

JB 

The Autobiography 
of a Twentieth Century 
Mennonite Pilgrim 


Copyright © 1995 by the Center for Mennonite Brethren Studies, Fresno, 
California 

All rights reserved. With the exception of brief excerpts for reviews, no part of 
this book may be reproduced without written permission of the publisher. 

Cover and book design by Gail Enns, Fresno, California 

Printed by Dumont Printing, Fresno, California 

ISBN: 1-877941-04-2 


JB 

The Autobiography 
of a Twentieth Century 
Mennonite Pilgrim 


J.B. Toews 


Center for Mennonite Brethren Studies 
Fresno, California 


Table of Contents 

Foreword vii 

Preface ix 

1 In the Beginning 1 

2 First Steps 5 

3 Growing Up 12 

4 Spiritual Stirrings 20 

5 College. . .And More! 34 

6 Dutch Interlude 46 

7 Starting Over 52 

8 A Student at Tabor 64 

9 Struggling to Obey 74 

10 Back in Coaldale 85 

1 1 Bethany Bible Institute 95 

12 Rest and Redirection 105 

13 The Buhler Ministiy 116 

14 The Winnipeg Chapter 128 

15 Back to the Pastorate 140 

16 A Decade in Missions 159 

17 The Seminary Presidency 166 

18 A Continued Ministry 181 

19 A Conference Servant 186 

20 In the Shadow of Death 193 

21 A Return Home 199 

22 Epilogue 205 

Endnotes 208 


Foreword 


At Mennonite Brethren conferences, J.B. Toews had a knack for be- 
ing the last person to speak on an issue. Some of us wondered: was it 
exquisite timing that gave him the final word at the microphone? Or was it 
just that after he had spoken there was nothing left to say? 

This book may be JB’s “last word” to his beloved church. In the first 
instance it is a personal testimony, a memoir of his life. But it is more than 
that. It is a particular kind of life, a life lived as a Mennonite Brethren. 

I first met JB in 1964 when I was a college student in Fresno and he 
was president of the seminary next door. He clasped my hand warmly and 
proceeded to ask about my home, my church, my lineage. “So you’re the 
grandson of....” I didn’t know it then, but this was not mere chit-chat; what 
we were doing was laying out the relational coordinates. A sense of his- 
tory was being invoked. 

Two decades later I had the good fortune to occupy an office next to 
JB. At the end of a day he would linger at the door and muse about some 
issue of concern in the Mennonite Brethren Church. I looked forward to 
these daily benedictions. A comment I heard often was, “A church that 
forgets the past cannot understand the present and lacks direction for the 
future.” 

In this volume, a companion to his earlier book, A Pilgrimage of Faith, 
JB’s life is a lens that projects a fresh view of our Mennonite Brethren past. 
The book purports to be autobiography, but JB’s passion for the church is 
so all-consuming that the lines between denominational and personal his- 
tory are not always sharp. 

Early in his life JB felt called to serve God through the Mennonite 
Brethren Church, and for six decades he followed that call with unflagging 
zeal. Little was allowed to get in his way: not comfort, not profit, not even 
family. You won’t see JB bouncing his boys on his knee. You won’t read 
much about family outings to the beach. You won’t learn about his favor- 
ite foods or what he likes to do on a day off. But you will read about a 
tireless pursuit to build the Mennonite Brethren Church. 

No one of our generation has experienced JB’s measure of Menno- 
nite Brethren history. He is the last of those who overlapped with the first 
generation of our fellowship. He has presided over and helped shape our 
collective experience through most of this century. In some ways he is 


Mennonite Brethren history. His life, spent in devotion to the church, is a 
microcosm of the swirling changes that have buffeted and burnished our 
pilgrimage together. 

Today, JB is slowing down, no surprise for someone who is nearing 
ninety. But his vision for the church remains keen. As you’ll see here, he 
remains a caretaker of our heritage and a critic of our vagrant spirit. 

