I like stories. I particularly like stories that are true. Stories that are real. As a college president I am surrounded by stories. Each student is a story; a series of subjects and objects, nouns and verbs, active voice and passive voice. Each student’s life is a plot in process, a tale of undetermined outcome and proportion.
Each student’s story has many characters. The cast of each plot is somewhat predictable, moms and dads, brothers and sisters, folks back home who packed up hope and sent it off to college in the person of our hero.
Upon arrival at college new characters emerge. Friends, mentors, those who provide inspiration, those who provide challenges in the story’s plot, those who offer resolution.
As I watch these stories unfold, I have the privilege of being aware of unseen characters in these narratives. There are unseen heroes at NNU. There are people who have stepped forward and made generous gifts, gifts that make college possible.
I want to invite you to click on this link and listen to student stories. I expect great things from these young people telling their stories. But the things I expect of them, have been made possible by individuals whose gifts make probable what was thought improbable, make available what was out of reach, provide pages upon which the story of a life of possibility and promise can be written.
Listen to our student stories. Remember the generosity of unseen heroes.
Rather than write a journal entry, I thought I’d project a journal entry. Specifically a journalcast. Not too long ago I gave a speech; some would say a message. It was a speech about things that I consider to be at the heart of what I believe and at the heart of what I think the university I serve is to be.
The title of the address is, “In, Not Of”; in it I explore what it means to teach, learn and live in two worlds. My thoughts come from reflecting upon Jesus’ prayer in John, Chapter 17. I hope you have the time to watch and listen (it was presented at the NNU Baccalaureate). Thanks for listening and thinking about His call, His design for us.
From the Baccalaureate Ceremony, May 2009.
Have you ever experienced a zip line? This weekend, I had the opportunity to zip. I recommend it. Great fun, plus you get to dress up in the zip costume, complete with harness, helmet and the ever-important carabineer.
I tried to reduce the various elements of the zip into a few basic components. Here’s my list—Zip Liners—Decide, Prepare, Climb, Leap, Trust, Sail, Enjoy. At the risk of making too many cheesy connections, I think the elements of zip can be analogous to the leap we make when we leave home for college.
First, you have to choose to zip—you decide. This is a conscious decision, to do something you’re not accustomed to doing. You decide to take a chance, a calculated risk, that the experience will stretch you, test you. Next, you prepare. That’s right, prepare. I was ready to get zippy, but they wanted me to learn the basics, to understand the equipment, test it, rely on it. In a sense my zipologist helped me understand what to expect and how to cope with what lay ahead.
After that is was time to climb. You heard me right, climb. Why am I climbing, we’re already looking at 900 feet of cable stretched across a canyon? Well, according to the instructor, the higher up we begin the leap, the more speed we’ll achieve and the more fun we’ll have. Frankly, I hadn’t taken the climb into account. I’ve seen pictures of zip line installations where you walk onto this lovely ramp and zip. Take a look. This zip required a climb. Straight up, don’t look down, grab the pegs, one step at a time climb (see photo of me nestled in the pine limbs).
With the climb complete you reach a platform up in the tree (by the way, who builds these things?). Now the moment you came for—the leap. Funny word, leap. It’s a faith word isn’t it? It’s linked directly to the next zip-word—trust. You have to be willing to trust (the instructors, the equipment, the advice, the 900 feet of cable). If you can’t trust, in spite of what certain signals your brain is sending you, you can’t leap and zip. Will you muster up the courage, curiosity and hope you brought to the experience and step off the platform and leap into the experience?
I took the step into the air.
I was now sailing, suspended over a canyon, gaining speed and feeling as if I was flying. Sailing in a way only we zippys understand. Hopefully you have come to trust the components of the experience enough to enjoy the fact that you are sailing. You are doing something because of the choices, the preparation, the trust and courage that was necessary to zip. What fun! Can I zip some more? Assume the flying position? Zip backwards?
You can draw the lines of metaphor conclusion, from zip line to college leap. I think they’re real. The worthwhile things in life require a sense of adventure, a preferably well-credentialed guide, an element of trust in yourself and the place and people where you’ve chosen to attend college (or zip).
In the midst of all this, there’s the climb. Maybe high school was a climb. Maybe packing up and saying goodbye was the climb. Either way, that may be the hardest part. To reach the point where you’re ready to leap, you have to trust in all that’s been invested in you to this point and step off from what you know and trust that those who have gone before will now show you the way to sail.
