8. The Moody Bible Institute
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE MOODY BIBLE INSTITUTE
SEPTEMBER 3, 1924, found me in Chicago, enrolling as a student of the Bible-missionary course at Moody Bible Institute. This was a most unexpected turn of affairs and not the product of my own planning. I was so very Canadian in loyalty that I would never have chosen to come to the United States for my training. And I admired Professor Ellis so much that I would not have thought of looking beyond the Vancouver Bible School for my missionary preparation. But the Lord took the matter out of my hands.
At the end of the school year 1923-4 I still lacked funds to put me through any Bible school, but outside of my parents and one other person I told no one. God in His wondrous workings brought that one other person into contact with Miss Marjorie Harrison, whom I had met at The Firs. At the precise moment she was asking Him how to use some money she had saved, and inadvertently learned that I needed funds to train for China. It was Marjorie who chose Moody for me, directed by the Lord, I am sure
Herself a graduate of the Bible Institute of Los Angeles, and knowing of this small Bible school right in the city where I was living, she still chose to send me halfway across the continent to Chicago. The largest school of its kind in the country, Moody Bible Institute offered rich opportunity for many kinds of Christian work. This was what I needed more than I knew.
Marjorie explained that her money was limited to that little savings account. She would buy my ticket to Chicago, but could not help me with the return fare. She would pay my board and room for one year, but had no money for my incidental expenses. And she could not help me after that first year. The Institute had an employment bureau to help students find jobs for odd hours in safe places. For the rest, I must trust the Lord. Was I willing?
Fresh from reading Hudson Taylor’s experience in proving God able to supply his need through prayer only, I was thrilled with the opportunity to go on searching.
My brother had to make a business trip to Chicago at that time, so I had company across the continent. Dr. Isaac Page met us at the station and took me to the school. Otherwise I knew no one in that big, whirling metropolis. The Pages had but recently moved to Chicago themselves as deputation workers for the China Inland Mission in the Midwest.
That first day of enrollment, with its trips to this office and that for registration, was bewildering, and at the end of the day I was truly weary. I was put into a double room—cheaper than a single room—with a strange girl who was European and spoke with a strong accent. The furnishings were very simple, and the house opened right on the street. Being on the first floor front, we saw that people walking along the street passed right under our window. I had never lived in a house which did not have a front enclosure, and it gave me an exposed feeling to be so near a public street. This, added to weariness and loneliness; made me homesick. Can I stand this for two years? I was asking myself, when a bus rumbled up to a stop at our corner. To sleep with my head just the other side of a wall from such public things seemed almost scandalous. But in another moment I was swung into the heavenlies. The bus was the M.B.I. street-meeting group, returning from their first evening’s witness, and they had begun to sing:
He makes the path grow brighter
All along the way:
He makes the journey lighter
Every passing day.
Beautiful young voices in four-part harmony, sung with a fervent faith in words that came right from their hearts—the singing thrilled me through and through. Something in the traffic held them there while they sang the hymn to a finish.
“Oh, Lord,” I prayed in ecstasy, “thank You! Thank You! This is the other side of this ‘exposed’ existence—comradeship in the things of Christ and in the cause of soul-winning. And Christian friends who are my own age and who can sing like that? Oh, thank You, Lord!” Truly transported into His presence, I nestled down in deep content and fell asleep.
But more good things awaited me.
The next day I was called to the telephone. It was the Dean’s office. “Miss Miller, there is a girl named Lillian Billington, just arrived from Bellinghara, who would like to room with you. What is your pleasure in the matter?”
“Oh,” I cried, “has she really come? Yes, please. I would like so much to be her roommate. I met her at The Firs. She is a young schoolteacher.”
“Yes, that is right,” answered the office voice, “but you will have to change your dormitory. We have Miss Billington down for the third floor, Ransom Hall Building, Room 303. Will you kindly proceed to move there as soon as possible, and leave your present room in a proper state for a new occupant? Thank you. Report to us when the move is completed.”
Room 303, Ransom Hall, was much larger, higher above the street, much more private, and in every way a happier arrangement to my taste. Best of all, I was to share it with a girl from The Firs. We had just met the summer before, but I liked her sweet face. “Billie” and I were happy roommates for two years. Next door at 304 was a Scottish girl, Anne Barr—who years later was to be namesake to my daughter—and a very unselfish American girl, Ella Dieken, who was later to play a part in my life that the wildest dreams could never have conjured up.