About the title: The shorthand of initials was common in earlier times 
when biblical names like Abraham, Jacob, John and Peter would cover 
most of the men in a Russian Mennonite village. Initials like AH, BB, JJ, JA, 
and HH were a kind of conference code that brought instant recognition. 

J.B. Toews is one of those. Throughout the Mennonite Brethren Con- 
ference he is affectionately known as, simply, JB. There’s no confusing 
him with anyone else because he’s one of a kind. 

We’ll never see another JB 


Wally Kroeker 
Winnipeg, Manitoba 


Preface 


T he twentieth century has been described as a time of 
“breakneck changes.” It has been “the most troubled, un- 
settling, costly, adventurous and surprising time ever. 
More has changed and faster, more has been destroyed, more 
accomplished than in any comparable interval in five thousand years since 
recorded history.” 1 The story of this book reflects events and experiences 
of just one life in the context of this turbulent and most progressive cen- 
tury of history. 

It is a personal story. It spans two world wars, breathtaking scientific 
breakthroughs, clashes of world views and political struggles ending in 
the searching question: What next? 

My story is but a glimpse of the sovereign providence of God re- 
vealed in the life of an individual. It is a testimony to the faithfulness of 
God in the various circumstances of an exiting journey so well expressed 
in the testimony of Moses at the end of his life’s journey: “I proclaim the 
name of the Lord; ascribe greatness to our God. He is a rock, his work is 
perfect; for all his ways are justice, a God of truth and without injustice; 
righteous and upright is he” (Deut. 32:3-4). 

The story reflects human weakness and imperfections in the context 
of God’s provision of love, grace, patience and long-suffering. It is a record 
of memory substantiated by many of my contemporaries who were con- 
sulted in the process of writing the story. 

The publication of the book is made possible through the kind and 
capable assistance of several individuals. Wally Kroeker, a long and dear 
friend edited the manuscript. Paul Toews and Kevin Enns-Rempel of the 
Center for Mennonite Brethren Studies carried it through the process of 
publication. Laurene Peters, in a spirit of service, has again typed and re- 
typed the manuscript. I am indebted to all who contributed to the publica- 
tion of this autobiography. 


CHAPTER 1 


1 


In the Beginning 


W here does one begin the story of a life? With the first drawn 
breath, the earliest flicker of consciousness? With parents, grand 
parents and distant ancestors? We — you and I — are products of 
so much that has gone before us. We are shaped by our genes and envi- 
ronments; by our struggles with events and circumstances. 

Now, in the late evening of my life, I am more convinced than ever 
that our human search to understand the mysteries of existence, the uni- 
verse, and our place within it, leaves us groping in darkness unless we 
accept the most basic of formulations — ”In the beginning God ...” (Gen. 
1:1). There is no other key to unlock the secret of being. John, the author 
of the Gospel, reflects on this mystery when he writes, “In the beginning 
was the Word . . . and the Word was God. He was with God in the begin- 
ning. Through him all things were made. ... In him was life, and that life 
was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness 
has not understood it” (John 1:1-5 NIV). 

Our personal stories cannot be detached from the eternal “In the be- 
ginning.” Psalm 22 says, “Yet you brought me out of the womb; you made 
me trust in you even at my mother’s breast. From birth I was cast upon 
you; from my mother’s womb you have been my God” (w. 9-10). My 
story is part of a larger panorama in which God is the beginning and the 
end, the first and the last. 

The landscape of my own story gained texture and definition from 
the sixteenth-century Reformation, particularly the birth of the Anabaptist 
movement. That cataclysmic event, distant as it seems, informed and shaped 
my pilgrimage in a decisive way. 

Though I only recognized it at the age of thirty-six, my spiritual heri- 
tage is that of the Anabaptist movement, which spread like a prairie grassfire 
through Switzerland, Germany, Austria and the Netherlands. The story of 
the Dutch wing of the Anabaptists — the Mennonites — is my story. Their 
landscape, like mine, is one of spiritual mountaintops of joy and devoted 
witness to the Christ who redeemed us. It is also a landscape of ravines 
and valleys, the kind that prompted this blunt message to the early church 


2 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


at the close of the first century: “You have forsaken your first love. ... I 
know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. . . . You say, 'I am 
rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing.’ But you do not 
realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked” (Rev. 2:4; 
3:15-17). 

