Sitting on One End of a Log

When I was 19 years old, I enrolled in a small Bible college in upstate New York near Buffalo.

As colleges go, there were a lot of things we didn’t have at New York Christian Institute (NYCI). We didn’t have a football team—just some lively intramural games in the park. We didn’t have a dining hall or a food court; I learned to make macaroni and cheese in a coffee pot. (The deluxe version included tuna and a can of peas.)

We didn’t have a fight song or a mascot.

We didn’t have fancy residence halls; our “dorms” were old motels the school rented—one for the women and another for the men. We had no elaborate classrooms; our “campus” was the Clarence Church of Christ, which allowed the college to use its facilities.

We didn’t have a long and storied tradition. Hardly anyone—even in the church—had ever heard of NYCI. Our college wasn’t accredited, nor did we qualify for government-sponsored financial aid. There was no endowment, nor a large base of alumni to send their support. I received a scholarship one year—for $200, as I recall—given by a faithful member of the local church. Some classes were so small that the students all sat around one table with the professor. (No falling asleep during those lectures!) This tiny college was nothing impressive.

But here’s what we did have at NYCI.

We had a mission. NYCI was established to educate men and women who would have an impact for Christ, especially in the northeastern United States.

We had godly leaders. Our professors loved the Lord, knew their students, and knew their stuff. Because of the low faculty-to-student ratio, they invested not only in our studies but also in our lives and ministries.

We had high academic goals. Spurred on by a desire to compensate for the perceived weaknesses of such a small school, members of the faculty pushed their pupils hard and demanded excellence. The grading scale was tougher than in most other colleges, and in our small classes there was nowhere for a lazy student to hide.

We had passion. There was excitement in the faculty and in the student body—a burning desire to learn, to share the gospel, to make a difference. It showed in the way we worshiped in chapel. It showed in the way we discussed and debated biblical texts with our professors and fellow students. It showed in our outreach teams that traveled on weekends singing and preaching in churches and camps, and leading biblically-based school assemblies (yes, even in public schools in the liberal Northeast).

We had diversity. Our students came from different races and backgrounds. Former Hippies and recovering drug users sat in class next to students reared in traditional Christian homes. New York Mets fans and Cincinnati Reds fans learned to coexist. During those strange days in the early 1970s, students wore anything from Converse All-Star sneakers to patent-leather shoes, from maxi-skirts to bell-bottomed pants and polyester leisure suits. Long sideburns and wide ties were in; short hair was out.

NYCI was out too by the 1980s, lacking the financial support to go on. I had the dubious honor of being the president of the alumni association when the school closed. Since then I have earned degrees from other institutions, which all had proper accreditation and all the bells and whistles a college is supposed to have. I believe in quality education, and I want everyone to learn in the best environment possible.

But I also know that the greatest strength of a school is not found in its buildings or its endowment; not in the dining hall menu or the comfort of its dorms; not in the size of the college bookstore, the number of students enrolled, or the length of the school’s tradition. A school’s greatest strength is found in teachers who know (and yes, love) their students. It’s found in caring educators who understand their mission and pursue it with passion. It’s found in places where faith is built up, not torn down; where God and his truth are honored; where students are treated as individuals, not numbers; and where respect, not rebellion, sets the tone.

Mark Hopkins served as president of Williams College. In an address to the college’s alumni in 1871, James A. Garfield famously observed, “Give me a log hut, with only a simple bench, Mark Hopkins on one end and I on the other, and you may have all the buildings, apparatus and libraries without him.”

Over the years I’ve studied in some outstanding institutions of higher learning. But I learned some of my greatest lessons in a little college classroom in Clarence, New York. I wouldn’t trade that experience for all the fight songs and mascots in the world.

*Note: During its 10 years of existence, New York Christian Institute educated dozens of Christian leaders who have made a significant difference for the Lord. *

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