Kansas City College and Bible School: A Personal Memoir

Kansas City College and Bible School

A Personal Memoir

By J. Prescott Johnson
Class of 1943

Some time during the late nineteenth century a family named Milton left North Missouri and settled in southwestern Oregon. More precisely, the family settled in the valley of Evans Creek, which empties in the Rogue River at the site of the present city of that name. The family was evidently a part of the Independent Holiness Movement of North Missouri, in the latter decades of the nineteenth century. The group established a Church of God (Holiness), situating the little chapel on the east bank of Evans Creek, about one and a half miles north of the present city.
There were several children in the family, and as they matured and married they, with others outside the family, constituted a quite large church congregation.

My mother, Caroline Prescott Eaton, was sanctified wholly when a young lady, attending a Methodist holiness camp at Oskaloosa, Iowa. The minister who delivered the sermon at this time was George Asbury McLaughlin. My mother lived at this time in Ottumwa, Iowa. She had a beautiful voice, and regularly sang in the rescue mission in that city. As the youngest daughter of the family, she cared for her aging parents until their death. Some time after 1913, the year of her father’s death, she took the train to The Dallas, Oregon, to be with her sister Lizzie and her family.

In the spring of 1917, the opening of American participation in World War I, she met my father, John Edward Johnson. He was with Company K of the Oregon National Guard, which later became a regiment in the 42nd Division of the United States Army. He was with a small group of soldiers whose duty was to guard the railroad tunnels in the region, to forestall any sabotage. Aunt Lizzie had a contract to provide meals to the soldiers. My father became enamored by my mother, and while he was overseas in France corresponded with her. At the close of the war he came home on the USS President Grant and telegraphed her from the ship, that he was soon to be home. He and my mother were married in Salem, where she was employed by the chief justice of the State supreme court, on March 26, 1919.

At that time my father was not a Christian, but was soon converted to the Christian faith. My mother told me that he found a great joy in the faith and grew remarkably in grace. He was an extraordinary person, having a high sense of ethics. No one ever doubted his word.
In the early 1920s we lived in Grants Pass, Oregon, which is but a few miles south of Rogue River, Oregon. In some way, my parents were apprised of the Church of God (Holiness) in Rogue River, and the family began attending services there. We would often have dinner with some of the families in the congregation. My earliest recollection of the church is an occasion when my father gave the morning service. I’m not sure that I heard much of what he said, since I usually was listening, fascinated, to the swiftly running waters of the creek, just a few feet from where I sat by the window. But I do remember how proud I was of my father as he gave the sermon.

The time came when we located at Rogue River, on a small farm on the east bank of Evans Creek, about two and a half miles above the city. By this time, the church had been relocated in the city itself, where it now stands.
I do not remember any crisis time when I became a Christian. I do, however, remember my mother praying with me, and I rather imagine that on occasions such as this I felt the nearness of God. I was always, even when quite young, sensitive to religious concerns.

The critical time for me came during the annual camp meeting in the fall of 1933. And what a festive occasion the camp was. People came from all over the nation, and pitched their tents among the trees on the spacious grounds of the camp. A large tent was pitched on the church grounds, fresh straw was placed on the ground underneath the tent, and benches and chairs placed over the straw. Two large wood-burning cook stoves were set up. Nearby were two long tables set up for dining—breakfast, dinner, and supper. The season was the season for blackberries, which were always on the tables. And there were meats and vegetables from the farms of the congregation. Bro. Watkins was at the camp on at least one occasion. I recall his telling me, soon after I arrived in Kansas City, how impressed he was that there were no flies buzzing around the tables.
The main minister preaching in the camp was George H. Smith. At the close of an afternoon service, in which Bro. Smith gave a message on consecration and entire sanctification, I made my way to the altar and knelt to pray. My mother was helping with the cooking, in preparation of the evening meal. She heard the singing when the altar call was given. She asked one of the ladies, who had just returned from the tent, what was then occurring in the service. She was told that a small boy was at the altar. As if by some uncanny sense of intuition, she seemed to know who that small lad was, and, taking off her apron, made her way to the tent and knelt beside me, giving me the necessary and helpful instructions. Even after these many years, I recall the sense of spiritual completeness and peace. I felt that I was given a strength to seek and do the will of God.

In 1933 I was in the seventh grade. The years from that year to 1939, when I left Oregon to attend the Kansas City College and Bible School, were pleasant and formative years in my intellectual and spiritual development.
These were the years of the great depression. Franklin Roosevelt was in the early period of his first term, and even most republicans were happy for the change in national administration. In the farm area in which we lived, nobody had much money or possessed the refineries of the world’s goods. One very good result of this was the fact that nobody felt any disadvantage relative to others, or felt any social rejection. The community, including the church, was a close-knit group, individuals caring for and helping one another. So my grade school and high school experiences were always positive and constructive.
Our home on the farm, albeit primitive by today’s standards, was marked by a mutual love and consideration. We always had enough to eat and wear. The hills abounded with deer, grouse, and quail; the fields, with a pheasant; the streams, with trout, salmon, ducks, and geese. We yearly butchered and prepared beef and pork. And there were always plenty of fresh eggs. Fruit from our orchard, vegetables, berries, and grapes from our garden added much to our store of food. We always picked wild blackberries, and my mother canned what we did not eat at the time of picking.

As to fishing: I must recount this. Eric and I, with three or four other lads, decided to make spears and at night get on the fish-way of the dam and spear salmon. We were quite successful in this, and smoked the salmon. One night, however, we were having a successful fish-spearing episode, when all of a sudden a great beam of light was hurled upon us. Then sirens sounded piercingly. It was the state police. They jumped from their cars, supposing that they had at last apprehended the culprits. But it did them no good: we threw down our spears and took to the hills, from which, we had been previously informed, “cometh [our] help.” And it worked; the Bible proved to be true. We knew every way and byway in those hills, and the state police didn’t. They had no chance. All they got out of it was an abundance of fruitless exercise. Of course, in some respect, our fishing activity was illegal. In some context, we were not Indians, who by federal statute are accorded such rights. But there are other contexts. Although at that time we knew absolutely nothing of “the aesthetic sense,” we still had plenty of it (education doesn’t do it all) and in that context we really were Indians. So it was, after all, all right. That is why, finally, help did come from the hills.
The four children of our family rode the bus to and from school in Rogue River. We all got up early in the morning. Before breakfast my brother and I milked our three cows, separated the milk, fed skim milk (which now we have to buy and are supposed to drink for health reasons) to the hogs. The two girls gathered the eggs and helped with the breakfast. After breakfast we knelt and had prayer, each one praying in turn. My father always remarked, in his prayer, something about our having a reasonable use of our minds. I sometimes wondered if he were, in an oblique reference to me, giving thanks that I had what little intelligence I possessed. At 7:20, or thereabouts, we four children crossed the creek on a swinging bridge, to the west bank of the creek, to catch the bus. We took our lunches with us, although we had hot dishes, furnished by the school, to accompany our lunches. Brother Beck, who was the janitor of the school and a member of our church, let the boys, in the winter months, eat lunch in the basement, on top of the wood used to fuel the furnace. What a nice warm place!

My brother Eric, five years younger than I, were very close. We worked on the farm, ploughing, planting, and reaping. During the summer, we often swam in the creek, where we had built a dock at which our boat, which we built and called “The Bonhomme Richard,” thereby dignifying John Paul Jones’ legacy, was docked.

There is one incident that I cannot refrain from telling. We needed a barn for our livestock. My father, Eric, and I went up in the hills on the west back of Evans Creek, across from our farm, and felled a large amount of fir timber. We skinned the logs and hitched them to the team and, when we reached the creek, shoved them across to the other side. Once the frame was built, we went up in the hills on the east side and felled cedar trees, cutting them into blocks of about two feet. My father showed me how to use a froe; I spent several weeks during that summer splitting the blocks into cedar shakes and nailing them on the roof frame. Our daughter, Beth, made a needlepoint of the barn, and I have it on the wall of my study. It has received considerable attention at various art shows in which Beth has participated.
My years in high school were significant years. I did not go in for sports, having little interest in them, and having sufficient physical exercise on the farm. I did, however, once play in a certain football game. We were playing against Kirby. We were on the offensive, and, for some reason, near the opponent’s goal line. I was standing in the clear, very near the line. John Sexton threw me a hard pass, which knocked me backwards over Kirby’s line, with the result that I made a score for them. That ended my interest in football!

