Dan Olinger

"If the Bible is true, then none of our fears are legitimate, none of our frustrations are permanent, and none of our opposition is significant."

Dan Olinger

Chair, Division of Biblical Studies & Theology,

Bob Jones University

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Memories of Merciful Teachers

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The COVID upheaval has made teaching really interesting. For most teachers in the US, there was a “pivot to online” around mid-March, as the students began “learning from home.” Teachers had to rethink their course presentation and assessment, and they had to do it in a hurry. For me it was fairly simple—I credit previous experience teaching online (a gracious providence), the nature of my subject area, and the fact that I’ve already largely done away with unit tests in favor of other assessment methods (another gracious providence). I know that for my colleagues in activity-based subjects (e.g. fine arts, lab sciences), the pivot required a lot more adjustment and creativity, and my hat’s off to them.

Part of that change of situation included considering the various stresses on student performance. For my students the most obvious stressors were reduced access to library resources, lack of a place to concentrate, and in some cases reduced internet access. Some had family or other housing situations that greatly interfered with their studies.

And all of that calls for flexibility and other types of mercy. I didn’t tell my students this ahead of time, but I essentially did away with late penalties, and I let them try again when they really botched an assignment. And there were other considerations.

My thinking in this area has been influenced by past teachers who showed me mercy. I’d like to recount a couple of those instances.

For second-semester Greek—my undergrad minor—I had Dr. Richard Taylor, who is now a professor of OT at Dallas Theological Seminary. Going into the final, I had a high A and calculated that I could get a D on the final and still keep the A. No sweat.

I got careless in my preparation and completely overlooked what turned out to be a major emphasis on the exam (for you Greek bodies, it was the -μι verbs).

I flunked it. Ran the numbers, and my semester average was now 89.4. Juuuuust barely lost the A.

I went to Dr. Taylor’s office ready to plead my case. I’ve done solid A work all semester. I’ve demonstrated that I can master this stuff. I knocked and heard “Come in!”

“I’d like to talk about my grade,” I said. “About the B+.”

He pulled out the little green gradebook (remember those?) and looked it over, and then he looked up with just a hint of a smile.

“I don’t see any B+,” he said.

I’m told that an adage among lawyers is “When you’ve won, shut up.” So I did. And today my transcript shows an A- for Greek 102. (I just checked.)

Another example.

I took a course on the Pauline Epistles taught by Dr. George Dollar. Dr. Dollar was an old-time, fire-and-brimstone fundamentalist, perhaps the prototype for the stereotype. As I recall, he taught at BJU for only a few years, and he never shied away from a fight.

The biggest assignment for that course was that we had to write a commentary on 1Corinthians. We had all semester, and I went right to work. I read and read and wrote and wrote. The day before it was due, Dr. Dollar reminded the class that our commentary on 2Corinthians was due tomorrow.

Second Corinthians?! I wrote on First Corinthians!

Yikes.

After class I stumbled down to the front of the lecture room and admitted my stupidity. To my astonishment, Dr. Dollar smiled and said, “That’ll be fine.”

“That’ll be fine.” And indeed it was.

Now, these are (or were, in the case of Dr. Dollar) two very different men, with very different personalities, approaches, and teaching styles. But in my formative years in academia they both showed me mercy, and nearly 50 years later I still remember. When a student comes to me needing mercy, even if he kinda deserves justice, I think of those two experiences—sometimes I even take the time to tell one of the stories—and I say, “I’m going to show you mercy. Someday you’re going to have an opportunity to show somebody else mercy, and on that day I want you to remember this one.”

To show mercy is to reflect the image of God. We will never show anyone as much mercy as God has shown us. These days, mercy is more needed than ever.

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On Almost Crashing. In a Plane.

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Every so often I like to pause my serious blogging and throw in a story, just for fun. (My last one of those was about being in jail.)

Here’s another one.