From the outset the Anabaptists, also called Mennonites after their 
Dutch leader Menno Simons, sought to be people of unflagging faithful- 
ness to Jesus Christ. Martin Luther’s main emphasis on justification by faith 
was not sufficient for them. They clung to a more rigorous definition of 
salvation by grace which is expressed in Menno Simons’ legendary decla- 
ration: 

For true evangelical faith is of such a nature that it cannot 
lie dormant, but manifests itself in all righteousness and works 
of love; it dies unto the flesh and blood; it destroys all forbidden 
lusts and desires; it seeks and serves and fears God; it clothes 
the naked; it feeds the hungry; it comforts the sorrowful; it shelters 
the destitute; it aids and consoles the sad; it returns good for 
evil; it serves those that harm it; it prays for those that persecute 
it; teaches, admonishes, and reproves with the Word of the Lord; 
it seeks that which is lost; it binds up that which is wounded; it 
heals that which is diseased and it saves that which is sound; it 
has become all things to all men. The persecution, suffering, 
and anguish which befalls it for the sake of the truth of the Lord 
is to it a glorious joy and consolation. 

All those who have such a faith, a faith that yearns to walk 
in the commandments of the Lord, to do the will of the Lord; 
these press on to all righteousness, love, and obedience. These 
prove that the Word and will of our beloved Lord Jesus Christ is 
true wisdom, truth, and love, is unchangeable and immutable 
until Christ Jesus shall come again in the clouds of heaven at the 
judgment day. These will not make light of God’s Word as does 
the ignorant world, saying, What good can water do me? But 
they diligently try to obey the Word of Christ in every particular, 
even if it leads to death for the body. 2 

Adhering to this vision brought them heart-rending persecution, well 
described in the Martyrs Mirror} They became pilgrims and strangers, 
scattering throughout Europe in their search for religious tolerance. A group 


In the Beginning 


3 


of Dutch Anabaptists found their haven of safety in the Vistula Delta of 
present-day Poland, where they settled for more than two centuries. They 
were joined by small groups of believers from Moravia, Bohemia and Aus- 
tria. Their competence as tillers and tamers of land gained them a degree 
of acceptance. 

In time their life became too comfortable, their faith a mere tradition. 
They ceased to be a pilgrim people “in the world but not of the world.” 
When government restrictions again threatened their earthly well-being, 
they began to cast about for greener pastures. 

These they found, for a time, in the wide-open grasslands of South 
Russia. The promise of religious freedom, economic opportunity and con- 
tinued cultural isolation provided unprecedented possibilities to develop 
large colonies and fashion a “Mennonite paradise.” Despite difficult be- 
ginnings, the region prospered and became known as the breadbasket of 
the world. By the mid-nineteenth century it was the showcase of the Rus- 
sian Empire in agriculture and industry. 

As so often happens, material success took its toll. The climate of 
comfort and economic prosperity sapped their spiritual vitality. This had 
already begun to happen during their years in the Vistula-Nogat Delta. In 
the Mennonite colonies of Russia, things only got worse. Mennonite iden- 
tity became a matter of ethnicity, not vibrant faith. Simply being born a 
Mennonite entitled one to church membership, not to mention the privi- 
leges guaranteed by Russian law. Faith had been domesticated and accul- 
turated. 

The faithfulness of God in sending renewal through the work of the 
Holy Spirit did not bypass the Mennonite colonies in South Russia. Seeds 
of renewal were planted in the early nineteenth century. Spiritual hunger 
grew, and was nourished through Bible study groups, the influence of 
western Pietism and various literary and educational programs. One ex- 
pression of this earnest searching for new life was the birth of the Menno- 
nite Brethren Church. 

