College

Its Sunday again, January 18, 2009; our family is driving south to Muncie, Indiana for another Pizza King experience with JC and Rosie. Actually we are making the trip so that our daughters, Alisha and Dana, can visit Indiana Wesleyan University (IWU), at Marian, Indiana. Dana volunteered to ride shot gun because she wants to drive back to the college in a couple of weeks for a soccer try-out. She does feel a lot of investment in this exploratory trip. Lorilee is driving as she feels safer behind the wheel when we make wintry drives. Trey has faded into his electronic world in the back of the mini van. Alisha is reading a book in the easy chair beside me. And me, I have a huge head cold. The combination of my buzz from the cold medicine, the warm sun streaming through the tinted van windows after reflecting off the mountains of sparkling white snow outside, and the low soothing beat of Nickelback, give me the relaxed feeling of a quiet day at the beach on an island in the Caribbean. I am relaxed. I know what my role is during these college visits. ”Back off,” I say to myself often, “Your role is to provide, emotional, financial and spiritual support; yours is not a decision making role.” And so I am enjoying the ride, the next couple of days should provide me with a lot of free time to write for my blog and on top of that we are headed for another visit at JC and Rosie’s place to boot. Since Muncie is only 17 miles south of IWU’s home town at Marian I used my influence as the Alpha Male in our family to get a night at JC and Rosie’s house while the girls spend the night with their cousin in her dorm room at IWU. Tomorrow we have a full day planned on the campus of IWU.

I do have reservations about IWU. People who have not walked for a year or two in my shoes would probably have a hard time understanding exactly why I could possibly have reservations about a conservative Christian college that is currently riding a wave of popularity, successful sports programs, and student growth. I suspect that it is very important how a father holds his daughter’s decisions about college and so I am trying to be careful to participate without placing much of my own bias into the college decision making process. I did tell both girls that I am not strongly encouraging them to go college at all. And further our support agreement for all three kids includes the same level of support during their first two years out of high school whether they go to college or not. If they do decide to go to college Lorilee and I plan to give them an additional two years of our financial support. Our level of financial support is the same for four years regardless of the college that the kids choose. Obviously this type of arrangement is designed to create a struggle for the kids during their junior year in high school, resulting in this type of an exploratory trip; the kids want to make good decisions.

For me the decision to go to college was a rebellious act against a culture that placed little value on education and a lot of value on working with one’s hands in the construction trades. By luck or maybe hard work my decisions worked out quite well for me but now it seems like everyone is going to college without struggling much with the decision at all. When attending my daughter’s church I quite often hear young people speak to their congregation saying, “I feel like I am being led by God, to attend this college.” Or, “I feel God leading me to this mission field.” Or, “I feel like God has brought me to this place to marry this man.” I am glad for kids who have the ability to speak like that; glad, for them that they can feel a calling from God to go to a particular place and do a particular thing at a certain point in time. Sometimes I do wonder what God thinks about though. I wonder if God ever wants to throw up his hands and say, “Don’t use me for an excuse for what you have decided to do.” Or, “I didn’t call you to do this or even that, I just want you to put your best foot forward in whatever you decide to do.” I suppose it is because I am not God, or at least have a lot less information than God, that I hesitate to provide a lot of direction for my girls as they begin their journey out into their world. I think my daughters know that their mother I love them very much and really want the very best for them even though we hesitate to give them a whole lot of firm direction. I think that knowledge will go a long way to help them make their own choices for life. I also hope they understand why I won’t be suggesting that they go to this college or to that university. I do want to be a responsible, participating, parent in the process though. I did have a hand or something similar to that, in bringing the girls into this world. I know that I don’t bear a lot of responsibility for much of the terrible stuff that goes on now that they are here; but since I am their father, I believe it would be irresponsible to leave them completely alone to fend for themselves now that they are through high school. And so I find myself visiting colleges with them and telling them that I will be here for them, emotionally, spiritually, financially, and physically no matter where they decide to spend the next four years of their lives. I do have my preferences for a large public University with its focus on purely academic pursuits, leaving the social, athletic, and spiritual/religious pursuits up to the student to work out. But I am confident that if I push that personal agenda I will get results that are not the best possible for any of us.

