Why I Value My Legalistic Fundamentalist Upbringing

I left Independent Baptist Fundamentalism about 12 years ago.  Today I preach as often as I can against the legalism that I was exposed to when I was churched and educated within the movement.  I refuse to allow my own children to be exposed to that sort of legalism.  I would not wish fundamentalist legalism upon my worst enemy, so to speak. However, had I some magical ability to do it all again, I would not go back to change anything in my own upbringing.   The reason is that while Fundamentalism was desperately trying to make me more righteous and holy through strict applications of extrabiblical and unbiblical rules and regulations, it actually "shot itself in the foot."  Instead of making me more holy, Fundamentalism's rules revealed just how utterly incapable I am of holiness.  Through my struggle to achieve righteousness, I learned the extent of my own depravity.   

I value this because Fundamentalism unwittingly prepared me for the grace of the Gospel by beating me with the Law (or its version).    As I left Fundamentalism, I felt as if I had finally met Christ, had been truly saved, had begun swimming in grace for the first time in my life.  I now knew what it meant to live with Christ as my righteousness instead of me or others having to constantly endure either the weight of my failure or the arrogance of my success.

There are more biblical ways to learn about grace than through fundamentalist legalism.  The fact that learning about grace is its frequent result is no excuse to abuse either people or the Word of God.  But for me at least it was the Providence that gave me my own personal lessons about grace and, as the Law is a schoolmaster, eventually brought me to a more full understanding of Christ.    I would not change a thing for myself because my understanding of grace and the Gospel is profoundly influenced by my upbringing as a legalistic Fundamentalist.

It is an odd mix to preach against legalistic Fundamentalism and to be grateful for its role in my life all at once.  I think the paradox demonstrates the wisdom and sovereignty of God to use people in spite of themselves, like Cyrus was both judge and judged in the Providence of God.     

The Tale of Roger's Tragic Demise (Part Two)

This is Part Two of a true story of wealth and intrigue, kissing and secret passages, airplanes and stalkers, and the FBI that occurred on the campus of Bob Jones University in the Fall of 1991. Thankfully I lived to tell the tale.

Read Part One here

Signs of Trouble

As the semester wore on, two important events dimmed the brightness of our developing relationship with Roger. The first was that Roger became “campused” for what was falsely labeled “inappropriate behavior.” To be “campused” is to be restricted to the campus without permission to leave. After Roger explained what had happened, Brian and I were appalled at the injustice of the matter. What brought it about was by no means Roger’s fault: Throughout the semester, he had been spending more and more time with the daughter of a faculty member. He bashfully explained that she had a thing for him and had recently invited him to her house for dinner and television. When her parents were out of the room, she scooted over on the couch and kissed Roger on the lips. Unfortunately for Roger, her father walked in at that exact moment and immediately sent him home. Later, the father reported his indiscretion to the Dean of Men. Physical contact is strictly forbidden between men and women at Bob Jones University. No amount of presidential connections could rescue Roger from this horrendous faux pas. The response of the University was to immediately campus Roger for the remainder of the semester. Roger was despondent, and Brian and I were more than happy to commiserate with him. Unfortunately, there was little we could do about it, and Roger began spending his free time in the library.

The second event was much more significant and alarming. It started with a phone call one Saturday evening. As we were lounging on our bunks, Roger got up to answer the phone. The call was short and involved nothing more than a few brief “yes’s” and “no’s.” He hung up the phone with a very concerned look on his face. We read his expression immediately and begged him to tell us what was wrong. He knew he would have to eventually, so he explained slowly and seriously.

“Several years ago, a man with severe mental problems began stalking my family in Arizona. He followed us, trespassed on our property, sent us threatening letters, and even made some bomb threats. It became clear that he was a dangerous and persistent man. We took steps to protect ourselves and, eventually, we succeeded in getting him arrested and prosecuted, after which he was remanded to a treatment program. That call was to notify me that this man has escaped from his treatment facility and was last seen heading this way. We do not know for sure, but there is a strong possibility that he may be trying to locate me.”

Roger was no ordinary student, and his family had planned for such scenarios. The phone call initiated a process so amazing and efficient that Brian and I were flabbergasted to learn its complexity. He packed everything except his essentials into boxes and stored them on the bottom of the triple bunk. He took a blanket and hung it over the bunk to hide the boxes from visitors to the room. He enlisted our help to keep it quiet, and of course we agreed. Over the next several days, Roger relayed the extent to which his family was willing to go to protect him from harm. Roger explained that if the stalker breeched the campus, a private security detail would immediately whisk him away to the airport where his personal jet would be waiting to transport him to safety. Since such a breech would likely happen at night, we would need to be prepared for the team to break into the room commando-style, cover him with a sheet, and rush him out under armed escort. It was very important, for our own safety, that we not panic when this happened.