If you’re coming my way, to NNU, I want you to know that we have been preparing for your arrival. We have studied and reflected and built and crafted; we have set up a wonderful experience for you. It involves hard work, preparation and the faith required for real adventure. We don’t know where all of this will lead for you, but we invite you to participate in the joy of learning to sail at altitudes and in places you have yet to soar. We can’t leap for you, or trust for you, but we wholeheartedly pledge to be alongside you to guide you, to put our hope and trust and faith in you. We want you to soar in ways beyond your imagining. And I believe that together, with you and with God, we will do just that.
I haven’t written in this journal for a couple of weeks. Been traveling. Traveling some more. Interesting places—Alaska, Montana, Orlando, Breckenridge and Washington, DC. In fact, I’m writing this on the flight from D.C. back to Boise.
Our nation’s capitol is an interesting place. I find justifiable pride and inspiration in the many people and places I encounter there. There, people past and present, have committed their lives to serve the greater good. There, places symbolizing the sacrifice and ideals that constitute the American story, populate the DC skyline. (Check out the iPhone photo of me in front of the capitol.)
D.C.’s architecture gives testament to our national values. Carved into the various buildings and displays are words and phrases Americans hold dear—justice, equality, under the law, liberty, freedom. Etched in stone, our belief in the gift of freedom. We list it as one of our inalienable rights. Our liberty.
This country, this democratic experiment in which we live, is an amalgam of the many choices we have the privilege of making as the result of our freedom. As free citizens we exercise choice and select our governmental leaders, our choice of vocation, our ability to own land, the friends we choose, the very lives we lead. Washington, D.C. exists to protect and provide our freedoms, to see to it that we have the right to make choices. Linger in the hallways of Congress long enough and you’ll hear someone advocating for their rights—their cause, their way, their view, their choice.
We have many choices in this country and that’s a very good thing.
But I’ve been thinking about all those choices, about people’s expressions of self and their rights. And I’ve come to the conclusion, that at the most fundamental level of being we have one choice. We are free to make that one choice. All other rights and choices pale in comparison and importance. Here it is.
We are free to choose God or to reject God. To seek God or to seek to be gods. All life hinges upon this one primary choice. This one God-given freedom.
He gifts us with choice and invites us to choose Him. By His design, what we choose, who we choose, shapes all of life. Choose Him and live in the context of life as He intends for it to be lived. Choose self, or things, and life is broken, we become victims of our own godless choice.
My trip to DC heightened my awareness of this fact—the free exercise of this fundamental choice. It also underscored the privilege I have to serve at Northwest Nazarene University—where an entire university has made a choice too!
We choose to see everything we do and are through the lens of one choice. We choose to be a Christ-centered university. We believe that the world in which we live is structured and ordered by God. Therefore, the subjects we study, the people who work here, the manner in which we design and devise our work, the way we treat and care for one another, all fall under the Lordship of Jesus Christ, the One we choose to follow.
Consequently, NNU is a thoroughly exciting place to be. Everyone who teaches and serves here has chosen to be at a place that makes all of its choices in the light of the God-choice. We don’t choose to be a place that seeks to invent reality out of our individual likes and dislikes, self-crafted belief systems and corporate opinions. We choose to seek and follow God, to be like His Son Jesus, enabled, through the presence of His Holy Spirit, to fulfill our God-designed destiny. This is who we are. This is who we choose to be.
The entire university is ordered in and around this one choice—to be His! I hope you are making this choice too. And for those of you who want to live within the way, the truth and the life that He intends for us to choose, come here. Join us. Choose to live in His way with us!
Sometimes the deepest insights are found in the simplest scenes. That was the case for me in recent weeks. My life lesson was learned in a corner of my backyard. We’re relatively new to this house, so we didn’t know our backyard is inhabited by two robins, male and female.
Over the course of the past six weeks we’ve watched life unfold.
Beginning Week One—the two birds begin gathering resources—many trips and much work, twigs and straw are gathered, a nest emerges.
Weeks Two, Three, Four—four blue eggs appear in the newly formed nest; then over three weeks they take turns, male and female are now mother and father, alternating shifts, luring away potential danger, roosting, warming.