Again, I do have serious reservations about IWU; not so much because it is a Christian school, but more because I’ve heard a few things about the school’s rules for student behavior. I understand that students at IWU are subject to some of the same rules that I was subject during the teen years of my life. I don’t know what all of IWU’s rules are but I’m sure I will find out on our visit. I know some prohibited activities are drinking alcohol and dancing. I’ve often misread even the most reasonable rules and had the motives behind all sorts of rules explained to me in kind, patient, understanding ways by the administrators of those rules. And I still continue to view the nature of pleasure and pain, freedom and restriction, using the same map that has been so securely positioned into my subconscious since my own teenage years. I know that my reservations concerning IWU have little to do with the map with which my daughter’s are viewing the same landscape. I’ve taken a lot of time to tell my children stories of my younger years so that they can get a look at little pieces of the map that I am using that might help them understand more about where I am coming from.

My reservations about IWU take me back a long way to my home in Traverse City, Michigan, over thirty years ago, back to my junior year in high school. As our van points it nose south carrying our two 17 year old daughters, juniors at Northridge high school, onto I-69 toward IWU, I let my mind wander back to my own days in high school at Traverse City Senior High. I took school seriously because I felt that academics were one of the good things I had going for me. The academic work came easily and my mother really supported me in my work at school. I used that scholarly image to get my own way whenever the opportunity presented itself. My own way tended to diverge from the strict rules of the ultra conservative sect of the Amish Mennonites that I grew up with. My mother was in a tough spot because our church’s teachings prohibited her from speaking out much within the church about the rules. Her domain was in our home and I knew that she wished for me to be able to participate in high school sports and educational opportunities where ever possible even if those activities happened to involve infractions of the church’s standards for the appropriate behavior of church members. My family was quite dependant on our little church called Traverse Bay Conservative Mennonite Church.

My father had been the pastor for about four (4) years in another tiny Mennonite church about 50 miles south of Traverse City, in a community that, like Traverse City, knew nothing about the Amish Mennonites. When my father became sick and could not work the Traverse City Church took our family in, helped to pay our bills, and even helped our very needy family move to Traverse City where my father could receive the medical attention that he needed. Our family welcomed the much needed help and the tight community that the insular Amish Mennonite community provided. That was five (5) years earlier and now, at seventeen (17) years old I was caught between two worlds at constant war within me. I wanted to please the good people of our church who had done so much for my father and who held the keys to my understanding of God and my own spiritual life. But I also wanted desperately to find my place in the world. I could not seem to have both. If I conformed to the church rules I received approval and acceptance in the church but was not free to find a place in the world. If I participated in what seemed to me quite normal activities in the culture of my school I was considered rebellious. “The sin of rebellion,” our pastor taught, “Is as the sin of witchcraft.” While my father and our family needed the church and its support I needed freedom. These competing needs were destroying me.

Quite often during those teen years when I’d get caught doing something in violation of the church’s rules I felt my mother’s support even though that support was not worth much against the male dominated power of our church community. As a result I became quite manipulative and the truth about my life got lost somewhere between the details of the church’s rules for a life style of nonconformity to the world and my awkward attempts to find a place to fit in at school. I knew then and even more now that personal honesty is no small detail in the life of a maturing person. But as my desperate life slowly developed it became painfully clear that something was going to have to give. It was my own personal integrity, the single most important thing in the world that I gave up.

I would come home from school on a Friday night all pumped up about a high school football game that was to take place that evening between the Traverse City Trojans and another rival high school’s football team. I knew that I was good enough to play for our Trojans but church rules prohibited my participation in organized sports of any kind, except those organized specifically for our church members. Even though I could not play football I desperately wanted to watch the game. The glory of the Friday night lights was in my blood. I knew I was good enough to play because I could dominate the field in flag football during my physical education class at school. Of course the jocks who made up the Trojan football team did not participate with the gym class flag football games. Instead of playing with the gym class they lifted weights during physical education class. Sometimes the football players would gather at the field to watch our flag football game. They would laugh at our mistakes and make fun of me as I tore up and down the field scoring touchdowns almost at will. I didn’t hold anything against the players in my class for poking fun at me. I just wanted to watch the boys play football on Friday night.

I was a straight A student who seldom had to crack a book to maintain my grades. But I kept that my little secret. I would come home from school with an arm load of books. On a Friday night I’d plop the books down on the supper table right next to my plate so that my mother could see them. During supper I’d let it slip that I had a big project that I needed to work on at the library. Then, soon after supper, I would pack up a bag of books and walk out the door letting everyone in the family know that I’d be at the library working on my studies. With that, I’d jump on my bike and peddle across town to Thirlby Field where the Trojans would be readying themselves to do battle.

