A Lover of Wisdom

My philosophy professor died yesterday.  

He was the first Christian intellectual I had ever met, and as I think about him now, I can't imagine what my faith in Christ would have been like without him.  

He taught me how to love God with all of my mind.  

He inspired me to embrace questions as a gift from God.

He showed me what it looks like to consider an opposing idea with charity and grace.

He modeled for me the relentless pursuit of the truth of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

He was such a kind mind, such a noble man, such a humble man--helping me see that "becoming" a Christian requires a lifetime of devotion to God.

He was my first college professor.

I was a first-generation college student.  I had no one in my family to tell me what college was like.  So, when I walked into my very first college class--"Introduction to Philosophy"by Dr. Dan Cochran--I had no idea what to expect.  

The class met in the basement of an old church building.  About twenty students were packed into the little room, old desk chairs lined up facing the teacher's desk at the front of the classroom, a small rectangular window letting in a little light, the boiler in the back corner hissing and sputtering.  

Then he entered the room.  After offering a brief introduction of himself and the requirements of the course, he stepped in front of the little desk, lifted his eyes to the ceiling with a pensive look and a big smile on his face, he looked down at us (his little group of bright-eyed freshman), knowing he was about to take us on an unforgettable journey, and said slowly, deliberately, "What . . . is . . . real?"

Metaphysics.  I had never heard the term before.  But, the way he puzzled over the question, making us think through the reality of all things--is it what we experience or what we think?--I walked away from my first college lecture with my head buzzing. It was such a heady experience.  Walking back to the dorm, my mind racing a hundred miles an hour, I must have had a big grin on my face as I muttered to myself, "This is college."

He led me to the well of wisdom, offered me a drink, and I've thirsted for The Truth ever since.  And for that, I shall be eternally grateful.

"Ho!  Every one who thirsts, come to the waters; and you who have no money come, buy and eat."

Academic Orphan

A couple of years ago during the national gathering of "The Society of Biblical Literature," my friends and I were having dinner when I mused:  "Southwestern doesn't have a reception for us.  Have you ever wondered why?  Duke, Harvard, Princeton, Fuller--they all have receptions for their alumni, wanting to celebrate their achievements, to stay connected.  That's not the case for us."  Then one of my friends (he teaches at a Baptist university and has written several "best sellers" in biblical studies) said, "You're right.  I never thought of that before."  To which I replied, "you'd think that they would want to celebrate your success, make it evident to everyone how proud they are of you and the rest of us.  But they don't.  It's as if we are academic orphans."

That observation has become evermore evident to me as my alma mater, Southwest Baptist University, is about to be taken over by forces within the Missouri Baptist Convention.  If the convention goes their way in a few weeks, new board members will bring a majority vote to implement their agenda:  to turn SBU into something it's never been--a fundamentalist/calvinistic college.

It's an odd thing to me:  the Baptist institutions of higher education that produced me back then find me undesirable today.  What my professors taught me--the value of higher education I received from them--is now considered a threat to theological education.  It just feels so strange.  These "mothering institutions" that had such a profound impact on me--the way I read the Scriptures, fostering my desire to obey Christ and serve His Church, helping me sort out what it means to make a difference for the kingdom of God--they don't want to have anything to do with "their children" born at a certain time.  I entered their doors in 1975, left their buildings eleven years later (BA, Mdiv, PhD), ready to embrace the calling of God on my life, believing I had received the best education Baptist money can buy.  

I believe I have fulfilled that calling as a pastor and a professor.  And, I thank God that I have found a place to serve Him with a loving Baptist congregation who takes seriously their calling to be the Body of Christ.  But, when I think about where I came from, the college and seminary that birthed me, I have this strange feeling that I don't belong.  There will be no homecomings.  I have no place to rest my "theological" head.  I have no alma mater, no "mother" who will always root for me, will say she is proud of me, will claim, "he's mine."

It's a hard thing to admit, but it's finally dawning on me:  I'm an academic orphan without a home.