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.”