Chapter 61 The Voice of Prophecy

I headed West before the family, driving a car full of plants and a dog. When I got to the agricultural inspection station in California, the inspector looked in my car and blanched. My guess is she was wondering how I was going to react when she explained that I was going to have to dump all of my prized plants there in the desert. I quickly explained I had a certificate of inspection from the appropriate agency in Ohio. She took the paper and went into the office and came back smiling.

Driving on west through the California desert, I was astonished at the sweet sense of coming home. Where did that come from? I had never lived in Southern California and spent only a year or so in Northern. After Karin arrived with the kids, she told me she experienced something similar. We found a house in the working class section of Thousand Oaks. The neighborhood allowed horses, and the house we purchased had a four stall barn.

We visited the churches in the area. The architecture of all of them was unattractive, dark, closed, conventional, pews in rows. The preachers were boring. My sense was that the Adventists in California were deeper into “the Adventist world” than what I had experienced in New York or Ohio. Prophetic speculations and a profound wariness about the seductive threat of everything that was “outside” seemed to be the prime topics of conversation at potlucks and in church lobbies. We ended up at the Camarillo Church because of their quality programming for kids.



At about the time I was hired, the Voice of Prophecy had chosen Melashenko to take H. M. S. Richards, Jr.'s place as the speaker/director of the ministry. The plan was for a gradual transition. Melashenko would work along side Richards as the associate speaker, then gradually Richards would step back as Melashenko increasingly became the public face of the ministry. Publishing a book with Melashenko's name on it would be a helpful step in the process of giving him increased visibility in the denomination.

Melashenko had preached a series of sermons at the Paradise, California, Adventist Church not long before this transition. The sermons were an obvious source for a book. My first assignment, which I began working on before we actually moved to California, was to edit these sermons for publication. The sermons had already been transcribed, so it should have been an easy assignment.

The sermon series was structured around the people who were present at the cross on Good Friday. I read through the sermons, then began polishing the first chapter, transforming it from verbal to good written form.

One of the elders at Akron First Church, Larry Baggott, when he learned what I was doing, asked if I had ever read Leslie Hardinge's book, These Watched Him Die? No, I hadn't read the book, but I had heard Hardinge present a Week of Prayer on this theme when I was at a student at Pacific Union College. And yes, what I had read in the transcripts did have a familiar feel. Baggott lent me his copy of Hardinge's book.

Oops! Many of Melashenko's sermons consisted largely of quotations from Hardinge's book. Melashenko had a good memory. He was also phenomenally gifted at reading a script with a passion and naturalness that belied the fact he was reading. Whether the sermons had been read or were delivered from memory, the bottom line was that the transcriptions were frequently word-for-word repetitions Hardinge's book for pages at a time. In nearly every sermon more than half was direction quotation from Hardinge.

I called the manager at Voice of Prophecy and asked what to do. It was not a problem that could be addressed by simply giving credit. We couldn't put Melashenko's name on a book that consisted mostly of direct quotation from another book published by the denomination, a book that was still in print. Not only was the book still in print, Hardinge himself had preached the content of his book at campmeetings across the country and at many Adventist colleges.

It was finally decided I would write a book on the topic, using the Hardinge/Melashenko sermons as one source. That way there would be some connection between Melashenko and the content of the book, but it would avoid the embarrassment of merely copying Hardinge's work. The finished book showed no direct dependence on Hardinge. Melashenko had done his most independent work in the chapter on Mary Magdalene, so in this chapter I included several pages from the transcript of his sermon. Pacific Press published the book with the title, Stand at the Cross: And Be Changed. I was listed as a co-author. I was thrilled to have a book in print with my name on it. And I was, in fact, the author.

The production of this book set the tone for my work at The Voice of Prophecy. Both H. M. S. Richards, Jr. and Lonnie Melashenko were consumed with their work as the directors of a large ministry. They had no time for the slogging hard work of producing content for the broadcast or books. They chose their writers carefully then trusted them completely.

I would be assigned to write a week's scripts: five scripts, each with an approximately nine minute sermon and four minutes of introduction and invitations to write or phone for a free offer and an invitation to support the ministry financially. For the first few months, my scripts were reviewed critically by others and I was given thoughtful feedback. By the end of the first year I was left virtually on my own. Over the six years I worked there, only once was a manuscript returned to me as unacceptable. (The rejection was fully earned.)

I was (and am) a slow writer. Add to that my tendency to be easily distracted and there were times when I was up all night, trying to meet a recording deadline. A couple of times I did not make deadline and the entire ministry schedule was disrupted. In the last several years I was at Voice, my fellow writer and supervisor was David Smith. At that time, I wrote and produced the Sunday broadcast, a twenty-eight and a half minute program. Smith was writing and producing the Monday through Friday broadcasts, five thirteen and a half minute programs. Every week he wrote two and a half times as many words as I did. I remember once, after Melashenko had done an overseas evangelistic series, the ministry decided to produce a book telling the story of the meetings. Smith was drafted as writer. In a week or two he completed it.

Smith was a writing machine. Usually, his first draft was ninety-eight to a hundred percent of the final draft. He could write circles around me. I was slow and inefficient. I would write and re-write. Often I would be five or six pages into a sermon manuscript before realizing it wasn't going to work. So, I'd delete it and start over. On the other hand, I was recognized as the master when it came to handling delicate, sensitive issues.

From day one, I had to fight the old guard for permission to address any distinctively Adventist doctrine in the broadcast. For decades, the prevailing ethos had been to avoid giving offense. Just “preach the gospel.” “Sound like Christians.” “Win friends.” Then after they liked us and signed up for a Bible course or attended an evangelistic meeting sponsored by the Voice of Prophecy, we could share with them our distinctive beliefs.

I argued against this from my experience as a pastor. More than once, I had visited or called someone whose name had been sent to me because of they had completed a series of Bible studies through the Bible Correspondence School. When the person found out I was connected with the Adventist Church they wanted nothing more to do with me. When I tried to convince them that Pastor Richards, the head of the Voice of Prophecy was also a minister in the Seventh-day Adventist Church, I was called a liar. Having listened to the broadcast for years and having completed a series of Bible studies through the Correspondence School, people still had no idea there was any connection between the sweet, Christian ministry of the Voice of Prophecy and that weird cult, the Adventists. The broadcast was supported almost exclusively by gifts from Adventists (mostly elderly) who gave because they believed we were doing the work of evangelism – understood as sharing our message with the world. We were not supported by the general audience (in contrast to the norm in Christian radio). I argued we had a fiduciary responsibility to make sure our broadcasts actually contributed to the evangelistic outreach of the church. We had to do the work our supporters believed we were doing. Our broadcasts could not be merely inoffensive. We could not justify limiting ourselves to broadcasting our version of generic, American, Protestant Christianity. We were obliged by our funding source to bring people into contact with the particular message and community of the Seventh-day Adventist Church.

We began to mention the name of the church in the broadcasts. We did features on missionaries with Adventist Frontier Missions. We talked about the Pathfinder Camporees and Adventist Health Ministries and Adventist education. We were not drowned in negative mail. No stations dropped us.

I wrote sermons on distinctively Adventist doctrines – the Sabbath, what happens after death, health as a component of Christian spirituality. (My title for the Adventist doctrine of death is “God's Grief.” See my blog entry for December 5, 2001, http://liberaladventist.blogspot.com/) I wrote the first broadcast Voice of Prophecy had ever done on the Mark of the Beast. This terrified the old guard. They let it pass after reading the script and were relieved when there was no outcry from our listeners or stations. A couple of listeners wrote to argue with particular points in the broadcast, but there was no umbrage that we had raised the topic or outrage at the general tone of the presentation.

