“Brad, I’ve got a big ask.”
It was the vice president for church relations at the Baptist university where I taught in East Tennessee. Our relationship dated back to his being a guest preacher at two churches I served. He continued, “I need someone to give a report from the university at an associational meeting. This one’s a five-hour drive. I know it sounds silly to go that far for a three-minute report, but it does mean a lot to the churches.”
For non-Baptists, an “association” is a confederation of regional churches. They have an annual meeting to do business, hold worship and enjoy a potluck.
Brad Bull
Even with a time-zone change in my favor, I left at 4:30 a.m. and arrived 20 minutes early at a brown-brick church, the construction of which maybe created a few jobs during the Great Depression. It looked to seat about 200 — just a few less people than there were cows across the street in the fields that looked much like my grandparents’ beef and corn farm. I knew the language of this culture. The difficulty finding a parking place confirmed this was the social event of October.
I donned my suitcoat with my university-logoed name badge. Stepping into the entrance to the sanctuary, a man saw my badge. His face lit up as he excitedly said, “Dr. Bull! I’m so glad you’ve come all the way from Carson-Newman! …” Behind him to my right, a man with his back to us whipped his head around like an angry owl with an axle for a neckbone. He looked me up and down, glaring at me with venomous eyes. I’d seen the look many times. He assumed me an uppity know-it-all liberal in league with the devil to undermine the next generation’s salvation.
I smiled inside about the remarks I had prepared and rehearsed while traversing half the state of Tennessee, arriving an hour west of the site of the Scopes trial.
Brother Venom turned out to be in charge of offering the invocation. “Before I lead our opening prayer, I want us to say Genesis 1:1 together, and I want us to emphasize the word God.”
We all recited in unison, “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” I knew what was coming and thought, ‘I couldn’t agree more. Genesis 1:1 affirms WHO created. But it doesn’t say HOW.’
“Brother Venom went on, while I checked off his tropes.”
Brother Venom went on, while I checked off his tropes. “Brothers and sisters, we live in a society where they have taken prayer out of schools” (one), “abortion is rampant” (two), “homosexuality is portrayed on TV” (three), “and evvyLUtion is being taught in our schools” (bing bing bing). He looked directly at me with narrow-eyed disdain. “They’re even teaching evvyLUtion in some of our Christian colleges.” He shook his head in condemnation, then said, “Let us pray.”
I don’t remember the specifics of the prayer, just that it was the boilerplate rants of someone who saw everyone else as sinners in the hands of an angry God. One of those sinners would soon be in the pulpit, and Brother Venom was about to be very surprised by an uppity professor agreeing with him that young American Christians are in spiritual danger.
Smiling at the standing-room-only congregation, I said, “I bring you greetings from Carson-Newman College, where … (boilerplate yada yada initial salutation).
“Now, I want you to do me a favor and pass along my greetings and thanks to the most important person in your congregation. It might be your pastor, but I doubt it. The most important person in your congregation is the person who is helping fight what I call ‘the cricket problem.’
“What is the cricket problem? Earlier, our brother asked us to recite a Bible verse, and you did it. Let me demonstrate the cricket problem. I’m going to start a verse, and I want you to not finish it.
“‘For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him….’” The congregation thundered, “‘…SHOULD NOT PERISH, BUT HAVE EVERLASTING LIFE.’”
I laughed. “See? You can’t not do it.”
But, in two different departments, I teach classes made up entirely of freshmen and sophomores. Frequently in my classes, I will attempt to connect my lecture to Scripture. I’ll start a verse and pause for the students to finish. Like, I’ll say, “The Apostle Paul said, ‘Be ye transformed by….’” The congregation finished, “‘…the renewing of your mind.’”
“I’ve yet to have a freshman or sophomore finish a single verse of Scripture I’ve started.”
“See? You all know that. But my students don’t. I’ve yet to have a freshman or sophomore finish a single verse of Scripture I’ve started. When I pause for them to complete the verse, all I hear is crickets.”
My main job at the university was teaching graduate counseling. Why was I mentioning my classes with undergraduate freshmen and sophomores? I was subtly saying, “We ain’t had enough time to mess ’em up yet. They arrive not knowing Scripture.”
I could tell the group of savvy listeners knew exactly what I was suggesting: If young people aren’t rooted in Scripture, we as parents and congregations bear primary responsibility. I continued. “So, the most important person in your congregation whom I want you to thank is the person who is leading classes and activities that involve children and teens memorizing Scripture.”
Talk about crickets. Not a single “Amen!” rang out from that congregation that had been dotted with “That’s right” in response to Brother Venom’s dire bemoanings about school intercoms without prayer and about the teaching of “evvyLUtion.” Pew after pew, shoulder to shoulder on both right and left of the center aisle, my brothers and sisters in Christ just stared at me — blankly — coldly, torn between conviction and apparent disdain for this rabble rouser who sounded like them but who was pointing at a problem not outside our churches and homes but within them.
A few minutes after returning to my seat, I slipped out of the sanctuary. I called the VP. I told him about Brother Venom, my remarks and the congregation’s reaction. “They’re having a potluck after, and they’ve asked me to stay, but …” The VP said, “Get out of there, Brad. Get in your car and come home.”
It was a long drive. These years later, part of me wishes I’d stayed. Part of me is glad I left. We all need to wrestle with the face in the rearview mirror — in silence.
Brad Bull has served as a hospital chaplain, pastor, professor, therapist and freelance writer. He can be reached via his website DrBradBull.com.