What a meeting Billie and I had! And what fun to help her unpack and find that she had things I didn’t—pretty curtains for our windows, cretonne drapes for our trunks, lacy dresser scarfs, and so on. Soon our room was transformed into a real girls’ bower, and my beauty-loving soul was deeply grateful.
Mealtime was an adventure, with hundreds of students all eating at once. Oh the noise of the talk, the clatter of the cutlery and dishes! The men sat on one side of the dining room and the women on the other, twelve to a table A senior and a junior student were assigned to the end seats, but the rest of us changed places each day. Two students at each table were appointed daily to bring in the food and carry the dishes out.
I was waiting in line one day for the hot vegetables. As soon as the bell rang, the food would be dished out to us, but there was still a moment before the hour struck. I was dreaming of Lisuland when, turning around suddenly, I encountered the eyes of another dreamer—the young man who ran the dishwashing machine. It was one of those shock-encounters when you find yourself already over the threshold and into the other fellow’s soul before there is time to knock for admission. Very embarrassing. Each of us looked away quickly and pretended not to notice, but it had happened. From then on I was conscious of that dishwasher! Whether he was a full-time kitchen employee or student-help I did not know. The annoying thing was that I had become conscious of him.
Now I had made up my mind that I was not going to have any boy friends at Moody. I had proved that they were distracting and I wanted these two years to be given to unhindered preparation for my life-work in China. So I was extremely cross with myself to find out that as soon as I entered the kitchen I looked every time to see if he was there or not. To discipline myself, I did not inquire his name or his status, but frequently I had to carry dishes past him and I felt sure he knew my name and all about me.
And I was correct: he did. But he never tried to speak. I did appreciate that. I did not know that he had come to the Bible Institute vowing to have nothing to do with girls—lest they distract him from his studies! But he had made inquiries as to who the girl was who wore the green blouse trimmed with brown swan’s down.
Shortly after my arrival, Dr. and Mrs. Page invited me to supper in their apartment. He had long been my father’s close friend and I had called him Daddy Page for years. After I had taken off my wraps, he thrust a bundle of photographs of the Institute and Moody students into my hands, excusing himself while he went to help his wife in the kitchen. As I looked over the pictures I came across one which greatly attracted me—the portrait of a girl that showed character as well as beauty.
“Oh, Daddy Page,” I cried, “who is this? What a lovely face! Is she here at the Institute?”
He came in and looked over my shoulder. “Oh that,” he said. “Yes, Isobel. She is a lovely girl. Her name is Kathryn Kuhn, but she has just graduated and gone on to Wheaton College. I wish you could meet her. She has a brother here at the Institute.”
“Oh, yes?” I said politely, and quickly changed the conversation. But inwardly I said, Well, if her brother looks like she does, I’ll stay away from him. Here’s where you don’t go to any mixed parties, Isobel Miller!
Apart from the freshman reception, I quietly refused invitations to any party or picnic where young men would be present—that is, during my first term. It was my second term before I found out all this reserve had been in vain, for I learned that the dish-washer in the kitchen was the brother of Kathryn Kuhn!
Of my studies during those two years and four months—I was ill and lost a term—I can only glance at the blessing they brought me. Dr. James Gray was President then and I was privileged to have a class under him. Bible Analysis under Dr. Robert Jaderquist was an outstanding joy, and I later passed it on to the Lisu church, analyzing First and Second Peter with our Bible School students. Those notes are still being used.
Dr. Elbert McCreery taught Comparative Religions and was one of my favorite teachers. He was himself the blessing, with his gentle, Christ-like life.
Dr. Robert Hall Glover made me sit on the edge of my seat in eagerness, week after week, as he presented the challenge of missions, and in another class taught the History of Missions. His fire continually enkindled my own.
Talmage J. Bittikofer taught us part-singing and conducting, which I was to use constantly with the Lisu church. We all loved “Bitti” and his solos stirred me to the depths.
So I could go on, but I think the greatest help came to me at Moody in the practical work assignments, under the direction of Mrs. Frances C. Allison. Every student had to take one or more assignments each week; and these assignments were changed each term, giving every student a great variety of experience. Open-air meetings among the Jews would likely mean rotten eggs and tomatoes pelted at you, so you wore your oldest clothes. (I was knocked off the pavement into the street once when my turn came for Jewish work). Sunday school classes and hospital or jail visitation were considered the easiest assignments, and my Lord started me off gently with these. A slip of paper from the Practical Work Department told me I was assigned to teach a Sunday school class and do visitation during the week in the Italian slums. I would work under senior student Miss Ethel Thompson, Room X, 830 Building, and would I please report to her immediately for instructions.