To further limit the threat of danger, two additional measures were initiated. First, state police patrols and roadblocks would monitor the South Carolina border for the stalker’s vehicle. Second, since the stalker had crossed state lines, he was also the concern of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who would constantly monitor both Roger and his closest friends, namely Brian and me.

Men in Bushes

Over the next two weeks we learned the extent of this surveillance. They bugged our dorm room and tailed us around campus. They were stationed in cars in the parking lot behind the dormitory at night and roamed incognito around the campus throughout the day. Armed snipers were stationed on the roofs of a few key buildings, including the dormitory across the street. Apparently, agents were everywhere. Brian and I guarded our conversations and kept our eyes open. In our efforts to find privacy, we went so far as to check the bushes to ensure no one was hiding in or behind them.

The FBI was good at covert surveillance. On only one occasion were we certain that we had actually identified one of our watchers. As Brian and I entered the student activity center on our way to the game room one evening, we saw a man staring at us from the corner of the room. Wearing a tie, black trench coat and sunglasses, he matched every FBI stereotype that we knew. When he saw that he had been made, he quickly turned his head. We stiffened and nervously made our way past him to the game room. Due to the weight of surveillance and suspense, Brian and I found it very difficult to enjoy our game time. We were relieved to see that he was gone when we returned to our dorm room later that evening. The whole affair was oppressive. Roger tried to lift our spirits by telling us that he would get us a transcript of everything that we had said since the surveillance began. Apparently, my FBI code name would be listed as “Buffalo.” Roger giggled as he explained that the transcript would be at least a ream thick. It was hard to laugh with him.

A Tragic End

Our worst fears were realized over the next several days, cutting short Roger’s life of wealth, power, and celebrity. Tragically, the end came, not at the hands of the stalker we feared, but by another who also knew Roger’s secret. Even I had an unwitting role in his demise.

It happened late at night, two days before Thanksgiving. I went door to door on the hall to ensure that all lights were out and everyone was in bed. As I passed one of the dorm rooms, a young man named Jamie poked his head through the door.

“Psst,” he said. “How’s Roger doing?”

I froze in my tracks. Did he know something? How did he know and how much? I looked at him in the darkness of the hallway, carefully forming a discrete response in my mind.

I whispered, “Well, I am not sure how much you know about Roger, but he is a pretty special guy.” I was walking a thin line, especially since I was under surveillance.

The boy secretively looked up and down the hallway and then said, “You know about Roger’s problem then, don’t you?”

I was shocked and fumbled for a response that would not give too much away. Before I could answer, he said something that caused my mind to swim and my vision to blur. I literally staggered against the wall as he continued.

“Roger is a liar.”

The moment of revelation was surreal and hazy. As I struggled to keep my composure, Jamie told me what he knew. He and Roger had been roommates the year before. They had developed a strong friendship until Jamie uncovered some very serious deceptions. Anywhere else, lying would merely result in broken friendships. At Bob Jones University, such fabrications nearly resulted in Roger’s expulsion. He had returned this year under probation, only to weave a fresh version of the exact same same story, with greater wealth, grander houses, bigger airplanes, and more exorbitant promises. I was stunned by the sudden thought that I knew nothing for certain about the pudgy but oddly slim man in my room.

Stranger in the Darkness

After our long conversation, I returned to my dorm room. As I stood at the door, I was keenly aware that the man inside was a complete stranger to me. Did I even know his real name? I opened the door and peered into the darkness. His lies were so obvious to me now. How could I have believed such extravagant schemes? I felt like a fool. But a more ominous feeling also came over me. Such sophisticated trickery was the act of a desperate man. Something about Roger needed to be hidden at all costs. What was Roger’s secret? Desperate men do desperate things to protect themselves. What else might he be capable of? I fearfully entered the darkness of the dorm room.

As I lay on my bunk in the blackness, I listened to the sounds of the room. Brian had drifted off and his breathing had settled into a steady rhythm. I tried hard to identify Roger’s breathing pattern, but could not make it out. Then—a slight sound of movement came from across the room. Did Roger know that the jig was up? I had been out of the room for an unusually long time. Perhaps he suspected something. I continued to listen, and then settled my own breathing into a deep, regular pattern. Perhaps Roger would not suspect anything if he heard me go to sleep quickly and easily.

