THE OLD CHAPEL: A REMINISCENCE

I was once offered the opportunity to experience a once for all thing which the majority of people on earth never experience, and which those who have the privilege to experience, might be properly said to only experience once.

And if the foregoing lead-in comes off as a bit mystical, well, the experience, itself, might be said to be the most mystical experience that any man or woman, boy or girl will ever have the opportunity to experience.

And if you sense by now that I have used the word, “experience” a few too many times, well, we might be inclined to agree to disagree, (and I may be inclined to resurrect that word again, whose roots grow deep in Latin soil, and implies spiritual essence).

During early June of 1967, (I don’t know the exact date) I accompanied another young man to a series of religious meetings on a local non-descript college campus a few miles from my home. At the close of the first meeting the speaker, a Rev. William Kirschke, the National Sunday School Superintendent of the Assemblies of God organization, invited “whomever will” to “make their way forward,” confess their sins, and ask someone He referred to as the “God-man” into their lives.

Well, as John Wesley phrased it, “I felt my heart strangely warmed,” and very much like the scene in each and every recurring Billy Graham rally, I stood to my feet, stepped into the nearest aisle, and found my way to the front.

“Okay. I’m here. He said to kneel at this oddly constructed piece of furniture.” (Nothing like I’d ever been instructed to do in the Methodist church I’d attended since I was a little fella. As a matter of fact, no two foot tall, raw length of dark wood ever separated the pulpit from the congregation there).

I dropped to my knees, and folded my elbows on that rough wood plank. Suddenly, an elderly man kneeled beside me, and quietly introduced himself. He spoke with what seemed to be a pronounced German accent.

“Hi, my name is Jerry Triemstra. Nothing fancy going on around here, young man. You heard the preacher. Just confess your sins to God, and ask Jesus ‘to live in your heart.’”

This “live in your heart” terminology was foreign to me, but I gathered Jerry was referring to some sort of personal relationship with God. Oh, of course I had attended several Methodist youth camps in Leesburg over the course of the last several summers. And I had heard various people refer to Jesus Christ. As a matter of fact, even today, a full half-century later I recall the slogans for each of those camps:

Christ Above All, Speak Up for Your Faith, Christ’ Life: Our Code

But until now all those phrases had been doctrinal, not relational in nature. This was all about to change.

I willingly uttered the obligatory prayer, Jerry congratulated me, and said his adieus.

Needless to say, I was ecstatic. My sins were forgiven. I had been introduced to a Friend who sticks closer than a brother, and I was guaranteed a home in heaven.

Lo and behold, who should be waiting for us there, (well, not waiting for us, per se) was, the now very much alone, Rev. Kirschke. Apparently, a member of the college staff had told him about the local hangout. I recall tell the good minister how much I’d enjoyed his message, and that I’d been one of those who had “made my way forward” an hour before.

No doubt, he also congratulated me for my decision. It’s possible, I think probable, (as it all comes flooding back now) that William then voiced his second invitation of the evening when he invited the three or four of us to sit at his table.

I ultimately attended that previously referred to non-descript college, (at the time referred to as Southeastern Bible College in whose chapel I had “given my heart to Jesus.” I say “non-descript” because the administration building, dormitories, (and yes, even the chapel) were virtual duplicates of the buildings one might have seen in that era on an army base. Very “plain Jane.” Basic to the enth degree.

Since I had just finished high school, and my dad attempted to deter me from attending what he regarded as a fanatical institution of higher learning, I did my freshman year at a community college. However, the next year I transferred to SEBC, (and ultimately graduated). During my sophomore year, I worked part-time as a lowly janitor to help cover my tuition.

And as Paul Harvey was so adept at saying, “and now the rest of the story.”

Years after I was blessed to return to what was now known as Southeastern University in a different guise. For you see, I returned to my alma mater in the role of an Adjunct Professor of Education.