My Dad was an old-school private pilot, taught by his older brother in a tail-dragger out of Thompson Falls, Montana, back during the Depression. He flew just intermittently—renting an airplane was expensive—but during my early teen years the frequency picked up, as he was able to get a little financial support from his employer when he flew himself around for work-related things. I went along every chance I got, and I became pretty proficient at navigation with the radios (VORs, in the trade) and with take-offs, though I was never really very reliable on landings. My height being what it was, I sat on a small suitcase so I could see over the instrument panel on final approach, and that would occasionally get distracting.

Comments on the above paragraph are completely unnecessary. You know who you are.

We were living in the Boston area at the time, and since Dad and all of us kids had been born in the Pacific Northwest, our family would occasionally fly out to Spokane for family reunions on the Olinger side. For one such trip, Dad rented a Cherokee Six to accommodate the five of us and our luggage, which, since three of us were females, and two of those were teens, was fairly substantial. But the Six could handle it quite nicely.

We flew from Hanscom Field northwest of Boston to Spokane in a couple of days with no problems, Dad doing the flying and I doing the navigating from the right seat. After several days with extended family (Dad was one of 11 kids), we began the return trip, which was to be significantly longer; Dad had a younger sister in Duncan, OK, who hadn’t been able to come to the reunion, and we thought we’d drop by there for a visit. The Six could do that leg in a day, but it would be a long one, and we’d need to refuel twice to be safe.

About a third of the way, we decided, was Worland, WY. (The second stop would be Liberal, KS, which is a whole ‘nother story.)

We landed at Worland, taxied to the ramp, and called for refueling. The Six holds 84 gallons, which weighs, oh, about 500 pounds.

Now, ordinarily, that wouldn’t be a problem; we’d taken off in Spokane fully fueled, and Dad, as a careful pilot, had done the weight and distribution calculations carefully. So we were fine for takeoff in Spokane.

But Worland is not Spokane. Most importantly, Spokane’s elevation (specifically that of Felts Field) is just under 2000 feet, but Worland’s elevation is more than twice that. And as you may recall from high-school science, atmospheric pressure, and thus air density, drop with increasing altitude. And as the density drops, the amount of lift you can generate drops with it.

And that’s not all. As it happened, that summer day in Worland was hot; Worland routinely hits the high 90s during mid-summer.

What’s air like when it’s hot?

Thinner yet.

Even less lift.

Dad, bless his heart, forgot to factor all that in.

We received clearance for take-off, lined up on Runway 16, and Dad gave the Six full throttle.

Runway 16 is 7000 feet long, which is respectable, a lot more than the Six ought to need. We used all of it, and we were about 2 feet off the ground.

That’s not normal.

Maybe 1500 feet beyond the end of the runway, there was a fence. I remember it as a split-rail fence, maybe 3 feet high, though of course there’s a higher chain-link fence there now. I distinctly recall lifting my feet off the floor in a well-meaning attempt to help us get just a liiiiiittle more altitude.

A bit further out was a set of telephone poles, which experienced pilots know are usually connected by invisible wires, and I honestly didn’t know whether Dad was going to go over or under them.

He went over.

And in the expansive area of relatively flat prairie beyond, we tooled around until we finally got enough altitude to get out of there.

I really thought we were going to have to put it down and maybe even get tangled up in telephone wires.

But Dad knew the fundamental rule of flying: Keep flying. If you can.

And he did.

When we were in stable flight, he looked at me, and with a tone of utter disgust with himself, he said, “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

Dads don’t like to make mistakes that can kill their family.

I learned a lot from that.

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On a New Year

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This is my 65th New Year. The first few I was completely unaware of, but since then, like a lot of other people, I’ve enjoyed the sense of excitement and optimism that our culture associates with the date. There’s something bracing about turning the page, starting out fresh, doing things better this time around.

Sometimes those among us who have half-empty glasses feel the need to point out a couple of things about the new year—as a public service, of course—

  • There’s really no such thing as a new start, you know. We carry with us the consequences of our previous sins and failures and misjudgments.
  • If the past is any guide, your good intentions are going to fade in a few days, and statistics show that pretty soon you’re going to be back in the same old rut.

As someone whose glass is perpetually half full—with contents that are quite tasty, thanks—I’ll observe that while those two statements are technically true, they’re practically false by virtue of their incompleteness. Let me explain.