Then, another sound of movement. The quiet sliding of legs and sheets. A soft thud as feet hit the ground. The quiet plodding of bare feet stepping gingerly across the room. The crack of an ankle joint, and then sudden silence. No movement. My breathing continued, deep and regular. A moment later, Roger took a few more steps to the foot of my bunk where he stood in silence. I could feel his presence. It seemed interminable. Should I say something? Should I scream? Should I attack him? Surely both Brian and I could take him if we had to. I was petrified with indecision.

Then I heard a quiet “click” as my desk light came on. I peered through my eyelashes without moving my head. The light revealed Roger leaning over my desk. I heard papers shuffle and drawers quietly slide open and shut. He was looking for something. The light clicked off, and again there was silence. He stood still for a moment, and again I could feel his presence at the foot of the bed. And then, once more, his ankle cracked as he turned toward his bunk, climbed between his sheets, and went to sleep. Eventually, I did too.

The Search

The next morning was the day before Thanksgiving. I said nothing as Roger silently primped himself and headed out the door. Later that morning, I conferred with the Dean of Men, who acted quickly. He explained that Roger had already been “campused” for missing classes off and on throughout the semester. But over the last two weeks Roger had missed more classes than usual. His expulsion was already in the works, pending a few details. The reason for the extravagant crescendo of Roger’s tale was now obvious: he had known the end was near.

The dean asked me to locate Roger and escort him back to the office. A small manhunt ensued, without the FBI, and eventually I found him deep in the library, blocked from view by some book racks, tucked behind an open newspaper, trying hard to look small and inconspicuous. We said nothing. He simply folded the paper, stood up, and silently followed me.

At the dean of men's office, he was informed of the disciplinary action, and then, according to University policy, I was tasked to escort him until he left campus.

I took him back to our room, where he quietly packed the remainder of his belongings. I tried to talk to him, to ask questions, to find out who he really was, why he did it, what he was hiding, but he had nothing to say.

The tale of Roger had ended.

The Tale of Roger's Tragic Demise (Part One)

A true story of wealth and intrigue, kissing and secret passages, airplanes and stalkers, and the FBI that occurred on the campus of Bob Jones University in the Fall of 1991. Thankfully I lived to tell the tale.

Roger Was Different in a Peculiar Sort of Way.

I knew this even before I met him. On the first day back to school, I walked into my new room in Smith Dormitory and found Brian, one of my two new roommates, staring at avery large, burgundy-and-brass footlocker hogging most of our meager floor space. After introductions we turned to examine the curious footlocker together. Obviously, it belonged to our third roommate who was yet to arrive. Roger’s name and Arizona address were neatly printed on a shipping label plastered on its side. After some discussion, we agreed that its size and color was very different from what we were used to. Normal BJU students do not have huge, shiny, burgundy footlockers. Normal BJU students have cardboard storage barrels covered in magic marker graffiti, stickers, and magazine clippings. We concluded that, obviously, something was different about Roger.

Roger's arrival later that evening confirmed our suspicions. We had already unpacked, arranged our drawers and closets, and selected our bunks. Brian chose the top of the double, and I chose the bottom, leaving the middle of the triple for Roger. Roger's arrival was strangely ominous. When the door opened, he stood framed by the doorway, backlit by the light of the hallway. The short, pudgy, yet strangely slim man stared at us silently. No talking. He just stood there oddly for a few moments before sliding into the room. By that I mean he did not swagger, bob or sway as he walked. Had one placed a book on his head, it would have stayed on exactly the same plane as he smoothly walked toward his footlocker. His neck and head, capped by a carefully styled flattop, were the same width, as though they had both been molded from a single metal lunch pail turned upside down on his shoulders. He reminded me of a smaller, softer Fred Flintstone.

We introduced ourselves, but he barely acknowledged us and began unpacking the huge footlocker. Brian and I went about our business, watching him out of the corners of our eyes. Our curiosity was rewarded right off the bat. The first item he pulled out was a large metal ring laden with dozens of multi-colored neckties. It was so heavy that the little man struggled to lift it with both hands as he hung it in his closet. Brian and I looked knowingly at each other. Everyone wore ties at Bob Jones, but to have so many was unusual. He must be financially well-off to be able to afford so many ties. We politely offered to help him unload his trunk, but he said he could do it himself.

He did not say much else as he unpacked, but what little he did say throughout the evening was soft-spoken and nervous. He did not appear to trust us and kept mostly to himself. Brian and I realized that it was going to be difficult to get to know Roger. Whatever was special about him, we would not be able to uncover it quickly or easily.

In the Weeks Before the FBI Became Involved, Roger Began to Open Up Some.

