My Early Story (7)

 

Bible College

 

In September of 1966 I traveled south to enter seminary. It was the seminary that both Walter Veasel and Donald Wilkes attended. I really had no business heading down there, and I can't believe my parents let me go - but it's likely that they didn't know what to make of my conversion and the fact is that even if I was a bit crazy about Jesus that it sure beat the alternative - for you see in the summer of 1965 I had run away from home in Maryland to New York City.

 

When I went to register the registrar told me that I couldn't take seminary classes because I hadn't graduated from high school (this was really more like a Bible College, but it called itself a seminary at the time; I think it has since dropped the word seminary and now uses Bible College). I told the registrar that if they'd let me in that I'd have my GED before I graduated from seminary. Guess what? Yep. They let me in.

 

Life was pretty austere at school, but I didn't mind, meals were simple, the dorm Spartan. As one upperclassman told a newcomer, as a fly buzzed around our dinner table, “There is your protein for tonight, you’d better catch it.”  Most afternoons after class I worked on a crew that the school contracted out in order to pay my tuition. We did demolition work and cleared land; those are the two jobs I remember. My hands got so blistered at one point that I couldn't depress the top of my shaving cream dispenser. We worked half-days on Saturdays too, and after our return to campus and lunch I took long naps on Saturdays to recover from the week.

 

Like I said, I didn't mind. I enjoyed classes, took them seriously, in fact I took the entire experience seriously.

 

The school was coed, but you couldn't talk to members of the opposite sex. I guess since most of the girls were older than me it wasn't an issue. In daily chapel, church on Sundays, and in classes the guys sat on one side of the room and the gals sat on the other.

 

I was reassigned from the work crew to helping an older man do repairs around the campus, including in the girls’ dormitory. I guess because he was old and I was young they figured we were safe, or maybe just safer.

 

I had two roommates, one of which left after a few weeks - the environment was a bit much for him, which I can understand. That left brother Joe and me. Our dorm room was adjacent to the restroom. One evening for dinner we had fish, something like salmon cakes as I recall. Late that night I heard terrible noise coming through the partition from the restroom - I mean terrible, moaning and groaning and the like.

 

"Brother Joe," I said, "do you hear that?"

 

"Yes, I do, brother Withers, perhaps we should see what's going on?"

 

I should mention that the restroom had a line of commodes which were not separated by partitions, much like the military - I mean, why spend money on something like partitions? You just have to clean them and otherwise maintain them; and people are going to do what they have to do, partitions or no partitions. So with this salient fact in mind...

 

Brother Joe and I opened the restroom door to behold a line of young men on the floor, moaning and groaning and holding onto commodes like a good prayer warrior holds onto an altar - except this was no prayer meeting, this was an assembly of those who got sick on fish from dinner. It was not a pretty sight, and yet it was not without its humor. Why some of us got sick and others didn't we'll never know. I can't put it down to righteous living because I know myself too well.

 

Now I guess brother Joe and I could have found some oil and anointed and prayed for the other brothers, but the thought never occurred to us. I suppose we could have remained with them to console, or even perhaps sing songs of praise; but again our thoughts were not how we might lighten the loads of our dear brethren. No, I have to admit that our thoughts were selfish in the extreme, though not without thanksgiving and resolution - we were thankful we weren't sick and we were resolved to do the best we could to get a good night's sleep in the midst of the moaning and the groaning.

 

 

My Early Story (6)

 

My Second Church

 

Either shortly before or immediately after attending camp meeting in Frostburg, MD in the summer of 1966 I moved in with my mom, two brothers, and an elderly great-great-aunt in Rockville, MD and began attending a church in the Wheaton - Silver Spring area that was in the same denomination as the Little Church in NW D.C.

 

This church had many more people compared to my first little church, and there were even a few younger folks, though not many. The pastor, Donald Wilkes, was urbane and cosmopolitan, a contrast from Walter Veasel's simplicity, and from all appearances he was likely doing well as a pastor. The church was in a nice section of the county, the members were middle-class and upper-middle class professionals. The music, traditional by today's standards, was terrific. The choir often reminded me of the camp meeting choir with its enthusiasm, energy, and joy. I still recall one morning when we sang, "Wonder Grace of Jesus," I thought I'd burst for joy.

 

I was the only kid from outside the denomination and there were no other boys my age, and only a couple of girls. Once again, the adults made me feel welcome and did the best they could. They were a more relaxed congregation than the Little Church and what women wore or how they did their hair didn't seem to be issues that concerned them.

 

I recall that Don Wilkes called for a day of prayer and fasting. I was all excited about the prospect and looked forward to the appointed day, which was a Saturday. As it turned out pastor Don and I were the only two people there until the evening, then others arrived, joined in prayer, and we concluded the day. To my young mind I couldn't understand why the church wasn't packed. I couldn't understand why it was only the pastor and me at the church. Things haven't changed in the professing church, but I still don't understand it.

 

I was befriended by a widower in the church, Bill Wood, with three children, two girls and a boy. His wife had died of cancer not long before my arrival. I spent time with his family and often went to church with them. That summer Bill hired me to work at a local newspaper where he was general manager; I helped lay out display advertising by operating a machine that produced graphic letters.