First, it’s true that we carry with us the consequences of our past failures. The founder of my university used to say that if an inebriated bar patron loses an eye in a bar fight, and then gets gloriously converted, he’ll be forgiven, but he’ll never get his eye back. There are consequences of our sin that are inescapable.

True enough. But let’s not forget that he does get gloriously converted, and that’s nothing to slough over. And with conversion comes a whole raft of change and empowerment that will certainly affect the path that the convert takes for the rest of his life.

So yes, you do bring some baggage into this new year, and you can’t pretend that the baggage is weightless. But if you’re a believer, you have the Spirit of God indwelling you, changing your thinking, enabling you to act on that new way of thinking, and surely and powerfully bringing you, over time, into conformity with the Son of God (2Co 3.18). This new year is another step in that sure process.

Divine enablement is a powerful, powerful thing. If your New Year’s resolutions involve spiritual progress, they come with serious momentum behind them.

Now about that second point. Let me note first that statistics don’t “show” anything about the future. They show tendencies about past activities. But rare things do happen.

It’s demonstrably true that most people accomplish less toward their New Year’s resolutions than they intend. But that says nothing about how you’ll do on yours. The fact is that a minority of people do make and maintain significant changes. Somebody’s going to succeed; why can’t you be part of that group? Set reasonable goals, lay out a plan, pray for grace, and go for it.

Maybe you’ll accomplish less than you intend. Fine. But you’ll accomplish something. Refer to point 1.

So much for the naysayers.

My experience also tells me that some new years seem to hold more promise for change than others. In my lifetime, the Big One was Y2K, which involved the potential End of Civilization As We Know It and turned out to be, well, a dud. (Yeah, I filled some containers with water so we’d at least be able to flush the toilet after the End. Can’t hurt to make simple provisions.)

This one is 2020, which is a new decade, and a balanced number, and carries the connotation of clear vision, so who knows? Might be a big year.

But we make too big a deal about Big Years.

Of course our lives include major events—birth, marriage, parenthood, maybe a championship of something, or some other form of public recognition—but the important stuff, the really important stuff, is typically all about simple consistency and attentiveness and faithfulness. The wedding is a Big Deal, but the marriage involves simple daily kindness, gentleness, and thoughtfulness. The birth of your child is a Big Deal, but parenting is a daily slog that is sometimes difficult and frustrating but in the end leaves delightful memories.

So this year, steward your goals, and make them achievable. Make them less about the fireworks and more about faithfulness in the shadows. And watch God keep his promises for your growth in him.

Happy New Year.

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My Personal Top Ten

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As I commented last year at this time, I’ve noticed that rants get a lot of hits. I understand why that happens—it’s pretty much the same phenomenon as onlooker delay at traffic accidents—but I don’t really like to rant, and I don’t admire people who rant all the time, first, because if they’re genuine, they’re living under the burden of an angry spirit, and probably fear, and second, because if they’re not genuine, but just ranting to get hits, then I don’t trust what they write.

I don’t want to be that guy. You know, the Talk Radio morning host.

Some things deserve rants, but ranting isn’t much of a lifestyle, and a society that feeds itself constantly on it—like ours—is pathological.

Most writers like some things they write more than other things, and the order of like-itude usually isn’t the same as their audience’s preferences—especially if they’re not just writing for the money or the recognition.

So as a thought experiment, here’s a list of the posts, in no particular order, that I personally like the most—some for reasons of content, some for esthetics, and some just because.

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2019 Top Ten List

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In the tradition of bloggers everywhere, here are my top ten posts for this past year.

10. On Church, Part 1

  • Biblical concepts about why Christians need to commit to and serve their local assembly

9. On Fear

  • What we should fear, and what we shouldn’t

8. Top Ten List

  • Last year’s list, making this year’s list …

7. On Coffee

  • Or rather, how a simple beverage teaches us a lot about how we ought to treat one another

6. On White Nationalism, Part 1

  • Let’s put this nonsense to bed.

5. On My Time in Jail

  • Yep. Guilty.

4. “No Peeking!”

