Broken Roads

by Ira Wagler

  I’ve thought about it since, now and then, all that praying going on. And it seemed to me after a month or so that these people weren’t that different from the Amish, not when it came to praying. No, they didn’t use a little black book. But their prayers were rote. How could they not be? I mean, how fresh can a prayer be, how heartfelt can it be when it’s mandated? When it’s just spouted out like clockwork? I might be way off here. I’m not saying the prayers weren’t valid or that they weren’t heard. But even way back then, fresh as I was from the Amish culture, I recognized the formula of the prayers on campus at Bob Jones.

  And every weekday morning around ten thirty or so, the entire student body trudged off to chapel in the huge new modern auditorium. Forty-five minutes or so. That was how long it lasted. Attendance was mandatory, of course. You had your assigned seat, and ushers checked at every service to make sure you were there unless you had a valid excuse. I’m not knocking the practice. Not at all. I soon reached the point where I actually looked forward to chapel services, because the quality and depth of the preaching was so far beyond anything I had ever heard before.

  And I heard all the guys who were anyone back in those days. Dr. Bob Jones Jr. was a grizzled, bent old man in his eighties, but he could sure punch out a good sermon. He roared like a lion and cooed like a dove. Hellfire and brimstone. Come to Jesus. It was old-time southern preaching from a century ago, and I feel privileged to have heard it from him. And we heard Dr. Bob Jones III, too, a tall gaunt man with a harsh rasping voice. His sermons tended toward vitriolic diatribes against the evil Catholic Church and the occasional broadside against the “false teachings” of Billy Graham. These guys were exclusionary, oh yes, they were. Which I’ve never had a problem with, because that’s what freedom of religion is. The freedom not only to worship as you see fit but also the freedom to exclude. Like the Amish exclude anyone who is not a part of their group.

  And I heard, too, the sermons of various local preachers and the many preacher boys in training at BJU. It was quite an honor for them, I learned, to get asked to preach at chapel. And for the first time in my life, I grasped what it was to really dig into the Scriptures. Amish sermons are mostly extemporaneous, often rambling. The Mennonites I had joined were a little more prepared with their sermons, but still, they tended to bounce all over the place while preaching a lot of light fluffy stuff with neat little lessons wrapped up at the end. Not the BJU guys. They got up there behind the podium and belted out an entire half-hour sermon, not from one chapter. But from one verse, sometimes. And sometimes one phrase from one verse. I marveled at it all, the apologetics of Christian Fundamentalism. And I absorbed their words.

  And while I thought their messages edged to the harsher side of Christianity, I didn’t fuss unduly in my mind. I would take from this place what I could and apply it to my life. And besides, I wasn’t quite sure where I stood on many peripheral issues. Hey, I would be there for two years. Then I’d move on, back to my little Mennonite world. That was my plan back then. Maybe I could even tell them about this marvelous in-depth preaching I had heard at BJU (that’s a joke).

  There was one aspect of their teachings that bugged me, though. And that was their eschatology. Their end-times teachings. BJU is (or was back then) stridently pre-tribulation rapture. Jesus is returning very soon, maybe even today or tonight. We’ll all get raptured out to meet Him in midair, Dr. Bob III would thunder. Then the great tribulation will be unleashed upon the earth. Satan will take over the whole world. He’ll take over this university, too, and use it for his evil purposes. But we’ll be with God, up there, so it won’t matter what Satan does down here.

  But wait a minute, I thought, even back then. If Jesus is coming back soon, maybe tonight, for sure by next week, next month, or maybe even as late as next year, why are we at this university? Why am I paying you for an education? Why are you demanding my best efforts in my classes? What sense does that make? Why plan for the future, why study for the future, why get a degree for the future, if it will all be for naught? I couldn’t quite grasp that line of thinking. And it still makes no sense to me.