In addition to the usual courses of study, I worked on the school paper and participated in several school plays. One incident is noteworthy, at least for me. I was the son of the sheriff, this being again John Sexton. We were at a fair, at which a prize was given if the right number were guessed. The sheriff, blindfolded, was engaged in guessing, and I was hitting him on the back pocket with a billy club, so as to properly inform him as to the number in question. So far all seemed in order. However there was a scene in the play in which John was to fire a pistol. A drum was to beat a loud noise. Just before the play began, John showed a blank cartridge to Miss Perrine, the director of the play, and asked her if he could fire the pistol. She didn’t like that idea, so John put the shell in his back pocket. The time arrived when I was to hit him with the club, which I did. Then there was a loud explosion—I had detonated the cartridge. To make matters worse, John had earlier stuffed some papers in his pocket, and they caught on fire, sending up a column of smoke. How we ever got out of that situation, I don’t remember. Anyway, I got even with John for his knocking me over the Kirby goal line.

Unfortunately, at this time the Church of God (Holiness) had no young people’s organization. And there were few young people in the church. So we young people joined the youth of the Presbyterian church and participated with them in “Christian Endeavor.” There was quite a number in the group, and the services were always good. I can vividly recall the balmy summer Sunday evenings when a number of us would walk together to town and attend the services. We took turns in leading the programs. At the close of each program, we held hands with those beside us and sang together the lovely refrain “God be with you till we meet again.” After the service, we walked the two and a half miles home, often with the moon casting its warm glow over the hills into the beautiful valley.

I graduated from Rogue River High School in May of 1939. I gave the baccalaureate address on Sunday evening, 14 May. I had some humorous things to say, to enliven the occasion a bit, but I closed my address on a serious note, confessing my allegiance to the Christian calling by quoting the words of St. Paul:
but this one thing I do, forgetting those things that are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus (Phil. 3:13-14).

The commencement exercises were held on Thursday, 18 May, 1939. I had completed my high school years, and the days of carefree youth were swiftly drawing to a close.

A son of the original Milton family, Will Milton, had offered to pay my tuition at the Free Methodist college in Seattle, Washington. He died sometime during the late summer of 1939, and therefore this option had to be abandoned. Brother George Giewitz, the pastor of the Church of God (Holiness) in Rogue River, showed me the 1939-40 catalog of KCCBS, and suggested that, of all the Church colleges, this would be the one that I should consider. I decided upon this, and in late August took the bus to Kansas City.

I recall the time when Bro. Watkins gave some parting words to Jim, who was preparing to enter his uncle’s business school in Fargo, North Dakota. I was then living in the basement of the Watkins home, and overheard the instructions and advice then given to him, all of which he probably forgot five minutes after the close of the communication. Anyway, I contrasted Bro. Watkins’ words to my Father’s instructions he gave me before I left for Kansas City. Instead of an hortatory discourse, he informed me that there were two Kansas Cities, the first one I would reach being in Kansas, and the second, in Missouri. I should be sure not to get off the bus in Kansas, but wait until it reached Missouri. I suppose that it was needful advice, since I had never been away from home. I had twenty dollars in my pocket, to be used for expenses incurred during the trip. After I arrived in Kansas City, my Father said that he would send me another twenty dollars. The depression was still on in the country, and I have sometimes conjectured, humorously of course, that my Father wanted to be sure that, if I misplaced myself and got lost, twenty dollars should not be needlessly thrown away. To lose a son was one thing, but to lose money was another thing!
My father bought a ticket for me, and a kind lady in the Presbyterian church gave me her suitcase that she had brought with her years ago when she left Scotland for America. On the morning of August 24, a Thursday, the family took me to the bus stop just across the river on old U.S. 99, and I boarded the bus for Kansas City. It was a sad and lonely day for me, as I’m sure it was for the folks, when I broke abruptly from the lovely and familiar days with my family and turned my face toward an uncharted, unfamiliar future.

I arrived in Kansas City—and it was Missouri—in mid-afternoon of Saturday, the 26th of August. I called the residence of Bro. Watkins, which was also the phone number of the college (Linwood 5855), and asked him how to get to the church, which then was the location of the college. He told me to take an Indiana street car, get off at 27th and Askew and walk two blocks to 27th street. I had no more idea of what the Indiana car was than I had any idea of the detailed features of the moon. So I decided to walk out. But the day was so hot and the suitcase, and my trumpet that I had brought along, was so heavy, that I soon discarded that intention and went back to the bus station. I was too embarrassed to call Bro. Watkins again. So I called Mrs. Shaver, the Dean of the College. She told me to stay at the bus station, and she would have a car sent to pick me up. Pretty soon, here came none other than Tracy Justice, in his ‘39 Chevy, wheeling up riotously at the curb, opening the front door and telling me to jump in. What a relief! He then took me out to the Kellys, who had a large dairy farm on Blue Ridge. I recall standing in the back yard, looking to the West and wondering what the folks were now doing. Later that day Tracy took me into Kansas City, where I was put up in a house that was used as a boys dormitory. I met some of the students, among whom was Oather Perkins, who became a close friend of mine throughout College days. I did not sleep much that night, because of the extreme mid-west heat, about which my mother had told me as she remembered her days in Iowa. What a contrast with the cool, forest-laden breeze of Southwest Oregon! While the days would get hot there, the nights would cool off.
I must mention here the Kellys. Mr. and Mrs. Kelly were wonderful people, always loyal to and supportive of the Kansas City College and Bible School. Many of the students, both boys and girls, found needed employment at the dairy, and were thus able to pursue their work at the school. And the Kellys aided the work of the College in many other ways as well. Mrs. Kelly took an exceptional interest in the well-being of all the students, evincing, in fact, a tender motherly attitude and affection.
There is an incident that I should also mention here. A few days after I arrived in Kansas City, I was washing some of my clothes in the boys dormitory. At this time I first saw Mable Dougher¬ty. She and some other girls were there peeling apples. Little did we realize that we would later marry. Mable has told me that Mrs. Shaver had told the girls that a young man from Oregon was coming to the College. Some of the girls expressed much interest in this. When I showed up that day in the dormitory with my pack of clothes, I was barefoot and appeared to be much younger than eighteen years of age. I doubt that I made much of a favorable impression on the girls, insofar as eligibility was concerned.

The earliest KCCBS Bulletin now in my possession is the 1940-41 issue. Then, and presumably for the previous year, college tuition was “$15:00 a semester or $3.50 a month, if paid monthly.” And “In a boarding dormitory, unfurnished rooms may be secured at $8.00 a month, the cost to the individual student depending upon the number of students sharing the room.” Finally, “Board is $7.00 a month.”
The only problem in all this was, that neither Oather nor I had any money. So we located, about two blocks southwest of the church, an apartment building. We arranged to keep the furnace operating, in exchange for a place in the basement in which to stay. We procured some laths and cardboard, free of cost, and, using a hatchet that we bought, constructed an enclosure. Periodically, of course, it became saturated with dust when the coal bin was filled. We hung a broken piece of mirror on a pipe near the furnace, so that we could see to shave and comb our hair. For bathing purposes, we got a pail, which we filled with soap, and water drawn from the furnace. We then stood in the pail and bathed. Stepping out of the pail, and emptying the water down the floor drain, we drew clean water in the pail, held it over our heads and dumped the water over us, the “rinse cycle”. So we had an inexpensive abode, albeit rather primitive, to the amount of absolute monetary zero.
Now, this hatchet that we had procured, soon after became quite famous. Oather was at that time dating Ruth Dickson, whom he later married. At that time I had a profound disregard for women. My only thought was to keep body and soul together, at least at a minimum, study hard, and try to get an education. So I did not have any social life, which suited me fine. One Friday evening, Oather was with Ruth. I was, of course, alone in our basement habitat. As the evening wore on, I became aware that there was a riotous party in progress upstairs. I was afraid that the people were drunk, and that they might do me harm. When I went to bed later that evening, I put the hatchet by my side, in the event that I might need it suddenly. Some time later, while I was asleep, Oather came in, somewhat unconscious of everything and everybody save the memory of amor, and, having undressed somewhat, threw himself in bed, only to feel the piercing effect of a blade of cold steel. That brought him out of it!