The secession document signed by eighteen heads of households on 
January 6, I860 was sincere in its motive but not without fault in its con- 
tent. 4 The fissure between the fledgling new group and the mother church 
widened. Rejection and persecution ensued. Yet the new movement, a 
decisive response to a long-brewing spiritual crisis, survived. 

The new church was still young when, in 1878, my father, John A. 
Toews, son of Aron A. and Justina Toews, was born in the village of 


4 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


Alexanderkrone, of Molotschna. The spirit of intolerance had not yet van- 
ished when he, twenty years later, became a teacher in the village of 
Neukirch. He would never forget the rejection he experienced from oth- 
ers when, after years of struggle in his teens, he found new life through the 
efficacy of the cross. To profess assurance of personal salvation was no 
small test for a young teacher struggling for acceptance in the village, since 
other who had made similar professions had been removed from their 
positions. 

Such was the milieu into which I was born. 


CHAPTER 2 


5 


First Steps 


I n Neukirch, at the age of twenty, my father found the sweetheart of his 
youth. She was Liese Janzen, an orphan girl reared in the home of her 
uncle, Peter Warkentin. 

My father’s autobiography records five years of happy marriage. They 
were blessed with three children, Aron, Liese and Justa. Their move from 
Neukirch to Alexandertal, where there was a Mennonite Brethren fellow- 
ship, added to their spiritual enrichment. 

But the joy of their marriage was short-lived. On April 9, 1903 the 
young mother and dearly beloved wife of my father died after a brief bout 
with tuberculosis. 

In the midst of his shattering grief, a new and unexpected dimension 
surfaced. Leaders of the Mennonite Brethren Church had carefully ob- 
served the young teacher from Neukirch- Alexandertal. They were im- 
pressed by his consistent Christian testimony and his evident gifts of 
leadership and teaching. In keeping with Mennonite Brethren practice, 
they called to him to accept affirmation as a minister of the gospel. He was 
ordained that spring on Pentecost day. 

Margaretha Janz, a young woman from Konteniusfeld, was aware of 
the teacher from Alexandertal. He had visited the Mennonite Brethren 
Church in the adjoining village of Sparrau. She had heard him preach and 
had been impressed with the sincerity of his message. The news of his 
wife’s passing was known throughout the colony. Margaretha, then twenty- 
two, felt a special burden for the three children who had been left without 
a mother. She wondered if it should be her task to respond to their need. 

A fellow minister in Konteniusfeld, Klass Enns, felt led to suggest that 
the widowed teacher consider Margaretha Janz as a possible replacement 
for his loss. After much prayer he agreed and on September 28, 1903 my 
father married for the second time. Margaretha Janz became the mother of 
the three youngsters and the wife of the teacher in Alexandertal. 

There had been no courtship. She did not experience the romance 
of youthful love. Her marriage, according to her own testimony, was an 
act of obedience to a call that had come to her on the day of the children’s 


6 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


mother’s funeral. Aron, Liese and Justa and a lonely husband, became her 
family. Within a year, on July 26, 1904, she became the mother of her own 
first child, a daughter named Lenchen (Helen). Two years later I was born. 

My life began in 1906 as the fifth child in the family. My mother told 
me later that my beginning was clouded with difficulty. A few days after 
birth my body broke out in a rash that soon developed into festering sores. 
My tiny body was kept in a large cloth because I couldn’t be handled with- 
out touching the sores. My condition became so critical that my parents 
prayed that God might relieve my suffering by taking me to himself. 

But I was destined to live. After weeks of agony, healing began. The 
nightmare was over, though its scars would continue to haunt my early 
childhood. 

Hardship and premature death were frequent visitors in those days. 
My first conscious memory was the funeral of my baby sister, Mariechen, 
who was born in 1908 and died at the age of two. Her funeral procession 
and burial registered on my four-year-old memory. I have no recollection, 
however, of the death of my half-sister, Justa, a year earlier. 