This tends to happen naturally with roommates. They get to know each other whether they like it or not. We still had to ply him carefully to reveal information about himself. Bit by bit, Roger succumbed to our discrete questions and reluctantly shared small details. Eventually we were able to put the pieces together. We learned, for instance, that our initial suspicions were indeed correct—Roger was very, very different from the average student at Bob Jones University. He was, in fact, extremely wealthy--so much so that he was desperate to keep it a secret.

As we learned even more about our roommate, we understood why he was so reserved and quiet. He was trying to stay incognito. Roger told us that his family was the wealthiest in the State of Arizona. They were the single largest, private landowners in the state, laying claim to millions of acres encompassing villages, towns, farms, and vast stretches of desert. Brian and I were both good-ol’ West Virginia boys and unaccustomed to wealth, so Roger’s revelations were nearly mind-blowing. But his reticence only whetted our appetites for more. Over the next several weeks, we begged him to tell us details about lifestyles of the rich and famous. For a few weeks though, Roger shut down and would not let us in.

But we persisted. It was not until he had sworn us to absolute secrecy that he would tell us more. It was very important, he told us, that no one else at the University learn who he was and that he was attending school here. His primary fear was that other students from Arizona, especially young ladies, would learn of his enrollment and swamp him with unwanted attention. His family had very intentionally sent him to a school on the other side of the country so that he could escape the constant attention that the ladies gave him back home. His family wanted to give his life some semblance of normalcy. We, of course, promised that we would not tell a soul under any circumstances. Now that Roger could trust us, we began pelting Roger with questions every night after the lights went out. He often grew tired of our inquiries and refused to talk, but over time, Roger opened up more of his world to us.

We Learned Quickly that Keeping His Secret Would Benefit Us Greatly.

Our quiet, unassuming little roommate was a man of almost endless resources. As he got to know us better, he hinted that he might fly us to his Arizona estate during the Christmas break. We were shocked to hear that we would have to set aside at least three days to explore all the island had to offer. Yes . . . the island. In order to maintain their privacy, the family’s grand estate was located on an island in the middle of a large Arizona lake. The remote location provided security for him and his family. Being rich had its benefits, Roger explained, but the negatives were horrendous--constant media attention, stalkers, con-men, freeloaders. The island protected them from this. Our three days on the island would give us plenty of time to use the annexed bowling alley, swim in the indoor pool, ride horses at the family stables, travel the ATV trails, etc. Brian and I began to get excited, but we were very grateful. Roger did not have to be so gracious. He made it clear that he was risking much to open his life and home to us in this way. However, he kindly allowed us to discretely inform our parents so that we could begin planning our Christmas break. They were incredulous, but agreeable. This would certainly be one of the greatest experiences of our young lives.

Other benefits promised to be more significant and life changing. Due to some car trouble I was having, Roger suggested that a new car might come my way as a Christmas present. But that was not all. As I continued to prove my trustworthiness, I learned that my entire future could be affected by my relationship with Roger. His family, he explained, gave full financial support to several overseas missionaries. Since I myself was planning to be a missionary, they might support me as well, precluding several years of tedious fund-raising. A car in the present and a career in the future. I was overwhelmed by the good fortune that had come my way.

Roger’s Personal Jet Was Another Obvious Benefit.

His mother and father each had their own, and as an only child, he had been spoiled with one as well. Maintained at the Greenville-Spartanburg Airport, the jet was available to take him and friends of his choosing to whatever destinations he desired. We would probably take the jet to Arizona during the Christmas break, with a few fun stopovers along the way. His Lexus was yet another benefit. Since his parents owned a local dealership, the manager occasionally parked one behind the dormitory for Roger to use at his discretion. Since he was a sophomore, this was not officially endorsed by the University, but Roger had connections, which leads me to the most fascinating benefit that he enjoyed—his personal relationship with Dr. Bob Jones III, the President of the University.

One evening Roger returned to the dorm room with a particularly smug look upon his face. We recognized that he was hiding something and begged him to divulge his secret. After much prodding, he explained that he had just had dinner with Bob Jones III, and not for the first time. More than this, he confirmed a rumor that had been circulating among BJU students for decades—that a secret underground passage led to the President’s house on the front corner of the campus. Since Roger’s family had paid for recent renovations to the dining common, he enjoyed the occasional privilege of eating dinner with the President at his home. In order to preserve his family’s anonymity, he was secretly spirited away for these meals through the special hidden entrance. We were disappointed to learn, though, that the “secret” passageway was nothing more than the utility tunnel system that everyone knew circulated beneath the entire campus. Steam grates were located everywhere for all the students to see. The secret passages may not have been as extravagant as the rumors had suggested, but they were real nonetheless.

It was all very exciting at the time. But we did not know that very shortly we would all fear for our lives.

Don't believe it is true? I promise, it is. Read the exciting conclusion here.