Go East, Young Man

PREPARATION ON THE MOUNT OF NYACK

Wanda and I decided it would be best to wait until after we completed our schooling to get married. And so the summer of 1941 was spent preparing mentally, spiritually, and financially for our big move to Nyack, New York, in the fall.

   The decision to attend the three-year program at Nyack was not without it's challenges. As I mentioned earlier, my dad was not keen on the idea of me tossing out my musical aspirations in favor of going to a tiny Bible school. A lifelong Baptist (by pedigree, if not faith), Dad was leery of Miss Gatherer, the C&MA denomination, and it's predominantly white heritage.

  "Whoever heard of The Christian and Missionary Alliance, anyway?" he told me when I started attending Wanda's church. "Sounds like Christian Science or something. But if you want to go over there and follow that white preacher-woman, you can."

   Though I expected some flak, I was taken aback by the ferocity

Page 70

of Dad's reaction to my Nyack decision. His cutting words left me scrambling to defend what I knew in my heart was God's will for my future.

  In some ways, I could understand his resentment. My dad was a good man who had poured his hopes and dreams into raising Clarence and me with a passionate appreciation of music. When I decided to quit the band, Dad felt personally betrayed because he'd spent a lot of money on my musical education. Later when I told him about my new call to ministry and to Nyack, he couldn't stand it anymore. He questioned my discernment and, I think, wondered whether I was just trying to please Wanda.

   "I don't understand you," Dad said. "You want to be a preacher, that's all right. But why don't you go to Oberlin or some school that's better known?"

   "No, Dad. I know the Lord is leading me to Nyack to study the Bible, and that's where I want to go." It was probably one of the first times in my life that I actually stood firm against my dad's wishes. "I have to follow God's plan," I told him.

   "God's plan? I'll tell you what God's plan is. He's planning for you to be a somebody. You're not going to amount to anything going to that school. You're throwing your life away, and I'm not going to help you do that. Don't expect one cent from me."

   His remarks stung deeply, but I knew it wasn't a matter of simply changing my mind. This was God's business now, and I was certain He would take care of me. After a long, uncomfortable silence, I finally said, "That's OK, Dad. I'll trust the Lord."

   Mother, of course, could read the pain and sadness I was trying to conceal. Later that day, she put her arm around me

Page 71

and said, "Son, don't let your father discourage you. I'm proud of what you're doing. Just give your dad time to cool down."

  And then she said the words that let me know it was all going to work out. "Even if your father doesn't come around, the Lord is going to honor your determination to prepare for whatever He wants you to do. I'll try to help you when I can, but just know you are doing the right thing."

A NEW WORLD

   Back in those days before there was a Pennsylvania Turnpike, it took forever to travel east. But a gracious friend from Cleveland volunteered to drive Wanda and me the five hundred miles from Oberlin to Nyack. We arrived at the campus just before midnight and were immediately impressed by the spectacular view of the massive gray buildings spread out on a large hill overlooking the grand Hudson River. The moonbeams glistened on the water as we drove up, and several miles downstream we could see the warm lights from Sing Sing Prison glowing softly in the night sky. The spectacle of the place was truly overwhelming for two kids from northeast Ohio. Both Wanda and I felt we had suddenly entered a brave new, dreamlike world.

   The Missionary Training Institute (which would later become Nyack College) was founded in 1882 by A.B. Simpson, one of the foremost figures in the American missionary movement during the nineteenth century and the key player in the formation of The Christian and Missionary Alliance Church.

   The college president at that time was Dr. Thomas S. Mosley, a godly man who drilled students on the power of

Page 72

prayer with wonderfully quotable nuggets like, "Little prayer, little power. Much prayer, much power."

   Knowing the missions emphasis of the school, Wanda and I walked onto that campus with the great feeling that our future was boundless. We would prepare ourselves to do whatever God had in store for us, and to go wherever in the world He pointed. In our naive youth, we didn't think that most mission boards in the 1940s were more interested in sending out their own white missionaries rather than people of color. But we pressed forward with the idealism of fervent faith.

   We soon discovered the severity of the many rules and restrictions imposed upon Nyack students. I had read about some of these strict guidelines before applying to the school, but I never imagined how suffocating those guidelines would feel once I experienced them off the page. There was no hand-holding allowed or public display of affection of any kind. There was a rotating schedule of assigned seating for meals, so Wanda and I got to sit near each other in the cafeteria only once every two weeks. What's more, we were allowed to go out on dates only once a week — and then it had to be with two other couples. This was enough to cramp the style of a happily courting couple. In fact, our romantic moments were dramatically curbed. Thankfully, we were allowed to sit together at the mandatory Friday night missionary meeting and during the Sunday evening services.

