and John. He argued the only real security we could have during the end of time was a good relationship with someone strong enough to save us. In fact, the best modern word for the ancient concept of faith was “relationship.”
As the week progressed, I found myself being convinced. His aphorisms made sense. We are saved by faith not by works, by relationship not by behavior, by who we know not what we know. Maybe. It was worth considering.
By late in the week, I had come far enough around that I wanted to ask this preacher about my great struggle with the call to ministry. I signed up for one of the time slots he had available on Friday.
I walked into the room and shut the door behind me.
“Elder Venden, how does a person know if they have been called to the ministry? I always planned to be a doctor, but now I’m a theology major. Still, I wonder. How you know if God is really calling you?”
Venden was slow answering, but there was no hesitancy in his voice, “My advice for anyone considering entering the ministry is go do something else. If God wants you to be a minister, he won’t let you be anything else. If God doesn’t want you to be a minister, you don’t want to be one either.”
The answer had a certain irresistible logic. It didn’t do much to calm my inner turmoil. Did it mean I should drop my theology major and go back to pre-med? How hard could one legitimately work at avoiding the ministry? Watching Venden enthrall a thousand students with his preaching gave me a new vision of what ministry could be. Here was a preacher who wasn’t boring, whose preaching was not rooted in a conversion story featuring drugs, alcohol and sex, who talked about spiritual life in a way that made sense.
I could see myself doing that. I could travel around the country to Adventist colleges telling students about God. And doing it in a way that was compelling and transforming. If ministry was like that, I could see myself doing it.
I spent the summer after my freshman year doing volunteer construction at two different Adventist schools. My cousin Jimmy came with me. I read Mere Christianity by C. S. Lewis. I loved it. Jimmy asked questions I couldn't answer. Like, if Christians are supposed to be unselfish, why do Christian men look for pretty women? If you were to really follow Christ wouldn't you find the ugliest woman you could and marry her to give her happiness? I had never thought of that. Jimmy also talked about how a person who receives kindness benefits the giver of kindness by allowing them the pleasure of serving. I had never thought of that either. Jimmy's questions didn't destroy my faith. They did make me puzzle over the operation and limits of altruism.
The next fall, I was back at Southern Missionary College.
He began with Pascal’s wager. Give me a fifty-fifty chance that God is real, that the Bible is true. I’ll give you a fifty-fifty chance that it’s all a fairy tale.
If you’re right and I’m wrong, what have I lost? Maybe a few momentary pleasures that I avoided because I thought they were wrong. But in general, following Jesus, especially in the United States, does not take away from one’s quality of life. If you’re right and there is no God, no heaven, no hell, what have I lost? Not much.
But if I’m right and you’re wrong. What have you lost? Everything. Heaven. God. A billion years of joy and happiness. And that is just the beginning.
My cousin Ricky, who wasn’t particularly religious found Venden’s approach intriguing. He would have rejected the pushy revival approach. But Venden’s laid back, conversational style sneaked past his defenses. He actually found himself listening.
Another evening, Venden began with an imaginative story about an encounter with the Devil: You are riding the elevator in the Empire State Building. On the 33rd floor someone gets on the elevator with you. He looks vaguely familiar, but you try not to stare. He speaks to you. He has a proposition. He’ll give you ten million dollars on two conditions. One, you’ve got to spend it all in the next twelve months. And two, at the end of the twelve months you agree to return to the Empire State Building, take the elevator to the observation deck and jump off.
Venden wanted to know, would you do it? Again, Ricky found himself hooked. Venden engaged his imagination, his spirit of adventure. But I was troubled. Venden was interesting, but there was something wrong with his theology.
Venden told of getting a phone call while he was a young pastor. The woman on the phone wanted to know, do you know God?
Venden was a preacher. He knew all kinds of things about God. He could give Bible studies on multiple religious topics. But this woman was asking if he knew God? He was already struggling with his sense of disconnection with God. This phone call brought it into devastating focus. He realized he did not know God.
