Crossing KCU

Remembering the Forgotten Ones

I remember the day very clearly, though it was several years ago now. It was late February I think—cold, gloomy, and overcast. It had been raining a little that morning. It was the perfect backdrop to the drama which was soon to unfold. A small group of us woke up early that Saturday so that we could eat morning brunch together in the campus cafeteria. Saturday morning brunch was always the best meal of the week. It consisted of a buffet spread of various breakfast foods—pancakes, bacon, waffles, sausage, eggs, biscuits and gravy, donuts, hash browns—no other meal of the week even came close.

I don’t remember having a single conversation as we all sat in the back room, silently consuming our meal. There was nothing for any of us to say. After the conclusion of the meal we all went back to the dorm and began helping our friend Chad pack up his belongings.

Chad Getchel was one of those guys who just didn’t fit the mold of a Christian college student. He wasn’t much different than the rest of us during that time. It was only the second semester of our freshmen year, so I was still in that rebellious stage where I was questioning everything, trying to figure out who I was and all that sort of thing. But Chad was just a little more extreme than the rest of us were willing to be. During the talent show a few months earlier he had done his rendition of “Purple Haze” by Jimi Hendrix, complete with a Star-Spangled Banner guitar solo, in front of the whole school. Back in 1997 that was not only something revolutionary for a small Christian college, but it was borderline heretical. There was even a week where he went around with his hair dyed florescent blue. Those were the days. We all had some good times with Chad. He was a fun guy to be around. Chad was one of the few guys, and the last guy that most would have expected just because of his appearance, to be upset with those of us who were starting to use drugs and drink alcohol. He refused the stuff flat out, and though he looked like a punk and was up to all hours of the night thrashing out Metallica tunes on his electric guitar, he had a more solid moral grounding than most of us.

But on this morning, things weren’t so well with Chad, or the rest of us. Chad had missed enough classes, and had generated low enough grades that the school had found the excuse it needed to kick him out. I’ll never forget when his mother pulled up in the van she had borrowed from their local church. She got out, though she had never met any of us before, she immediately gave each of us a hug. She thanked us for being Chad’s friend, helped us get his stuff into the van, and then off they went.

Chad lived up in Lansing, Michigan so I only ever saw him a couple of times after that. The last I spent time with him was a few years later, and by then he had succumbed to the whirlwind of recreational drug use that claimed so many others, me included. He had come down to visit me one summer when I was home, talking about the great beer they served where he worked, and heartbroken over the girl he had moved in with who had a lesbian girlfriend on the side. He was lost, like the rest of us were back then. Lost like I had been.
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Chad was just one of hundreds. By the time I graduated from K.C.U. it had been nine years since my first enrollment. My unique experience in being in and out of the school over such an extended time allowed me to see scores of students like Chad come and go, and never return again. There were many that I knew personally. Their stories were different of course, and some of them were struggling with issues that were more serious than others. But in the end their stories all seemed to have the same conclusion.

One thing that I was able to see, and came to understand in the long run about many of the students who came to Kentucky Christian University was that they did so because they were searching for help. There was something going on in their lives, regardless of where they came from, that they were desperately trying to escape from. And somehow, they had come to the conclusion that going to Grayson, Kentucky and attending this Christian school was the answer to all their questions, and the place that would bring them relief from their worries and fears. Their parents had failed them, their churches had failed them, and with nowhere else to turn they had sought out this place that from a distance seemed like a magical wonderland—like a fortress that would offer them the protection they needed from a world which had only ever caused them pain in some form or another. Perhaps they might even find out who the real Jesus was when they arrived there—Not the rich, white, Republican Jesus who came to rule America, nor the hippie, pothead Jesus who just wanted everyone to get along, or the Joel Osteen Jesus who came to make everyone into a total victor and winner over everything, or the Benny Hinn Jesus who came to knock everyone down and cause them to go into convulsions—not any of those Jesus,’ but the real one. They wanted to know the Jesus who was God, who had come to earth as a human, who had lived a perfect life, and though suffering, and being tortured, and ultimately put to death, had come back to life and ascended to heaven. They wanted to know the Jesus who was there when the world was created, and who was now calling to them, saying, “follow me.” “Follow me.” That’s the Jesus they wanted to know, and the Jesus they came looking for at a place that bore his name.