I thought it a bit humorous that I who was more unorthodox, more liberal, more eccentric than any one else associated with the ministry, would be the one pushing the ministry to be more faithful to its denominational identity in its public programming.

My sense was that part of the ethos of the ministry, going back to the formative influence of H. M. S. Richards, Sr., was a willingness to take risks in pursuing increased effectiveness in outreach. I remembered the “Wayout” Bible study materials produced by the Voice in the seventies to reach the youth culture of the time. It was genuinely cutting-edge, using psychedelic graphics and trendy language. There was a strong backlash from many congregations and pastor. But H. M. S. was determined to reach people untouched by more traditional approaches. At least, that's the way I heard the story told by oldtimers at Voice. My own eccentricity fit into this pattern of hiring edgy people to help reach people outside the mainstream.

One cause championed by several in the old guard had my full support. There were Adventist radio ministries around the world modeled on the Voice of Prophecy. In one respect these foreign ministries were like each other and different from the American Voice of Prophecy: Their names meant Voice of Hope rather than Voice of Prophecy, e.g. Voz de Esperanza, Stimme der Hoffnung, a Voz da Esperança.

Our radio broadcasts did not feature prophetic themes prominently. The old guard would have replaced a focus on prophecy with a focus on the cross. I would have replaced it with a more generalized message of hope and well-being anchored in the synoptic gospels. We agreed using the name Voice of Hope would connect us with our international partners and give us a spiritual/religious identity that was healthier and less open to the common bias against against Adventists as a “cult.” I don't remember how these conversations came to nothing, but in the end, preserving the status quo won out. Which was congruent with Melahsenko's pattern of leadership.

He had a deep sense of the honor conferred on him by being chosen to “step into the shoes” of H. M. S. Richards. During the transition of leadership from H. M. S. Richards, Jr. to Melashenko, Melashenko wanted H. M. S. with him in every public appearance. I never saw Melashenko show the least inclination to set any new direction. He did not show any desire to put “his own stamp” on the ministry. Rather his dominant objective was to preserve, to conserve the venerable heritage he had been handed. He wanted to maintain the ministry. He wanted to keep the long-time supporters. We did everything we could to present the face of a “continuing ministry.” The new Voice of Prophecy under Melashenko was the same as the old Voice of Prophecy under the Richards. People could trust us.



Part of my job was to represent the Voice of Prophecy at campmeetings around the country. The speaker/directors, H. M. S. Richards, Jr. and Lonnie Melashenko, would be scheduled for weekend sermons at major campmeeings. Other staff would take speaking appointments at smaller campmeetings. Usually our sermons were scheduled during the week when the campmeetings were harder pressed to fill their schedules. I enjoyed the travel, at first, but after awhile grew weary of it. As a pastor, I would often think, after preaching, if I had a chance to preach that again, I could do a better job. I imagined I would enjoy preaching a sermon often enough to perfect it. In reality, while I was certainly able to deliver more polished sermons, I often found myself wondering whether the sermon I preached connected meaningfully to my audience. They were strangers. If I preached grace, I worried they needed greater emphasis on duty and obligation. If I preached duty and obligation, I worried I may have added to the unbearable burden my listeners were already carrying. As a pastor, I might not deliver polished sermons, but I had a deep sense of connection with my audience.

Usually once or twice a year, I would have a preaching assignment that lasted for several days. Sometimes I would speak Monday through Friday at a campmeeting. These extended assignments were more satisfying than single sermons. Visiting with people over the course of the week gave me a sense of connection with my audiences.

Once when Morris Venden had to cancel late, I was invited to speak for the Sabbath services and evening meetings in the main auditorium at the Oklahoma campmeeting. This was highly flattering. The first Sabbath, I was in the lobby of the gymnasium before the services began. I met C. Mervyn Maxwell, a former seminary professor. I introduced myself, but he brushed aside my introduction, saying, of course, he remembered me. Which was believable. I did ask a few questions in his class. According to a number of my classmates, once when I was absent, Maxwell had told the class that I would never get a job as a pastor. At the time, his prophecy was not unreasonable. My job prospects were dim.

Dr. Maxwell's first question was, “So, what are you doing now?”

“I'm the writer/producer for the Sunday broadcast of the Voice of Prophecy.” I could see the astonishment on his face. In our denomination, my position was considered a plum. It was a position of honor.

Dr. Maxwell asked the next obvious question. “So what brings you here to Oklahoma?”

“I'm speaking here this week.”

His discomfiture increased. “You know,” he said, “H. M. S. Richards really was not a well-rounded minister. All he could do was preach.”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He was talking about the late H. M. S. Richards, Sr., the man who had founded the Voice of Prophecy. Richards was at that time arguably the most admired Seventh-day Adventist after our prophet Ellen White. He was considered our greatest preacher, a genuinely wise, good man, a larger than life person. To dismiss him as “only a preacher” would be like dismissing Pavarotti as “only a singer” or Einstein as “only a theoretical physicist.” I mumbled something in response and ended the conversation, astonished and amused.

It was a lesson. Even the most venerated preacher has his critics.

Chapter 60. Akron First Seventh-day Adventist Church

While we were still pastoring the Babylon Church, Karin and I began looking for a house to buy. Property values were skyrocketing on Long Island. My dad had given us money for a down payment. After my initial disappointment at being assigned to a suburban pastorate, I had fallen in love with the saints and the ministry of the Babylon Church. I began to imagine spending my life with these people. The town of Babylon itself was charming. However, even with the money my dad had given us, we were unable to find a house that suited us and our budget.

Then we were transferred to the Church of the Advent Hope. I toyed with the idea of living in Manhattan, but rent on even the smallest place that would accommodate us and our daughter cost more than I earned. For reasons I don't recall, we decided to look for a house in the suburbs north of the city. Still we could not get our budget and preferences together. Finally, Karin found a place in Newton, New Jersey. We bought it. It was an hour fifteen minutes drive on Sabbath mornings from our house to the church. Crazy. But I was living the “Ellen White Blueprint” for city ministry—living out and working in. There was a fold-out couch in the basement at the church. I slept there two or three nights a week. Except for Sabbath when the family was with me, I took the bus into town. The last stop on the express run was less than two miles from our house. In Manhattan, unless the weather was too miserable, I walked from the bus terminal on the west side across to Grand Central Station where I caught the 5 or 6 up to 86^th Street. The church was a couple of blocks from the 86^th Street station.

Karin and I lived separate lives. When I was home, she was at work. When she was home, I was in the city. We made it work, but it accentuated our already ingrained habits of individualism. Our family expanded to four, then Karin was pregnant again. Twins! This was not possible. Our church members would have been delighted to help us cope with the challenge of caring for twins but they lived in the city. Logistically, it would be impossible.

We were invited to pastor the Akron, Ohio, Adventist Church. Karin's mother and father lived in Kettering, Ohio. The move would bring our home life and my professional life into a smaller geographical circle. Akron a much larger church than Advent Hope. It would be a great career move.

The twins were born. One was severely deformed. By the time he was delivered his heart had stopped. He was revived, but died about twelve hours after he was born. His sister was healthy and beautiful.

The church welcomed us warmly. It was a challenge for me to try to fit into the very different pastoral role required in a four-hundred member church. The elders were gracious and wise. The group included professors and blue-collar workers, men and women, all of whom appeared to respect one another.