  And it’s still one of the most shortsighted, destructive teachings in all of Christendom, that pre-tribulation-rapture stuff. My opinion. And it’s certainly not exclusive to the BJU people. It’s embraced by millions of Christians from many denominations, people who cling to the desperate hope that somehow they won’t have to die. To all of them, I’ll say this: Stop fretting about the end of the world or about Christ’s return. Get on with living your life with joy in this moment. And instruct your children as if they will have a long life, too, and a productive future. Stop hoping not to die. I believe that every person alive today and those to come for many generations will one day die. And if I’m wrong, hey, I’ll gladly concede my error in midair. “I was wrong.” What I’m saying is, concern yourself with your own life and your heart before God. The “end of the world” will come for each of us when we pass from this earth.

  By the time the first semester ended, I was just stepping into full stride. I came through with decent grades, mostly A’s. And I changed my major from English education to straight English, against the advice of my professors. “What will you do with an English degree?” they asked. “I don’t know and I don’t care,” I said. “I want to study real literature here. I want to absorb the great works of the past.” They backed off then. And I walked forward into the classes my heart instinctively cried for. The classics: Shakespeare. Dante’s Inferno. Milton. The major poets: Marvell. Pope. Keats. Shelley. And Emily Dickinson, one of my favorites. American literature: Mark Twain. William Cullen Bryant’s “Thanatopsis.” Faulkner, who ran with his coonhounds and hick country buddies at night and churned out his writings during the day. And on and on. I devoured it all. Guided by some of the greatest teachers I have ever known.

  And after that first semester, my detestable straight-cut suit coat never bothered me again. I was who I was, and I was comfortable with that. If you had a problem with how I dressed, that was your problem, not mine. And I made friends, both with my teachers and with many students.

  At the beginning of my second year, I stumbled upon the greatest literary voice ever to emerge from the American landscape. Thomas Wolfe. I didn’t meet him in the classroom. I just randomly picked up a ragged paperback copy of You Can’t Go Home Again at a used bookstore. I took the book home and opened it. Began to read. And from the first page, I was hooked. Between classes and work, I devoured the book in the next week. I stumbled about, my head in a daze, barely conscious of the world outside those pages. His powerful, passionate, soaring prose spoke to me like none other ever had. Stirred something deep inside. Absorbing it all, I sensed the innate knowledge in my heart that one day I, too, would write my story. I would speak it to the world. I had no clue when or how. It was just a thing I knew.

  There were many good things about BJU, not least its high appreciation for the arts. The university was saturated with performance art. Shakespeare plays of the highest quality, with faculty and students playing all the roles. Internationally acclaimed orchestras twice a year or so. Opera, performed by professionals. And classical music in all its forms. And we were required to attend. To which I thought, What? Required to attend? You couldn’t keep me away. To me, it was a huge privilege. And I went, sometimes with a woman, always dressed in my straight-cut suit, and just drank it all in. Those moments remain among my most cherished memories of BJU.

  And life in general bumped along. Every fall, when the students returned, the university held several nights of “revival” meetings in the big new auditorium. Good old down-home gospel preaching for the lost. And during those meetings, they fully expected people to stand, to recommit, to be saved if lost. Maybe even be re-saved. Dr. Bob Jr., the old man, officiated over both of the annual revivals I attended.

  And he preached the gospel. Because Christ was proclaimed. But at the end, he unleashed some of the most manipulative methods I have ever encountere
d. Just to get people to stand. He was determined that all six thousand people in the auditorium would be standing before he closed out the final night. First, he called out for the lost. If you don’t know Jesus, you can know Him tonight. Won’t you stand? We have people standing by to lead you through those steps. And that was fine. But then it was on to other goals. Do you have sin in your life? Unconfessed sin? It’s not too late. Tonight is the night. And a great many people stood. And then it was if you want to be a better witness for Christ, stand. Who can resist that? And so on and on, all the way out to where if you didn’t stand, you were admitting that you were lost.