   Though some of the rules seemed a bit overboard, we quickly adjusted and actually came to appreciate the limitations placed on us. It made the times we did have together all the more special and forced us to learn to communicate in new ways — whether in lengthy letters or quick glances across the room.

Page 73

SECOND THOUGHTS

   Way down at the bottom of the hill, away from where most of the school's facilities stood, was Wilson Dormitory, one of the male residence halls. The place was not much to speak of, with creaking stairs, poor lighting, and aging decor. When I first entered my small dorm room, I had a fleeting moment of regret — What have I gotten myself into here? — but then I began to meet my fellow students, experienced their disarming kindness, and began to trust God that I'd feel better about things in the morning.

   The next day I discovered my roommate was a young man named Clarence Bowman. He was a black student from Oberlin who also had been saved under the preaching of Miss Gatherer. (In fact, four other future preachers, including myself, had been saved under the preaching of Miss Gatherer at Oberlin Alliance.) I was genuinely happy to see Clarence's familiar face amid my strange surroundings.

   "They put me in here to look out after you," Bowman said smiling. A senior, he would be moving on to Gordon College in Massachusetts after graduating from Nyack.

   "That's great," I said. So we fixed up that old room. My mother sent me some shades and curtains, and I had a guy come in and repair the floor. Soon the place was feeling less decrepit. In the days ahead, I would meet God there many times.

   During my first week at Nyack, I received an airmail special delivery letter from Dad. He wrote to tell me that Stanley Austin, a close friend of mine had been killed in an automobile accident. I was devastated, saddened that a young man my age could have his dreams cut short while I was a world away

Page 74

pursuing mine. My heart wept even more when it hit me that I wouldn't be able to attend the funeral. As I stood in the chapel hall, holding back tears as I processed the letter's tragic announcement, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

   "You got some sad news?" a voice asked.

   I turned to see four white students from my dorm. "Yes," I said, "A friend of mine back home was killed yesterday."

   "May we pray for you and your friend's family"? asked Bob Heffer, a medium blond-haired fellow, who was the owner of that original voice of concern. He seemed to be the spokesman for this little group that also included Bill Frederick, Bob Gray, and Paul Troph.

   I was almost speechless but managed to say, "Yes, yes. Thank you."

   And there in the middle of the common area, those five young men gathered around me and prayed, one by one. It was one of the many defining moments that God used to open my heart to my white brothers and sisters at Nyack, and my eyes to the meaning of the apostle Paul's statement in 1 Thessalonians: "Pray without ceasing." I had always wondered about the practicality of such an instruction. But at Nyack I saw students, and young men and women who started and ended their days on their knees.

   I gleaned the importance of developing a set time to study and reflect on God's Word. I learned how to preach before an audience of aspiring preachers (not an easy thing). I heard from missionary after missionary who told stories of journeying to the farthest reaches of the earth to share the Good News

Page 75

of Christ's salvation. I saw the value of simply being available to help a grieving person cry. These were models that would inspire me to greater devotion and faith in every area of my life.

   Later on in the week, I met three other black students on campus who shared my love for music: Herbert and Douglas Oliver, two brothers from Birmingham, Alabama; and Charles Williams from New Kensington, Pennsylvania. Somehow, we had all gathered around the Chapel Hall's piano one evening to sing some Negro spirituals and discovered that our voices in four-part harmony blended nicely. As a result, we ended up forming the Gospel Crusaders, an a cappella quartet that some said was the best music ensemble on campus. During the next three years, we sang at most of the big campus events and traveled to churches in Harlem, Pennsylvania, and throughout the region to perform. I had given up my dream of traveling the land with my jazz orchestra, but God had replaced it with a greater privilege — traveling the land to sing and promote His praises and preach His Word.

   Many of the people who crossed my path at Nyack would go on to become dear friends with whom I've stayed in contact throughout the decades. Though it clearly was not a perfect place, I grew to understand and appreciate God's purposes for taking me there.

TRIPPING OVER RACE

   I learned to take the good with the bad at Nyack. But sometimes it seemed that the bad was taking the upper hand.