At the time, John Osborn, a roommate of mine in high school, was making a career out of bashing the denomination for its compromises with evil. One of the most insidious, diabolical threats to the church, as Osborn saw it, was contemporary music with its syncopation and emotionality.

One of the churches in the Ohio Conference had launched an audacious venture into contemporary worship. The pastor had begun this innovation with the full blessing of the conference president. He had processed it with the elders and church board. But once the church got deeply into the new approach to worship, opposition exploded in the congregation. Eventually, the two pastors were fired and the church retreated to a more traditional liturgy and organizational form.

At Akron, we decided to make our own attempt at introducing a contemporary service. All the books suggested that given our present attendance which was close to eighty percent of the seating capacity, numerical growth for our congregation required starting a second service. So we began an early service using a contemporary format.

There was muted opposition. My sense was that people couldn't put words to all of their reservations, but they had a gut reaction against this newfangled approach to worship. It just didn't feel right. Six months into our experiment, the head elder told me, “John, I think you know I don't care much for this modern music. But it has my daughter attending church again. I want you to know I will do anything I can to make sure this service continues.” A couple other leaders said similar things. The younger crowd (people in their thirties and forties) showing up for the contemporary service were the children of the Akron Church. Some had not been regular at church for more than a decade. Their parents and grandparents might not understand or appreciate the music and the drums. But they would tolerate it since it appeared to reconnect their children and grandchildren with church.

Akron was a “gospel church.” Many of the people prided themselves on their understanding of the gospel. They had been rescued from the burdens of legalism and perfectionism. They understood justification. This “gospel identity had been formed in the church through the preaching of a previous minister. He was an “expository preacher” who believed that God's best revelation of truth was found in the writings of Paul. Sermons were exercises in scholarship. He preached through Paul's letters, sometimes spending weeks expounding the meaning of a single verse. He frequently instructed the congregation on the true meaning of particular Greek words Paul used. As he hammered away, many in the congregation let go of their notions of being good enough for salvation. They were saved by grace alone, through faith alone. Humans were hopelessly depraved. There was nothing in any human that could recommend him or her to God. But God in his sovereign will had deigned to send a Savior, Jesus, who lived a righteous life and died a perfect death. Jesus' righteousness was available to us through faith. When we believed God now regarded us as perfect in Christ. Saved.

After I had been at Akron for a while some of the people complained about my preaching. I did not cite Greek words; I based my sermons on English translations instead of the Greek original. And I told stories! That was especially galling. Any one could understand my sermons. They were not intellectually stimulating.

I smiled when I heard the complaints that I used stories instead of exegesis. I replied that at least one early Christian preacher had done the same. I didn't think Jesus was a bad model for a preacher.

The move to Akron meant I was once again living in a place shaped by continental glaciation. The effects of glaciation were not as dramatic as they had been on Long Island, still as I, drove around and asked the inevitable (for me) questions about geomorphology, the answers were usually found in the story of massive continental glaciers. The University of Akron had a good geology department and I succumbed to the temptation to learn more about rocks.

I enrolled in class in mineralogy. As at Suffolk Community College, I was the lone student in a tie and sports coat. I sat in the back. As I got acquainted with the professor, I learned he was active in an Episcopalian Church. He never talked about his faith publicly, but he was willing to discuss it with me. He experienced no conflict between his faith and his science. He loved geology and he was happy to participated in church. The semester was divided in half. We had a new professor for the second half of the semester. His first day in class, he announced, “I hope none of your are creationists, because if you are, you won't be smart enough to handle this class. You might as well drop out now.”

I was surprised at this blunt hostility to religion. But I said nothing. At the end of the semester after final scores were posted, I stopped in to see the professor. By now he knew who I was. Not that we had had any personal interaction, but I had the second highest score overall for the semester.

“Come in, John. How are you?”

We made small talk for a couple of minutes then I launched into my speech. “Dr. Horinouchi, at the beginning of class, you mentioned that anyone who believed in creation would not be smart enough to handle your class. I just wanted to let you know that I'm one of those creationists.”

“Really! I'm surprised. Obviously, you're smart. I appreciated having you in class. You must be an exception. I appreciate you're coming in to see me.”

He seemed genuinely surprised. And he showed no hostility or condescension to me personally. He allowed my grades to testify to my intellectual ability, in spite of my religious notions. On the way out of his office, his graduate assistant stopped me. He had heard the conversation through the open door. “How is it, that you can believe in God and creation and be a geologist?”

“I'm not a geologist,” I said. “This is only the second class I've taken. But I do have a keen amateur's interest. I don't know how to put everything together, but I do believe life originated in the purpose and action of God. That seems to me by far the most rational view. On the other hand, the rocks strongly suggest there is more time involved than traditional Christians believe.”

“Yeah, well the preacher at my church says you have no business calling yourself a Christian if you don't believe Adam and Eve and 6000 years.”

“I understand. That's the official position of our entire denomination. It's either all or nothing. I don't buy that any more. I've met geologists who accept all the standard dates of geology are still happy to be Christians. In fact, I've even met people like that here at the university. So, I don't think you have to choose between being a geologist and being a Christian.”

I left happy with what I had learned about rocks and happy for the chance to offer encouragement to another student who valued both rocks and religion. I hoped to continue taking one class per term, but that didn't work out.

I had been in Akron a little more than a couple of years when I got a call from a friend of mine who worked at the Voice of Prophecy. Was I interested in having my name considered for a writing position there?

I was flattered and said, “Sure, put my name on the list.”

It couldn't possibly come to anything. My entire portfolio of published writing was two or three articles in denominational publications. I wrote sermons, but those did not travel beyond my congregations.

A month or two later, I got another call. Would I be willing to come and interview?  I was conflicted. I felt guilty about leaving after such a short time. I remembered my dad's complaints about the constant shuffle of ministers through Memphis First Church. It seemed to him that Memphis First was merely a stepping stone. Ministers came there on their way “up.” And certainly moving to the Voice of Prophecy would be seen by Adventist clergy as a “step up.” 

On the other hand, I hated the interminable grayness of the northeast Ohio winters. While I liked the people of the church, I chafed at my role as the administrator of a four-hundred member church and an influential player on the school board. I didn't feel like I was doing a good job. When I came to Ohio, I was invited to serve on the conference committee and to be a member of the finance subcommittee. It was an honor. I was flattered. But after a year or so, I resigned because it seemed to me I was not doing an adequate job at my church. So what business did I have sitting in a policy making body for the whole conference?

Something I still laugh about was my negative reaction to the architecture of the church. It was new building. It had a conventional exterior of brick and white wood and was topped by a steeple. The sanctuary was gleaming white, with a pleasant, but formal feel. It's great defect, in my eyes, was the absence of windows. All of the light and brilliant white paint could not make up for the lack of natural light. I didn't mind it for night meetings, but on Sabbath mornings, to go inside, away from the light, to worship just did not work for me. I knew it was petty then. I still laugh at myself—what's the big deal about no windows for three hours on Sabbath morning? Still, no matter how I lectured myself about the foolishness of my aversion, I could not change my gut reaction. So I went for the interview.

The Voice of Prophecy offices were on the idyllic campus of the Adventist Media Center in Thousand Oaks, California. Something like eight men participated in the interview. My approach was the same as when I met with the ordination committee. I told them who I was and what I could do and left them to assess whether I was a fit.

I was cocky. I knew radio as a listener and had strong opinions about how to do it well. I claimed I could make Adventism understandable and attractive to a younger, less-religiously formed audience. I had no interest in doing the job of traditional Adventist evangelism which I saw as persuading Christians they ought to be Adventists. I had no track record of effectiveness in communicating with Pentacostals and devout Baptists and fundamentalists. On the other hand, if they wanted to talk to Adventists in their thirties and forties, I could help them do it. If they wanted to reach people who were spiritually hungry but weren't already persuaded that traditional Christianity held the answers they were looking for, I could help in that project.

