Late that night there was a knock at Jerry’s door. On the other side – cue the celestial music – stood graduate student Christine Holmgren, all Minnesota-Swedish-knock-out-good-looks of her. Straw-colored hair framed her porcelain face with arctic blue eyes. From her pouting lips to her manna from heaven breasts to her Grand Prix curves, she presented an impossible distraction from the spiritual pursuit.

“Hello, famous writer,” she said with a delicious smile. “Can you let a small town girl into your room?”

He opened wide the door, brushed aside some stray album jackets and offered his bed.

Christine hopped on and leaned against the wall.

“I’m going to let you in on a secret,” she said. “But I’m not kidding, it’s a secret and you can’t tell anybody. Do you swear?”

He nodded.

“I’m part of a group of students here called Voices in the Wilderness,” she continued. “We’re going after McCord. He exudes first world entitlement. Hitting him is where we can make our strongest statement.”

She reminded Jerry of Barbara back in Tenafly. Maybe Barbara was Swedish too.

“Monday morning during McCord’s usual chapel homily, we’re going to hijack the service. We’re going to remove him from the pulpit and call a moratorium. Then we’ll hold forums to draft a student bill of rights and create a student union. No cooperation, no tuition money. Hit them where it hurts. We figure classes will be stopped for about a month.”

“Wow,” Jerry said. The prospect was at once thrilling and frightening.

“The disenfranchised of the world must know they have a voice on our seminary campus. That’s where you come in, Jerry. You will be our media relations person. Get them to cover this. Will you do that?” she asked with an insouciant smile as if offering a slice of apple pie.

Jerry recalled Dr. Byers’ warning. This could mean expulsion. And what would his father think of that? On the other hand, if not now, when?

“Yes.”

“We are going to fuck them good,” she said as she jumped off the bed.

“Uhhhh, sure,” Jerry joined in. 

“See you in the morning,” she said with a wink.

***

Monday morning arrived raw and misting. Jerry poked his head into the chapel and released his held breath. In the last pew was a man wearing a trench coat, small pad in hand. His phone call to The New York Times worked. 

The student congregation launched into “A Mighty Fortress is Our God” like a football pep squad singing their team song. President McCord assumed the pulpit and began to speak. “Let us worship God. Our help is in the name of the Lord who made heaven and earth…” 

“Stop!” shouted doctoral student Gary Halstrom as he marched up the center aisle. He ascended the chancel stairs and huddled with McCord, his hands chopping the air. McCord glared down the aisle as ten more students marched forward. 

“We have a special event this morning,” said President McCord not missing a beat, as if this had been the plan all along. He exited off the side. 

A pregnant silence hung heavy in the air. Those in the pews collectively held their breath, anticipating police sirens any second, which would be their cue to cheese it.

Gary occupied the pulpit. “Relax. I’m unarmed,” he joked, and no one laughed. “Professor Shaull, please come forward.”

OK, now we’re in for it, Jerry thought, perched in the front row balcony. Dr. Shaull was the token radical on campus. This place is gonna burn. 

Professor Shaull did not ascend the pulpit; he did not step up to the chancel; instead he stayed level with the congregation.

Hands at his side, he started conversationally. “Not long ago I stood before a congregation in Nicaragua. It was my last sermon. I had been detained, questioned and ordered to leave the country within the week or I would be imprisoned. 

“Why was I deported? Because I spoke truth to the people; because I incited the people to fight for what was right. We forget how Jesus was a zealot sowing seeds of revolution, reminding the disenfranchised they had a right to be heard, overthrowing the money collectors’ tables in the temple and lambasting the rich.

“My friends we have become much too comfortable. Living in this privileged town makes it hard to hear the cries from Newark.

His voice rose. “Princeton Theological Seminary, is this a bastions of free thinking? I think not.”

Jerry surveyed the group below. Nobody moved, as if a grizzly had entered and if they played dead, he would just lumber on.

 “This institution, and you by association, is a minion of the military industrial complex.

“Nation states have neutered Christianity. Jesus’ message is political; it does not support military industrial complex. We must not placate the CEOs that line our pews with their Armani suits. Forgiveness of sin on Sunday does not rectify board room decisions on Monday. Serve Mammon or God; you cannot serve both.

“What does it mean to be a Christian institution? It is time for all of us to reflect on this question so that Princeton seminary walks its talk.” 

Ok, Jerry noticed a few nods there.

“Will you walk with me so this institution truly shines as a light on a hill?” 

Silence.

“I said, will you walk with me so this institution truly shines as a light on a hill?”

The students were in uncharted waters. The orientation handbook did not cover insurrection.

Jerry clapped, and that’s all it took to light the fire. Applause filled the chapel as they all rose to their feet. Not just polite applause, no, this was downright thunderous. The excitement was palpable. 

Jerry welcomed this upheaval with open arms. It validated his own inner turmoil. He was not alone! Truly there was a disconnect between message and practice.

That night, he helped deliver the first edition of an underground newspaper, Voices in the Wilderness. He along with others slid copies under students’ doors.

Although classes were not cancelled, workshops convened; panels debated; committees formed. Resolutions were drafted and petitions circulated.