He decided to read the book Steps to Christ written by our prophet. Surely, this book would help him get to know God. He underlined everything that seemed important. When he was done, he had underlined nearly the entire book underlined. Which wasn’t very helpful. So he went back through the book. This time he underlined only those passages that offered concrete, understandable instructions. He skipped all the poetic stuff, phrases like “fall on the rock and be broken,” “look to the Lamb,” “be washed in the blood.” He had heard these all his life. Everyone used them, but he didn’t have the foggiest idea of what they really meant. How do you fall on the rock? How can you take a bath in blood?
He underlined only explicit, comprehensible commands. Do this. Do that. When he got all the way through he could summarize the entire book in three sentences: Read your Bible. Pray. Tell other people what you found in doing the first two.
Venden insisted if a person did these three things, they would be in relationship with God, i.e. saved. That’s it. That’s all there is to it. Read your Bible, pray and witness . . . and you are . . . saved.
This was the refrain of his sermons all week. The longer I listened the more uncomfortable I became. What about doing right? What about conquering bad habits like sexual fantasizing and masturbation and exaggerating and eating sweets?
He sounded like a Baptist. All you had to do to be saved was believe. You could sin all you wanted. You didn’t even have to make any particular effort. Just believe and everything would be all right. There was no way this could prepare a person to live through the time of trouble without a heavenly mediator. It was way too simple.
Venden kept preaching. I kept listening. I was drawn. He quoted from Ellen White and the apostles Paul and John. He argued the only real security we could have during the end of time was a good relationship with someone strong enough to save us. In fact, the best modern word for the ancient concept of faith was “relationship.”
As the week progressed, I found myself being convinced. His aphorisms made sense. We are saved by faith not by works, by relationship not by behavior, by who we know not what we know. Maybe. It was worth considering.
By late in the week, I had come far enough around that I wanted to ask this preacher about my great struggle with the call to ministry. I signed up for one of the time slots he had available on Friday.
I walked into the room and shut the door behind me.
“Elder Venden, how does a person know if they have been called to the ministry? I always planned to be a doctor, but now I’m a theology major. Still, I wonder. How you know if God is really calling you?”
Venden was slow answering, but there was no hesitancy in his voice, “My advice for anyone considering entering the ministry is go do something else. If God wants you to be a minister, he won’t let you be anything else. If God doesn’t want you to be a minister, you don’t want to be one either.”
The answer had a certain irresistible logic. It didn’t do much to calm my inner turmoil. Did it mean I should drop my theology major and go back to pre-med? How hard could one legitimately work at avoiding the ministry? Watching Venden enthrall a thousand students with his preaching gave me a new vision of what ministry could be. Here was a preacher who wasn’t boring, whose preaching was not rooted in a conversion story featuring drugs, alcohol and sex, who talked about spiritual life in a way that made sense.
I could see myself doing that. I could travel around the country to Adventist colleges telling students about God. And doing it in a way that was compelling and transforming. If ministry was like that, I could see myself doing it.
I spent the summer after my freshman year doing volunteer construction at two different Adventist schools. My cousin Jimmy came with me. I read Mere Christianity by C. S. Lewis. I loved it. Jimmy asked questions I couldn't answer. Like, if Christians are supposed to be unselfish, why do Christian men look for pretty women? If you were to really follow Christ wouldn't you find the ugliest woman you could and marry her to give her happiness? I had never thought of that. Jimmy also talked about how a person who receives kindness benefits the giver of kindness by allowing them the pleasure of serving. I had never thought of that either. Jimmy's questions didn't destroy my faith. They did make me puzzle over the operation and limits of altruism.
The next fall, I was back at Southern Missionary College.
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.
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.
Chapter 16. College Women
Fall is the most romantic season in east Tennessee. The quality of light, the red and gold trees, the magic of leaves to kick through on sidewalks, the crisp, intoxicating air. And here at Southern there were no rules against holding hands.
At Highland, any physical contact with girls was frowned on. Early in my senior year, a college girl from SMC I had met at summer camp came to visit for a weekend. We sat together at Friday night vespers. The school sent a letter to my parents. My mom didn’t mention it until a few weeks later. She thought it was funny–that the school would get bent out of shape because a guy and a girl were sitting together in a church service.
But now I was in college. Nobody cared if I sat with a girl or held her hand!
On Sunday afternoon, a couple of weeks after school started, a girl invited me to go with her and a group of her friends for a walk in the fields on the far side of the valley. After we had walked awhile, she took my hand. Her touch sent electricity through my whole body.