After a couple of hours, we broke for lunch, then returned to the office for more hours of conversation. We talked theology. I was impressed with the guys on the committee. This was no mere formality. Most of them were sharp communicators. They asked thoughtful, probing questions. One of the old guys asked me about my views on creation.

“This is a difficult issue for me. Geology is a hobby of mine. From my own study and from conversations with many Adventist scientists, I have come to have large questions about the force of our scientific arguments in favor of 6000 years. I don't see how life could have arisen without a designer or intelligence directing it. It seems to me that we have many arguments in our favor in the field of biology. But when it comes to geology, it seems to me the weightiest arguments fall on the other side. I happily affirm that my church teaches 6000 years. As an Adventist preacher I won't contradict that. But personally, privately, I have lots of questions about the chronology.

The old guy who asked the question said something to the effect that we all have questions. The important thing is that as preachers, we don't undermine the church. H. M. S. Richards, Jr., was part of the interview committee. His opinion was obviously the most weighty of one in the room. Several years earlier, he had thrown down a dogmatic challenge in a minister's meeting, saying that preachers who had questions about 6000 years ought to have the integrity to get out of the ministry. I had nearly left. Now, as I voiced my ambivalence, he nodded in agreement with the old man who minimized the significance of my personal questions.

I was hired.

Several years later, the old man who had asked about my views on creation, told me, “John, thirty minutes into the interview, it was unanimous. We were not going to hire you. I still don't know how you changed our minds. But at the end of the day when we voted, it was unanimous. We were all for you.”

Chapter 59. Rocks in my Hand

In 1987, the Association of Adventist Forums (AAF) advertised a three-week geology field trip through the classic geology landscapes of the West. The red-rock country of Utah, the Green River Basin in Wyoming, Yellowstone National Park, Colorado. I wanted to go. But, of course, it was impossible. It would cost a lot of money. It would be selfish to take a three week vacation and leave Karin home with the kids.

 

The people leading the field trip included the scientists whose work I had read in Spectrum, an independent journal published by Adventist intellectuals. These scientists were infamous for their questioning of the church’s belief in a recent creation. Looking at the rocks under their tutelage was not calculated to increase my confidence in a short chronology. But I was already in too deep. I needed to continue exploring geology. I had to examine more evidence. Rocks were a siren beckoning irresistibly. I was lashed to the mast of Adventist orthodoxy by my unshakeable conviction that I had been called into the ministry by God. But the siren call of the rocks was a soul-bending lure. Besides, a trip to the Intermountain West was a tantalizing draw. I loved the West as much as I loved the City. I finally mentioned my interest to Karin.

 

“Do you really want to go?” She asked.

“Yeah. I would.”

“Then I think you should go.”

Her encouragement surprised me. “Well, I don’t know. It costs a lot. And what would you do with the kids?”

“We’ll figure something out. I’ll see if Mama can come up and stay with me while you are gone.”

 

Mama and Papa agreed to come, so I registered for the trip. A few weeks later, one of the trip organizers called and asked if I would consider car-pooling with a Japanese family. Mark was a physicist. He would be bringing his wife and eight-year-old son. They would be flying in from Tokyo and couldn’t afford the additional cost of renting a car for three weeks. It sounded like a great idea. I imagined engaging conversations as we drove.

 

I picked up Mark and Keiko Abe and their eight-year-old son at JFK, and we headed west, driving non-stop, trading off driving. Our conversations were slow and halting. Mark’s English was good enough for reading scientific journals in his field but barely adequate for conversation. His wife’s English was less. My Japanese was, of course, zero. We joined the AAF group in Green River, Utah, for the launch of the tour.

 

Days were spent examining evidence in the field. Evenings occasionally included lectures. The presenters included the stars of liberal Adventist thinking on earth history–Richard Ritland, Ed Hare, Ed Lugenbeal–laughingly referred as the GRI alumni.

 

The Geological Research Institute (GRI), is a church-funded office devoted to cataloging and disseminating scientific evidence in support of the Church’s views on earth history. Ritland, Hare and Lugenbeal were some of the first scientists hired. According to others on the trip, the original mission of GRI included a mandate to help the Church honestly examine the scientific evidence. Their research increasingly compelled these men to question a recent creation. There was a change in the presidency of the Church. The new president wanted support for the official teachings of the Church not questions. Ritland, Hare and Lugenbeal were forced out. Hare became a leading researcher in amino acid racemization dating. He had begun his research thinking this dating method would provide evidence of a recent creation. It didn’t. Lugenbeal moved into college administration where his views on earth history could be hidden. Ritland retired. They remained the darlings of Adventist intellectuals.

 

None of the then-current scientists at GRI was on the trip. According to the organizers, they had been invited, but had been pressured by their superiors not to lend legitimacy to the trip by their presence.

 

The GRI alumni and others lectured on the evidence that was inconsistent with a recent creation. There were conglomerates that included fossils in shale cobbles within the conglomerate. This meant that erosion had to lay down a layer of silt. Then animals or plants had to die and get buried in the silt. Then the silt had to turn into stone (shale beds). Then the shale beds had to be uplifted so they could be eroded into small round stones. These small round stones then had to be gathered into a basin and cemented together into conglomerate.

 

The dominant view among Recent Creationists was that all significant geologic activity–the formation of the great fossiliferous sedimentary layers–happened during the one year of Noah’s flood. How could we fit the processes required to form fossils inside cobbles inside layers of conglomerate into a single year?

 

On the other side of coin were fossil fish. Nowhere in the world do we observe fish becoming fossils. When a fish dies, scavengers and bacteria reduce it to a disarticulated skeleton within a matter of days. But in the Green River Formation there are tens of thousands, maybe millions of beautifully-preserved fossil fish. How could these fish have been preserved if they were buried in the normal process of siltation in a lake. Long before they were buried–much less indurated–their flesh would have been scavenged and their bones scattered.

 

We visited an outcrop of the Green River Formation where we were guided by Paul Bucheim, an Adventist graduate student doing research in the formation. The fish in the Green River Formation are cited by Creationists as evidence against long ages. There is no contemporary example of fish turning into fossils. Turning millions of fish into fossils was evidence that something unusual happened. Maybe that something was Noah’s Flood.

 

One reason Green River fish fossils are so famous is the ease of finding them. The fish are found in rock composed of thin layers of fine-grained sandstone, marlstone and shale. When the rock is split along these layers, often you find fish perfectly displayed on the plane that separates two layers. Standard geology interpreted these layers as varves–annual layers of sediment deposited in a lake by the ebb and flow of the seasons.

 

Creationists argue these layers were deposited by the Flood. Bucheim and his colleagues had identified over one thousand layers. Many of these layers displayed not only fossils of dead fish, but also bird tracks and other distinctive marks left by birds feeding in the mud. There was even fossilized bird poop. How could there have been time during the flood to deposit a layer carbonate-rich mud, have birds come and walk around and feed and poop, then wash in another layer of mud and repeat the whole process–a thousand times over? Even if each layer did not represent a full year, even if a new layer was deposited every day, it just didn't make sense in the context of Noah's flood.

