Eternal Perspectives

They were the best of friends; they were the best of friends.

It was three or four decades ago. The war in Vietnam was escalating, the Beatles had introduced us to drugs, long hair for men was a badge, and campus unrest was the fad of the day. Students protested the war, caused a ruckus at the Democratic national convention in Chicago, and a library was blown up in Madison. The Black Panthers were strengthening, Black Power was emerging, and the “establishment” was the epitome of evil. A generation that would change the face and course of the nation was flexing its muscles, seeking to introduce peace and love into a culture it believed was hell-bent on war and the accumulation of money.

On what was supposed to be a cool, pleasant, autumn day at Indiana State University, a former high school acquaintance of mine, along with 40-50 Black (for so they wished to be known at the time) young men had taken over the administration building and locked the staff out of their offices. Mark, who looked like a lonely cotton ball in the midst of a pile of coal, was standing on the roof of a portico that provided entrance to the admin building. With several others at his side, he was reading off a long list of demands that he and his comrades felt needed to be addressed at the university before they would relinquish control. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of students stood in the quad listening to Mark: some cheered him on, most seemed quietly amused.

I stood listening as well, accompanied by 12-15 of my friends. Word of Mark’s state-of-the-disunion address had interrupted our euchre game in the student center, drawing us to the middle of the quad and about 50 feet or so from where the demands were being read. I was listening carefully, disagreeing fully, and all of 19 years of age. In the middle of the address, I shouted out,

“If you don’t like it here, leave!”

Mark stopped and looked in my direction. I don’t know for certain that he recognized me, but I believe he did. After a pause of five seconds or so, he began speaking again. After he had said only a handful of additional words, I shouted even louder,

“IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT HERE, GO SOME PLACE ELSE!”

I don’t know what Mark did at that point, although I’m pretty sure he stopped talking. I’m not sure because my attention was immediately drawn to 20 or so Black males who were standing directly in front of Mark. They suddenly spun on their heels and started heading in my direction. They were walking rather quickly, I remember thinking, and they didn’t look very happy. I thought to myself, “Well, there are more of them than of us, but it won’t be too bad. I was standing, after all, with 12-15 of my own friends.

The key word in that last sentence is “was,” because when I looked around at my friends, I saw them running for cover back into the student union building. Only two friends stood by me: Jerome Trierweiler and Bob Beshaw. One stood behind my left shoulder, the other behind my right: in other words, they had my back.

To be honest, I don’t know if they agreed with me or not; I suspect that they did not, given their own attitudes about the draft, the war, and racism. I knew Jerome didn’t like Mark, but Bob had never met Mark. But as the now-impressive horde approached, they stood with me. Loyal friends.

When the envoys from Mark arrived, they asked what my problem was; I said that this was not the way to do it, that there were other ways to accomplish their goals, and that just because Columbia and some other schools were taking over administration buildings didn’t mean it was the right thing to do at ISU. The young Black man with whom I spoke was a bright and reasonable fellow: about six or seven of them, along with the three of us, went and got coffee and talked about things. Later I marched with them in a peaceful protest. I think Jerome and Bob did, too.

Fast-forward 36-plus years. I am having coffee with two Christian friends in a quiet little restaurant on a Saturday morning. As we talk, solving all the problems in the world, I am distracted by a father who is speaking harshly to his son at a table near the entrance. At one point I laugh very loudly, hoping to interrupt the tirade going on between father and son. Nothing happens, however, and the verbal abuse continues.

When the time comes for my friends and I to leave, I ask my friends if any of them have a cell phone; they say no, so I give them mine and tell them to get ready to call 9-1-1. We pay our bill and I head for the father-and-son table. The father is just returning from the bathroom, apparently, and I approach him and talk as gently and non-aggressively as I know how. The conversation goes something like this:

You may tell me this is none of my business, and that’s fine, but I’ve been listening to the way you’ve been talking to your son for the last 30 minutes. What you’re saying is good and things he needs to hear, but the way you’re saying them is wrong. You obviously care about your son because you’re here with him at breakfast on a Saturday morning, spending time with him. But you don’t want to break his spirit, you want to mold it.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I don’t usually talk to him like this.”

“You don’t need to apologize to me,” I reply softly. “You need to apologize to him.”

“It’s just that what I was saying is so important and I wanted him to understand that,” he says. “I got carried away because I love him.”

“You need to tell him that, too” I say encouragingly before walking away, “not me.”

I turn to head for the door, expecting my friends to be there waiting for me. They are not there; they are outside, out of harm’s way. Standing near their cars, out of sight. Safe from any violence that might erupt. Salad forks can be lethal weapons in the right hands, I suppose.

Back in 1969, Jerome and Bob were approaching the basement of the social structure of our time. They were nobodies: poor college students at a second-tier school just trying to get by. They had no status or power. All they had was loyalty. Neither was a Christian, or at least didn’t profess to be or live like one.

My friends at the restaurant were a doctor and lawyer, one in his early 50s and the other in his 40s. They are “well-respected men about town” and at the top of their professions. They are looked up to professionally and personally; they are sought after to serve on committees and boards both in the community and the local church where all three of us are members. Both these men are Christians.

I couldn’t escape the contrast. Jerome and Bob were the best of friends: they didn’t amount to much by the world’s standards, but both were loyal and stuck by me even if they didn’t agree. The lawyer and doctor, however, were the best of friends: they have all the credentials and outward appearances, but something is missing. As has been said, they have all the qualities of a dog except loyalty.

Something is terribly wrong. When I went back to Indiana for my mother’s funeral a few months ago, Jerome came, even as he had come to my father’s 9 years previous. He’s there for me, even now. Bob lives in Florida and likely doesn’t know of either of my parents’ deaths.

I miss my friends from my drug days sometimes. There was a community, a closeness, a bond, and a loyalty that I’ve rarely encountered in the church. I scratch my head and feel sorrowful over the truth of Pr 20.6:

“Many a man proclaims his own loyalty, But who can find a trustworthy man?”

All I can do is try to be a loyal friend myself. And pray to find one nearby.