He was disappointed, he said, in the way I characterized a theological and philosophical slugfest that went on here in almost 40 years ago, a sometimes uncivil war that brought progressive forces into bloody conflict with the conservatives, just as the rest the world, it seems, went to war too over roughly similar issues. We'd just made it through the late Sixties, the Vietnam War was sort of over, and there needed to be some kind of reckoning for all the blood and brokenness. It was 1973, and things here at this small college came to a boil. Some profs left, some were asked to--and even though some students who were here at the time knew nothing about the conflagration around them, the place has never been the same.
I'd characterized the fighting just that way in an article that appeared in a national publication, an aside in a much longer essay, and one of those who, back then, left and never returned let me know, in a letter, that he was deeply disappointed with the lack of regard I gave his side.
I wasn't surprised. Those moments in 1973 had determined, after a fashion, the course of his life. I'm sure he's had many triumphs since, but that war sent him packing because he was among those who were its victims. The fighting was, by any measure, the most horrible moment in this college's nearly 60-year history.
I wasn't here. I know the outlines well, but I was nowhere near the clouds of dust and smoke. But his note was a stark reminder that some of those in the front lines back then are still bleeding, winners and losers. Almost 40 years later, those who carried the rifles haven't forgotten the battle.
I opened the letter at school, sat there at my desk, stunned, as if someone had sent me a saddle bag full of bloody bandages. I wanted to show someone, anyone, but it hit me in a moment that no one here really cared. That war, so passionately fought, is alive only in those who, sadly enough, can't forget. I could put the letter on a bulletin board in the middle of the busiest hallway in the college and no one would read it. I could publish it verbatim in the college newspaper and eyes would pass over it quickly. Very few would even recognize the name of the ex-prof--maybe one or two silver-haired colleagues, and my guess is they really wouldn't care. All that passion, all that carnage is forgotten. In many ways, it's not even history.
Last night the combined college choirs showcased the work of another ancient prof, one who would remember 1973, but a man who also has been long, long gone. To my ears, the music was magnificent, lovingly rendered by talented students and their own gifted director. Some few of those kids, perhaps, had parents who'd sung under the old master; but of the dozens and dozens on that stage for the performance, none knew the man like I did, or like the hundred or so other gray heads who'd come to honor him, having sung in his choirs.
The musician is just as gone as the old conservative, even though his music, last night, rang through the auditorium in triumph.
There's a difference: his music is speaks with a voice that's almost unending, a kind of sacrament. But both of them are long gone. An entire new generation of professors never heard of either of them. Their lives and times have passed into near oblivion. No buildings carry their names. Both gave their best, and even though both of them are still very much alive, here they're not even ghost-like. They're gone.
Sic transit gloria mundi--ashes to ashes. It's a theme so ancient, so universal, it comes in Latin and it's biblical.
I sat beside an ex-student last night at the concert. She has four kids. Life has changed for her. "You must be close to retirement," she said to me, smilingly.
I raised a finger. "One year."
I'm part of this story too, of course, but everything I've written here is not lament. All of this is being said with a smile because as one of the pieces rendered most beautifully last night, one of the most compelling Christian hymns of all times boldly insists, "It is well with my soul."
And it is. Really. As it is, I believe, for both of those ancient profs, now long gone.
And for all of that, this morning, I'm deeply, deeply thankful.
7 comments:
"All that passion, all that carnage is forgotten. In many ways, it's not even history."
What might be the most sad about this comment is that few seem to have any passion about the issues over which the battles raged the way they did in '73.
Maybe that's because we look back with dread at the way those battles (and others like it) can produce injuries so deep that they are not forgotten nearly forty years on. If so, we've learned the wrong lesson--it shouldn't be "don't be so passionate and stop battling"; rather, it should be "be passionate in a way that respects your opponent's humanity, no matter how wrong they may be."
And given what's going on here in your native state, that's a lesson that needs teaching all around.
Mike Vanden Bosch does what I think is a nice job of discussing the fight at Dordt in his book, A History of Dordt College, though his take was critized as being dismissive by some prominent reviewers of his book. I was at Dordt in the late 80's and early 90's and it took me to read this book after my graduation before I even got a wiff of the trouble that existed at the college years earlier. Sure, it was the Vietnam War coming to an end and it was the effect of the 60s, but it was also a certain brand of (Dutch) reformed philosophy making its way over to Iowa from......Canada! Yeah baby!
Having been there, becoming part of that event’s history I can only agree with the saying: "lessons learned should not be forgotten."
One lesson I learned from the episode is we often take ourselves (and consequently that which we think is so important) too seriously.
Perhaps in the future there will be those who stumble on this event not unlike those who stumble on Blood Run just up the road from Dordt and ask the question- "what happened here?" Only to feel and hear the wind blowing silently allowing only lost memories to recall what happened; or what was really so important.
However, like that ancient site...it was real.
Chuck, you're right, and I too miss at least something of the old passions. One would be hard pressed to beg a fight these days, although our colleagues at Calvin seem not to have that problem. But how we fight is no small matter, and I'll have you know that I keep a close eye on the Badgers over there.
Anonymous--You're absolutely right, of course. I was here in the late 60's (a '70 grand), and I remember the way those neo-Kuyperians brought a new delight to all our studies, something so far beyond the old pieties. Much of that, like our wind, came from the north!
Dutchoven--I actually thought of going downstairs and knocking on the door of one of the new history profs and telling him that the time might just be right for a new appraisal. After all, some of the vets are still around to tell the tale. And, of course, Blood Run is a wonder and a gift.
For those of us in Navajo land, what is "Blood Run" about, and how is it similar to the anger at Dort years ago? Whose blood ran?
Those of you in Navajo land would love Blood Run. Check it out here: http://www.iowahistory.org/historic-sites/blood-run/index.html
The reference, if I'm interpreting it right, takes great joy at the fact that some people have been discovering the immense richness of the spot after so many years of white landowners who simply plowed over the burial mounds. Blood Run is its own kind of gold mine--a real one. And it's right up the road from here. . .
Amen.
History is "your-story," no matter how you cover it up- or plow it under; and even more wonderfully...it is "our-story" as layers are peeled away.
Embrace the past, learn from the past, in some cases morn the past; but most importantly journey forward from the past with the confidence of lesson's learned..."grace"fully.
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