By George

I’m teaching the Gospel of John at Liberty Theological Seminary this summer. It’s an advanced New Testament elective in the master’s program, so I’m reading and grading lots of research papers. And that’s made me think of George. Nearly every paper I read quotes him at length, and well they should! Not only is his commentary on the Gospel of John a fine piece of New Testament scholarship, but George was one of the seminal influences on my own life and career. I speak of George Raymond Beasley-Murray.

I still recall the day when I was talking with another George who was influential in my life – George Balentine – about where I should go to seminary. George was the dean at Palm Beach Atlantic University and my New Testament Greek professor, mentor, and friend. George said: “Well Wayne, if it were I, I’d go to Southern (he meant The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, KY).” Then, holding up a copy of Beasley-Murray’s Baptism in the New Testament, he said: “They just landed George R. Beasley-Murray on the faculty there, and that makes them the best!” I read Baptism and was convinced. It was the most carefully crafted, brilliantly written New Testament scholarship on baptism I had ever read. I had to study with George.

When I arrived at Southern, the first class I took was a New Testament Greek exegesis class with George. I was in awe of him – his brilliance, his capacity to read and remember everything he read, and above all, his wonderful British accent. Even though he lived in the US for a score of years, he never lost his marvelous accent. Indeed, it seemed to grow more “pronounced” with the years. He told me one time that he had preached at a rural church in western Kentucky, and when he finished, a woman came up to him and said: ‘Dr. Beasley-Murray, I didn’t understand a thing you said, but I just loved the way you said it!’” He was such a joy just to listen to that I even forgave him his horrid Greek pronunciation! He insisted on pronouncing parousia (Greek for “coming” as in the Second Coming of Christ), “par-OW-sia.”

Years later, when I had finished my PhD and was teaching on the faculty of Midwestern Seminary, I chaired a committee that planned and scheduled lectureships for the faculty and students. I scheduled George. He and Ruth flew to Kansas City where George delivered a series of lectures around his new book which I was using as the text for a course I was teaching, The Kingdom of God in the Teaching of Jesus. Typically, he was stunning. Both faculty and students were enthralled. We took him to a rodeo while he was in Kansas City. He said he’d never been to a rodeo. After the rodeo, he said: “Everyone should go to a rodeo…once.” He was finishing work while he was with us on his new commentary on the Gospel of John for Word Publishing. He asked me read parts of the manuscript for him and give him my opinion. I said: “It’s typical Beasley-Murray – succinct yet thorough, honest yet gracious, rigorously academic yet unfailingly Christian.” He quipped: “Yes, yes, but will you buy it?”

Cheryl and I drove George and Ruth to the airport following his lectures. It was a difficult time at the seminary. Baptists were going through another of their patented and infamous “Baptist battles,” and the seminaries were in the thick of it. I was conflicted in that I was thoroughly committed to what I call “thoughtful belief.” That is, I was unapologetically committed to Christian orthodoxy, yet at the same time I was equally committed to the best, and most rigorous, scholarship at my disposal confident that Truth had nothing to fear from questions. Practically speaking, that meant that I was comfortable in neither of the two political “camps” vying for denominational control at the time (as I’ve said elsewhere, I don’t do “group think” no matter what group is doing the thinking). George and I talked about that a lot on the way to the airport. I knew he understood because the kind of scholarly commitments I was articulating described him as well. When we arrived at the airport, George looked at me and said something I’ve never forgotten. He said: “You know, Wayne, there’s all the difference in the world between believing that the Bible merely contains the Word of God and believing that the Bible is the Word of God.” Then he added, “If you believe that the Bible just contains the Word of God, then you’re free to pick and choose what parts of the Bible you wish to accept and follow as authoritative. But if you believe that the Bible is the Word of God, then I’m afraid it’s a whole different matter, isn’t it. Then you must accept the Bible both when you like what it says and when you don’t.” Then, poignantly, he added: “Of course, there’s a price to pay for either one you choose.”

I would pay that price some years later. I had gone to be pastor of the First Baptist Church of Raleigh. The church was clearly on one side of the Baptist battle. While there, I learned that George had come to Southeastern Seminary in Wake Forest to teach as a Visiting Professor for his dear friend Louis Drummond who was president of the seminary at the time. However, because Drummond was regarded (fairly or unfairly) as a political pawn of one of the denominational factions, George’s presence on the campus was problematic to many in that he appeared to be lending support to one side of the battle over the other. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. George went there because Drummond was his friend and had invited him to teach. And, of course, anyone who knew George knew that he taught exactly the same things at Southeastern he had taught at Southern a decade before. I thought several times how wonderful it would be to invite George to preach or teach for me at First Baptist, but knowing where my church stood in the conflict, and not wishing to alienate anyone, I let it slide. I ran into George in Rex Hospital one day while I was there visiting someone in my church. George was there because he had slipped on an icy sidewalk and had broken his arm. We chatted for a while and then parted, awkwardly. Looking back on that now, I’m ashamed…and embarrassed…that I pandered to prejudice.

My last conversation with George took place some years later when I had gone to be dean of a Baptist divinity school. I was editing a theological journal on Paul’s Thessalonian Correspondences and I needed an article on Paul’s understanding of the parousia. Instantly, I thought of George, now retired and living in London. I called him, not knowing how sick he was; he didn’t say a word about his health. We chatted for a while, and he graciously declined my invitation. I said: “But George, you can write this article in your sleep!” He said: “Asleep or awake, Wayne, it must be written, mustn’t it.” A few months later, I learned that he had died.

The other day, a student of mine was working on the draft of her paper for my course, and researching resources, she had come across George’s Word Commentary on the Gospel of John. She asked: “Dr. Stacy, do you know the name George R. Beasley-Murray?”