So behold a young Moody freshman climbing the stairs of the 830 Building and standing before a closed bedroom door, about to knock. What would Miss Thompson be like? How could I ever do slum visitation? How my heart beat as I firmly knocked at that door! Once it opened, I was in for it—that is, I must plunge into soul-winning, from which my shyness had always shrunk.
The door was opened by a short, slim young woman, perhaps in her early thirties, who, when she heard my name, welcomed me quickly with a soft, southern drawl in her voice. After asking me to sit down, she began: “I suppose I had better tell you about our assignment. We are working under a community house or church in the Italian quarter. The minister in charge is a modernist and conducts dances on Sunday evening, and so on. This is our big difficulty and the most discouraging feature. But we are in charge of the Primary Department on Sundays and have full liberty to preach the Gospel there. They think we cannot ‘hurt’ the little ones!
“During the week we go into the homes—tenement houses—knock at doors, and present our message. The people are poor, of course, and many of them are Roman Catholics, but there have been a few decisions for Christ. Personally, I think the work needs prayer almost more than anything else.”
“Tommy” (none of the students called her Ethel) eyed this new freshman questioningly, wondering what the Lord had sent her in me.
Remembering Mr. Fraser’s lessons on the place of prayer in Christian service, I answered eagerly, “Oh, I believe in prayer too! I’d be happy to come over here to your room every day for a time of prayer together.”
“Would you?” said Tommy, her face lighting up with hope and joy. “All right. I’m working my way through school here, so I am busy, but half an hour before noon each day—how would that suit you?” It fit into my schedule and became an important part of my life.
That first Sunday Tommy took me to the community center and introduced me to the Rev. Mr. K——, the minister in charge, as her new helper. “Fine,” he said, “how about having lunch with us today? I told the wife there would be a new worker and we ought to get acquainted—so she is prepared.”
That meant our staying for the morning service. Mr. K—— spoke about courage or high ideals or gave some such verbal essay, but there was nothing in it to bring new life to anyone.
After dinner in their apartment, he said to us rather patronizingly, “You know, girls, I used to believe like you do. In fact, you may be surprised to learn that I am a Bible school graduate myself. But after graduation I went into a seminary and there learned that no one nowadays believes in that old-fashioned stuff. I lost my ‘faith,’ as you call it, at seminary. But somehow our liberalism does not energize people like your teaching seems to, so when I found out how dead the work is here, I asked for a couple of Moody students to be sent us, to stir up interest in the neighborhood. You bring them in, and we’ll mold them into a good community!”
We stifled the comment that rose so quickly to our lips, and I said, “This is very strange, Mr. K——. You have departed from the old faith and I have just departed from liberalism to return to the faith! I lost my belief in God in college, but I have done some personal investigation in the matter and I’m now convinced that He is, and the only way to Him is through faith in the atoning power of the blood of Christ to bring forgiveness of sins and eternal life. You and I are a contrasting pair—you have entered The Misty Flats while I have just found my way out of them back on to the High Way again.”
Mr. K——’s eyes sparkled with interest, and he leaned forward, plying me with questions. He was sarcastic and argumentative, but evidently moved. Tommy sat quiet, praying. She had never heard my story, but recognized instantly the working of the Spirit of God.
When it came time to leave, Mr. K—— was belligerent again: “You’re too intelligent a girl to slip back into that old stuff,” he challenged me. “We’ll have to have some more talks about this! You girls must come to supper some night after your visitation work.”
On the long car ride home Tommy said, “I believe God has already begun to answer our prayers. Just think of His sending a worker who had been through all this liberal stuff that is binding this man from any power really to help change lives! I watched his face while you talked and many of your points went home, though he was too proud to acknowledge it. I have faith now to believe that God will bring Mr. K—— back to the faith! Let us agree together on Matthew 18:191 and add this request to our daily prayers.”