There is one occurrence that will always stay in memory. On the evening of September 1, 1939, I was walking from the apartment to the church. It was a beautiful evening, made even more so by the glow of the street lamps. I soon heard a newsboy cry out the news that Germany had invaded Poland. The Second World war had begun.
The college curriculum was well-balanced between theological and liberal arts studies. That year I took theological courses in beginning theology (E. P. Ellyson: Doctrinal Studies), the Pentateuch, history of the holiness movement, and the church. The liberal arts courses were: history of the East, Latin I, English I, and international relations. This balance continued throughout my student days at the College.
Gene and Hertha Roy managed the boys dormitory, where we had our meals. I’m sure that Hertha worked very hard in preparing three meals a day, but she never complained and always manifested a wholesome and cheerful attitude. Gene’s wit always added a delightful charm to the association around the table. All of us grew very fond of them.
This I had forgotten, but was reminded of it years later when visiting with Gene and Hertha in Overland Park. A few days after I arrived in Kansas City, Gene asked me if I had written my parents, to let them know that I had arrived safely and was by now well-situated in my new surroundings. I told him that I had not, and he insisted that I do so. I wrote a card, and then asked him where I could mail it. He told me that I would see a box a little way up the street, with a sign that read “Mail,” where I could drop the letter. When I returned, I remarked to Gene, “Boy, they sure do have big mail boxes in Kansas City.” I did not know anything as to how cities were organized, as you will see in what follows. I had dropped the card in the mail slot of an apartment building!

Early on a Sunday in October of that year, I went with Gene Roy to Fort Scott, Kansas. He was scheduled to preach in both the morning and evening service and took me along for company. On that morning I first met a person who was to become one of the best friends I ever had and who was to be extremely helpful in my intellectual growth. He was Paul H. McGehee, who was the office editor of the Church Herald and Holiness Banner. He greeted me warmly and with evident affection. After I began writing arti¬cles for the paper, he would make corrections and tell me how to improve my writing. I learned much from his helpful suggestions. As the years rolled by, we became good friends. In later years, after we became separated, I kept a correspondence with him, and have retained his letters to me.
It was not long until Christmas-time made its appearance on the calendar. I rather imagine that Gene and Hertha did not want me to be lonesome during the Christmas break, when many students would be with their own families. In any event, Guy Hulet, Hertha’s brother, and his wife took me with them to spend Christmas at Guy’s family home in Bynumville, Missouri.
It was a clear, cold evening as we drove into his father’s farm, the sun just setting and radiating its brilliant hues in the West. We spent several days at the farm. I had never seen such breakfasts as were served there: steak, ham, eggs, potatoes, pancakes, along with coffee and toast. The weather soon changed and we had a big snow storm. The roads were closed for several days. We had to dig out from the farm to a main road, then pull the car to the road by a team of horses. We finally got back to Kansas City a day or two after classes had resumed.

Some time in the winter, I developed a very severe cold. Bro. Watkins became concerned about me. He decided that it was time for Oather and me to leave “the Cave,” as Plato would have put it. So we set up in the nice and dry basements of the Watkins residence. Oather remained with me during the remainder of the year, but thereafter I stayed there alone. When the school moved to Overland Park, I still spent considerable time there, mainly in connection with my duties as church janitor. I did various jobs around the house and church, in exchange for my lodging.
This is a good place to say something of the value atmosphere that characterized the school and church community. It was as any institution should be, but which now-a-days is so lacking in many places. The people in charge of the school had a caring concern for the well-being of the students. They did all they could, even with such limited resources, to make our experience in the school meaningful and pleasant. The church people were also extremely caring and watchful over the happiness of the students. It was quite evident that they enjoyed having the students in association with the church. I remember, even now, with fondness the many times, for example, the Maddox family brought Oather and me to their home, after the Sunday morning service, to have dinner with them. The social relations among the students were always those of sensitive consideration. There was never any conflict or antagonism among them. It was a community of true friends; even more, a true family.
The girls dormitory on 27th street was the scene of enjoyable gathering of students on Friday evenings. So I am told, and of which I am aware from old photographs. I never went to those occasions; in fact was probably not even aware of them. Here is the evidence:

Here is another picture of the dormitory:
Near the end of May of that College year, now 1940, Oather and I attended a revival meeting that was held in a nearby church of the Friends denomination. The evangelist and his wife were from Portland, Oregon, and were connected with Cascade College. These good people offered to take me to Portland on their return, which coincided with the close of the school year. I thus went with them to Portland. They were driving and pulling a house trailer. I slept in the car at night. After a few days, we arrived in Portland. I visited Cascade College and met some of the students and had a noon meal with them. I spent a few days with my father’s sister. I then took a bus home.
The summer was a pleasant one for me. It would be the last summer at home. Later in the summer, I went with Bro. and Sis. Giewitz to the camp at Porterville, California. There I met Paul K. Smith, who told me that he was coming to Kansas City in the Fall and would be teaching first year New Testament Greek. I told him that I would take the class.

Our family attended the 1940 camp in Rogue River. And this, too, would be the last camp I would attend there. Loren Askew and his family were at the camp. They invited me to ride with them to Fort Scott, which I did. I stayed a day or two with Paul and Maybelle McGehee, then took a bus to Kansas City. How different this time was than the previous year. I remember, as the bus approached the city, seeing the line of the Blue Ridge. I was so happy to be back, for now Kansas City and the College were my true home. I was beginning to find myself and my true destiny.

In the fall term of 1940-41, I took mainly theological courses, among which were advanced theology and homiletics, taught by Bro. Watkins. He met his classes during the early afternoon hours of the day. They were held in a large Sunday School room in the rear of the auditorium of the church. He came into the room with one or two books under his arm. He always sat in a chair, placed his books on a small table in front of him, and either opened the session with prayer or called on a student to give the prayer.
At the time, I did not know what it was called. But later I came to know that his method of teaching was the “Socratic” method—the method the ancient Socrates used, that of question and answer. Bro. Watkins would ask of a student a leading question. Then the dialogue between teacher and student would flow back and forth until the teacher had obtained from his student the response and understanding that he was seeking for the student. Of all the teachers under whom I was later to study, he was the only one who in this respect followed the footsteps of that great Hellenic teacher.

To the young preachers in his classes, he stressed the need for logic and argumentative power, but combined with emotional conviction and force—a combination that he himself exhibited in his ministry. With respect to his insistence on the need to respect reason and logic, I recall an amusing incident. In the class on homiletics—it was the fall term of the 1940-41 academic year—he was belaboring the point with an illustration, all-the-while waxing more “indignant.” Two people were arguing a point. Finally one of the disputants confessed, “You have proven your point, but I’m not going to believe it anyway.” “To make matters worse,” Bro. Watkins said, “they were preachers.” And then he went on: “And they were holiness preachers, too.” Being very youthful, filled with the directness and spontaneity characterizing people from the West, I blurted out: “We figured that.” I think everybody was taken aback. I probably had tread upon dangerous ground. But Bro. Watkins tipped back in his chair and roared with laughter. Never did his sense of humor fail him.
Another very significant course, beginning New Testament Greek, was taught by Paul. K. Smith. My study of the language opened my mind to the riches of the New Testament. I became utterly fascinated with the power and exactitude of the Greek language, with its ability to express the range of meanings that it so ably does. This was, in truth, one of the greatest intellectual stimulation that I had to date experi¬enced. I can date my interest in scholarship, my desire to pursue the life of scholarship, from this time of work in the Greek lan¬guage.
I was the only student in the class. The text we used was Machen’s New Testament Greek for Beginners, which I still have on my desk. Professor Smith and I would sit side by side on one of the pews in the church, and I would give him my translations of the exercises. Since I was the only student in the class, I had to do all of the exercises, not merely one or two that, in a large class, falls to a given student. So I really got a workout and therefore learned Greek. I still have the lessons, with Professor Smith’s jotting on them.