The trail ran past a scattering of huge boulders. We clambered up and sat, talking. We laid back on the warm rocks, looking at the sky. She messed with my hair.
I kept thinking, so this is what people do in college! This is what I’ve read about–casual, wonderful times with women. I knew this girl and I were not headed for serious romance, but I luxuriated in the intoxicating pleasure of being together, touching and talking. I savored the fire of attraction and the sweetness of her softness and yieldedness. I felt more a part of the world than ever before in my life. These students, the whole lot of them, welcomed my presence. This sophomore girl–this dark-haired, laughing extrovert–liked me, touched me, snuggled against me. If only the day could last forever.
There were girls everywhere. In classes, in the cafeteria, at church, on mission activities, at work. I liked them all.
Late in the fall, after the leaves were off the trees, the school planned a day of Ingathering. We met in the gym to organize. Faculty members were available to drive their cars. Upper classmen also drove.
Each car load of four to six students was given a map of their territory. It was explained this was not just about raising money for disaster relief and the poor people in Africa, it was a chance for us to represent the face of Jesus to people we would meet. It might be that someone we would talk today would be in some kind of personal crisis and our kindness, our knock on their door, our offer to pray with them might make the difference between life and death.
The student leaders role played a few encounters at the door.
“Hi. I’m Jeff and this is Marcie. We’re from Southern Missionary College and we’re out today collecting donations for the victims of tornadoes and hurricanes here in the United States and to help poor people in Africa who don’t have enough to eat.
“Your donation will make a real difference in the life of another human being.
“Here’s a pamphlet that explains more about the way these funds are used.”
Jeff stepped out of character for a minute to explain, “Hand them the pamphlet. If they take it and begin to look at it, this is a good sign. While they are looking, remind them of the tornado in Middleborough last year.”
Jeff stepped back into character with Marcie.
“You remember that terrible tornado in Middleborough last year? Well, funds from this program helped to provide clothing and emergency supplies for the people whose houses were destroyed by that tornado.”
“And our disaster relief helped with the aftermath of the flood up in eastern Kentucky just this past spring. Anything you can do to help with this life-saving work will be greatly appreciated.”
I joined four other students in Dr. Crowly’s car. Victoria sat in the middle in the front. I had the window seat. The weather was miserable, gray and rainy. Our assigned territory was an hour’s drive north. I might have found the long, dreary drive boring, but Victoria was making her happiness at having me beside her rather obvious. She scooched herself as tightly against me as she could. I was not repelled by her warmth.
After the usual small talk of everyone finding out where everyone else was from and what their parents did professionally and how many brothers and sisters they had, I asked the professor one of my favorite questions.
“We preach that Jesus is coming soon. Just this last Friday night, the vespers speaker’s entire sermon was focused on ‘the last generation.’ If we do our job of taking the gospel to the whole world, we could see Jesus come before we have grandchildren–for most of us before we have children. We don’t have to keep living in a world of hunger, disease and injustice. The second coming is just around the corner.
“But, when I look at Southern Missionary College or Highland Academy or our church back home, these don’t look like places that were built by people who expected to be gone in a five or ten years. These places were built to last.
“How can we say we really believe Jesus is coming soon and still pour so much money into buildings? Why don’t we put all our money in preaching the gospel? And why do we coop young people up out here in the country and try to educate them instead of sending them out to evangelize the world?”
Dr. Crowly had heard this question before. He was ready. “Ellen White says we are to live our lives as though Jesus were coming tomorrow. But we are to plan as though he were not coming for another twenty years. Yes, we believe Jesus is coming soon. It could be in less than five or ten years. But even the Bible warns, ‘no man knows the day or the hour.’
“So since we don’t the exact time of Jesus’ coming, it seems like a smart thing to build quality buildings.”
“Yea, but do we really need expensive white pillars on the front of the Ad Building? Do we need a fifty-thousand dollar pipe organ in the church? Does the two million dollar gymnasium they are building really help prepare us to finish the work? What is the purpose of a physical education major? How does that help us get the world ready for the return of Jesus?”