Life in the Village 

Alexandertal, the place of my birth and childhood years, was one of 
the sixty villages of the Molotschna Colony in South Russia. The popula- 
tion consisted of eighteen family units known as full farmers, owners of 
175 acres of land, and eleven smaller farms with 82 acres. The support 
population for the village included a school teacher, a storekeeper, the 
blacksmith, the owners of a large three-story flour mill with its employees, 
a windmill owner, a shoemaker, a tailor, carpenters, farm workers, house 
servants and the night watchman. The landless lived in smaller houses on 
the outskirts of the village. 

The main street of the village ran east to west, parallel to a small tree- 
lined river named Tschekrak, a tributary of the Yushanlee, which in turn 
was a major tributary of the Molotschna River. Several other villages dot- 
ted the same stream: Schardau, Pordenau and Mariental to the east; 
Elisabethtal and Steinbach to the west. Looking south, across the primitive 
bridge that spanned the river, one could see a beautiful rolling meadow 
that every spring would erupt with wild flowers. 

A tree plantation at the west end of the village marked the border 
between Alexandertal and Elisabethtal, the birthplace of the Mennonite 


First Steps 


7 


Brethren Church in I860. To the south of the plantation in the middle of a 
large meadow was a lake, formed by a dam across the Tschekrak River, 
which served as a watering place for village cattle as well as a swimming 
pool and baptismal site. 

The main street was lined on both sides by neatly kept farm yards. 
The houses differed from each other mainly in size. A corridor led from 
the house into the attached barn for cattle and horses. A large shed at- 
tached to the barn in an L shape provided room for implements and wag- 
ons, as well as storage for feed, hay and grain. 

Each farm maintained a large orchard with abundant varieties of fruit: 
apples, pears, plums and several kinds of berries. Behind each farmstead 
was a spacious garden full of vegetables for family and servants. My father 
owned a “half’ farmstead, across the street from the school, which he pur- 
chased through an inheritance from his first wife’s family. 

The school, a landmark in the middle of the village, was a big, impos- 
ing building with a large classroom to the west and the living quarters for 
the teacher and his family to the east. The complex included a barn with 
stalls for three cows, two horses, a pen for calves or sheep, a large feed 
storage room with a hayloft and a shed to house additional hay, a pig pen 
and room for a wagon. A second house provided storage for school equip- 
ment, an outside kitchen and a small jail. 

Like the farmsteads, the teacherage had a lush orchard and vegetable 
garden of sufficient size to meet our family’s food needs. I have especially 
fond memories of two great walnut trees in the orchard, which provided 
shade to play and branches to build treehouses. 

In the middle of the spacious schoolyard was the well, eighty-five 
feet deep. Water for our family and for the students and cattle was pulled 
up in a bucket with a long rope on a winch. The village government 
was formed by the landowners. Those owning 175 acres had one vote; 
those with only 82 acres had half a vote. Those who owned no land had 
no vote. 

The mayor was elected for a three-year term. He, together with the 
assistant mayor and secretary, composed the executive body responsible 
for all affairs related to village life. The village council, consisting of all 
voting members of the village, met periodically as circumstances required. 

Everyone in the village, except farmhands and house servants, was 
known by their first name. Strangers were easily recognized. Keeping 


8 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


order in the community was in the hands of assigned overseers chosen 
from the landowners. Those who broke village rules faced the discipline 
of a leather strap administered in the village office. 

Each farm had men and women servants from the Russian villages. 
Some of them came long distances to find work in the Mennonite colonies. 
Like many homes, we had a housemaid to handle much of the washing, 
ironing, cleaning, gardening, milking, butter-making, dishwashing and food 
preparation. In summer, when school was out, we also had a second maid, 
usually a teenage or elderly woman, to serve as a nanny for the children. 
The men servants looked after chores related to horses, cattle, milk cows, 
sheep and general farm maintenance. During spring and summer many 
farmers had two farmhands to help them and their own grown boys with 
the heavy fieldwork of tilling, seeding, planting, weeding and harvesting. 