It was necessary for the students to gain some work to meet expenses. The girls did household work for $1:00 a day and bus fare. We boys worked in several types of day jobs. One such work was very exhausting. We arose around 4:00 A. M. and took a street car to a location where we were assigned our day’s work. This consisted in passing advertisement leaflets, placing them in the doorway of homes and apartments. We usually finished the day’s work at dusk. For this we received $1:40.
At the time I did this work, I was studying New Testament Greek. I made it a habit to bring my Greek lessons, which I had written out on paper, with me and spent the time while walking the city streets memorizing vocabulary, parsing nouns, and conjugating verbs.
Gene Roy had graduated from the College the previous year and was pastor of the church in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I hitchhiked to Tulsa and spent the Christmas vacation with him and his family. On new year’s day, January 1, 1941, I hitchhiked back to Kansas City. I mention this because this day is the first entry in my diary that I began to keep. I have kept a diary since then, with the exception of a few years when I was so busy working on my Ph. D. dissertation. Brother Watkins encouraged me to do this, in fact, almost insisted that I do this. He was correct: this is a very good thing to do. And, as will be evident, I will refer to these diaries from time to time in the sequel.
There is, at least for me, an interesting entry in my diary:
Thursday, March 28, 1941 6:30-11 Cloudy
Got up. Didn’t eat breakfast, but studied Greek instead. Finished the book at 9:15 this morning. Went to Greek class. Am going to read in John now, & was assigned the first few verses.

There is also another entry that may be of some interest to others, particularly to those who may be struggling with the cost of education.
Friday, May 16, 1941 6-11:40 Cooler
Got up. Ate. I can stay in the basement this summer & next winter. Balanced my books. Cost $189.45 for school this year.

One of the most significant events of the school was the revival meetings held in the church. The revival of April and May of 1941 was a noteworthy occasion. The evangelist was John Lakin Brasher.
In 2002 I got in touch with Dr. Brasher’s grandson, Lawrence Brasher, who had written a book about his grandfather, entitled The Sanctified South (University of Illinois Press). I wrote him a letter about my relationship with his grandfather, and insert it in the following:
From the desk of
J. Prescott Johnson
1040 East Third Avenue
Monmouth, Illinois 61462
309/734-3698
bengtas@dtnspeed.net
October 11, 2002
Dear Larry,

I was able to get a copy of your book, The Sanctified South, from a used book site. The book is, in fact, a new one, with jacket. I have finished reading it, and I enjoyed it very much.
As I mentioned earlier, Dr. Brasher held a revival in A. C. Watkins’ Church of God (Holiness), Kansas City, Mo., in the spring of 1941. At that time the Kansas City College and Bible School held classes in the church. I lived in the Watkins home, having a little room in the basement. I was the janitor of the church and did odd jobs around the home and church.
I met your grandfather at the train station on Saturday morning, April 26 and took him to Watkins’ home, where he stayed. In my diary I indicated the subjects, and in some instances, the texts, of his sermons. Many sermons were on the subject of holiness. The sermon on Tuesday evening, the 29th of April, was on the Kingdom. The Wednesday evening sermon was from 1 John 3, the subject: “The Sons of God.” The following evening, May 1, the subject was “Now—The Day of Salvation.” The May 2 sermon was on holiness. The Sunday evening, May 4, sermon was on the subject of quenching the Spirit. The Tuesday morning, May 6, sermon at chapel was from 1 Cor. 12. The evening sermon was a character sermon, on Joseph. After the service, I sold some books for him. The sermon on Wednesday evening, May 4, was from John 17. The following evening he preached on the rich young ruler. The Thursday evening, May 8, sermon was about the rich young ruler. After the service was over, I sold more of his books for him. Some of us went to Watkins’ home, at which time Dr. Brasher told stories.
Watkins held his classes in the early afternoons. On Friday, May 9, he was away and Dr. Brasher held his two classes. He lectured and answered our questions. The sermon that evening was on the subject, “The Signs of the Times.” There was “a hallelujah march.” The Saturday evening sermon was on a new heart and a stony heart. Sunday morning he preached the baccalaureate sermon, from Phil. 2:5, “Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus.” I wrote that it was “a great sermon.” Mable Dougherty, who later became my wife, was a member of the high school graduating class. Someone took the picture I sent you and gave it to her. That is why we have the picture. That evening he preached on holiness, and the altar was filled with seekers. I took him to the train station on Monday morning, May 12.

If you have a transcript, also sound recording, of one or two of these sermons and can send it to me, I would appreciate it. Also his stories. How I would love to hear his voice again. I will refund any cost. Have you thought about putting this on a CD or DVD?
I liked the way in which you presented your grandfather and his holiness work in terms of the balance of intelligence and emotion. My experience in the Church of God (Holiness), particularly relative to Watkins and his influence on my life, bear this out. You might log on to the Church of God (Holiness) website, www:\\cogh.net. I have an article on him. Also one on John P. Brooks, who was earlier a Methodist minister.

I enjoyed your remarks about Dr. Godbey. Watkins knew him, and also Carradine. Watkins told me several stories about Godbey. You may know them, but I mention one or two. When he thought he would need different weights of coats, he would put them on, one over the other, rather than packing them in his suitcase. There was the time he was traveling on the train. The assistant conductor asked him for his ticket. He gave the conductor his minister’s pass, but the conductor would not believe that such a person could be a minister. So he threw Godbey, bag and baggage, off the train. Some time later the main conductor noticed that Godbey’s seat was empty and asked the assistant where the passenger was. The assistant told him that he had thrown the imposter off. And the conductor told him that he had thrown off one of the most famous evangelists of the country. So they backed the train. Godbey was sitting on his suitcase beside the tracks. The conductor told him to get back on. But Godbey answered, in words something like this: “Nothing doing; you threw me off, you can put me back on.” So they had to lift him and his suitcase back on. He was away in the West when his wife died. A friend telegraphed the news to him. But Godbey felt that he could not leave the Lord’s work, and replied: “Put her away safely.”
Again, I thoroughly enjoyed the book. You did a fine job.

Cordially,

Here is Larry Brasher’s reply:
Birmgham-Southern College
Arkadelphia Road Division of Humanities
Birhmingam, Alabama 35254 Faculty of Religion
205 226-4860 National 1 800 523-5793

Dear Prescott,

Thank you for your wonderfully detailed letter about my grandfather’s revival in Kansas City and for the great stories of Dr. Godbey! It is great that you kept a diary. Also, thanks for you approval of my book.
I plan to send the original of your letter to the Duke manuscripts department to be included with my grandfather’s papers there. Such detailed eye-witness accounts of his ministry are now rare, and your letter is a window on his life.
As far as sound recordings—the best one is the cassette that accompanies my book from U. of Illinois Press. I think it is still available. One hour of sermon excerpts and one hour of story telling. I enclose an old order form, but I think the 800 number is still O. K. If you have trouble, let me know.

Sincerely,
Larry Brasher

Needless to say, I did get the cassette.

There were other great holiness evangelists who, over the years, visited the church and school. Andrew Johnson conducted a revival at Bro. Watkins’ church in January of 1941. On January 8, Bro. Cowen was at the church, for the purpose of scheduling Dr. Johnson for a revival meeting at Cowen’s church in Columbia, Missouri. Before the meeting began that evening, Bro. Cowen met with a number of the college boys, in the church basement. We sat around a warm stove and listened to Bro. Cowen talk. He was a great conversationalist, and could liven up an occasion with his many humorous stories. In my diary I wrote that Dr. Johnson spoke that evening on the subject, ten reasons why he believed the Bible. I also wrote: “He is a small, grey-headed man—uses big words and is a scholar.”

Charles Stalker held the 1941 fall revival in October of that year. His first sermons, Sunday, October 5, were from Acts 1:8, on the power of the Holy Spirit, and Mark 15:13-14, on the Crucifixion. His sermon at chapel, Wednesday, October 15, was on the subject, “Building on the Most Holy Faith.” I remarked that it was especially fine. But I was the most impressed by his evening sermon from 1 John 2 and 3; it was, I wrote, “about the best sermon I ever heard.”
Stalker was, without question, one of the greatest of preachers of his time. His sermons were delivered with unction and unmatched eloquence. Evidently he grew up as a farm boy. The story is that he was so lacking in adeptness that he couldn’t plow a straight furrow. He seemed not to have much promise; but that certainly changed under the empowerment of the Holy Spirit.