“You should have been here when I first arrived on campus twenty-seven years ago. There was only one brick building on campus. That was the science building. (Now it’s the theology building.) Everything else was wood and cheap. The girls’ dorm was a fire trap. The guys’ dorm smelled bad and looked like a strong wind would blow it over. The floors on the second floor of the Ad Building felt saggy under your feet when you walked the hall. You couldn’t help but wonder if some day someone was going to fall through into an office below.
“When they built those buildings seventy-five years ago, they built them cheap. They figured why waste money on expensive buildings when Jesus was going to come before very long and everything would be burned up. They took seriously the idea that we were a missionary college. We were preparing students to go and take the Third Angels Message to the whole world in their generation. They figured we didn’t have much of a future here in this world, so they didn’t plan for it. They planned for a future in heaven. But here we are.
“So I think investing in representative buildings is a good idea. It lends dignity to the Adventist cause. It helps people recognize we are not just some fly-by-night sect. I think it even helps a lot of our students. It helps them take their church more seriously. They see that we are serious about putting our very best into God’s service.”
I had been through this argument before with preachers and teachers and my parents. I sympathized with their advocacy of quality, dignity and excellence in architecture, education and professional development. I had no respect for students who wanted easy tests and minimal course requirements. I had no respect for teachers who didn’t stretch students with their demands. I didn’t want to be part of a church that nodded approval toward lazy scholarship and mediocre art.
I hadn’t yet connected excellence in art with elegance in architecture. My dad always insisted we could have chosen to live in a fancier house, but we didn’t because living in a cheaper house freed up money for missions. It seemed to me that a college specializing in preparing young people to engage in selfless service for Jesus should make some kind of statement about its commitment to self-denial in the buildings it erected. Besides, this was 1970. I was not the only young person questioning the patterns of consumption of previous generations.
But no matter how much I thought about the question. No matter how many times adults quoted our prophet’s exhortation to plan for a long future while expecting Jesus to come very soon, I could never bring myself to accept the reasoning. How can a person genuinely believe Jesus is coming soon–say in five or ten years–and at the same time make investments that only make sense from the perspective of a forty- or fifty-year future? Either you believe the end is near or you don’t. How you behave reveals what you believe.
There was no point in pushing the debate. Dr. Crowley was a long-time Adventist. Every Adventist knew Jesus was coming soon. That’s what made us Adventists (people who anticipated the imminent Advent). There was no way he could bring himself to say he didn’t believe the end was near. He had spent perhaps fifty years living in a community that repeatedly asserted in the strongest terms that the end of the world was upon us. Just a few more years and we would be plunged into the time of trouble. The Mark of the Beast would be imposed on everyone except a handful of faithful followers of Jesus. The seven last plagues would fall.
Dr. Crowley had lived so long with the contradiction between this theory about the end of time and the actual shape of our life as a religious community that he no longer felt the tension. The religious part of his brain believed the end was near. But he lived like a typical educated Adventist. He had gotten his Ph. D. in support of his career in education, built equity in a house he owned, anticipated retirement. And he expected the college to act with similar good sense in planning its future.
My own place in this struggle between end time zeal and “regular time” realism varied erratically. Sometimes I thought I should drop out of school and give everything I had to spreading the gospel to the world. Then I dreamed of getting an M. D./Ph. D. Solving problems in blood chemistry associated with prolonged work in deep water environments.
Obviously, if Jesus were coming back in five years, it would be a total waste of time to chase a Ph. D. in biochemistry. I couldn’t possibly finish in less than eight years. On the other hand, while I admired the students who talked about dropping out of school to spread the gospel NOW, I could never fully identify with them. Most were newly converted hippies and druggies. They weren’t into history or sciences. I loved their bohemian attitudes and was perplexed by their naivete.
Our conversation turned to less contentious topics. While the prof and I talked, Victoria snuggled against me, occasionally resting her head on my shoulder. Once we reached our territory, we climbed in and out of the car to solicit at small stores or clusters of houses.
We didn’t take in much money. The people seemed as morose and sullen as the weather. Often, they appeared to need the money as badly as the people pictured in the Ingathering brochure.
Finally, around four thirty we headed back toward the college. As the day got darker, Victoria got cozier. She pulled my arm into her lap and gently stroked it up and down. She played her long fingernails over the skin of my hand.