Servants’ wages were low. I remember one nanny, a teenager, who 
looked after us one summer. Her wages for the four summer months were 
two dresses that mother bought for her and five rubles per month, plus 
meals. The men servants slept in a small room at the entrance to the barn, 
next to the corridor connecting the house with the barn. The women ser- 
vants slept in the kitchen. 

The village servants constituted a social unit of their own. On Sun- 
days and holidays they would congregate where they could — in one of 
the larger barns, among the trees of the plantation or simply on the street. 
They had little or no access to the living quarters of the family during lei- 
sure hours. 

Many servants felt keenly their “have-not” status, and this would come 
back to haunt the Mennonites. Some of the men servants who felt they 
had been mistreated later joined the revolutionary army and returned to 
their former places of work with a spirit of revenge. 

School Days 

The school classroom was governed by strict rules. Speaking to a 
classmate, even in a whisper, during instruction time was forbidden. Vio- 
lators had to stand in a corner facing the wall. Repeat offenses brought 
corporal punishment with a rod or a strap. Conformity to rules in school 
as well as in the wider community was strictly enforced. 


First Steps 


9 


The Alexandertal school was home for my entire youth. During my 
first fourteen years we lived in the school house; for the next six we lived 
on a farmyard across the street. 

My earliest playmates were Jacob Wall and Hans Suderman. Born 
within a week of me, they were our immediate neighbors at the Alexandertal 
school, Jacob to the east and Hans to the west. We spent many hours to- 
gether playing (and, as youngsters do, quarrelling) in the schoolyard sand- 
box. To minimize tension during the week (as a minister he was gone 
most weekends) my father would keep me in the classroom while he taught. 
So even at the age of four and five I would spend the better part of the 
school day in the class drawing pictures and observing the process of el- 
ementary education. I became a student before my time. At the age of six 
I joined the first year’s students. 

Our family, meanwhile, was growing. Lydia came along in 1911 and 
Jacob in 1914. We employed a Russian nanny to help my mother with the 
endless family demands. She became our chaperon, responsible for all of 
us children. 

Jacob Wall and Hans Suderman were major factors in my develop- 
ment. Jacob, a husky boy much taller and stronger than me, and Hans, 
superior in wit, kept me continually aware of my feelings of inferiority. 
Being smaller, I was always out-maneuvered in the competitions so typical 
of early childhood. 

The Wall and Suderman families each owned 175 acres of land. Mr. 
Wall served as the village mayor and so the village office was in their home. 
Jacob, as one of the younger children, enjoyed privileges that I had to 
forego. His father frequently took him along when he went to the district 
meetings in Gnadenfeld. Such opportunities were important. 

Mr. Suderman had a crippled left leg and walked with a crutch. A 
very talkative man, he frequently came over to regale us with endless sto- 
ries about his children, horses, cows and dogs. My father would often fall 
asleep from boredom. 

Summers with Grandparents 

When school was out my father would spend the summer months 
travelling as an itinerant minister to the Mennonite colonies scattered 
throughout the Russian empire. To make things easier around home dur- 
ing his absence, I was sent to my grandparents, Benjamin and Helena Janz 


10 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


in Konteniusfeld. My grandfather, a miller, landowner and beekeeper by 
occupation, had plenty of activities to harness my restless spirit. I spent 
my summers with them from the time I was seven until I was fourteen. 

Grandfather Janz had come to Russia from the Vistula Delta as a teen- 
ager. His speech, mostly Low German with a strong Polish-German ac- 
cent, was mild and relaxed. Even when upset he remained calm, but very 
specific in his orders. He would give me low-key instructions to stay awake 
when assigned to watch the bees in the swarming season, but if he found 
me asleep, sitting in the hot summer sun, I would have a painful awaken- 
ing. 