  • I’ve learned a lot of theology since my kids were born.

3. On Cold-Call Evangelism and Cultural Appreciation

  • Obeying the Great Commission effectively

2. It Is. And It Does.

  • Meditation on the death of a friend

1. For My Angry Friends, Part 1

  • Depolarizing

And just for good measure, here are the all-time top ten posts that aren’t already listed above, in ascending order.

Since I’ll have one more post before year’s end, I’m going to use that one to list my ten personal favorites. Writers do have them, you know.

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On My Time in Jail

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The last few posts have been pretty serious. I think it’s time for a break.

I’ve had a lot of interesting experiences, and I like to tell stories. I think every so often, when we need a little break here, I’ll tell about an interesting experience.

When I was in college, the school required four semesters of physical education as part of its general education requirements. They had lots of offerings in the area, and for my four semesters I took two semesters of judo, a semester of karate (shorin-ji, to be precise), and a semester of security training. (Seriously.)

In those days there was an outreach group that used judo as an evangelistic tool, and after I got my brown belt I joined them. The Judo Gentlemen. (Judo means “the gentle way” in Japanese, in reference to the fact that you could practice it without hurting the other student, unlike jiu-jitsu.)

Some years later—I was in Seminary and a teaching assistant in English—we scheduled a meeting in Canton, NC. It was a church banquet; we’d entertain them with a funny skit, and one of us—that would be me—would bring a short devotional.

As we were en route, I realized that I had miscalculated the drive time, and we were going to be late. So I did what any good steward would do—I adjusted the speed to solve the problem.

The highway patrolman clocked me at 71 in a 55.

When he approached the car, which I had borrowed from my roommate from Ohio (and thus had Ohio plates), he asked for my license and registration. Couldn’t find the registration. I handed him my Massachusetts driver’s license. He asked where I was from.

I said Greenville.

It went downhill from there.

The fine was $36, $20 plus a buck for every mph over the limit. (That was a long time ago, friends.)

Though I was in a 3-piece suit, most of the guys were in their judogis, which have no pockets. I had my wallet, of course, and I think maybe 2 of the other guys did as well. We had $32 among us.

We followed the officer in to the Buncombe County Magistrate’s Office, where they told me that I’d need to stay until the guys could get the extra 4 bucks. Something about reciprocity between states.

One of the team members, Bobby, was an officer in the Marine Reserves. He tried to get me released on his recognizance, like he would do with Marines having too much alcohol on leave.

No deal.

OK then.

I sent the guys on, appointed one of them to play the clown in the skit instead of me, and Bobby said he’d preach. Also instead of me.

I don’t recall what I was planning to preach on.

The team went on to Canton and planned to take an offering to get $4 to get the originally scheduled preacher out of the pokey on the way home.

The police took my shoes, belt, wallet, and Bible (it’s a sword, you know) and put me in the drunk tank, which was relatively crowded on that Friday night. I settled in and made friends with a fellow who was in for driving moonshine down from North Carolina. The others, being in various stages of inebriation, weren’t much for conversation.

At one point one of them roused himself from the floor, looked blearily at the (bullet-proof) window, and decided to break out. He got going as fast as he could in the limited space, hit the window with his head, and immediately resumed his original position on the floor.

I’d preached in jail a number of times. This was my first time as a client. I suppose I could have preached, but your credibility takes quite a hit when you’re a client rather than a visitor.

After about 4 hours (seemed like a week), the guys came back with the $4. The desk clerk had some trouble finding my things—they were filed under “Clinger”—but soon we were on our way home.

I walked into my apartment, where my roommate was up studying. He glanced up and said, “How did it go?”

Oh, you know, the usual.

To this day I believe that I’m the only BJU faculty member ever to have been incarcerated while on the faculty and still be employed. But in my defense I must add that I was never actually convicted. Of a felony.

This story is entirely true. If you don’t believe me, check with my roommate. His name is Dr. Dan Nelson, and he’s the administrator of Bob Jones Academy.

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On Coffee

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In my just-finished series on When We Fight and When We Don’t, I spent a lot more time on the doctrinal side than the behavioral side. I thought I’d share an experience I had a few years back that got my thinking developing on how we approach behavioral issues.