I glanced over at Dr. Crowley to see if he was taking any notice. At Highland Academy this kind of PDA (public display of affection) would have been forbidden. But he seemed oblivious.
The people in the back seat were engrossed in their own conversation. So I tried to multi-task, holding up my end of the conversation with Dr. Crowley while paying attention to the thrill of Victoria’s touch.
At Highland, any physical contact with girls was frowned on. Early in my senior year, a college girl from SMC I had met at summer camp came to visit for a weekend. We sat together at Friday night vespers. The school sent a letter to my parents. My mom didn’t mention it until a few weeks later. She thought it was funny–that the school would get bent out of shape because a guy and a girl were sitting together in a church service.
But now I was in college. Nobody cared if I sat with a girl or held her hand!
On Sunday afternoon, a couple of weeks after school started, a girl invited me to go with her and a group of her friends for a walk in the fields on the far side of the valley. After we had walked awhile, she took my hand. Her touch sent electricity through my whole body.
The trail ran past a scattering of huge boulders. We clambered up and sat, talking. We laid back on the warm rocks, looking at the sky. She messed with my hair.
I kept thinking, so this is what people do in college! This is what I’ve read about–casual, wonderful times with women. I knew this girl and I were not headed for serious romance, but I luxuriated in the intoxicating pleasure of being together, touching and talking. I savored the fire of attraction and the sweetness of her softness and yieldedness. I felt more a part of the world than ever before in my life. These students, the whole lot of them, welcomed my presence. This sophomore girl–this dark-haired, laughing extrovert–liked me, touched me, snuggled against me. If only the day could last forever.
There were girls everywhere. In classes, in the cafeteria, at church, on mission activities, at work. I liked them all.
Late in the fall, after the leaves were off the trees, the school planned a day of Ingathering. We met in the gym to organize. Faculty members were available to drive their cars. Upper classmen also drove.
Each car load of four to six students was given a map of their territory. It was explained this was not just about raising money for disaster relief and the poor people in Africa, it was a chance for us to represent the face of Jesus to people we would meet. It might be that someone we would talk today would be in some kind of personal crisis and our kindness, our knock on their door, our offer to pray with them might make the difference between life and death.
The student leaders role played a few encounters at the door.
“Hi. I’m Jeff and this is Marcie. We’re from Southern Missionary College and we’re out today collecting donations for the victims of tornadoes and hurricanes here in the United States and to help poor people in Africa who don’t have enough to eat.
“Your donation will make a real difference in the life of another human being.
“Here’s a pamphlet that explains more about the way these funds are used.”
Jeff stepped out of character for a minute to explain, “Hand them the pamphlet. If they take it and begin to look at it, this is a good sign. While they are looking, remind them of the tornado in Middleborough last year.”
Jeff stepped back into character with Marcie.
“You remember that terrible tornado in Middleborough last year? Well, funds from this program helped to provide clothing and emergency supplies for the people whose houses were destroyed by that tornado.”
“And our disaster relief helped with the aftermath of the flood up in eastern Kentucky just this past spring. Anything you can do to help with this life-saving work will be greatly appreciated.”
I joined four other students in Dr. Crowly’s car. Victoria sat in the middle in the front. I had the window seat. The weather was miserable, gray and rainy. Our assigned territory was an hour’s drive north. I might have found the long, dreary drive boring, but Victoria was making her happiness at having me beside her rather obvious. She scooched herself as tightly against me as she could. I was not repelled by her warmth.
After the usual small talk of everyone finding out where everyone else was from and what their parents did professionally and how many brothers and sisters they had, I asked the professor one of my favorite questions.
“We preach that Jesus is coming soon. Just this last Friday night, the vespers speaker’s entire sermon was focused on ‘the last generation.’ If we do our job of taking the gospel to the whole world, we could see Jesus come before we have grandchildren–for most of us before we have children. We don’t have to keep living in a world of hunger, disease and injustice. The second coming is just around the corner.
“But, when I look at Southern Missionary College or Highland Academy or our church back home, these don’t look like places that were built by people who expected to be gone in a five or ten years. These places were built to last.