  The first year, of course, I leaped to my feet at some point late. By the second year, though, I was in no frame of mind to be led by a nose chain like a common simpleton. I wouldn’t do it just because everyone else did. I dug in, irritated. Whatever he said, I wasn’t going to be manipulated. Not this time. I would not stand. And I didn’t as the drama intensified. His final call. Unless you are not a Christian, stand. I sat there stubbornly. I could feel the eyes around me. No. I will not stand. I will not. Dr. Bob Jr. closed it out then with a prayer that encompassed every soul in whatever state. Including mine. And there I sat.

  As we were dismissed, one guy behind me came up and tapped my shoulder. Smiled hesitantly. “Here’s my phone number,” he said, handing me a little torn slip of paper. “Call me if you want to talk.”

  “Nope,” I replied. “I’m fine.” And I walked out of there in my detestable straight-cut suit coat, the only Mennonite in the place. And one of the few deemed “lost.” I also emerged with a new perspective on how things really are sometimes. And so my second year began.

  A place like BJU could not function without toadies. Students who cozied up as aides to the big pooh-bahs, students who were “groomed” for leadership. Toadies were universally despised by the average students. And toadies were also indispensable to keeping the system running smoothly. Especially the system of demerits.

  There were demerits for just about any imaginable offense. You could get a demerit for thinking wrong, I think. But mostly it was stuff like being late for class or not showing up for daily chapel service (we all had assigned seats, and ushers checked to make sure they were filled). There were also more serious but not unheard-of offenses like drinking, smoking, and touching someone of the opposite sex. You were never, never supposed to be alone with anyone of the opposite sex, in any room or place, anywhere. But probably the most detested of all demerits, at least for the guys, was the dreaded weekly (or biweekly, I can’t remember) “hair check” when you walked into chapel for the morning service.

  You never knew for sure which day would be hair-check day. Sometimes the word buzzed that it was such and such a morning. But you could always tell as you approached the entrance to the massive auditorium. Extra toadies with craning necks stood on each side. And as you walked by, you could feel their eyes scanning your hairline from the back, checking to make sure your hair wasn’t a shade too long.

  And one morning, during my fourth and final semester there, I got nailed. A tap on my shoulder. I turned in surprise. I’d never been bothered before. An ugly little toady stood there, in shabby suit and tie, frozen smile and all. “Your hair won’t pass,” he said. He handed me a ticket. Five demerits. I stood there, outraged and appalled. My hair was not too long. I didn’t say anything to the toady, that wouldn’t have gotten me anywhere. But I seethed silently. And that afternoon I stopped by the dean of students’ office.

  The dean, a lean, gravelly-voiced, humorless man whose name I don’t remember, was back in his inner sanctum and unavailable, his toady told me. What could he do for me?

  I presented my demerit ticket. “I got it this morning. Look.” I turned around and pointed to my hairline. “It’s not too long. It’s not. I want to see the dean to get the ticket reversed.”

  The toady smiled patronizingly. “That’s not possible. He can’t be disturbed right now,” he said. His name was Henry, if I recall right.

  I stood there stubbornly. “Then I’ll wait,” I said. “I’m graduating this spring, and I have never gotten a single demerit. I don’t want one now, not for a judgment call like this. I’ll wait.”

  Henry was perturbed, not used to such blatant obtuseness. “Look, the ticket is what it is,” he protested.

  “Then I’ll wait for the Dean,” I said. And back and forth we went for a few minutes.

  When he finally grasped that I was really not going anywhere, he suddenly reached out, took the vile little slip of paper, and tore it in half. “All right, then, there you go,” he said resignedly. “I’ll make sure it’s struck from the records.”

  “You’re the man,” I said, shaking his hand. “Thanks very much.” And I was out of there before the dean could appear and mess it all up again.

  I never did get a single demerit. Not in my two years there. It’s such a rare and shining achievement that Dr. Bob III sent me a personally signed letter of congratulation after I left. One day, I think, I will frame that letter. If I can dig it out from wherever.