My school was big and had about 800 kids in each grade. So it was not difficult to disappear and remain anonymous. I’d buy my football game ticket and slip inside the gate. Then I would find a safe place under the bleachers where I could look out between the wooden benches onto the football field to see the game without being seen by anyone who could report my presence. There I’d hang out in anonymity, except for the occasional teenage smoker or kids looking for a place to make out, and enjoy the luster and excitement of the game in secret. The fear of getting discovered by my family was not that great; I could deal with my family. But I was afraid of the discipline of the church. And I did not want to risk losing the sense of community that I felt with our church.

My disregard for our church rules was discovered on one particular occasion in the spring of my junior year. And the activity involved was much worse than a mere football game or even a basketball game. It was dancing. I’d come out of my shell a bit at school. I was terribly backward socially. I was very embarrassed of the way my family and fellow church members dressed in outfits that included plain clothes with bonnets for the women and girls. Yet the loving indoctrination of the church had convinced me that the clothes we wore were one way for our church to bear witness to outsiders of a loving God who was reaching out to save the world. I was able to bracket the embarrassment and self consciousness long enough to run for a junior class representative seat in the student government of our school. I won the seat in the student government and hoped that this would help me find a place of acceptance in my junior class of 800 kids.

Toward the end of our school year the student council planned a fund raiser. Part of the money raised would go to charity and the other part would be used to fund student council activities. The fund raiser was to be an all night dance. Of course there would be plenty of parental sponsors at the dance but I was really in the middle of an internal dilemma. Attending a dance would be a serious sin and if found out would put me in serious jeopardy with my church community. Not attending the student council sponsored dance would erase the little status I had managed to achieve in my position on the student council. After much internal deliberation I decided to risk attending the dance. That Friday evening, without giving my mother any explanation, I drove across town to the student center where the dance was to be held.

I did not have anyone that I could really call a friend in my grade at school. I’d found that friendships were quite often found and developed on the playing fields of sport and of course I could not do that. I’d made some close friends in my neighbor hood playing sand lot baseball or just hanging out on the street but none of those kids happened to be in my grade at school. The kids I did know in my grade tended to be the nerdy type who’s good grades didn’t do them any good on the social scene. But now I found myself at a high school dance; a place where awful things happen to socially backward, shy kids, who just want to find their place among peers. I made a few attempts to mingle but spent most of my time sitting in the darkness beside the flashing lights of the dance floor enjoying the hard steady beat of the rock music played by the disc jockey. Rock music was the one thing that I had come to depend on.

I listened to hard rock music a lot. Another activity banned by my church. I learned to love the music by listening to it with my head phones on in bed at night and it was the music that afforded me the little comfort that I was able to find sitting there alone most of the night by the dance floor. By 2:00 AM most of the high school kids had scattered to their homes. I began to recognize a few of the kids still hanging around as student council members sponsoring the dance. Much to my surprise one of the girls approached me and asked if I wanted to dance. I felt embarrassed and awkward but I couldn’t say no. Here I was at an all night dance at two o’clock in the morning and I couldn’t bring myself to say that I didn’t have a clue about how to dance. I don’t think I’d ever felt so out of place in my life. I found it difficult to even look at the girl. I tried to mimic the movements of the other boys that I’d watched on the dance floor. I clumsily flung my arms out to the side of my body trying desperately to hear the beat of the music. Finally the music stopped, the girl disappeared and I was able to get back to my chair where I could just sit and listen to the music again. I did feel very proud of myself though for having been on the dance floor. I pinched myself glad that God had not struck me dead on the spot for my sin.

The night was finally through, the dancing finished, and nothing left but the mess left behind by the high school kids. I helped with the clean-up of the facility along with the other student council members and then headed across town for home. It was 8:30 AM by the time I arrived at home. My mother was waiting for me on the back step and I’ll never forget the scared and disappointed look on her face. For all she knew I had spent the night in drunkenness and sexual debauchery. I couldn’t tell her the truth about the school sponsored function and my new duties as a member of the student council because of the dancing and the repercussions that would cause for us at church. And so I just met her disappointed look with the hard sullen look of a rebellious teen. With all the strength my mother could summon she made it clear that I would not be going to bed until all the Saturday chores were done. And with out another word she gave me a list of tasks that I needed to complete. It was her way of saying to me that work is important and that even if a person parties all night the work still needs to get done. And all the work did get done, by me. I cleaned up the yard; then my room and then I washed the dishes too; far more work than would have been required of me had I spent the night in bed where I belonged. When my chores were finished I went to bed.