But few of them ever found him there. And that’s why I write this book now, after all these years. I was one of the few that made it through that place, who saw the many kids come and go, who saw lives ruined and souls lost because a small handful of powerful people thought that using the name of Jesus Christ was a way for them to make money. I remember those who tried to commit suicide in their dorm rooms. I remember those who did commit suicide shortly after they left. I remember that homeless guy who died of exposure out by the edge of the soccer field. I remember the kid who was told he wasn’t smart enough to go to school there, and so he could never be a preacher. I remember the girls who got pregnant and were kicked out without a second thought. I remember the kids who were too depressed to continue, and dropped out. I remember the darkness that consumed dozens of kids every year. I remember the faculty members who lied and cheated for a little extra cash, and some fleeting sense of worldly power.

I also remember those who stood against that darkness. I remember guys like Brad Green who served the campus unceasingly, grinding out 12 hour days in the cafeteria, sacrificing his own health and well being in an attempt to satisfy the need of a thankless mob like us. I remember Brian Burden, my loyal friend who, though he never made it past the first year of classes, still came to visit me regularly throughout the nine years I struggled through that place. I remember Dr. Jim Girdwood, who devoted his life to seeing that students understood how important it is to pray and read the Bible. I remember Dr. Tom Lawson, who years after I was expelled sent me a letter apologizing for the actions of an administration that eventually bullied him out for being too devoted to teaching the Bible. I remember Dr. George Pickens, who was extremely patient with me when I was at my most rebellious stage, and who taught me to value and appreciate differences in other people. I remember Jim and Shauna Hamm, who opened their home to me and treated me as a friend, after I had treated them as an enemy. But most of all, I remember Christ, and how he showed himself to me through people like these.
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I see a school in the distance. It sits in an open plain, in the middle of the run down town surrounding it. It is large, magnificently built, constructed by generations of people who have come and gone. It has an invisible wall that runs all along its perimeter. From the distance where I am, the school seems like it could be a large castle in the middle of a desolate and dying land.

Everything looks peaceful again, as it did in the beginning before I moved closer. From here I can see two roads leading down from the forest, and moving off toward the hill where the campus sits. On one road there are great crowds of people coming and going, busy and moving very quickly. They roll along this road as if it is a well traversed highway that they are all familiar with. They move in and out of the school grounds in great waves. The other road sits further away, and there is no one on it at all. It is an old dirt path winding conspicuously through the open field and moving far away, following the line of trees before finally arching back towards an unseen place behind the school. I realize that I have been down that road, and I know it, and I am familiar with where it leads. I know this place. I know this war. I know that this particular battle belongs to others now. It is time for me to leave. Then everything begins to fade away, and I wake up.

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I didn’t write this book to keep you from going to KCU. Nor did I write it to encourage you to leave if you’re already there. Some will say that’s what I’m doing, and others—without reading anything in it—will assume that this book is all about bashing the institution. Hopefully, if you’ve made it this far, and you’re not just flipping to the end to see my conclusion, you know that’s not the case.

KCU might very well be a completely different place these days. Maybe, in the few years since I left it behind, it has gone through so many changes that it would be unrecognizable to me now. Or maybe you’re reading this book years or even decades after I’ve written it… maybe all the people I’ve talked about in this book will be dead by the time you’re reading it… maybe I’ll be dead and gone as well.

Whatever the case may be, if KCU still exists, and you’re there now, it’s your responsibility to look around you, to ask questions. But don’t ask the people. And don’t ask yourself. Ask God about what he sees. And don’t be afraid to listen to what he says.

“Of making many books there is no end, and much study wearies the body. Now all has been heard; here is the conclusion of the matter: Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. For God will bring every deed into judgment, including every hidden thing, whether it is good or evil.” –Ecclesiastes 12:12-14