My association with the Watkins family was quite close, since I lived in the basement of their home. As I earlier indicated, I worked around the house and yard, in exchange for lodging. And I was the janitor of the church, for which I received a small salary. Eleanor, who at that time was a small girl, had her piano lessons on Monday afternoons, and I usually drove her to her teacher’s home. I waited in the car and studied while she was having her lesson. And there were times when I stayed with her while her parents were away. I quite regularly ate meals with them. I can distinctly remember how I used to stand in the kitchen, while Mrs. Watkins was preparing supper, and talk with her. She often bought clothes for me, which was an almost indispensable necessity, if I were to even look somewhat decent. Sunday evening after church was always an unforgettable occasion. We sat around the dining table and had hot chocolate and cake or pie. Mrs. Watkins was the owner of a pecan orchard in Miami, Oklahoma, and we often shelled pecans while we conversed. There were many times when we retired for the night well after midnight.
Brother Watkins knew some of the people at the Kansas city Light and Power and used his influence to get me a summer job in the mail room. I sorted mail and also drove a mail car from Kansas City to Overland Park each day. It was enjoyable work and earned money that I needed for the coming school year.
The nights were hot during the summer months. Brother Watkins and I took cots and placed them on the garage roof, which was flat, and slept in the outdoors. We talked about various subjects of mutual interest, always of an intellectual nature, before going to sleep. I’m sure that not many College students had such a friendly relation with a College president as did I in those days.

James Watkins and I decided to hitchhike to Oregon. Jim’s cousin drove us to the junction of U. S. 69 and 71 and around 9 o’clock in the morning of Monday, August 18, 1941, we started on our journey. We made it to Omaha, Nebraska and spent the night in a field just west of the city. We got as far as Lexington, Nebraska, the next day, spending the night in a box car by a flour mill. The next morning we had breakfast in a nearby café, spending five cents for a bowl of oatmeal. At 7:30 we caught a through ride to Los Angeles. Two cars were traveling together. Mr. Switzer was bringing his new car, a ’41 Chevrolet, back from Detroit, and a lady was driving a ’41 Oldsmobile to the west coast to meet her husband, who was in the service. I helped Mr. Switzer drive his car and James helped drive the other car. He was bigger than I, although younger (which didn’t count), so he arrogated unto himself the privilege of driving the better car in company with a woman. Although we were, intentionally, heading for the north¬west, we thought it the better part of wisdom to detour south in order to get west -a detour several hundred miles out of our way. We drove steadily and arrived in Los Angeles at 8 o’clock on Friday evening, August 21. I spent the night with Mr. Switzer. The next morning I went out to Glendale, where Jim was staying with his uncle. After we had lunch, Jim’s uncle took us outside the city and we started north to Oregon. Late that evening we boarded a box car, which, however, was part of a local train, with the result that we made only seventy miles during the night’s ride. The next day, Saturday, we got several rides. At Dunsmuir, California, a College boy picked us up and took us to Central Point. We arrived in Central Point at 3:30 Sunday morning, woke several people up in the process of locating our place, where I had never been, and finally, at 3:45, arrived home. I spent $2.50 getting from Kansas City to Los Angeles, and another $2.50 from Los Angeles to Central Point, a total of $5.00. Of course, Jim and I economized. We walked over the Missouri river on a railroad bridge, for example, to save a toll of five cents. Jim’s Dad later found out about this and gave me quite a lecture on safety, or the lack thereof.
I must tell this story. In those days, when hitchhiking was relatively safe, all the boys engaged in this mode of travel. One time Ed Rodman and Tracy Justice were hitchhiking, but having no luck in attracting the passing cars. One said to the other that it might be advisable to do something rather different, in order to attract attention. They had a little earlier got a watermelon from a nearby patch, and, having broken it into two parts, just finished eating it. So they placed the melon Rhines on the ground and stood on them on their heads! Needless to say, that attracted sufficient attention to enable them to get a ride.

Now, I recall that, soon after Jim and I returned from our Oregon trip, I saw a pretty, pert, red-haired Irish lass, walking in front of the church. I had, to be sure, seen she before, but this time there was a certain marked difference. This pretty one was Mable Dougherty. But it was several months before she and I would meet to talk.
There are some diary entrances that may be referred to at this point. On our return from Oregon, we made it without undue difficulty to Salt Lake City, Utah. The day before we arrived there, a hitchhiker had killed a person who offered him a ride. There was no way we could get a ride. At Ogden we tried to “jump” the back platform of a steam locomotive, but were chased out of the yard by the “bull,” as they were called. So Jim wired his father, who sent $25.00, which we used to obtain rides with a travel agency that arranged such rides. We made it to Denver in one day.
Friday, September 5, 1941 6:30-4:30
Got up & ate. Walked over to the Capitol. Got out of Denver by 10 for $3.50 plus $1.00 registra¬tion at bureau. Rode in 39 Plymouth. Jim drove a large part of the way. I slept quite a bit. Got to K.C. at 4. The man let us out at 12 & Broadway. Took street car home. Went to sleep. Am tired.
Saturday, September 6, 1941 8:30-12 Warm
Got up late. Ate breakfast with Watkins. Went to dorm & saw Ruth. Told her some about trip. Started cleaning church. At noon ate some melon with Mrs. W. Helped her clean house. Went back to church & cleaned some more. Then took street car down town & got Watkins’ car. Jim worked at Star & Watkins needed the car. Took the car & got it serviced. Ate dinner at house. Helped wash dishes. Went down town in car & brought Jim home from work. Finished cleaning the church. Took a bath & went to bed. They signed contract for campus. Bought 5 of Carradine’s books from Mrs. Armstrong through Watkins.
On the evening of Monday, September 8, I borrowed Mrs. Shaver’s car (the only “official” college car; all of the students constantly used it; I’m not sure that she could even drive a car) and drove to Sears and Roebuck to buy some tools to be used in cleaning the campus buildings. Several students spent the next day cleaning the rooms and preparing them for use and occupancy. By Friday, the 12th, most of the rooms in the dormitory were cleaned and the dining room floor waxed. On Tuesday, September 16, I used Bro. Watkins’ car and again went to Sears and Roebuck to get more tools. He and I then drove out to the campus, stopping at the Union Station to pick up Bro. Graef and Bro. Kimbrough, who had come to assist in getting things started. On that day the administration building was put in shape, and the moving van brought out the furniture from the Kansas City buildings. I moved to my room in the new dormitory the following day. The next day, Thursday, September 18, Bro. Graef appeared with a lawn mower he had just purchased, and assigned me the task of keeping the lawns in shape. The first classes at the new campus were held on Tuesday, September 23, 1941. It was a new beginning and, for many, including Bro. Watkins, a dream come true.
This is a diary entrance concerning a crucial moment in American history:
Thursday, September 11, 1941 7-11:30 Warm
Got up. Ate. Didn’t get to the campus ’till 11. Cleaned a bit & then ate. Worked ’till 5 & then went home. Ate dinner. Went to Y.P. business meeting at Ethyl Warden’s. [On this evening Roosevelt gave his fireside chat, in which he declared that we would shoot at sight German war vessels entering waters declared to be essential to our territorial defense. I recall Bro. Watkins saying, “this means that we will soon be at war with Germany.” How little did we realize that this was soon to come to pass; that our lives would be drastically changed; that some would even soon lose their lives.] Came home & went to bed. Sure am busy. Don’t have time for anything it seems.

My courses for the first semester of the 1941-42 academic year, the first year at the new campus, were: The church, appreciation of literature, psychology of preaching, lesser epistles, sociology, Greek II, and orchestra and chorus. For the second semester: The church, the doctrine of holiness, Greek II, and conducting and chorus.