“How can we say we really believe Jesus is coming soon and still pour so much money into buildings? Why don’t we put all our money in preaching the gospel? And why do we coop young people up out here in the country and try to educate them instead of sending them out to evangelize the world?”
Dr. Crowly had heard this question before. He was ready. “Ellen White says we are to live our lives as though Jesus were coming tomorrow. But we are to plan as though he were not coming for another twenty years. Yes, we believe Jesus is coming soon. It could be in less than five or ten years. But even the Bible warns, ‘no man knows the day or the hour.’
“So since we don’t the exact time of Jesus’ coming, it seems like a smart thing to build quality buildings.”
“Yea, but do we really need expensive white pillars on the front of the Ad Building? Do we need a fifty-thousand dollar pipe organ in the church? Does the two million dollar gymnasium they are building really help prepare us to finish the work? What is the purpose of a physical education major? How does that help us get the world ready for the return of Jesus?”
“You should have been here when I first arrived on campus twenty-seven years ago. There was only one brick building on campus. That was the science building. (Now it’s the theology building.) Everything else was wood and cheap. The girls’ dorm was a fire trap. The guys’ dorm smelled bad and looked like a strong wind would blow it over. The floors on the second floor of the Ad Building felt saggy under your feet when you walked the hall. You couldn’t help but wonder if some day someone was going to fall through into an office below.
“When they built those buildings seventy-five years ago, they built them cheap. They figured why waste money on expensive buildings when Jesus was going to come before very long and everything would be burned up. They took seriously the idea that we were a missionary college. We were preparing students to go and take the Third Angels Message to the whole world in their generation. They figured we didn’t have much of a future here in this world, so they didn’t plan for it. They planned for a future in heaven. But here we are.
“So I think investing in representative buildings is a good idea. It lends dignity to the Adventist cause. It helps people recognize we are not just some fly-by-night sect. I think it even helps a lot of our students. It helps them take their church more seriously. They see that we are serious about putting our very best into God’s service.”
I had been through this argument before with preachers and teachers and my parents. I sympathized with their advocacy of quality, dignity and excellence in architecture, education and professional development. I had no respect for students who wanted easy tests and minimal course requirements. I had no respect for teachers who didn’t stretch students with their demands. I didn’t want to be part of a church that nodded approval toward lazy scholarship and mediocre art.
I hadn’t yet connected excellence in art with elegance in architecture. My dad always insisted we could have chosen to live in a fancier house, but we didn’t because living in a cheaper house freed up money for missions. It seemed to me that a college specializing in preparing young people to engage in selfless service for Jesus should make some kind of statement about its commitment to self-denial in the buildings it erected. Besides, this was 1970. I was not the only young person questioning the patterns of consumption of previous generations.
But no matter how much I thought about the question. No matter how many times adults quoted our prophet’s exhortation to plan for a long future while expecting Jesus to come very soon, I could never bring myself to accept the reasoning. How can a person genuinely believe Jesus is coming soon–say in five or ten years–and at the same time make investments that only make sense from the perspective of a forty- or fifty-year future? Either you believe the end is near or you don’t. How you behave reveals what you believe.
There was no point in pushing the debate. Dr. Crowley was a long-time Adventist. Every Adventist knew Jesus was coming soon. That’s what made us Adventists (people who anticipated the imminent Advent). There was no way he could bring himself to say he didn’t believe the end was near. He had spent perhaps fifty years living in a community that repeatedly asserted in the strongest terms that the end of the world was upon us. Just a few more years and we would be plunged into the time of trouble. The Mark of the Beast would be imposed on everyone except a handful of faithful followers of Jesus. The seven last plagues would fall.
Dr. Crowley had lived so long with the contradiction between this theory about the end of time and the actual shape of our life as a religious community that he no longer felt the tension. The religious part of his brain believed the end was near. But he lived like a typical educated Adventist. He had gotten his Ph. D. in support of his career in education, built equity in a house he owned, anticipated retirement. And he expected the college to act with similar good sense in planning its future.
My own place in this struggle between end time zeal and “regular time” realism varied erratically. Sometimes I thought I should drop out of school and give everything I had to spreading the gospel to the world. Then I dreamed of getting an M. D./Ph. D. Solving problems in blood chemistry associated with prolonged work in deep water environments.