Tommy proved to be a most rare companion. She had a keen sense of humor, and droll wit simply poured from her. Visitation was in itself a grim experience for me. Those dark, dirty tenement houses, with broken stairs, bad plumbing which often made the place reek, and whole families cooped up in one small room sometimes, would have terrified me if I had been alone. But Tommy always had a merry retort or comment for a stubbed toe or an offended nose—a remark so pungent in its truth and applicability that I was shaken with laughter which often helped me to overcome my distaste. She always took the brunt of the first attack, so to speak. She was an artist at tactful approach, and I sat at her feet and tried to learn. More than thirty years have passed since those days, so I cannot remember details of her personal work conversations or of her delightful wit. But I do remember one incident. In a long, dark hall of an old tenement house we were going from door to door, seeking entrance and opportunities for conversation. One door was opened by a big brute of a man who scowled at us and shouted, “What are you after? What ya doin’ here?”
“Brother,” smiled up Tommy at him with her soft, southern drawl, “we’re a couple of friends who are interested in seeing that you get a better deal. Won’t you let us come in and talk a moment?”
“Ah, come on,” growled the man suspiciously. “Nobody’s really interested in helping us. What’s your line? Salesman? Politics? Whatever it is, we ain’t interested,” and he moved to the door as if to bang it in our faces.
“Now, brother,” piped up Tommy plaintively, “a pair of poor tirea girls can’t hurt a big fellow like you. Won’t you even offer us a chair a moment? We’ve been on our feet for hours and we did hope——” A woman’s voice came from within: “They can sit down a moment, can’t they, Bill? I know what it is to have tired feet.”
Bill cursed bitterly, but left the door open; then he turned and stalked to the far side of the dismal room. Tommy, with a droll remark about her feet, made the woman laugh, and a conversation was soon under way. The Lord’s name was no sooner uttered, however, than Bill appeared in our midst again, eyes blazing with anger. “So it’s religious sluts you are! That’s the worst of all! I’m not going to have any blankety blank“—he swore profusely—”whinings around here! I’m an atheist, I am“—and so on.
Tommy turned on her loving, merry humor. I do not know how she did it, except that the Spirit of God was working with her, but she had him quieted and listening before we left. If I remember rightly, his wife decided for Christ. Almost every visitation day, some soul made that decision for eternity. Dear Tommy—it was she who taught me that “loving folks” is the only way to approach them for the Lord Jesus Christ.
In the Primary Department of the church, also, God began to work. The children started to ask the Lord to come into their hearts. Mr. K——was interested and indifferent by turns. Sometimes he would ignore us for weeks, almost as if antagonistic. On other occasions he would come into our Sunday school, listen and watch, and invite us around for a meal.
How we labored in prayer for this man! Tommy with her cute remarks in the dark hallways of tenement houses was one person; on her knees praying for the salvation of souls and the reclamation of Mr K——, she was quite a different person, yet the two sides of her character blended into one another. If you heard only her jokes, you would never have guessed at her tears and her passionate pleadings for sin-bound souls.
In my second term I asked to be reappointed to the same assignment, as Tommy and I both felt the Lord’s work was not completed in that place. But that was the term I fell ill and lost six weeks of study, and of course could not go with Tommy. At the end of that term she graduated and left for Mexico.
But there is one precious thing yet to record.
After I came out of the infirmary and just before Tommy left the Institute, we were both called down to the reception room one day. To our surprise, it was Mr. K——. He was a changed man and his face wore a gentle, chastened look, and there was a light there we had never seen before.
“I am calling on you girls to tell you that the Lord has answered your prayers for me,” he said. “I have come back to Him. It has been a bitter fight, as you doubtless have watched and seen. Pride refused to be crucified for a long time. But week by week it became more evident to me that the Word you girls preached was the power of God unto salvation. Lives were changed through your ministry; my honesty had to admit it. Nobody was changed through mine. Maybe you don’t know that I began to preach the Bible again when I saw how God used your Bible teaching. But nothing happened. Then I had to come to the place where I was willing to preach the cross of Christ as the only way, the blood of the Redeemer as the only atonement for our sins. The preaching of the cross worked—for me as well as for you. There has been an awful fuss. I made a confession in the pulpit and stopped the Sunday dances. Attendance picked up, the church was filled for services, but the committee got wind of what I had done and were very angry.” Tears came into his eyes. “In short, they dismissed me, but I have a little country church appointment now and will be moving out there with my family. And I can preach the truth there. My wife is wholeheartedly with me and we both feel we have to thank you two. God bless you. And God bless the school that D. L. Moody founded.”
With tears in our eyes and awe in our hearts we said a hearty “Amen.”
We did not see Mr. K——again.
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1 “Again I say unto you. That if two of you shall agree on earth as touching any thing that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven” (Matt. 18:19).