 

Bill was kind to me, and looking back I have to wonder why he would take the time to bother with a kid  like me when he had three children of his own who had recently lost their mother. Bill was soft spoken, thoughtful, and, I think, lonely. He once mentioned that people had started treating him differently after Mary died. People who used to invite his family over for dinner and activities stopped doing so - maybe he saw that I was lonely too?

 

A week or so before leaving for Bible school the church had a going away party for me at Bill's house. and the night before I left for Bible school in the fall of 1966 was spent at Bill's home. Early that morning he drove me to the bus station in Washington, D.C. and I boarded a bus for the South and school.

 

I returned to the church during my Christmas break and recall attending Christmas worship with my mom. Don Wilkes preached from Luke about Simeon and Anna and Mom remarked that she'd never heard a Christmas sermon like that - I guess she meant that it wasn't traditional...it didn't focus on the birth narrative.

 

I was kind of a poster boy for this church since I was from outside the denomination. I testified in front of the church once or twice but thank goodness I didn't preach! One bad sermon (see previous post) was enough.

 

The last time I visited the church was probably during that Christmas break in 1966. I did see Don Wilkes at least once a few weeks later - after I had been expelled from Bible College, but I don't recall attending church again. Oh - actually I saw Don one last time in June 1968 - it was very briefly at the hospital when Mom died - I called him and he came, there is a lot to be said for that.

 

The last time I saw Bill Wood was around 1971. I recall visiting him at his home, but I don't think I saw any of his children at that visit.

 

I regret not having an older man in my life who would be straight and direct with me, who would not hesitate to say things to me that I needed to hear, and who would challenge me with the Scriptures. Walter Veasel was nice to me, Don Wilkes was nice to me, and for sure Bill Wood was nice to me - now I needed nice, but I also needed straight talk - conversion does not equal maturity or even common sense.

My Early Story (5)

 

A Little Church in NW D.C.  - PART FOUR

 

In December of 1966 I returned to the Little Church while on Christmas break from Bible school and preached my first-ever sermon. Walter Veasel was no longer there. I don't know why he left, hopefully he left to take another church closer to home. As mentioned above, a few years later when I saw him again he was pastoring outside of Baltimore.

 

I don't recall the name of the new pastor. He was older than Walter and was welcoming to me. I really had no business preaching and I didn't do a good job. I preached from Leviticus 11, about clean and unclean animals and tried to extrapolate it into principles of holy living. It's kind of interesting that I'm writing this right now because last week a friend of mine remarked on the propensity of some preachers and traditions to excessively allegorize - of course I did it then because I'd seen others do it. [To be clear, I'm not opposed to allegory, the NT writers certainly use it, just look at Galatians 3:21ff. However, I do think it needs to be rooted in the Biblical fabric and not used as a stand-alone argument or teaching. Just because some folks misuse things is not an argument for their non-use; just consider the gifts of the Holy Spirit on that point.]

 

I'd say the only good thing about my sermon was its brevity - it only lasted 10 or 15 minutes. I didn't know that I was practicing one of the great principles of preaching - "when you've said what you have to say - sit down". So while I violated a number of exegetical principles, I modeled a homiletical principal that a lot of preachers seem to have missed - when you're done just shut up and sit down - no need to repeat, "In closing,” ten times before you actually bring yourself to stop speaking.

 

My last time in the Little Church came a year or two later. I visited on a Sunday after living outside the D.C. area for a while. As I was leaving the church that Sunday, the couple who had driven me to camp in the summer of 1966 asked me to call them. I was excited at the prospect of reconnecting with them, they meant so much to me. Perhaps they'd ask me over to spend time with them? Wouldn't it be great to catch up!

 

The next day I telephoned them in anticipation of renewed friendship. The wife answered the phone and after some brief small talk said, "Bob, you really should shave your beard off."

 

You see I had grown a fledgling beard during my time away. Blown away was my anticipation of seeing this couple who meant so much to me - they didn't want to see me, they wanted me to shave my beard off. My heart, which had been high with excitement, plummeted like a roller coaster after teetering at the top of a drop - and in this case the cars of the roller coaster came off the track. That was the last time I visited the Little Church, it was the last time I talked to anyone, other than Walter Veasel, from the Little Church.  It wasn't that I was angry - just hurt; and I didn't know how to handle it.

 

That last phone call has never colored my affection for the Little Church. After all, the people welcomed me, cared about me as best they knew how, and did the best they could. I'm sure they'd never had an outside kid wander in, a kid with no clue about their tradition, about bobbed hair or beards or women in pants. Consider this, these folks did not allow the generation gap to stop them from reaching out to me; they didn't say, "We are old and he is young, we don't know how to relate to him." They did the best they could and I'll always be thankful for that - hey, suppose they hadn't welcomed me? Maybe I'd be a Moonie today or something like that - maybe I'd be writing a blog for the Hare Krishnas or the Loyal Order of Cat Daddy Distillers.

 

My biggest regret about that season of life, in both the Little Church and in the sister church in Silver Spring, MD, is that I didn't have a mentor, an older man to counsel me and help lay a foundation for the future.