Obviously, if Jesus were coming back in five years, it would be a total waste of time to chase a Ph. D. in biochemistry. I couldn’t possibly finish in less than eight years. On the other hand, while I admired the students who talked about dropping out of school to spread the gospel NOW, I could never fully identify with them. Most were newly converted hippies and druggies. They weren’t into history or sciences. I loved their bohemian attitudes and was perplexed by their naivete.
Our conversation turned to less contentious topics. While the prof and I talked, Victoria snuggled against me, occasionally resting her head on my shoulder. Once we reached our territory, we climbed in and out of the car to solicit at small stores or clusters of houses.
We didn’t take in much money. The people seemed as morose and sullen as the weather. Often, they appeared to need the money as badly as the people pictured in the Ingathering brochure.
Finally, around four thirty we headed back toward the college. As the day got darker, Victoria got cozier. She pulled my arm into her lap and gently stroked it up and down. She played her long fingernails over the skin of my hand.
I glanced over at Dr. Crowley to see if he was taking any notice. At Highland Academy this kind of PDA (public display of affection) would have been forbidden. But he seemed oblivious.
The people in the back seat were engrossed in their own conversation. So I tried to multi-task, holding up my end of the conversation with Dr. Crowley while paying attention to the thrill of Victoria’s touch.
Chapter 15. For All the Saints
I rode to college with Aunt Velma and Ricky in their station wagon, seven hours across Tennessee from Memphis to Southern Missionary College. The expressway was finished all the way to Chattanooga except for a thirty-mile stretch just west of the city where the highway worked its way down the face of the Cumberland Plateau. East of Chattanooga we traveled a two lane highway, then a narrow country road that snaked past poor farms in cramped valleys. Finally, we entered a broader valley. Half a mile farther, we reached the main entrance to the campus, a sweeping circular drive set in expansive lawn and framed with flower beds. At the head of the drive stood the imposing white-pillared porch of administration building. Off to the left was the women’s dorm, to the right the men’s, echoing in more prosaic fashion the colonial style of the ad building.
Behind the college, forested hills cut across the horizon, appearing to crowd in on the buildings.
I registered for 18 hours of classes, including calculus, chemistry and honors English and a required Bible class. Every time I went to the cafeteria, I met new people. Every time I went anywhere, I met new people. It was heaven. The first Friday night, the church was packed for vespers.
The program began with hymn singing. The building had decent acoustics and a good pipe organ. The students sang with hormone-driven energy. I was transported. I was used to classic sacred music from our church back home. In the choir I had sung the Messiah and works by Sibelius, Bach, Brahms and Hayden. We did passably well. But singing with twenty to forty people, mostly middle aged or older, to an audience of two hundred–also middle aged or older–scattered about in a church that sat six hundred–had never come close to the fire and life of fifteen hundred college students starting a school year.
The final song in the set was “For All the Saints.” A “high brow” hymn not ordinarily sung in Adventist churches. I experienced a special satisfaction realizing that I knew the music better than many around me, knowing the offbeat timing at the beginning of each stanza. But the organ carried everyone, and the entire place was enraptured.
For all the saints who from their labors rest,
Who Thee by faith before the world confessed,
Thy name, O Jesus, be forever blessed.
Alleluia, alleluia. . . .
O may Thy soldiers, faithful, true and bold,
Fight as the saints who nobly fought of old,
And win with them the victor’s crown of gold.
Alleluia, alleluia. . . .
When the organ modulated up for the last verse, the thrill was tainted with a premonition of regret for the approaching end of the song.
From earth’s wide bounds, from ocean’s farthest coast,
Through gates of pearl streams in the countless host,
Singing to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
Alleluia, alleluia.
SMC was the very embodiment of classic, conservative Adventism. Self-confident, happily sectarian, aggressively forward-looking. Our college was preparing young people to stand for truth through the final crisis in earth’s history, a crisis that was just around the corner. The “Advent message,” as we referred to the teachings of our church, was the absolutely indispensable information people needed to survive the end time with their minds and characters intact. No other Christian church or group had the requisite understanding of the Bible. We were the one true church, the Remnant Church of Bible prophecy. Other churches were, at best, Christian wannabees. We were the real thing.