About 25 or so years ago, I noticed something odd. Every weekend, I would get a headache. Fine all week long, but every Saturday morning, like clockwork, headache. Sunday too. Then Monday I was fine again.

I tested a lot of variables to try to find out the cause. Sleeping in? Nope. Breakfast? Nope. Location-based allergies? Nope.

I guess you can figure out from the title of this post what the cause was. Every day at work I drank coffee. The departmental coffee pot was literally right next to my office, and I made good use of it. Weekend mornings, though, I didn’t make coffee at home.

Well, what am I gonna do about these headaches? I did what any sensible person would do.

I bought a coffee pot, and I made sure I had a cup on Saturday and Sunday mornings so I wouldn’t get a headache.

After I’d done that for a while, I got to thinking.

The headache was a caffeine withdrawal symptom. I was chemically addicted to caffeine.

But it’s not as bad as cocaine—and certainly not as bad as opioids—so it’s OK, right?

I skipped merrily along down that path for a bit longer, and my conscience really began to bother me.

I was a drug addict. Gotta have my hit. Every day. Or I won’t be able to function at my best.

And I thought of Paul’s words to the Corinthians: “All things are lawful unto me, … but I will not be brought under the power of any[thing]” (1Co 6.12).

My schedule and activities were being dictated by a physical addiction.

My conscience continued to bother me. And Paul also says that it’s a sin to violate the restrictions of your conscience (1Co 8.7)—even if the thing isn’t sinful in itself.

A Christian who realizes he’s sinning is supposed to stop.

So I did. Cold turkey. Three days of blinding headaches.

I got clean.

As follow-up, I would try a cup of coffee every few months just to see if the headaches returned. They did, so after a series of lengthening test periods I quit testing and just stayed clean.

Nowadays I find that I’m OK with a cup of decaf (which has a little caffeine, but not much) maybe 3 days a week without headaches. And I really love good coffee, so I’m happy about that. The earth is the Lord’s and everything in it (1Co 10.26), and we ought to enjoy whatever he’s placed here for us, the best we can.

Now. What do I do about my Christian friends who drink full-bore, drug-fueled coffee? Shall I become a prophet, crying in the wilderness against the evils of the demon bean?

Nope. Though I will say that it troubles me when my Christian friends declaim on social media about how they can’t live or function without their morning coffee. If they’re telling the truth—if they’re really physically addicted to caffeine—then I’d suggest that they think about whether maybe they ought to do something about that. Whether maybe they ought to be free—and might rejoice in their newfound freedom.

But short of addiction? Nope. The earth is the Lord’s and everything in it. If they’re drinking coffee and enjoying it, and especially if they’re thanking our good and gracious God for the joy it brings them, then I rejoice with those who rejoice.

For my first several years on the Bible faculty at BJU I shared an office with a long-time friend who’s a coffee aficionado. He roasts his own beans, as close to the time of consumption as possible; he grinds just a cup’s worth of beans at a time; he waxes eloquent on the specifics of crema. Every afternoon about 3, he’d say, “Well, time for a cup of coffee!” And the grinder would surge, and the office would fill with the most delightful aroma of fresh-roasted coffee beans. I couldn’t drink what he made, in good conscience, but I enjoyed the daily routine, and the aroma, and his pleasure in the simple experience of a good cup of coffee.

He’s not sinning. There’s nothing there to fight about, even though we’re behaving differently, for significant theological reasons.

What about you? Have a cup for me, my friends.

Just don’t get addicted.

And don’t sweat the small stuff.

In this outrage-addicted culture, here’s something we can disagree about, for substantial reasons, without being outraged.

How about that?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Application 1 Application 2

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It Is. And It Does.

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I’m interrupting the series for this reminiscence, for reasons that will soon become clear. It’ll be a little longer than usual.

Thirty years ago I was supervising the writing of secondary-level textbooks at BJU Press. One day a lady called me looking for a job. She and her husband had just moved to the area from Mississippi, and she had typing skills, skills that we routinely hired back in those days. I told her to come in for a typing test. Shouldn’t be any big deal, I said.