Weeks Five, Six—life has happened. The planning, building, guarding and waiting are replaced by the constant shuttling of mom and dad bringing fresh food gathered from the spring lawn (see food photo).
End Week Six—no baby birds, an empty nest. Mom and dad robin, once again just female and male, perched in our yard, fending for themselves (see empty nest photo).
As I watched the birds care for their young, I witnessed subtle changes in their behavior after the eggs hatched. Initially they hovered. Provided warmth and protection to these bare, helpless bodies. Soon necks to the sky waiting for the next meal. Tufts of down were replaced by tiny feathers. Then the stretching began.
As the four chicks gained in size they took turns exercising. They’d trade places in the nest, come out to the edge, stretch their half-formed wings, peek over the edge, flap and cheep and then retreat to the hollow of the nest.
As the days progressed, I wondered when it would be time to leave. In fact I noticed that mom and dad robin spent less time around the nest. Part of that was practical; there wasn’t as much room now that their chicks had grown. But I think they stayed back to give them time and space to exercise, to reach, to look over the edge with wings outstretched.
I didn’t see them leave. I came home one day and they were gone. I’ve wondered what that scene was like. Did all four chicks fly away at once? Did some leave without coaxing? Did others need a push out of the nest? Did they need lessons in flight or did nature’s knowledge and their parent’s encouragement provide them the necessary faith to take that first leap, catch the wind and fly?
The lesson of my backyard, directs my mind and my prayers to moms and dads, sons and daughters. It’s uncanny how the rhythm of life for these birds and their young offspring is a compressed version of what’s going on in houses across the Northwest. All these years, preparing, caring, nurturing. Now it’s time for flight.
We casually call it “going to college”. But it’s so much more than that. Eager. Reluctant. Nudging. Expectant. All that effort and care—the preparing, the caring, the hovering, the testing, the years-long process of preparing them for flight. And now, it’s almost time. It’s a wonderful adventure, the flight to adulthood. Moms and dads have shared lessons of their flights, and now it’s their children’s turn.
A good number fly here, to NNU each fall. It’s a sight to behold. Some already soaring, others still stretching. We are poised to provide a place to land, to learn, to return in-between flights. I’ll see you all soon, and once again have the privilege of watching young people learn to fly!
I used to think that being a parent was like being an officer in the military. Children reporting for duty, commands to be given, orders to be followed, clean rooms ready for inspection. That was before my wife and I had children.
Now that I’m older, and occasionally wiser, I can reflect upon being a parent. This is what I know, being a parent is not like being a general in the military, it’s more like being a gardener in the field.
Have you ever held a seed in your hand and marveled at what, with the proper planting, watering, care, nutrients, weeding and protection, the seed might become? That is the mystery and privilege of parenting.
Parents don’t get to choose what sprouts and grows. Yet it is their duty and delight to foster the growth of those who’ve been entrusted to them.
The mystery of the garden, that is also the mystery of parenting, was brought home to me recently when I attended my son’s graduation from medical school—that’s him with me in the picture—I’m the proud one!
I marvel at that boy. What he’s become. I had no clue. And yet, there he is, blossoming, growing, flourishing. I was blessed to be a part of his growth, but it was not my doing. He made choices. He wrestled with options. He made friends, chose paths, chose a major (actually several majors). And here he is—my boy—the man.
The fact of the matter is, he was never mine. God entrusted him to his mother and me, but he was never ours, a thing to be possessed. He was placed in our care. We tended, nurtured, weeded, cultivated, but in the end it was him, with God’s creative gifts and graces, that brought about what he’s become.
I make this journal entry in the month of June because parents and children are sorting out what it means to graduate from high school and prepare to leave home. “Uprooted” is the first word that comes to mind. Maybe a better word is “transplanted”.
The point is Northwest Nazarene University wants to enter into covenant with you, parent and child. We stand ready to join you in the garden; for our hearts are committed to working in God’s vineyard. Jesus talked about abiding in the vine, pruning branches to bear more fruit, seeds dying in order to fulfill their destiny. We want to join with you in seeking to “grow up” into the full measure and stature of Jesus Christ.
I can’t wait for our new students to arrive! To meet parents who have labored in the field of their child’s life. To watch freshmen grow into seniors and beyond. To see the Hand of God in their lives, tending, nurturing, loving, pruning, growing. You are all in my prayers as the time to grow in a new field nears!