Pilgrimage of Joy. . . No. 46

“HOW DID JESUS GET IN HERE?”
W. Carl Ketcherside

The year of 1970 dawned with the war in Vietnam still draped like an albatross around the neck of the nation. The potential for violent protest hovered like a malign storm cloud over the land. No one knew where it would touch the land next with its bombing and murder. The decennial census revealed some strange things. We had passed the two hundred million mark for the first time. The figure was 203,235,298. One-tenth of our citizenry was now over 65. Three-fourths of them were urban dwellers. One eighth were nonwhite. California had overtaken New York as the most populous state. The tide of immigration had shifted from eastern to western flow.

On February 25, a branch of the Bank of America, went up in flames as the result of an antiwar protest at the University of California in Santa Barbara, It seemed that the licking tongues of flame were reaching out to consume our way of life. President Nixon announced his intention of withdrawing an additional 150,000 troops from the stinking cesspool of Vietnam the next year. Then on April 29 the war was escalated when the U.S. and Vietnamese forces began a major invasion of Cambodia.

This triggered massive protests across the land. At Kent State University in Ohio, national guardsmen opened fire upon students protesting the war. Four were killed. Many more were injured. It never was successfully proved that any of those killed were in active protest. The incident triggered rebellion throughout the land. Frustrated young people reacted, often in blind rage. By my birthday, on May 10, a student strike center at Brandeis University, announced that 450 institutions of higher learning had been closed down or were experiencing student antiwar strikes.

One of the places where unrest was surfacing was Illinois State University at Bloomington. At the very height of the ferment, the Christian forces on campus decided to inject the philosophy of the Prince of Peace into an ugly situation. InterVarsity, Christian Collegians, Campus Crusade, the Navigators, and Baptist Student Union, temporarily transcended their various methods of procedure, and invited me to come for a happening which was simply called “The Way.” It was a happy designation. It was publicized by posters on the campus and in the daily newspaper.

The leaders were sharp enough to realize that unless there was a direct confrontation between the forces of belief and unbelief, between the followers of Jesus and those of the pagans, the meeting would avail nothing. There had to be the actual clash of verbal swords in face-to-face combat. They arranged for that, although, as it turned out, there were unexpected elements which could not be foreseen or provided in advance. These only served to heighten the tension and suspense.

I arrived on the scene the afternoon previous, just in time to see four hundred students wearing black armbands, in honor of their fallen comrades at Kent State, marching to the cemetery in a “Death Walk.” Not a word was spoken as they walked along. Blacks, whites, Orientals, they trudged along the sidewalk, with only the shuffle of their feet marking their progress. In the cemetery they sat in silence with bowed heads, among the stones and granite markers, and then marched back. That night they slept on the ground in the quadrangle in what was advertised as a “sleep out for peace.”

At 9:00 a.m., the following morning, I spoke to the combined forces of Christian students in Adlai Stevenson Memorial Hall on “How Did Jesus Get in Here?” I pointed out that he entered the earth, cradled in the womb of a woman, and He entered Jerusalem on the back of a donkey, to be acclaimed king. But he entered Indiana State in our hearts. He would be as effective as we allowed him to be. He would be as bold, as brave, and as courageous as we were. And I pointed out that although the apostles were unskilled and unlearned, their opponents, “took note of them that they had been with Jesus!’ After answering questions for two hours from a hall that was filled to capacity, I went to the cafeteria in the Girls Dorm, where we continued to talk about the things of the Spirit with some thirty Christian young women.

At 1:00 p.m. I was scheduled to meet in open dialogue three professors who were agnostics. It was to be a clear-cut encounter with raw doubt and blatant unbelief. The lounge was filled with every kind of student. Included were several black activists. There was a Buddhist present. These hardly knew what to do or how to react toward me when I extended my hand and welcomed them. They were afraid of losing ground if they exhibited any kind of fraternity with “whitey.” I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. My theme was “The Transforming Dynamic.” I affirmed the intrusion of God into our universe on a revelational and personal plane. I knew where that revelation was found and I knew the person. I pointed out that Jesus was the only revolutionary in history who changed the world without burning it down.

Dr. Joel Vernon was the first reactor. He had been the son of a Baptist minister but had sold out on his faith. In a speech larded with profanity and four letter words, and obscenities, he branded the new covenant scriptures as a compilation of “myths and damned fairy tales” written to frighten the gullible out of their wits. He was in the Department of Political Science.