I have previously written about this development, and I will not major on it here, but as I titled that particular story, “The Little Janitor Finally Got Promoted!” I was literally employed by my beloved school twice… with a space of almost 40 years between the contrastingly humble and illustrious roles.

And it speaking of humble versus illustrious, those adjectives no longer only applied to yours truly, for you see the not only the pitifully small demographics of the school had changed, with the student body increasing from 500 to 6,000 in number, and the faculty from 17 to 300, but the formerly non-descript campus had been converted into a virtual Garden of Eden. The old admin building and dormitories had been remodeled, inside and out, and dozens of new buildings grace the now Mediterranean-style campus.

However, anyone who knows anything about “adjunct professoring” throughout this great nation is aware of the comparatively low pay when judged by full-time faculty salary, as well as the comparatively lower student survey ratings that part-time professors often “enjoy.”

In fairness to institutions of higher learning or adjunct faculty, (as the case may be) the “degrees on the Fahrenheit Scale” of part-time instructors is often a bit less than that of tenured professors. And since adjunct faculty often hold full-time positions elsewhere, they don’t generally devote as much time in preparation for their classes.

At any rate, virtually every time the student ratings came out, a practice which occurred near the end of each semester, my numbers hovered .5 to a full point lower than the average tenured faculty member. This, of course, was disappointing enough, but one semester, and the anonymous comment of one student, (as we are prone to say in the south) “put a whoopin’ on me.”

…”Your class is a joke.”

Well, I don’t know about you, but at least at the time, I took comments like this very seriously. This “rude and crude” remark, and the consistently lower numerical ratings put me in a very bad frame, as our English cousins are prone to say.

I contacted our Dean of Education, and asked to meet with him. I was strongly considering resigning from my position as adjunct. If even one student perceived my course as a “joke,” well, perhaps it was time to resume my janitorial duties; (to give you some idea of the way this comment impacted me). 

And now the rest of the rest of the story

Did I happen to mention that the old school chapel, that sacred place in which I first bowed my knee, confessed Christ as Savior, and had my sins forgiven, had not only been remodeled, but so much like yours truly, had been assigned a new role?

Well, it had.

While a new chapel had been built 100 yards from that worshipful old building, the old sanctuary had taken on the role of a gymnasium. A practice basketball court.

And it was in this formerly sacred place, (but still ever so sacred to me) that Dr. Bennett suggested we meet. (He could not have known the personal significance of this building).

I met Sam, (I called him “Sam”) there at 2PM, and we proceeded to find a seat on the bleachers. As I recounted my disillusionment with my latest student ratings, alluded to that rude “your class is a joke” comment, and shared how close I was to resigning my position, my academic mentor smiled, and seemed to commensurate with me.

“Ah, Bill, I can imagine how you feel. I’ve been there. But I remind you that adjuncts simply don’t receive the same marks as full-timers, and you mustn’t allow the flawed opinion of a former student to deny you the opportunity to impact hundreds upon hundreds of future students.”

And though I admit that cruel remark has lingered in the recesses of my mind, the dean’s remark allowed me to put everything into perspective.

For to me Impact is everything

I would not be denied. I would not be cow-towed. I would, for as long as I had the opportunity, continue to impact the students whom God had set in my pathway.

That old building continues to be near and dear to me, and holds some of the most poignant of my memories. From abject elation, and a renewed mindset to abject disillusionment and the most negative of mindsets. Full circle.

Thankfully, the grace of God, the dean’s advice, and the catharsis which only time provides has reinforced my wherewithal to cherish the spiritual healing of my former experience in that old chapel, as well as the emotional healing which flowed from my latter experience there.

*Note: Sadly, the last time I dropped by the Southeastern University to hear a Holocaust survivor speak, I noticed that the old chapel (turned practice basketball court) has been torn down, and a brand spanking new academic building had been built in its place. This development left me a bit sad, but they say, "you can't stand in the way of 'progress.'"


(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 60. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.

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