 

The Green River Formation covers an area of more than 25,000 square miles and averages about 2000 feet in thickness. The massive scale of the formation lends itself to pictures of a world-wide flood sweeping the continent. But the fossilized bird tracks, bird poop and eggshell fragments are far better explained by less catastrophic models. Then there was the fact that beneath the Green River Formation was another 25,000 feet of sedimentary rock, all of which would have had to be deposited during Noah’s flood before the Green River fish could begin their process of turning into fossils.

 

We faced similar arguments in connection with the “fossil forest” of Yellowstone National Park. In Yellowstone, petrified trees are preserved in layers of volcanic ash. Conventional geological interpretation saw each layer as a life surface. An ash layer would be deposited. Over time the surface of this layer would be populated by trees. Eventually, another ash layer would be deposited. This would kill the trees growing on the layer below and the process would begin all over again. You could calculate the total age of the formation by adding together the age of the oldest trees in each layer. And some of the trees were huge and old. Using this dendrochronology, the formation was determined to be about 40,000 years old. It seemed like a straight-forward approach to dating. Clearly it did not fit into a six-thousand-year earth history.

 

However, before the trip I had read an article by Harold Coffin. He argued the layers did not represent growth horizons, but instead had been transported into place by water. Unlike many Creationists, he had done actual research, spending a couple of seasons in the field. His article included photographs of very large trees rising through several ash layers. If, in fact, the layers were growth horizons, this would mean these tree had remained alive for thousands of years through catastrophic volcanic eruptions. They continued to grow even after their trunks had been engulfed in many feet of superheated volcanic ash. No tree that we know of today could live in such circumstances. Coffin examined root structure on the fossil trees and the putative soil horizons surrounding them. He studied patterns of breakage, orientation of the long axes of trees that weren’t round, the plant detritus preserved around the trees. He even conducted lab tests on trees to see if uprooted trees would float vertically or horizontally if they spent weeks or months floating in flood waters.

 

Coffin made a strong case against the conventional interpretation. These trees had not grown here over a 40,000-year period. Rather they had been transported by mudflows or floods.

 

On our trip, Ritland poked fun at Coffin because on a field trip sponsored by GRI, Coffin had dragged participants great distances to show them two or three trees that penetrated multiple layers of rock. Most visible trees were contained in a single layer, Ritland said. Why traipse all over creation to find the few anomalous cases. But I couldn’t help thinking that science was advanced precisely by observing exceptional cases that did not fit current orthodoxy. Keen observation of anomalies forced the reexamination of theories. Why mock a scientist who highlighted data that did not fit the current explanatory model?

 

It seemed to me Ritland was doing exactly what Creationists accused most scientists of doing: ignoring the data that did not fit his model. I was reminded of a conversation I had had with a former student of Ritland. She described the interaction between Ritland and a younger scientist in a seminar on origins. Ritland had talked in broad, general terms about the weight of evidence against a recent creation. The other scientist cited specific articles and particular data that countered Ritland’s broad assertions. Sure there was evidence for a long history of life. But there was counter evidence as well. It seemed to her the younger geologist was more honestly confronting the data.

 

If Ritland, and other scientists on the tour were overwhelmingly biased, then perhaps I could take their assertions with a grain of salt. Maybe I could hold on to what the Bible said about six thousand years – maybe stretch it to perhaps 7,000 or 8,000 or even 10,000. But certainly I didn’t have to believe life had existed on earth for hundreds of millions of years.

 

One incontrovertible fact was the geographic distribution of animals. Most of the marsupials (animals with pouches) in the world today live in Australia–kangaroos, Tasmanian devils, wombats, koalas. If all animals in the world descended from ancestors that rode Noah’s Ark, why did almost all the marsupials head straight to Australia? If there was only one pair of marsupials on the Ark, how could those two have possibly ramified into all the species extant in Australia today in less than 4000 years?

 

It seemed far easier to explain the geographic distribution of living animals and fossils on the basis of conventional paleontology than by the story of all animals coming off a single boat 4000 years ago. (Which reminds me of a conversation I had once with a GRI scientist about this issue. I asked if GRI had considered the notion that perhaps there were other “Arks.” Noah's just happened to be the only one mentioned in Genesis. He got excited and dragged me into another office to repeat my suggestion to someone with more knowledge of the biblical/theological side of the debate. I was flattered to be taken seriously. I also thought his reaction was a measure of how challenging biogeography is to young earth creationism.)

As we were hammered with more and more evidence of problems in the standard Creationist model of origins, Mark became increasingly agitated. When he had joined “an obscure Protestant sect” as a teenager, his parents were deeply offended. In the face of their objections he had resolutely followed the teachings of the Bible, especially regarding the Sabbath. All the way through college and graduate school he had maintained his confidence in the literal historicity of Genesis. Now he was listening to Adventist scientists and even Adventist theologians question the very bed rock of his faith. I talked about it to Dr. Ritland. Why had they encouraged people like Mark to come? It was disturbing enough for people like me, but at least I had been reading Spectrum for years. I knew Adventist scientists had questions. I knew what I was going to hear on this trip. But Mark had come expecting to hear the standard Adventist defense of a recent creation. Instead he was losing his faith.

 

Dr. Ritland told me Mark had insisted on coming. They had cautioned him he would hear controversial content. Still he insisted. He said he was a scientist. He needed to examine the evidence for himself.

We visited a moraine in southern Colorado. It was easy to imagine its history. We could see the mountain valley the glacier had descended. When the climate had been colder or wetter (or both) a glacier had pushed down out of the mountains and left a perfectly shaped crescent terminal moraine. We hiked over to where a stream cut through the moraine and Dr. Ritland described what we were seeing. Instead of a single moraine, we could see two very distinct layers. Dr. Ritland explained that these layers represented two different advances of the glacier. And he pointed out that there was enough time between the deposition of these two depositions that the granite cobbles in them had weathered very differently. In the top layer, the cobbles were smooth and hard. You could see their round shapes protruding from the opposite bank where the stream had eroded away the softer matrix surrounding them.

 

The lower layer was dramatically different. While some large rocks stuck out from the stream-cut bank, many other rocks, six to twelve inches in diameter looked like they had been cut off flush with the bank. Dr. Ritland said this difference in appearance was because the granite cobbles in the lower level were rotten. They were so soft that when stream cut down through the moraine, it cut through the small boulders instead of cutting around them. That sounded crazy to me. Granite rotting? From where we were standing, it did look like some of the granite cobbles had been cut, but others were clearly sticking out from the bank. I climbed down into the stream bed, hopped across the creek and poked at rocks. The stream had carved a vertical twenty-foot tall bank. The line between the two morainal deposits was distinct. And to my amazement many of the granite cobbles in the lower deposit were so soft I could crumble them with my fingers. All of the cobbles in the upper bank were round and hard.

 

My head spun. How long did it take granite to rot? How much time must have passed between the deposition of these two layers so that in one the granite cobbles were smooth and hard and in the other they were gritty and crumbly? Manhattan was full of granite. Granite facades on buildings. Granite steps on the front of grand buildings, granite paving stones on cobble stone streets. I thought of the steps of the post office on Eight Avenue. The edges on the steps were worn in places, but there was no hint of rot. In places in New York granite treads had been in place for maybe two hundred years. The millions of footsteps had worn it, eroded it, in two hundred years there was not a hint of rot!

 

I had heard Creationist theories that allowed for a short ice age immediately following Noah’s flood–maybe a couple hundred years at the most. But this did not make sense as I stood there crumbling rotten granite with my fingers. The difference between solid and rotten granite was not complicated like radiometric dating. It did not require me to trust anyone else's word about where it had been found or how old it was. I had pulled it from its matrix myself. I had observed its stratigraphic situation with my own eyes. This granite breaking into sharp, angular fragments in my own hands screamed more time, more time.