At this time there was an addition to the faculty of a professor of music, who added a new and significant element to the curriculum and to the life of the college and the Kansas City church, and who became much beloved by the students. He was Shirley E. Carter. He directed the choral music, and also the various smaller choral groups. In addition, he conducted a small orchestra and gave private voice lessons. He had a great vision for the college. I remember one time, when he and I stood among the great trees just north of the buildings, how he said that one day he would, in the space among the trees, direct a great choir in a performance of Handel’s Messiah.
But here we come to a complexity of unusual, and even unorthodox, import. It involves the Greek II course in which I “enrolled.” By my work the previous year in New Testament Greek, I became incurably intoxicated with Greek. A few of the students with whom I was close also became somewhat interested in the elixir whose potency seemed quite mysterious to them. And I wanted to study classical, Attic, Greek. The main problem in all this, however, was, that there was no Greek teacher around the place.
Thursday, October 16, 1941 7-11:30 Cold
Ate. Washed dishes. Cleaned my room. Studied some. Went to Appreci¬a¬tion at 9:20. Went to chapel. Bro. Stalker can sure preach. Had mixed chorus. Went to Sociology & Epistles. Went to the nursery to see if could get a job. Have no Greek teacher & some others want it, so we had a mtg. & decided to have class. No credit in it. Oather, Ruth Y. & Mable D. are in it so far. Ate dinner. Went to church with Floyd Rogers. Had good service, but I was so sleepy I didn’t enjoy it so much. Came home & went to bed.

I’m not sure just what ensued. Mrs. Shaver may have heard about it and contacted me, or I may have gone to her about the matter. Anyway, I do know that I suggested to her that, since anybody who teaches something certainly learns it, would it not be permissible to receive credit for the work, and for the others likewise to receive credit. I do not know how this set with her. But what finally happened was, that it was arranged that Harry Davis was to be listed as the teacher and supervise the course as needed. However, the only thing that he ever did was to look over my examinations I made. The upshot was, then, that I began teaching a course in which I received credit.
Now, this whole thing, as academically illegitimate as it was, was not an insignificant farce. During the year, we worked through John Williams White’s classic text, The First Greek Book. The reading in each lesson is from the Anabasis of Xenophon, the historian who recorded Alexander the Great’s conquest of Persia. After we finished White’s text, we read through two or three chapters of Xenophon.

But another complication soon ensued. Everybody except Mable, at one time or another, abandoned ship. So that left just us two: student-teacher and student. That did it. A beautiful countenance is one thing; but the beauty of Greek is another. The die was cast. I finally married her! I’m quite confident that we were the first such couple studying Xenophon since soon after the days of the master historian himself.
The final examination that I gave Mable was extremely difficult. I showed it to Harry before I gave it, and he admitted that it was quite an examination. But Mable passed it with flying colors. It is probably a good thing that I did not have to take it, or I may have been forced to flunk myself! And that would have certainly added a further complexity to the situation. I think that I gave Mable an A. Either I or Harry gave me a B. O, well, you can’t win ‘em all!
Now, this whole affair finally created a great deal of comment and pleasant humor. Mable and I were married after the close of the 1942-43 academic year. One afternoon we were sitting together in the tent during the business meeting of the Young People’s Society. Evidently the straw on the floor caused Mable to emit a rather distinctive form of sneezing. No one paid any attention to it, except Brother Cowen, whose humor immediately bubbled up uncontrollably. He forthright spoke out, in a manner quite stentorian, “She even sneezes in Greek!” That brought the business meeting to a halt for some time.

Now, should the present College authorities be fearful that at some future time accrediting agencies might discover that long standing curricular irregularity and legislate against the interests of the College, their fears can be put to rest. For that anomaly has been elevated to the plane of academic respectability. The course was accredited when I received the A. B. degree from what is now Pittsburg State University, notwithstanding the fact that Greek has never been taught there. The same is true of the course in Hebrew.

I took work at Northwestern University during the summer of 1951. German and French were then the two languages required of doctoral candidates. I decided to substitute Greek for French. Before I arrived in Evanston that summer, I wrote to Dr. Dorjohn, who was then chairman of the Classics Department, that I would like to take the Greek examination sometime during that summer session. He wrote back that I should contact him when I arrived for the summer’s work. I had to get a petition, signed by the acting chairman of the philosophy department, to make that substitution. I think he thought that I was insane, because he answered my request by remarking, “Yes, I’ll sign your petition, so you can flunk the exam.” Then the day arrived for the examination. I walked into Dr. Dorjohn’s office. He greeted me in a very pleasant manner. I was not permitted to use a Greek-English lexicon. He gave me a passage in Attic Greek, then told me that he would leave and be back in an hour, the time allotted for the examination. I looked up, and there on several shelves were all the materials that anyone could desire as a help in translating Greek. I have often wondered if Dr. Dorjohn was so happy finally to have someone who wanted to use Greek as a doctoral language that he was not averse to one’s availing himself of assistance. In any event, I did not take recourse to any books, and had no trouble in translating the passage. At the close of the examination, Dr. Dorjohn talked with me for quite some time and said something to the effect that he was happy to see a serious student who appeared to have worthwhile academic goals. So the older course irregularity was now given a new dignity, this time at the doctoral level. That says something, in my books, about the contribution that a small, struggling college can make in someone’s intellectual life, even if it does so in an unorthodox manner.
There occurred, the exact time I do not know, what may very well be termed a dramatic event of Wagnerian proportions. In Wagner’s opera “The Ring of the Nibelungen,” the Icelandic princess Brunhilde defied Odin and was imprisoned within a ring of fire in a cave in the earth, awaiting rescue by Siegfried, who braved the fire and broke her charmed sleep. There are, however, some striking differences between the two events.
Now, this latter Wagnerian event implicated me quite directly, although I do not remember it. That is incorrect; I never even knew about it in the first place. It was only after half a century had elapsed that I was apprised of the event.
A few years ago Mable and I met Oather and Ruth Perkinson at a very lovely bread and breakfast home, situated overlooking the Mississippi River a few miles south of Nauvoo, Illinois. We had a pleasant dinner at the historic Hotel Nauvoo, then visited that evening in the home until late in the evening. The next morning, while we were eating breakfast, he told the following story, much to the amusement of the other guests who were there, and much more to my astonishment.
He began by stating that, in those early student days, I was not yet quite a normal human being. I avoided all forms of social life, spending my days and evenings, usually far into the night, with my books.
At that time I lived by myself on the second floor of the dormitory, which was the men’s floor. My room was the southeast corner room. The furnishings were spare, a metal bed and desk and a small table and chair. The floor was bare concrete.

One evening, quite late, some of the boys, Oather with them, came into my room and found me fast asleep on the bed. I suppose I had studied all day and late into the evening, and was pretty well worn out. They evidently were attempting some kind of procedure that would “jar” me into a more normal mode of existence, the sort of change from imprisonment for which Brunhilde, albeit fast asleep, was awaiting. So they moved the bed into the middle of the room. As Oather put it that morning, they “lifted and moved the bed, with the ‘corpse’ lying on it.” So far no results. They had a bottle of wood alcohol with them. They emptied the contents, so as to create a ring around the bed, and set the alcohol on fire. Still no results. Unlike Brunhilde, I never woke up!
Late in September I was elected president of the student body for the following year. The executive council at that time made some minor modifications in the constitution.
An interesting diary entrance of October 27, 1941: David Mauck and I drove downtown to purchase a set of Clarke’s Commentaries for the college. We were unable to do so, however, because I was unable to cash a check given to me by Bro. Watkins for that purpose. It seems, therefore, that we were beginning to think of building a library. When the school was located in the Kansas City church, we used Bro. Watkins’ library in his study.
From the time that I first met Bro. Watkins, I was aware that he had a problem with his heart. He once told me that he thought it began because of his grief over the death of his first son, Aura Clay, Jr. In early November, Bro. Watkins held a revival meeting in Bro. Cowen’s church at Columbia, Missouri. I was delegated to be, as he termed it, a “guiding element” in his classes until he returned. Near the close of the revival, he suffered a quite severe heart attack. From that time on, he had to curtail his teaching activities. When the second semester of the academic year opened, a Rev. Britton took Bro. Watkins’ class in the doctrine of holiness. I was asked to take his class in beginning theology, which I did.

Late Sunday afternoon of December 7, I was busy dusting the church furniture, in preparation for the evening service. Bro. Watkins came in and gave me the news, which he had just heard on the radio, about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. His only comment was that we were now at war. An era in American history, and, indeed, in our own lives, was just ending and a new one was in the near-offing. It was a somber evening for all of us.
In those days daily chapel was held in the front, downstairs room of what was known as the college administration building, facing old U. S. highway 99. It was my turn that morning to lead chapel, and I spoke from those magnificent words of Hebrews 12:1-2:
Therefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us.
Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of God.

