One of my favorite people of all time, the Rev. Bernard J. Haan, founding president of the college where I’ve taught for thirty years, was a remarkable man, one of those folks who could fill a room just be walking in.
A decade ago, when he was dying, my wife and I went to the hospital to see him. A book of mine had just come out, a book I’d dedicated to him, and I wanted to show him because I respected him greatly—in part, because he’d always respected me, even when a ton of folks didn’t. But that’s another story.
That day, he seemed almost cadaverous, his long face thin and gaunt; but when we came close to his bed, he looked up and recognized us, greeted us warmly.
His eyes blinked a bit when he looked up at the open book I held in front of him with my hands. I don’t know whether he could read the dedication or not, but I read them to him—“To B. J. Haan, who understands.”
“Oh, Jim,” he said, “that’s wonderful—that’s just wonderful.” Then his head fell back to the pillow a bit, as if simply to read was a strain. “You know,” he said, cutting a grin, “I’ll remember that as long as I live.”
And we laughed.
A thousand people have a thousand stories about B. J. Haan, but no one can tell that one but me.
It would be wrong to say that Haan never really sought power; he did. He had his causes, chief among them a college where I spent forty years of my life. But he never sought wider power than what he might use, lovingly, for causes he believed righteous. He was a mover and a shaker, but, chances are, very few people reading these words ever heard of him. He was a leader of his people, of whom there really weren’t very many.
It’s an odd phrase in this age—“his people.” But Haan himself used that phrase frequently in her sermons and his radio commentaries. “Our people have to talk about this,” he’d say about some theological flare up. “God’s people have to think about what the Sabbath means,” he’d say from the pulpit.
What B. J. meant by that phrase was a thin fraction of God’s people, the descendent generations of Dutch Calvinist immigrant stock in an area we call Siouxland—and members of a particular denomination, the Christian Reformed Church.
Today, that phrase is almost meaningless, even here, where he used it most effectively. No preacher in the county would use it. Today, in our multi-cultural world, that phrase, no matter how biblical, sounds inherently discriminatory because it reminds us all that some people aren’t “God’s people” or even “our people.”
When I hear lines from the Bible like God’s first line in Psalm 50, I hear Haan. “Gather to me my people,” it might read, or, even closer, “Gather our people together.” That’s the command.
It would be wrong to say that Haan never really sought power; he did. He had his causes, chief among them a college where I spent forty years of my life. But he never sought wider power than what he might use, lovingly, for causes he believed righteous. He was a mover and a shaker, but, chances are, very few people reading these words ever heard of him. He was a leader of his people, of whom there really weren’t very many.
It’s an odd phrase in this age—“his people.” But Haan himself used that phrase frequently in her sermons and his radio commentaries. “Our people have to talk about this,” he’d say about some theological flare up. “God’s people have to think about what the Sabbath means,” he’d say from the pulpit.
What B. J. meant by that phrase was a thin fraction of God’s people, the descendent generations of Dutch Calvinist immigrant stock in an area we call Siouxland—and members of a particular denomination, the Christian Reformed Church.
Today, that phrase is almost meaningless, even here, where he used it most effectively. No preacher in the county would use it. Today, in our multi-cultural world, that phrase, no matter how biblical, sounds inherently discriminatory because it reminds us all that some people aren’t “God’s people” or even “our people.”
When I hear lines from the Bible like God’s first line in Psalm 50, I hear Haan. “Gather to me my people,” it might read, or, even closer, “Gather our people together.” That’s the command.
It seems worth noting that the sermon about to be delivered isn’t going to be proclaimed in a seeker-sensitive worship experience. What God almighty is about to say isn’t aimed at unbelievers but disciples, “the consecrated ones,” which is not to say it isn’t meant to save souls. It is. Read on.
But I wonder if old B. J. is smiling right now at my saying what I just have, nodding his own consecrated head as energetically he might have years and years ago.
I’d like to think so.
1 comment:
One of the better conversations I had with my Dad was about Rev. Haan.
The nice picture of Haan on the book "History of Dordt" is misleading. The book contains much about Dordt, but little about Haan.
A dear uncle of mine has 3 sons and one daughter who became M.D.s. His oldest son was apparently the first graduate from Dordt to go to medical school.
Apparently Haan had a few instincts which were not subverted by Boasian anthropology(universalism). The above mentioned uncle got his ideas on anthropology at Monte Casino and its coverup. Haan's people appear to want to go the way of the passenger pigeon and the Texas long horn. "By their fruits they will be known." A lot of my friends seem to be jioning the Russian orthodox church.
thanks,
Jerry
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