I was a freshman history major, excited about the university experience and nervous entering my first class.
My instructor was a fiery-tongued professor who considered freshmen only slightly more valuable than viruses. He strutted across the classroom discussing Minoan culture and Greek accomplishments, although all, I suspected, were not to be compared with his own great achievements.
World religions were all interwoven to Dr. Grumpy. If there was a superior religion, it may have been the Babylonian because that system seemed to include all the stories of all the religions.
But special ire was reserved for Christians. He dissected them at every opportunity, explaining to us why their particular system of myths was most reviling. He hated Christianity and if we freshmen wanted any standing with him, we'd better learn to grow up and do the same.
The class was a turning point for me because I had to choose. Was I going to follow the faith of my childhood or embrace the world of the progressive academic?
My professor's poisonous lectures repulsed me. His lectures were angry, his comparisons ugly.
I didn't know my Bible like I should have, but there was a sweet tug from my heavenly Father. It was easy to choose his gentle call compared with this daily venom.
The professor dangled advancement, acceptance, and academic honor before the class. If we listened to him, he'd lead us to his place of mature historical understanding.
I understand better today why Jesus gently told his disciples, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it." (Luke 18:17)
I had a choice at 18 years of age: to grow up into the protocol of the academic community or to remain a child with Jesus.
I picked the sweet fresh living water of my Lord and I've grown up like the tree planted by the stream. My desire is that my fruit would honor Jesus, not an academic tyrant.
Happy are those
who do not follow the advice of the wicked, or take the path that sinners tread, or sit in the seat of scoffers...