After chapel, a radio was brought into the room, and faculty and students listened to President Roosevelt’s address to the joint session of Congress, at which time he asked for a declaration of war existing between the United States and Japan.
For the Christmas holidays, I decided once again to visit Gene and Hertha Roy in Tulsa, Oklahoma. One afternoon I left Overland Park at 2:00 P.M. and arrived in Tulsa that evening at 7:15, via our tried and true method of travel, i.e., hitchhiking.

There was no sports program. Such a thing, of course, would have been impossible before the school moved to Overland Park. Besides, nobody, faculty and students alike, was interested in sports. Some small change occurred in connection with the new campus. There was a tennis court, and some tennis was played occasionally, by those who liked the game. Some volley ball was played. Even I, as uninterested in sports as I was, and still am, with money that someone gave to me, bought a ball bat and glove for the school. The date was May 8, 1942, which I give for the benefit of anybody who would like to know when the school began to acquire property for sports activities, albeit unorganized.
The following Sunday, May 10, I went to the Diamond community church, a few miles south of Fort Scott, Kansas, to preach. From then on, until my graduation, I continued this practice. I usually hitchhiked back and forth. After the school year closed, I moved there, living with Dick and Ida Mae Query, and their little daughter, Lois Ann, who, incidentally, came to call me “Pressy, the man with many books.”
In June of that year, I was elected supervisor of the devotional department of the newly-formed Young People’s Holiness League. I wrote weekly lesson outlines, many of them on the Church. Since I was living near Fort Scott, the location of the publishing house, I took my writings to Paul McGehee. He would read them with me and offer helpful suggestions. I learned much about writing from him, and for this owe him a debt of gratitude.
In August I went to Oregon to visit my family. This time I journeyed by train, and it was a much easier trip than that of the previous year, although more expensive. This was the last time I saw my mother.
My courses during the 1942-43 academic year, my senior year, were largely liberal arts courses. The course par excellence, however, was the course in Hebrew. It was a magnificent course, taught by the then Dean, Bro. Kimbrough.

Four of us students expressed a desire to study Hebrew. We had learned that Bro. Kimbrough had studied Hebrew at Meridian Male College. We asked him if he would be willing to conduct a class in the language. He readily consented. To anyone who has studied Hebrew and been away from it for several years it soon becomes evident that this is no light undertaking. In those college days he had used the two books, Elements of Hebrew (New York: Scribner’s, 1890) and Introductory Hebrew Method and Manual (New York: Scribner’s, 1892), by William Rainey Harper. They were the premier Hebrew texts of that era, and, I should judge, not surpassed by subsequent texts. Harper, who later became the first president of The University of Chicago, was Professor of Semitic Languages at Yale University. So Bro. Kimbrough went to The Kansas City Book Exchange at 800 Grand and bought four sets. That a college professor would get books for the students is now-a-days quite unimaginable, to say the least! But those were the days of “the old paths.”
Soon thereafter the class in Hebrew began. The class met, usually on Tuesday and Thursday, in one of the smaller rooms of the administration building. We students sat in a semicircle and Bro. Kimbrough sat facing us. He would go over the lessons with us, patiently and thoroughly. It was always evident that he had mastered the language. Two of the students, Homer Firestone and Donovan Scott, had to withdraw from college because of the war. I often studied the lessons very early in the morning. On occasion Omar Lee would study with me. We finished the course on Wednesday, May 12, 1943. I wrote in my diary: “Worked on Hebrew with Omar. Finished lesson 25, the last lesson. Went to my last Hebrew class. A great year’s work.”
During the first semester I taught beginning New Testament Greek and beginning theology. The fall revival was held by E. E. Shelhammer.
The first week of January, 1943, was a sad day for all of us at the school. Brother Watkins was forced, for reasons concerning his health, to discontinue his teaching. The college Board asked me to take his theology classes, which I did. So I assumed a quite heavy load for the remainder of the academic year.
During the month of February, Bro. Watkins visited my advanced theology classes, probably to assure himself that they were properly handled. One would think that I would have been “scared to death,” but my diary contains no such record, and, assuming that I’m still conscious, I think I’m still alive.

In April of that year, the senior class performed a play, open to the public, called “Ruth’s Romance of Redemption.” As I recall, it was well received. The Junior-Senior banquet was held on the evening of the 16th of the month, at a fine restaurant, where many of the school girls had employment, The Green Parrot Inn.

Now my final year was swiftly drawing to its close. Over several months that spring I wrote my senior thesis, “The Origin of the Church.” In early May, I gave the thesis to Mrs. Shaver, to be read and approved by her, and submitted it a few days later. I might mention here, that, during the time I studied with Bro. Watkins, I wrote detailed outlines of Brooks’ book, which we used in class, and several essays.
In early April of that year, Mable and I had decided to marry, soon after the close of the academic year. Of course, we informed our friends at the school about our decision. It came, however, as no surprise to them.
A day in May, Monday the 21st, dawned clear and cool. The decision was made to use the day as a cleanup day, in preparation for graduation and general camp. I worked during the forenoon and part of the afternoon. Around mid-afternoon Mable and I, with Omar and Geneve Lee, slipped away and spent the remainder of the afternoon at Swope Park, where we students often went for relaxation. We have a picture of Mable and me taken at that time. We are sitting on the grass together and a brilliant ray of light shines upon us. The picture has become a prize possession of our three children.
We had thought that we had slipped away from the campus unnoticed. But when we four came home we saw a table loaded with gifts from the young people of the church and school. As I write, nearly sixty two years later, my heart is touched at the thought of the beauty of the relations sustained by the association of the students, with their love and consideration for one another.

Commencement was June 9, 1943. It was held in the tent, which had been erected for that service and the camp. Bro. Cowen gave the address. I graduated with the A. B. in biblical literature. Following the ceremony, Mable and I were married by Bro. Cowen at the home of Leonard and Gladys Kelly.
This concludes this writing, which concerns my relations with the College during my student days. However, there are some items that related to the College that I wish to consider.
It can be problematic when moving from an unaccredited institution to an accredited one. It may of been more of a consideration in former years than it is now.
During the second semester of the 1944-45 academic year, while I was an instructor at the college, I took two courses in philosophy and one in history at the University of Kansas City. I wanted to have my work at the college accredited. I experienced no difficulty in this. I had earlier seen the Dean of the College and explained my situation. I asked him if I might be allowed to enrol at the university, and, on condition that my work was acceptable, have my work at the college accepted towards an accredited degree. I assured him that I was not asking for any special considerations. I won him over! He got out of his chair and came towards me and threw his arms around me.
I decided, however, to do my work at what is now Pittsburg State University. The university accepted 108 hours, which meant that it was not an onerous task to receive from them the A. B. degree in philosophy and psychology, and later the M. S. degree in the same field.

My work at Pittsburg was very profitable. My major professor was Charles Bertram Pyle, a Methodist minister. He had done work at Boston University and Harvard University, and studied under what is undoubtedly the greatest generation of philosophers in the history of American scholarship: Borden Parker Bowne, at Boston; and at Harvard, William James, Josiah Royce, George Santayana, and Hugo Münsterberg. I spent hours in his office after class talking with him. We became very good friends, and today I have many of his books in my library.
All was not as smooth, however, at Northwestern University. When I applied for doctoral work at that university, the chairman of the department strongly insisted that I be denied admission, solely on the grounds that I had attended a Bible College. But the rest of the department would not accept this, and pointed out that my subsequent work was of a high caliber and I had every right to be admitted, which I was.
My major professor at Northwestern, who told me this and much else besides after I had received my degree, was Eliseo Vivas, who during his career was the country’s outstanding scholar in value theory and aesthetics. We became very close friends.
It was otherwise with the chairman, whom, although now deceased, I shall not name. He was a popular undergraduate teacher, partly because he had an abundance of cute, trivial anecdotes and sayings. But he could not hold a graduate class, and graduate students avoided him as much as possible. So the department “elevated” him to the chairmanship.
His philosophical position was what is known as “logical positivism.” This school of philosophy teaches that the only reality is the space-time world, and that knowledge consists solely in observable sense facts and the concepts of scientific construction. All else is emotive nonsense. To this my own philosophical stance was, and is, diametrically opposed.