Our tour ended in Yellowstone National Park with a weekend of worship and lectures in the village of West Yellowstone. Friday afternoon I went out to eat with a young biologist. He ordered a hamburger, I ordered an avocado and sprouts sandwich. When the food came, he grabbed his hamburger and began to wolf it down. I paused, offered a silent prayer then attacked my sandwich with similar vigor. After we had eaten a few bites, I looked at him and said, “Bill you forgot the human part of eating your sandwich.”

 

“What do you mean, the ‘human part’ of eating. God made cows for people to eat.”

 

I laughed. “I’m not talking about what you’re eating. I’m talking about how you’re eating. There’s no difference between your approach to that sandwich and my dog’s approach.”

 

He did not understand what I was getting at, but since I was laughing, he was not yet offended. “The human part of eating is stopping to say grace. That’s what turns food, metabolic input, into a meal, into communion, even.”

 

He grunted through another bite, and nodded, grudgingly conceding my point.

The worship Friday night and Sabbath morning felt thin and dry to me. It seemed to me Adventist liberals had a diminished capacity for wonder and delight. They were so cerebral, so polemical they appeared incapable of rich spiritual experience. Articles by Stephen J. Gould, the Harvard evolutionary biologist, often evinced a warmer, more human engagement with the magic of nature than did the writing of these Adventist academics. Whatever the actual age of the fossils, full-orbed human life required gifts and capacities not very evident at this conference. There was some music but it was all rather cool classical music. There was no fire. No temptation to dance.

 

Then came Sabbath afternoon. Richard Hammill, a retired president of Andrews University, spoke. He talked of his doctoral studies at the University of Chicago. He had noted at the time, the similarity between the order of creation in Genesis One and the language of Psalm 104. He knew–because he was an Adventist–that Genesis One had been written by Moses about 1450 B.C. and that the Psalms were written later. But in the years since he had retired he had had opportunity to go back and study further. And he had come to the conclusion that the similarities between these two passages was best explained by the view that Psalm 104 was written first. Whoever wrote Genesis One (and it certainly was not Moses) had obviously been influenced by Psalm 104. Genesis One, far from being a rational, scientific history was a poetic, worshipful celebration of the God of creation. Using Genesis One as textbook of geology was missing the pint entirely.

 

As he reached the climax of his presentation he choked up. The atmosphere in the room was electric. The audience was astonished by his confession. They admired his courage in publicly breaking with the official church position. But there was anger as well. Many in the room had either lost jobs or had friends who lost jobs in purges of the University faculty while Hammill had been president. They could understand Hammill not publicly voicing his skepticism about Genesis One as geology. But as president, he could have worked to shield his faculty from the zeal of the reactionary church president. Instead, he had given every appearance of full cooperation.

 

It was the one time in the entire conference when genuine emotion showed itself. I was not overly impressed with Hammill’s arguments regarding the dating of Genesis. It was back to the “assured results of scholarship” which in textual criticism usually means venerated scholarly conjecture. Textual criticism is often a brilliant, logical superstructure erected on the tiniest shreds of evidence. The fact is we don’t have any documentary evidence for the Hebrew scripture before the Babylonian captivity. There are elaborate theories about how the Bible text must have developed over time. But they are like theories of pre-biotic evolution–strong assertions in the absence of physical evidence. These assertions are supported by appeals to authority not data. Believe it because we [the community of experts] have told you so. This scholarly hubris is safe because no data is available to challenge it. Even in the face of a deeply emotional confession by a notable church scholar and administrator, I was not willing to resist ecclesiastical authority merely to yield compliantly to the academy.

The conference continued on Sunday, but I had had enough. I wanted to get home. We left Saturday night and drove straight through to New York.

 

The long hours driving were filled with bewilderment. The scientific evidence was compelling. The rocks spoke of much more time than could be accommodated by any appeal to ancient textual variants. Sure, there were all sorts of problems in conventional geology. And maybe some day someone investigating those problems would find a new scientific explanation of the cosmos that was congruent with a literal reading of the Bible. But right now, the evidence for long ages seemed irrefutable. The only way to believe in a young earth was to consciously disregard the preponderance of evidence.

 

How could I continue as an Adventist preacher when I no longer truly believed the teachings of my church. Oh, to be sure, if I were interrogated about my beliefs, I could honestly say I did not believe life was hundreds of millions of years old. That is I wasn’t absolutely certain life was old–not in the way that as a fifteen year old I had been certain life was only six thousand years old. I still hoped somewhere, some time evidence would be found that would overturn the entire edifice of conventional geology. But I strongly suspected the only reason I did not believe standard geochronology was because I was a leader in a community where that idea was unbelievable.

In one respect, the trip had been very disappointing. I had hoped for time to visit the scientists whose articles I had read in Spectrum magazine. I envisioned sitting around at meals talking about my questions and my bewilderment with people who would understand. But the group did not eat meals together. Most of the people on the trip were old friends. I was younger by ten years than most and a stranger. I found connecting socially very difficult.

 

I did manage to get an hour in a van with Peter Hare while Mark drove my car. Dr. Hare was a leading authority on one method of dating rocks with fossils in them (amino acid racemization). His research documented millions of years of fossil history. But he was also the head elder of his local congregation. When I heard him pray publicly, it did not sound like an act or mere, empty formality. He was genuinely devout, even though he was hopelessly heterodox when it came to geochronology. I was eager to talk with him about my perplexity.

 

It didn’t work. There were others in the car. I was an intruder. Dr. Hare and I talked briefly, superficially, in the small spaces between other conversations. At the next stop I transferred back to my car. Disappointed.

 

But I took with me a vivid picture of a man in whom faith and science lived quite happily together–even though he was fully persuaded life was hundreds of millions of years old and his church taught six thousand years. If he could be happily at home in the church, perhaps there was room for me, too.

Chapter 58. Geology in the Library

[Note that chapter 57 was published out of order. It should have immediately preceded this post.]

I usually commuted into Manhattan on the bus, then walked from the Port Authority Bus Terminal on the West Side over to Lexington Ave. to catch the subway up to 87^th. The midtown branch of the New York Public Library was only a block off my route and sometimes I stopped in. This branch was across the street from the grand, classic building with the lions out front. Because of this proximity and the fame of the New York City Public library I envisioned floors and floors of thousands of books. It turned out the library was just the fourth floor of the building, but their magazine collection included a couple of scientific journals published by the Geological Society of America. 

 

Among Adventists who respected science, conventional wisdom had it that radiometric dating was the greatest challenge to the church’s traditional understanding of earth history. We could work with stratigraphy and paleontology. Biology was on our side. But radiometric dating posed utterly unanswerable questions. Even Robert Brown, a physicist and the Adventist expert on radiometric dating, essentially said there were no plausible young earth creationist explanations of the available evidence from radioisotopes. He was sure that some day we would find a way to harmonize the scientific data with the Bible’s story of a six-day creation six thousand years ago. But so far, he had not found it and did not know where to look for it. But his skepticism was exceptional. Generally, Adventists who addressed the issue assured us that the scientific consensus regarding radiometric dating was largely a result of academic group-think, anti-God bias and circular reasoning. Scientists needed “deep time” to accommodate evolution. Fossil assemblages were used to assign putative ages to formations. Then those ages were used to correlate radiometric data with ages in years. Then radiometric data was used to assign putative ages to other rocks and fossils. There were huge questions about when and how radiometric “clocks” were set to zero. And contamination of samples was a constant problem. So really, we who believed in a recent creation had no need to be intimidated by the apparently scientific certainty of radiometric dating.