He was followed by Dr. Joseph Grabill, of the Department of History. He charged Christianity with creating a coverup to evade reality by the use of traditional words. The last was the eminent Dr. Martin McGuire of the Department of Anthropology. He asserted there was only one brotherhood of the flesh created over millions of years of developmental progress in kinship with animal life.

There was a deep silence as I rose for my ten minute summation and reply. To lessen the feeling I called the men by their first names. I was older by far than either. But all seemed to sense that it was now or never, the battle lines had been drawn. The time for a showdown had arrived. I pointed out that profanity was not proof and expletive was not explanation. It is generally employed by those who face something with which they cannot cope on rational grounds. I said that Joel had started rebelling as a child according to his own testimony, and he was still at it in the same way. I urged him to grow up and face the issue, and not try to smother his inability to do so under the cover of swearing. Surely in his studies of political science he should have developed an adequate vocabulary. I pointed out that while he had made a blanket statement that the word of God consisted of “damned fairy tales” he had not given us a single one of them.

Joseph Grabill needed to realize that words which had been tested and tried were not merely traditional terms but were as modern as the morning newspaper. I mentioned that in his speech he assumed to speak only in traditional words for there were no others by which he could convey his meaning. Tradition means “handed over, or handed down,” and anything from the past had to be described in such terms. There was no better word to describe our problem than sin, and no better one to portray our condition than lost. It was the “lostness of man” which resulted in his loneliness, alienation and depression, Man had cut himself loose from his roots. He was forming a cut flower civilization. It looked good but it was not alive.

I expressed my appreciation for the scholarship of Martin McGuire who had gone to almost incredible lengths to achieve his doctorate in anthropology. But I pointed out that the “brotherhood of the flesh” of which he spoke originated in the jungle and was fast taking us “back home.” It was based upon the “law of fang and claw.” It worshiped the idea of “the survival of the fittest.” It glorified the concept that “to the victor belongs the spoils.” The only real brotherhood worth having was that which originated from a relationship to the same Father, the Creator of us all. In it we could constitute a family of peace and tranquillity.

While I was answering the professors, a young black Muslim arose and stepped forward, taking his position directly in front of me. He demanded to be heard in the name of Allah. It was evident to see that he craved attention. He grasped at the chance of using our meeting to secure it. I smiling said, “Although I do not see your name on the program, you go ahead and I’ll listen, since it is obvious that if I go ahead, you will not, and I want you to hear what I am saying.” He let loose a tirade against Jesus as a white man’s God, used by western culture to enslave his ancestors. He accused white slavers of being rapists and filled with brutality.

When he ceased speaking, I replied softly. I kept my eye firmly fixed upon him during the entire incident, never allowing it to waver from him a minute. He became uncomfortable at my gaze and his own eyes shifted from side to side. I told him that he was speaking of a different Jesus than the one I was defending. My Jesus was color blind. I pointed out that he was always interested in the poor and depressed. He would not exploit anyone. He branded people like the traders in human lives as hypocrites. No one ever raped another by following Jesus but by departing from his teaching. Jesus was an advocate of the philosophy of “the second mile” lifestyle. Indeed, it was Jesus dwelling in me that made it possible for me to love him. Muttering that he did not want my love, he turned and left the room.

After this interruption I finished my answer to the reactors and closed with prayer for them. It appeared that I had been in control of the situation throughout, although there was a time or two when it approached the explosive point. But love had won the day. Later that evening I addressed a student rally which was held in Wesley Foundation headquarters. I spoke on the theme “How to Really Get in the Way.” I answered questions for another hour, and we explored the Christian attitude toward sex, war, social reform, and other pertinent themes. It was my suggestion that the Christians take over the quadrangle for a full day, and make it an arena in which they took on all comers. They could challenge the neo-paganism openly and it was better to fall in battle than to be nibbled to death by mice.

When I finished at ten o’clock it represented a full day of direct encounter and dialogue. For thirteen hours I had been on the firing line testing the sword of the Spirit against the best the enemy had to offer. I was tired but keyed up for anything. I flew back to Saint Louis that night, and virtually the whole distance I prayed for those I had met. It had been a fruitful day.

I would not have you think that all of 1970 was like the encounter I have just described. There were moments of tranquil meditation and joy. There were times when I could draw a little way apart from the multitude and refresh myself by study and meditation. I availed myself of every such moment. But generally there was activity of some kind and I traveled from one end of the country to another preaching the gospel of peace without compromise and emphasizing the hope which makes that gospel “good news.” In fact, one of the great things that happened during the year occurred in February. It was notable because of things which transpired which were not on the program. But I will have to tell you about it in the next installment.