I awoke mid afternoon and came down to sit in our living room. We Mennonites did not have a TV. We used the radio to get our news and of course the paper. I set about reading the Traverse City Record Eagle that was delivered to our home each afternoon. I gasped aloud as I flipped the paper open to the third page where the local news items covering topics relevant to Traverse City were reported on. There in the upper left corner of the page was a picture of me and that nice, considerate girl who also served on the student council fund raising committee. In the picture I had one hand flung clumsily up in the air over my head and the other flailing out to my left side as though I were grasping for something that was just out of reach. I looked away from the picture, trembling, wondering where I could hide the paper. Then knowing when I looked back at the picture that I could not hide all of the copies of it that were filling the news stands around Traverse City. On second look the boy did not appear all that clumsy. Actually the picture looked like some normal teenager who was dancing. Dancing; my mind filled with terror again as I read the caption. Brian Christner, the caption read, and went on to explain the details of our fund raiser. There it was, in bold letters, my name and face, my sin, in bold print for the entire world to see. I put the paper away and tried to think of something else not wanting to consider the eternal damage that I was doing to my life, to my God, to my family, and to my church community.

Later in the evening we had a visitor. I heard our pastor come in the front door from my upstairs room. My mother had let me know in advance that the pastor of our church was coming by for a visit. We didn’t even discuss the nature of his visit; we both knew why the pastor was calling on us. My dad, mom, and the pastor had already taken up positions in three corners of our living room when I came down the steps from my upstairs room. I took the easy chair nearest the door. I was 17 years old but I felt younger, like an 8 or 10 year old. I knew what I had done was wrong. But I could not admit my sin. There were so many sins that would need to be confessed if I decided to start confessing my sins now. And so I sat there in silence with that sullen look pasted firmly on my face that I had used against my mother just hours earlier. The pastor began to talk of his concerns for my life. His voice did not seem caring to me even though he was obviously very hurt. I could not feel the concern in his voice. But he used all the words he could find to convey his concerns about the condition of my life to me. If I continued to live my life in rebellion against the church, he said, my life would be ruined. I feared all of the things he said already and being reminded of them only made my fears worse.

I struggled to speak but couldn’t. I wanted to explain myself but couldn’t. The lecture had taken on the usual tense high pitched tone. I had experienced this tone before when it became clear to the pastor that I was not going to break down in tearful submission and confession before God and the Church. Suddenly I began to hear something in the distance. as the pastor continued on, with his talk, about my necessity to have the peace of God in my life. He said that only in finding the peace from God would I be truly free to live my life as it was meant to be lived. The sound that I was hearing was getting stronger now. It had the slow steady beat of a rock song. It was music, some that I’d heard at the dance the night before. I recognized it as a track off Boston’s self titled new album. I heard the music loud now, and clear. I had to hold my foot still to keep it from moving to the beat. When I spoke; out of my throat came the words to the Boston song I was hearing. “All I want,” I said, “Is to have my peace of mind.”

When I’d finished my 10 word speech, I was so proud of myself. But then a competing voice came through my subconscious, “Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft.” The pastor went on explaining and using the scriptures frantically trying to get me to see how that “peace of mind” was not the same as “peace of God”. I didn’t have to listen to him anymore though. I had found the courage to speak back to him and that was enough. Unfortunately for me, while our pastor had correctly diagnosed and helped my father some 5 years earlier, he had failed to help me, the rebellious teenage son of my father.

I awoke the next morning and prepared for Sunday morning at church. I pulled on my black pants that had been altered to remove the worldly bell bottom flare. While the straightened legged pants were such an embarrassment to me at school they were a badge of honor at church. We were different from the world, set apart in order to honor God. Then I put on my black suit jacket modified into what we called a plain coat that looked quite like the collar that a Catholic Priest would wear when performing his priestly duties. I looked in the mirror and smiled. I was quite proud of my plain, clean cut, appearance when I was ready for church. Normally when I dressed for church I would select socks that did not match; as a small way of allowing myself to be different, in secret, from the sameness in our congregation. But not this Sunday; I didn’t want to risk sticking out in any way.