At first, my reading in geology journals confirmed the Adventist cavils about radiometric dating. Making sense of the scientific jargon, math and charts in articles on radiometric dating was a challenge, but one thing was perfectly clear: The authors of these scientific articles strongly disagreed with each other. They derived widely varying ages for the same formation. Different teams of geologists disputed the conclusions of other teams and questioned their sampling techniques. They argued that divergent dates were the result of contamination of samples or erroneous assumptions about when the atomic clocks were reset. There were long discussions of how the initial data was “corrected” to yield a plausible date.

It was all just as I had read in Creationist literature. Given the enormous amount of manipulation required to convert initial data into a “date,” I could easily imagine how systematic philosophical bias could affect the outcomes. The complicated, convoluted processes of deriving putative dates from radioactive decay in the rocks stood in stark contrast to the simple, elegant work of Gentry. (See Chapter 38.) Still, the longer I read, the more a nagging question intruded. Were all these scientists really just be playing a game in support of a pre-established dating system? Were they dishonestly committed to a system that distorted earth history? Was their belief in the great antiquity of the fossil record merely a device to shield themselves from moral constraint and a sense of accountability to God? Were they all deluded? Did their work actually tell them nothing about earth history?

One striking difference between scientific and creationist literature jumped out at me: In creationist literature, all the problems were on “the other side.” Creationists had tidy, coherent explanations. They presented their conclusions as “no-brainer” deductions from unambiguous evidence. Creationists constantly cited the disagreement among scientists as evidence of the weakness of the conventional scientific conclusions.

In scientific literature, however, the scientist themselves pointed out problems within their field. Geologists argued with each other. They disputed the dates published by competing research teams, questioned methods of data collection and analysis. Given the constant ferment among scientists, I didn’t see how they could maintain an illusory system forever, especially a system that required collusion across all kinds of fields of study.

Sure, scientists worked within a system. Everything interlocked—stratigraphic relationships and radiometric dates, protein racemization and dendrochronology, ice cores and varves. At first glance, the arguments among scientists resembled the arguments of theologians. But there were two huge differences: The scientists did not threaten each other with damnation. Vastly more significant, their arguments were constantly influenced by new data. They were not doing eternal meta-analysis on the same data set. The scientific consensus actually moved forward. It changed linearly across time (over against the endless cycles of theological invention and reinvention on the themes of divine and human nature, grace and obedience, form and Spirit).

While browsing the library’s limited collection of books on geology I came across a small book titled, The Nature of the Stratigraphic Record. In it Derek Ager, a professor of geology at University College in Swansea, U.K., ridiculed the notion that Noah’s flood could have produced the geologic column, then proceeded to demolish with equal glee the bedrock principle of classic geology–uniformitarianism.

Every science textbook I had ever read–if it mentioned geology at all–honored the work of James Hutton and Charles Lyell. Their research in the middle 1800s in Great Britain led them to conclude that we best understand the history of landforms by studying the rates and forces operative in our world today. “The present is the key to the past.” How long did it take for the Mississippi delta to form? Go measure current rate of deposition at the mouth of the river and extrapolate backward (taking into account, of course, the effect of farming and other human factors).

Creationists constantly attacked uniformitarianism. They cited multiple examples of catastrophe in the geologic record. Catastrophism and creationism were synonymous. But here was a professor of geology at a secular institution arguing against uniformitarianism. And the instances he cited were incontrovertible. They were not obscure relics found by preachers and amateur geologists. The great Red Wall formation in Grand Canyon is 400 to 500 feet of massive limestone. There is no modern exemplar for the formation of massive limestone, but the Red Wall is incontrovertible evidence that once upon a time it did form. In India, the Deccan Plateau is formed by two-thousand-foot-thick lava flows covering more than 500,000 square kilometers. While we observe contemporary volcanoes and lava flows, nowhere is there anything like this kind of magnitude. What obviously happened is no longer happening. The present is not the key to the past, at least not in a straight-line fashion. Professor Ager went on to cite other examples–the formation of coal, sandstone and fossils. In each case, there is no modern correlate for what we see in the geologic record.

Like the journal articles about radiometric dating, Ager’s book confirmed the assertions of Creationists–there are problems in conventional geology. He even invoked the ultimate Creationist term, catastrophe. Instead of a long, gradual, steady evolution of landscape, the geologic history of the earth is like the life of a soldier–long periods of boredom interrupted by brief moments of terror.

Ager acknowledged Creationists would cite his work in support of Noah’s flood and other elements of their young earth theories. But, he argued, this was no excuse for geologists to ignore the strong evidence of their own discipline. Classic uniformitarianism could not withstand close scrutiny. It was time to let it go and move on.

At first I was greatly heartened by Ager’s book. The examples he cited were major, observable geological features. There was nothing obscure about the Grand Canyon Red Wall or the lavas of the Deccan Plateau. And these rocks supported the Creationist argument that the past was radically different from the present. We can not deduce the age of upstream erosional features by studying the present sediment load of the Mississippi River.

But like the journal articles on radiometric dating, Ager’s book ended up eroding one of the bedrock assumptions of Creationism–that scientists hide contrary evidence. Reading his book, I was reminded of something I had noted before: Creationists did not discover problems with conventional geology, they simply presented in popular form problems scientists themselves freely acknowledged. Far from ignoring these problems, scientists–at least some of them–embraced anomalies, discordance between theory and data, as the loci of their research. The Creationist position appeared increasingly tenuous.

About this time, I attended a minister’s meeting at Camp Berkshire. It was held in the same building where Robert Gentry had presented his lecture on pleochroic haloes. The featured speaker at the meeting was H.M.S. Richards, Jr. the speaker/director of The Voice of Prophecy. The Voice of Prophecy was a national radio program with great prestige among Adventists.

At one point in his presentation he issued a strong challenge: if we as ministers could not wholeheartedly, unreservedly affirm the traditional Adventist teaching about the age of the earth, we should have the integrity to resign. We had no business taking a pay check from a church we disagreed with.

I was devastated. I was not ready to believe life on earth was five hundred million years old. But neither could I still affirm without qualification that all of life originated six thousand years ago. I wondered if our conference president agreed with Elder Richards. I imagined walking into Elder Kretschmar’s office and offering him my resignation. I hoped he would disavow what Elder Richards had said. I hoped he would explain that Elder Richards spoke for himself, not the entire church. I needed someone to know about my questions and say it was okay. I needed someone to tell me it was okay to be an Adventist and a geochronological agnostic. I wanted to remain a Seventh-day Adventist pastor. But the cognitive dissonance was becoming unbearable.

Chapter 56. Mink Coats and Aberrant Theophany

This being Manhattan, a number of those coming were homosexual. The most flamboyant was Robert, a tall, striking Chinese man. No Adventist background. I can’t remember how it was he started attending Advent Hope. He always came late. He would waltz down the left center aisle to the second row and petulantly shrug his way of his ankle-length mink coat before stepping into the row. 

Others were deep in the closet. I listened to an old man from the Caribbean pour out a heart-breaking tale of alienation from church and family back home. This was compounded by a pattern of egregious racial discrimination against his nieces and nephews by a suburban pastor a decade or so before I knew him. Through months of conversation he slowly came to forgive the minister who had so damaged his family. His face changed. I was thrilled to see the transformation. However, parts of his story made sense only after his friends came to trust me enough to make oblique references to the real nature of his friendship with another non-Adventist Christian man from the Caribbean.