The next morning when she arrived, I directed her to a computer, gave her a page of text that served as our standard typing test, and told her to have fun with it.

As I turned to walk away, I noticed that her hands were visibly shaking.

When she said she was done, I checked the test.

Words per minute were abysmal—12, as I recall. Accuracy was just as bad.

I smiled at her and said, as kindly as I could, that I just didn’t think she’d be right for the job. She said she understood and headed for home.

I sat in my office and thought about what I’d just witnessed. Didn’t make any sense at all.

If she couldn’t type, why did she try to get a typing job? Why did she show up for what she knew would be a typing test?

And why were her hands shaking like she was facing a firing squad?

I’ll bet she really can type, I thought. I’ll bet she has test anxiety. Take that away, and I’ll bet she can do the job.

What happened here just isn’t right.

I called her home phone, and she answered, crying. I told her I thought she could do better than she did, that she was just nervous because of the test. I told her we hadn’t treated her right. How about this, I said. You come in next week and work for us—we’ll pay you—and we’ll see how you do. If after a week we decide you’re not right for the job, then we’ll part ways, no hard feelings. But I think you can bring something to us that we can use.

Monday morning she showed up, and I gave her a chapter of Tim Keesee’s US Government manuscript. Tim, if you know him, is a man of an earlier century, and he was still writing out his manuscripts longhand. Melba—that was her name—went to work, and after an hour I knew how our little experiment would turn out. Not only could she type perfectly well, but she could also read Tim’s handwriting, which put her into a pretty select class. By the end of the day I told her that the trial period was over and that she was on board for the long term.

Eight years later, when my pastor was dying of a brain tumor, and his associate pastor conducted a final interview at his hospital bed, Melba asked me if she could type up the interview so the congregation could have a hard copy of his dying words to them. This wasn’t her church, but she wanted to do what she could to minister to a hurting congregation. She saw it as a sacred task, and she wept as she typed.

She stayed with the Press for more than 25 years, eventually becoming an unofficial Mom for all kinds of people in the production side of the business, and throwing herself into party preparation with the best of them. I left the Press before she did, but I went back over for her retirement party to say that hiring her was one of the things I was proudest of. You see, I really don’t have the gift of mercy, and I have no doubt that my thinking that crucial day was quite literally an act of God.

_____

A few days ago, Melba finished her race here and joined her husband, who had preceded her by almost exactly 7 months. Her daughter was kind enough to contact me individually to let me know and to tell me where the funeral would be. It’ll be a ways away, she said. No matter; I’ll be there, I said.

So Tuesday, I set out on the 60-mile drive west from Greenville. Through Easley, then Clemson—the day after the CFB championship win—then Seneca, then Westminster. Then out into the countryside, not exactly Deliverance country, but getting pretty close. Down a country road to a small private establishment, where you park on the lawn and walk a couple hundred yards back into the woods to a rustic but beautiful chapel that holds maybe 40 people if they sit close together.

It’s mostly family, with a handful of friends, most of whom I know. A friend and colleague of mine, Melba’s pastor, leads the little group in singing “There Is a Fountain,” and her daughter and eldest grandchild share memories and tributes. The pastor comforts us from the Scripture, and in just a few minutes the quiet little service is over. The pallbearers, her grandsons, lift the plain pine box, handmade by her son-in-law, and we follow out the back of the chapel and another 30 or 50 yards farther into the woods, where there’s a grave prepared. We all sing “Amazing Grace,” including my favorite verse—

The Lord has promised good to me,
His Word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures.

Her son and grandsons carefully lower the box into the grave, committing her now-discarded body to the earth from which it came. Then, as a granddaughter plays hymns on the violin, her grandsons, all young and strong–fine men–make short work of shoveling the displaced red South Carolina clay over the coffin, then cover the pile with topsoil and pine straw, her granddaughters adding greenery as a silent testimony that death is defeated and life continues.

It is. And it does.

So we continue, living and loving here while keeping our focus on the blessed hope and the restitution of all things.

Even so.

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