   In a student body of six hundred, Wanda and I were two of only twelve blacks. And among those other blacks were two

Page 76

faces from Oberlin — my roommate Clarence Bowman and Wanda's sister Ruth, both seniors. It was the 1940s and the school had started opening its doors to Negroes only twenty years before, so we still felt a lot like "test cases."

   The white students, for the most part, were from the South and were not accustomed to having blacks on campus. Since most had never associated with blacks in their churches or communities, many of them treated us rudely. We were always conscious of their listening ears and watching eyes evaluating our every word and step. Wanda and I were disappointed to find the same old prejudices and the same distrusting stares on a Christian campus. Wanda used to tell of the sadness she felt whenever a white male would open the door for another white student but let it close in her face.

   Then there were the uneasy questions raised about the place of blacks in Christian service. Were we truly "all one in Christ Jesus," as the apostle Paul had asserted to the Galatians, or were there racially delineated "divisions of labor" in the kingdom of God?

   On Friday nights, we black students would listen as missionaries challenged the student body with the call of the Great Commission — to "go into all the world, and preach the gospel." But when one of us would raise the question about blacks being sent to the mission field, we were given many reasons why it wasn't advisable. For example, some mission boards were concerned that black missionaries would have children who would need to be educated in the same schools as the white missionaries' children. Others said the nationals — or "natives" as they were called then — wouldn't accept the gospel from a black man but would expect him to live "on their level."

Page 77

   I never bought into those shortsighted lines of reasoning. Clearly they were imposing worldly restrictions on God's activity in the world. It took many nights of angst-ridden prayers and of long discussions with other black students to help me keep the proper perspective: God was in the business of salvation and reconciliation, and He would use whomever and whatever He wanted to accomplish His purposes. No, God was not color-blind, as some well-meaning folks would tell me in later years; He made me black and that guy white and that fellow Asian for good reasons — reasons He may share with us someday (though I doubt we'll need to ask). However, He never intended race, class, or culture to become barriers to relationships among His people.

   I like to think that, in a small way, our presence as black students on the Nyack campus helped enlighten the hearts and minds of many white students and professors. I certainly had to acknowledge and deal with many of my own subtle (and some not-so-subtle) prejudices.

WAR COMES HOME

   Around the end of that first semester, our isolated little world was changed forever. I was in the recreation room at Wilson Hall, playing shuffleboard when word spread across the campus: Pearl Harbor had been bombed. The war that had been a European affair officially arrived in our country.

   Everyone in the recreation room froze for a long moment before dropping their sticks and dashing to our dorm rooms to gather around our radios. We anxiously took in the details of the attack as we wondered what this would mean for our future.

Page 78

   On the morning of September 11, 2001, I remember flashing back to that dark December day in 1941. Many news commentators compared the 9/11 terrorist attacks on our country to the Pearl Harbor tragedy, and I agree that it had that same unsettling effect. Of course, back in 1941, I had the added anxiety of wondering how long it would be before they "called my number" to join the fray overseas.

   Many male students were eager to enlist immediately. Nyack's administrators, however, recommended that we all stay in school until we were drafted. They reasoned that the world would now need trained Christian leaders more than ever. Many of us were persuaded to stay (myself included), but others left to defend their country.

   I would learn later that since I had completed at least half of a semester in a theological school, I was exempt from the draft. Though I had been prepared to "answer the call" if it were sounded to me, I was honestly relieved that I would not be required to enlist in the military. If I had gone, I would have wanted to join a chaplaincy program. But I had heard many despairing stories about how most black recruits were generally consigned to menial jobs that would free up the white soldiers for "more important" work, so I was nervous that I might get lost in that shuffle of segregation if I were called to serve.

   My brother Clarence enlisted in the army some months after Pearl Harbor, so I was continually on my knees on his behalf. Fortunately, as a member of the army band, he was not in line for combat duty. Wanda's brother Louis Young, however, did see combat. An army enlistee, Louis (L.C.) had also joined after Pearl Harbor.

   One learns to live with the disconcerting knowledge that a

Page 79

loved one serving in the midst of a world war could be killed at any moment, and Wanda did an admirable job of giving her anxieties to God in prayer. But one afternoon during our sophomore year, Wanda received that telephone call from home that everybody dreaded in those days. It was Ruth calling to inform her that L.C. had been killed in North Africa.

   Wanda, of course, was devastated. In fact, she had just received a letter from him a few days earlier. We prayed tearful prayers that day. The other students and I did our best to console Wanda. But it would be the kind of heartrending sorrow that only time and prayer could heal.

Chapter Six  ||  Table of Contents