Remembering the Fourth

The Fourth of July has special significance for me. Of course, I love the fireworks and the parades and the veterans in uniform, but the Fourth has a personal passion for me because my only son was nearly born on our nation's Bicentennial. Missed it just a few days, but right up until the end we thought he might be a Bicentennial baby.

I remember that Fourth like it was yesterday. It fell on Sunday that year, and being the Bicentennial of our nation's birth, the church I was pastoring at the time decided to move our services outdoors to a farm owned by one of our members, Albert Thormyer. Seemed like a good idea at the time. It was to be a great day of celebration with an old fashioned dinner on the grounds (literally!) and gospel singing and great preaching (mine, of course), and an afternoon of games and fun and food. The problem was, my wife was, in the biblical idiom, "great with child." The baby was already a month late, and Cheryl was uncomfortable to put it mildly. So, when I came home to tell her of the big Fourth of July celebration in the middle of a farm, in the middle of the summer, in the middle of the day, with no air conditioning, she just looked at me and said: "You are so dead!"

Well, when the Fourth came, I took Cheryl to the farm and parked her under THE shade tree with Margaret Harrell to look after her while I prepared to lead worship. They had placed a wagon near the front of the old farmhouse to serve as the "chancel" for our worship service. They put a piano and pulpit on it, and from there I led the service. When I got up to preach, I looked down at Cheryl and Margaret sitting under the tree. Margaret was fanning her trying to keep her from passing out in the heat. Margaret just looked up at me and mouthed the words, "You are so dead."

That was thirty-three years ago Saturday. We both survived, physically and matrimonially, and a few days later our only son was born – a Bicentennial baby…almost.

Years later, when I was teaching at Midwestern Seminary, Cheryl and I took a group of seminarians to the Windward Islands for a mission immersion course I was teaching. It was July; it was near the equator; the temperature and humidity were the same number (usually three of them!), most days. I convinced her to go with me by telling her it was going to be a Caribbean vacation. Sitting on the porch of the house where we were staying (a house with no air conditioning, of course), trying to capture what little breeze there was, Cheryl looked at me and said: "You know what today is?" I said, "Sure. It's the Fourth of July." She said: "You just never learn, do you."

God help me, I love the Fourth of July!

The church where I'm serving as Intentional Interim Pastor is having a picnic on the Fourth. Starts at 6:00 PM. Forecast calls for oppressive heat. (What genius figured that out?) If you can make it, we'd love to see you. Won't be hard to spot. Cheryl will be the one sitting under THE shade tree, fanning and muttering to herself: "He is so dead."

Me? I'll be sweating it out yet again on the Fourth of July...grateful just to be alive.

Miss Myrtle

Today is Miss Myrtle’s 101st birthday (she’s the one on the right). She was born June 24, 1908, during Roosevelt’s second term…that’s Teddy Roosevelt. We honored her in church on Sunday, sang Happy Birthday to her. She still gets around under her own horsepower, though her hearing isn’t what it once was. Four of her five children were there to celebrate with her, including her twin boys, and, of course, a gaggle of grandchildren, great grandchildren, great, great grandchildren, and nieces and nephews too numerous to name.

Miss Myrtle is remarkable both for the quantity of her life and for its quality. Raising five kids to adulthood in those days was an accomplishment in and of itself, and in their own way, each one made her proud. She survived two world wars, the Great Depression, nineteen presidents, and the 60’s! Family and faith have been the foundation and framework of her life, and it shows…still. The church where I am currently serving as interim pastor is celebrating its centennial this year. Miss Myrtle is a walking and talking centennial record of the congregation’s corporate life.

Of course, of course, everybody asks her what her secret to longevity is. She doesn’t like the question and usually won’t venture an answer, but when she does, it’s simply “the Lord,” and she means by that “the will of God.” It’s as though she and God made a deal: “I’ll give you this breath right now, and if you promise to give it back to me, I’ll give you another.” And she does!

Her family will tell you that she rarely, if ever, gets uptight or flustered or agitated. “She just takes it all in stride,” one of them told me Sunday. Though she loves everybody and enjoys most everybody, she is not, nor has she ever been, driven by a need to please everybody, even her own family. She seems inner, rather than outer, motivated. She operates out of some internal set of orders that can’t be co-opted, won’t be manipulated, and refuses to be exploited merely as an extension of someone else’s will. She may be the freest and most secure person I’ve ever met.

It was she, I think, of whom Paul was speaking in Galatians when he said: “For freedom Christ has set us free.” By freedom, Paul did not mean the kind of me-first-ism with which our culture is consumed – autonomy (self-directed). Nor did he mean the kind of addictive need to please everybody that degenerates into the codependent pathology of the “popularity junkies” – heteronomy (other-directed). By freedom he meant theonomy – the kind of God-directed security and liberation that comes from somewhere both inner and Other. It is submitting to the yoke that fits; it is finding the “part” for which you were made and playing it with all you’ve got; it is listening to the Voice that calls you by name. “For freedom Christ has set us free.”

For 101 years Miss Myrtle has worn the yoke, played the part, listened to that Voice. She reminds me of the story attributed to Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel. Heschel says that he dreamt one night that he died and stood before the Great Judge of all and was called to the Dock to give an account of what he had done with the great gift of life he had been given. Heschel says that, to his amazement, he was not asked about what he had done on such and such a day, or any other specific thing. He was not asked why he hadn’t done more with his gift…why, for example, he hadn’t been more like Moses or Maimonides, or David or Einstein. Instead, he was asked one and only one question: “Were you or were you not Abraham Joshua Heschel?” And Heschel says: “Then the Holy One, Blessed Be He, leaning forward to hear my response, said to me words that haunt me still. He said: “It’s important to me, you see, because you’re the only one of him I made!”

Happy Birthday, Miss Myrtle. You’re one of a kind.