  In the summer of 1993, I graduated from Bob Jones University magna cum laude with a degree in English and a minor in history. A degree that was not even accredited. BJU refuses accreditation from any government entity. The administration rejects it out of hand. Leave us alone. We are doing our work as we see fit. We are training the next generation of our people. And that’s a thing I respect and understand and admire. I value my time spent there. I would stack a BJU education against any university in this country when it comes to academic standards. And I will always defend its right to be just exactly what it is.

  The world is a funny place sometimes. You step out and start off on a path, not quite sure if it’s really the right one. But you strike out on the journey and push through to the end. And years later, you look back and realize that whether or not it was precisely the right path, it was one you would not change if you could.

  That’s me, looking back on my entire experience at Bob Jones University. I would not change a single moment in that stretch of the journey, not even if I could.

  Home for Christmas

  In the fall, we always stirred. Plotted. Prepared. Planned. Turned our faces again to the west and north and the distant land of home. Did whatever it took to make the long journey back for Christmas.

  Those years in the early 1990s seem blurred now, as if they had all flowed together. Every year, my brother Nathan and I discussed it some throughout the summer, then got serious about mid-November. We didn’t live close to each other, so plans had to be made. To get together and go home together.

  By then I had graduated from Vincennes and had transferred to Bob Jones University in Greenville, South Carolina. Nathan lived an hour away, in the Seneca area. We existed on shoestring budgets. I was a student, and Nathan worked on a framing crew while he prepared for a one-year stint as a counselor at a boys’ wilderness camp.

  We were going home for Christmas. Home to our parents’ two-hundred-acre farm in Bloomfield, Iowa, the place where only a few short years before, we had lived as Amish youth. Where we had grown into adulthood, where we’d run around. Where we had sown the seeds of that turbulent period of our lives and where we had eventually torn away, leaving in our wakes the trails of grief and pain, the dashed expectations of our parents and the broken dreams of others.

  And we harbored in our hearts some few tattered remnants of regret and guilt.

  We’d left independently, each on his own path and on his own terms. With little guidance, even less support, and no semblance of a safety net, we had pressed onward and outward. Walked away from the only family structure we had ever known. Driven by a vague, undefined hope, the desire for so much more, and always the promise of a brighter future, the distant gleam of a shining city in a tomorrow that never came.

  Both of us were somewhat skittish, tense and raw. Unhealed. So little time had passed since we’d left. Back then, in our youth, a few years seemed like
a long time. But it wasn’t. And our internal turmoil could not be denied.

  We had escaped the desolate land, the bleak deserts, the sparse, hard lifestyle, and we felt free. Why, then, return again into the dark boundaries of the land from which we’d fled? Because at Christmas, “home” was the only place we’d ever known. And despite the tension, the confrontations and admonitions we knew would come, we did not hesitate but prepared to set out on a journey back.

  In a time before cell phones and email, we finalized the details as the day came at us. My final test at Bob Jones was over by noon one day the following week. By midafternoon Nathan had arrived. Since we didn’t trust either his little white pickup or my T-Bird to make the long trip, we pooled our meager resources (neither of us owned so much as a credit card) and rented a fire-engine-red Pontiac Grand Prix. We loaded our stuff and hit the road.

  Through late afternoon and evening and long into the night, we drove, taking turns at the wheel, stopping only for gas and food and coffee. Few things dull the mind more than traveling all night in a car. Then into the sunrise, and on and on, the Pontiac pulsed along. North and west. By noon, we were getting close. We passed through the familiar northern-Missouri landscape. Crossed the border into Iowa and the first Amish farms on the southern end on Route 63.

  We were back.

  But first we turned east toward Bloomfield to buy some simple gifts. For Dad, a few boxes of Brach’s chocolate-covered cherries. For Mom, a large red poinsettia. We cruised around the deserted town square. What only a few years ago had seemed like a glittering metropolis now sat squat and dark, a collection of ramshackle rusted stores huddled in a half-empty town.