I wrote my dissertation while teaching at Bethany and Norman, Oklahoma. I waited until I had completed it before I sent it to Eliseo. He wrote that the department accepted its submission, although asked that I delete some repetition, which he did not identify. I attempted to do this on a few pages at the beginning of the dissertation, but gave it up. It would not do; it disrupted the flow of thought. I heard no more about this, which puzzled me, and in a few days received word to come up and defend the dissertation, which I did.
Now, in addition to the chairman’s long-standing animadversion toward me, another element entered the situation, of which Eliseo informed me at a subsequent time. Robert Browning (not the Robert Browning of English literature) was a prince of a gentlemen and probably the most erudite man I have known. At this time he, as well as the chairman, were associate professors. Browning had received an unsolicited offer from a large university in the South to come to that university as a full professor. But he declined the offer, presumably preferring Northwestern, at a lower rank, than a large mega-university were everybody creeps around in the fog of anonymity.
The chairman learned of the offer and contacted the university, with the result that he got the same offer of a full professorship. This he greatly desired. Yet he preferred to remain at Northwestern. So he came up with a plan that he thought would gain his end. He went to the office of the graduate dean, Moody Prior, and announced the glorious news that he had been offered a full professorship at this southern university. But the dean refused to take the bait. Instead, he rose from his chair, walked to his visitor, shook his hand, and said, “Congratulations, I hope you will be happy.” That pretty well ended the affair.
Now, Eliseo was very happy about this prospect of getting rid of Dr. Chairman, and took no pains of letting the good doctor know that. All of which did not do much for the latter’s moods, viewed positively. But there still remained some sort of a resort: Eliseo’s student was coming up for consideration as a Ph. D.
Eliseo had caught wind that something was going to turn up, although he didn’t know exactly what it was, and wrote me and tried to put me on my guard. But I was either too preoccupied or too dumb to catch on.

So the day arrived when, in my sublime innocency, I found my self facing my committee, or, more accurately perhaps, in no-man’s land between the lines of two opposing battle forces.
For a while certain questions were asked and certain responses made. I was comfortable and the affair was proceeding smoothly. Then Dr. Chairman decided to fire his salvo. He asked me to give a detailed, step by step, analysis of a certain philosophical book. It had nothing to do with my dissertation, and I had not read that particular book for several years. But I got through it, although not too well. But the chairman had got what he wanted. He was very caustic and rude, and said to me: “Well, Johnson, here you are asking us to give you a doctoral degree, and you don’t know as much philosophy as an undergraduate Freshman in my beginning philosophy class.” I sensed that the other members of the committee were embarrassed about what was occurring; they realized that it was unfair and uncalled for. I kept my poise, and responded by saying, as courteously I could, “That may be true, but I don’t have the type of mind that would enable me to remember the details of a document that I had not recently read.” That ended the matter, and the examination went on smoothly.
One member of my committee, Tyler Thompson, was on the faculty of Garrett Biblical Seminary, which is located on the Northwestern campus. He asked the best questions and we had pleasant discussion about them. At one question, a very significant one, I could not but laugh softly, for I said to him, “I knew that you would ask this question.” I sensed that Tyler, and the committee, save one, took this in good humor.
Then Dr. soon-to-depart Chairman, let fire again. But here I need to say something about the subject of my dissertation. It was in no sense friendly to logical positivism.

The upshot of my dissertation is value theism. In the earlier chapters I had critically examined certain prevailing theories as to the nature and status of value and the experience of value. In the final chapter I argued that the value ultimate and the existential ultimate are identical, that is, that God is and is value. As to the experience of ultimate value, I argued a two-pronged thesis. On the one hand, the experience of value is of the nature of inward appreciation and appropriation that carries an indubitable, self-certifying weight of validity, that is, the value experience is a-rational, beyond the range of scientific or logical determination. On the other hand, correlative to the numinous experience, we entertain, from the side of reason, the idea of God, and, when we analyze the formal character of that one, unique idea, it necessarily becomes evident that the reality designated by the idea necessarily exists as independent of its entertainment. And this adds, from the side of reason, a weight of validity to the numinous experience. But it cannot replace that experience. The apprehension of value is an inward experience.
Now, Dr. …… asked me this very question as to how the experience of value can bear up to a possible scepticism. His question did not ask for reasons to justify my approach, but rather it asked, as it were, for information as to what my approach was. It was as if he had never read my dissertation. I became thoroughly disgusted. I had had it with him. So I looked him squarely in the face and said, “Dr. ….. if you had understood what I said, you wouldn’t have asked that question.” The guns were silenced, and a gray darkness settled over the battlefield. Nobody said anything, though everybody looked a little stunned at my audacity. Eliseo, however, was chuckling and enjoying every minute of it; while he himself did not espouse value theism (although did agree with other aspects of my argument), that circumstance did not cause him to get stressed out.
I was asked to leave the room, while the great ones of the earth determined my fate. In about five minutes I was asked to return and was told that my dissertation and defense had been approved.

Eliseo later told me how he handled the vote. He first asked Tyler what he thought about the dissertation and the defense, and, so I was told, he said very complimentary things about it. Then Eliseo turned to Dr. …… to get his decision, and he gave in and voted affirmatively.
It turned out that I was never in peril, although neither Eliseo nor I knew this. When Eliseo took the dissertation to the graduate office and explained what had occurred, Dean Prior told him that in cases where a negative vote contrasts with an otherwise unanimous affirmative vote, he would disqualify such a negative vote.
Some years later I found out about this business of making changes in my dissertation, which had seemed to evaporate. Eliseo told Truman Metzel, who owned and operated the academic bookstore on Foster street, that the dissertation was just fine and needed no change, but, in Eliseo’s words, “We couldn’t let a d… graduate student get by with a thing like that.” In other words, the Department had to let me know who was running the show.

Now, to conclude this, I would like to encapsulate in concept, if I can, what I think Kansas City College and Bible School means in the lives of its students, as I understand this in the context of my own experience.
I wish to quote a passage from Sören Kierkegaard. Kierkegaard was a Danish philosopher who lived in the first half of the nineteenth century. A favorite expression of his was “the God-relationship.” Throughout his many works, he insisted that the experience of God is not procured by any method of science or any method of logical analysis and demonstration. Rather, it is an experience that is given, and given in the passionate affirmation of faith. The truth of Christianity cannot be certified by scientific or logical process. Its truth is subjective, realized in inward appropriation. And in thus believing in Jesus, in Him who was also a man in history, we find our “eternal happiness,” an happiness that reaches beyond our history into eternity. He tells a story:

The story is quite a simple one. . . . It was late in the day, evening was approaching. And the evening’s farewell to the day, and to him who has lived the day, is a speech of mysterious meanings. Its reminder is like the watchful mother’s admonition to her child, to come home betimes; but its invitation, even if the farewell is without guilt in being so misunderstood, is an inexplicable beckoning, as if rest could be found only by remaining for the tryst of the night, not with a woman, but feminingly with the infinite; persuaded by the night wind, when it monotonously repeats itself, when it breathes through forest and dale, sighing as if it sought for something; persuaded by the distant echo in one’s own soul of the night’s stillness, as if it had a premonition of something to come; persuaded by the lofty calm of the heavens above, as if this something had been found; persuaded by the audible soundlessness of the dew, as if this were the explanation and refreshment of the infinite, like the half-understood fruitfulness of the quiet night, like the semi-transparency of the night mist.

Student life is a young life. The exuberance of youth manifests itself in many and varied activities. Some are of a more serious nature, while others are more frivolous and even trivial. This may be evident in what has previously been written. Viewed from the perspective of an outside observer, the tenor appears to be much like that occurring elsewhere in present culture. But there is a view from an inside perspective. From that perspective, those activities take on a different hue. They must take on that different hue, if that young life be true to the genius of the school.
From beyond the heat of the day one must learn and find the night-meaning. In this meaning, when the day’s activity begins to fade in the night-mist, one can pause, one can rest, and place himself and what he does in a higher reference, in which he becomes renewed and reissued in an over-aching tendance of the soul toward the Infinite. What finally matters, is “the tryst with the infinite,” “the explanation and refreshment of the infinite.”