I entered the church that morning with much apprehension. On Sunday mornings about 35 people attended our church. Sometimes we would have visitors from another Mennonite Church in our Conference. But there was no reason for my apprehension as the members of our church reached out to me in love as they always did. Things didn’t seem that much different, maybe most of them didn’t actually know that I’d been dancing just a couple of days ago. The women, in their white bonnets smiled their usual approval of me, and the men gave me the customary holy kiss. Even though I was quite revolted at having to kiss the male church members I was happy to do it this morning. I was still accepted by the church and I breathed a tremendous sigh of relief. But I knew that I was different. I had danced. Even though I hoped I’d never have to dance again I had done it once.

I awoke from my cold medicine induced dreaming as Lorilee pulled our van onto the campus streets at IWU. We found our way through the maze of campus buildings to Kem Hall where Melissa Mast, Lorilee’s niece, has a dorm room. After a few texts Melissa stuck her head out of the large new brick building and our girls hurried off to meet her. Many of buildings on Campus seemed brand new and with all the new snow piled around the campus made quite an impression on us.

Lorilee, Trey and I spent the evening with JC and Rosy. JC was not feeling well enough to go out for Pizza. Lorilee took Rosy out to do her shopping and they brought back two pizza’s with bread sticks from Pizza King. We enjoyed the evening immensely watching the Cardinals and the Steelers earn their places in the Super Bowl.

The next morning the three of us set off for the campus after Rosie had filled us with her breakfast of biscuits and gray. I had steeled myself for a full day of negative thoughts because of the Christian environment on campus. My cynicism normally raises its ugly head in the worst of ways when I feel trapped in such an environment. Chapel is a requirement for all students and since it was Martin Luther King Holiday we endured a stirring speech about civil rights and integration. Sitting there in an all white student body I waited for the cynicism to start rolling in, but the bad feelings didn’t seem overwhelming to me. Even though the thousands of students were careful to get there badges swiped so they could get credit for their mandatory attendance at the church service they did seem to want to be there. Later in the day they had a panel of administrators set up to field questions from visiting parents. One of the parents went right for the jugular and asked a VP if the chapel speech didn’t seem a bit out of place. I thought the administrator did a pretty good job of talking about the school’s failings concerning integration and what the school is currently doing with the hope that students of color will feel more at home at IWU. Also during the panel discussion another parent, obviously from the Wesleyan denomination, asked the administrators what they are doing to preserve the Wesleyan faith amid all the other faiths represented at the school. The administrator took the opportunity for a chance to break down walls created by denominations rather that focusing on the parent’s question. I came away thinking that if all the students and parents had the same spirit as the school’s administration then I would judge the school in a different light.

At almost every meeting the facilitator would speak about the fact that IWU is Christ centered. He or she would boldly say, “We make no apology for it, that our school puts Christ first.” But I could never really figure out what they meant by that. I suppose they would probably tell me that I can’t understand what they mean unless Christ is first in my life. I was not turned off by it though. The other parents and students seemed to understand what that meant or at least no one asked questions about it. They still talked about all the things that make a college experience great. Good food, good sports teams, excellent academic standards. I guess being Christ centered is different than it was thirty years ago when I was a teen.

I was still trying to figure out what it means to be Christ centered on the drive home with the kids. But of course they didn’t talk about that aspect of the school. They know that they need to find a way to get there ACT/SAT scores up in order to increase their chances for an academic scholarship. They know that they need to impress the IWU soccer coach if they want to get a sport scholarship.

What I want the most for our girls is the real feel of a calling in their life to a profession such as nursing, accounting or education. Things are different for my kids than they were for me. While my pastor knew exactly what the peace of God looks like in a teenager I didn’t get the feeling that the leaders at IWU have such a clear vision of what the peace of God looks like in their students. I sensed them holding their vision loosely enough that their school could be as good a place as any for my children to struggle.

I want to get better at separating my own experiences from those that my kids will have. Theirs will probably be as traumatic as mine but also a lot different. I heard one encouraging comment on the way home. One of the girls said that they want to visit Indiana University – Purdue University at Fort Wayne. They have a School of Education, School of Nursing, School of Business and a division II soccer team also. And so this morning I am researching that school anxious that the kids have the best information available to them to make their decision about where they will spend the next four years of their lives.