Then there was Andy. He was in his forties, had never been involved with anyone sexually or even romantically, but when he was a student in an Adventist college, a dean accused him of being involved with another student. They were just friends, Andy told me. Truly, there was nothing going on. He didn’t even know if the other student was a homosexual. But they were both musicians and that was enough. He was hounded from the school by terrified administrators.

Someone suggested I invite Colin Cook to come and talk about recovery from homosexuality. I thought it was a great idea. I knew people in our congregation were struggling with this issue. He was running a ministry in Reading, Pennsylvania, to help homosexuals become fully functioning heterosexuals. His own marriage was the greatest advertisement for his ministry. I thought he might bring valuable help to members in my church and others in the New York area. At some point before I invited him, someone offered a very oblique caution about having Colin come. They suggested I talk with a mutual friend who lived in New York, Ginger Thomas. I knew she had lived with a friend from many years and suspected she might be plugged into the network that would know if Colin’s coming would create more difficulties than it solved. In her characteristically deliberate, thoughtful voice she said, no, she didn’t think it would be inappropriate to invite him to make his presentations in our church.

Colin brought two of his counselees with him for the weekend of lectures. At that time, he was working to develop a national network of homosexual recovery groups called Homosexuals Anonymous. Because of Colin’s connections, a number of people came to the lectures who had no previous contact with the church. Colin gave his standard presentation. Homosexual desire is misplaced hunger for father love and resentment of maternal smothering. The key to new life, to transformation of sexual desire, is to see ourselves as we really are in Christ–whole, complete, beloved, valued, treasured. The church can play a role in this by offering healthy, non-sexual friendships. Colin was a compelling speaker–or perhaps I should say he was a confident and competent speaker. For those open to his ideas he was compelling. But I had already heard too many stories, including his own, of years and decades of desperate searching to discover this “new man” he preached about. His words were hopeful, but I was doubtful.

One outcome of his lectures was the formation of a local Homosexuals Anonymous group in Manhattan. The other outcome was several new people in regular attendance at our church. Half of the HA group attended my church so they invited me to their meeting. Eight or ten people gathered in a dingy third floor room down in the Village. The place was filled with beds rather than chairs. We sat awkwardly on the beds with our backs against the walls. The conversation was cryptic. I guessed my presence unsettled the group.

My heart ached for these young people. Most of them had conservative Christian backgrounds. They knew that homosexual relationships were wrong. They wanted to change, and Colin assured them it was possible. If they would just work the program, they could become ex-homosexuals just like alcoholics could become ex-drunks. But even in this group gathered to “work the program” I could feel the sexual chemistry. And the guys were not looking at the women.

Several in the group continued to attend church. Lydia was a singer with a wonderful voice. She began hanging out with one of the guys. His life story moved from drama to excitement to miracle to drama. He never worked anywhere very long. He was constantly being provided for by Christians who were amazed at his stories of God’s intervention in his life and by wealthy men drawn by other charms. I listened to his tales with dumbstruck fascination.

Lydia’s and Kenny’s friendship was real, but the promised change of sexual orientation was a mirage. I lost track of Kenny in the murky world of clubs and bars. Lydia moved away from New York, still pursuing her dream of a career in music.

The stories swirl in my head. An orthodox Jewish young man who found our congregation welcoming. Visiting with others who had attended Colin’s seminar, he found the courage to talk out loud about his lack of desire for women. He had come to the seminar because of his dream–no his divine calling–to be a husband and father and carry forward the faith of his people. But how do you marry if women awaken no desire?

Then there was John. He first began attending our church because of a vegetarian cooking class. The other young adults liked him. He was bright and funny, easy to be around. Like several others he enjoyed the freedom at Advent Hope to express his spiritual nature without having to take on the full religious baggage of his Catholic upbringing. He read Scripture and offered prayers in worship services. He helped organize work parties. After a couple of years of involvement, I invited him to formally join our congregation. He declined. He explained that joining a church would require him to align his life with his convictions.

I was puzzled at first, but he kept talking. After he began attending church he broke up with his boyfriend. Told him they couldn’t have sex any more. His boyfriend was crushed. He begged and pleaded, but John was adamant. What they were doing was wrong. They could still be friends, but they couldn’t keep sleeping together.

John felt like a jerk, a heel. But at the same time, it was the right thing to do. He was going to give himself wholly to God. But then he’d run into his boyfriend on the street. And always Fred begged him to reconsider. Finally, after months of chastity he had given in. They spent a Saturday night together. And Sunday. But Sunday afternoon john’s conscience asserted itself. He asked Fred to leave. Fred got angry. John started sobbing. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you but our love is wrong. God did not make us for each other.”

“What do you mean ‘our love is wrong.’? I don’t see anything wrong with it. And you didn’t either last night or this morning. This is why I don’t get involved with that God stuff any more. I had enough of the nuns when I was a kid. But I’m not a kid anymore.” Fred was shouting.

John collapsed in a chair and covered his face. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to say. Just go. Leave. Go.” John’s conscience was merciless. His love for Fred was unquenchable. The conflict between duty and love was unending agony.

So John didn’t join the church. And he didn’t leave. He continued to attend church, to brighten up parties, to help with projects. He was always cheerful, quick to notice others. I doubted anyone else in the church suspected his secret life–either his sexual orientation or his deep religious struggles. We talked occasionally. He’d go for a month or two or three, then succumb to Fred’s allure. Then, when John’s conscience finally reasserted itself, they’d have another nasty parting.

“Have you read any books or talked to anyone who thinks that monogamous relationships are okay?” I asked him one day.

“Yeah, but I can’t believe that. God didn’t mean two men to be together. No, that doesn’t work. At least not that and being a Christian. I don’t see how I can go to church and live with Fred. It just doesn’t work.”

John paused. “You know sometimes when I’m lying in Fred’s arms it goes way beyond sex or lust or whatever you want to call it. Sometimes it’s like God is there. Sometimes in the dark, in bed, God is so close. . . . It’s like Fred and the room and everything disappears, and God is there. When that happens, God is more real, God is closer . . . I know it must sound crazy . . .”

What could I say? It did sound crazy, at least in the context of classic Christian teaching about sex and lust and worship and theophany. Theologians contrasted the high moral tone of the Hebrew prophets with the sexualization of worship among the Philistines and Amorites. Sexual desire was seen as one of the greatest hindrances to spiritual enlightenment–not the path to it. That was the dominant message. But there were other stories. Like Judah and Tamar. And God chose the second-born son of the illicit union as the carrier of the Messianic line. And Hosea who is sent by God to a prostitute. And contemporary stories.

I told John, “Yeah, it does sound crazy. But I’ve heard other stories of God showing up in wild and crazy romances.” I did not know what to say. I knew what I was supposed to say. But I could find no words that put together my understanding of the Bible’s take on sexuality with what I heard in John’s story. I wasn’t ready to dump the Bible. Neither could I bring myself to dismiss John’s story as fiction.

I think I may be creating the wrong impression with these stories. There was no sense when you visited on Sabbath morning that ours was a “gay church.” Remember, this was the German New York Seventh-day Adventist Church. The old Germans were completely unaware that anyone in their church was homosexual. My sense was that the vast majority, even of the young people, were unaware. With the exception of Robert and his mink coat it would have required special sensitivity to detect the slightest hint of departure from gender norms. But I heard the stories. Over and over again.

We were not a democracy. The church was run by a small core of people, old and young, who were life-long Seventh-day Adventists. But this core understood we were not running the church for ourselves. We were creating a sanctuary, “a house of prayer for all nations.” We welcomed everybody and his dog. And they came.