But this hymn, “For All the Saints,” raised funny questions about the neat division of the world into Adventists and everybody else. The “saints” celebrated in this song were not Adventists, they were Catholics, Ethiopian Copts, Baptists, Abligensees and Lutherans. They included people like Francis of Assisi, Bernard of Clairvaux and John Huss. The hymn celebrated the Waldensees of the southern Alps who resisted Roman Catholic hegemony and the Lollards who lived the principles of Jesus within the Catholic Church in England.
This enthralling music celebrated not the “perfect Adventists” of the end of time but the millions of believers who had honored Jesus in worship and service across two millenia–nameless disciples who, in the name of Christ, had housed lepers, fought slavery, rescued foundlings, copied Bibles, sung hymns and given themselves to martyrdom. Adventist glory came not from our distinctiveness in the Christian family but from our inclusion in it.
Sitting there in a church dedicated to the Adventist vision of "uniqueness" I experienced more strongly than ever before a sense of connection with "all the saints."
Behind the college, forested hills cut across the horizon, appearing to crowd in on the buildings.
I registered for 18 hours of classes, including calculus, chemistry and honors English and a required Bible class. Every time I went to the cafeteria, I met new people. Every time I went anywhere, I met new people. It was heaven. The first Friday night, the church was packed for vespers.
The program began with hymn singing. The building had decent acoustics and a good pipe organ. The students sang with hormone-driven energy. I was transported. I was used to classic sacred music from our church back home. In the choir I had sung the Messiah and works by Sibelius, Bach, Brahms and Hayden. We did passably well. But singing with twenty to forty people, mostly middle aged or older, to an audience of two hundred–also middle aged or older–scattered about in a church that sat six hundred–had never come close to the fire and life of fifteen hundred college students starting a school year.
The final song in the set was “For All the Saints.” A “high brow” hymn not ordinarily sung in Adventist churches. I experienced a special satisfaction realizing that I knew the music better than many around me, knowing the offbeat timing at the beginning of each stanza. But the organ carried everyone, and the entire place was enraptured.
For all the saints who from their labors rest,
Who Thee by faith before the world confessed,
Thy name, O Jesus, be forever blessed.
Alleluia, alleluia. . . .
O may Thy soldiers, faithful, true and bold,
Fight as the saints who nobly fought of old,
And win with them the victor’s crown of gold.
Alleluia, alleluia. . . .
When the organ modulated up for the last verse, the thrill was tainted with a premonition of regret for the approaching end of the song.
From earth’s wide bounds, from ocean’s farthest coast,
Through gates of pearl streams in the countless host,
Singing to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
Alleluia, alleluia.
SMC was the very embodiment of classic, conservative Adventism. Self-confident, happily sectarian, aggressively forward-looking. Our college was preparing young people to stand for truth through the final crisis in earth’s history, a crisis that was just around the corner. The “Advent message,” as we referred to the teachings of our church, was the absolutely indispensable information people needed to survive the end time with their minds and characters intact. No other Christian church or group had the requisite understanding of the Bible. We were the one true church, the Remnant Church of Bible prophecy. Other churches were, at best, Christian wannabees. We were the real thing.
But this hymn, “For All the Saints,” raised funny questions about the neat division of the world into Adventists and everybody else. The “saints” celebrated in this song were not Adventists, they were Catholics, Ethiopian Copts, Baptists, Abligensees and Lutherans. They included people like Francis of Assisi, Bernard of Clairvaux and John Huss. The hymn celebrated the Waldensees of the southern Alps who resisted Roman Catholic hegemony and the Lollards who lived the principles of Jesus within the Catholic Church in England.
This enthralling music celebrated not the “perfect Adventists” of the end of time but the millions of believers who had honored Jesus in worship and service across two millenia–nameless disciples who, in the name of Christ, had housed lepers, fought slavery, rescued foundlings, copied Bibles, sung hymns and given themselves to martyrdom. Adventist glory came not from our distinctiveness in the Christian family but from our inclusion in it.
Sitting there in a church dedicated to the Adventist vision of "uniqueness" I experienced more strongly than ever before a sense of connection with "all the saints."
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