Very kind by nature and emotionally soft, he would often be moved 
to tears during the Sunday sermon. He was known throughout the village 
for his kindness. Many of the landless poor of the village would come to 
him when in need. I often saw him give flour to a needy mother, or feed 
grain to a poor neighbor to fatten the family’s hog before slaughter. It was 
the generosity of Grandpa Janz that kept our family from starving during 
the famine of 1921-1922. 

Grandma Janz was a good complement to her easygoing husband. 
Many of her family, the Penners, had migrated to the United States when 
she was a teenager. She and Grandpa had fallen deeply in love and her 
devotion to her husband-to-be was stronger than her own family ties. She 
was a strong, independent woman who basically “ran the family ship.” 
With very few words and never in anger, she communicated the policies of 
the home. When I would go out to play with the neighbor children she 
would frequently remind me: “Hans, never forget that you are the son of a 
minister. You cannot bring shame upon your family; behave properly.” I 
chafed under these continuous admonitions. Why did I need to be differ- 
ent from other children? 

While I spent many summers with my Janz grandparents, I spent little 
time with my other grandparents, Aron and Justina Toews of 
Alexanderkrone. I did not learn to know them intimately. I remember 
Grandpa Toews as a very quiet man. He was highly regarded locally, hav- 
ing various responsibilities with the village government. I was impressed 
by his beautiful horses. He took great pride in having a meticulous farm- 
stead and the best horses in the villages of Lichtfelde, Alexanderkrone, 
Kleefeld and Friedensruh. I was also impressed by his large orchard on 
the banks of the Yushanlee River. Whenever we visited Grandpa and 
Grandma Toews we could count on abundant fruit of various kinds. 


First Steps 


11 


Grandmother Justina Reimer Toews was a very tender person. She, 
too, was a woman of few words, but very effectual. As a youngster of four 
or five I would love to sit on her lap. She would cuddle me and put cook- 
ies in my pocket when we were ready to leave for home. 

My most vivid images of the few family gatherings I remember in 
Alexanderkrone are of my father’s youngest brother, Peter. He would gather 
all the nephews and nieces under a big tree behind my grandparents’ house 
and entertain us. He would perform baffling tricks with hands and yarn, 
and tell fascinating jokes and fables. Sometimes he’d play ball with us. 
Whenever we visited Grandpa and Grandma Toews Uncle Peter was the 
focus. 

Unforgettable, too, was the death of Uncle Abram’s first wife. Uncle 
Abram had taken over Grandpa’s farm, and his family lived on the same 
yard as my grandparents. His wife died in childbirth and left two orphan 
girls behind. I recall standing at her coffin and seeing the baby, who also 
died in the birth struggle, in her arms. This is the second funeral I remem- 
ber from my early childhood. The first was that of my baby sister, Marichen. 


CHAPTER 3 


Growing Up 


A very trying chapter of my childhood opened in July 1914, the be- 
ginning of World War I. Father, a teacher and minister, hoped to be 
exempted from the general military mobilization. In October all 
exemptions were canceled. All men from the ages of twenty-one to forty 
were called for induction. Our family was no exception. 

I have indelible memories of the October night when Father bowed 
over the cradle to kiss the sleeping baby Jacob. Shaking with emotion he 
embraced each of us, than sobbed as he put his arms around Mother. Who 
knew what the future would bring? Deep loneliness came over us as he 
and the other men from our village were taken away in the middle of the 
night. 

Aron, fifteen, the oldest of the family, was in his third year of high 
school ( Ha ndels-sch ule) in Alexanderkrone, the village of my father’s birth. 
Grandpa and Grandma Toews gave him a home away from home. His 
brilliance, perception and deportment put him ahead of all his classmates, 
and he completed high school at age sixteen. In Father’s absence we were 
deeply concerned for Aron’s future. 

The wealthy Johan Federau family of Halbstadt learned of this ex- 
ceptional student. Needing a companion for their son Jacob, who was the 
same age, they offered Aron a home a full scholarship to attend college 
( commerz-schule ) in Halbstadt. What a provision of God in a time of war! 

My father spent three years in Moscow as a chaplain to the thousands 
of Mennonite young men who served under the Red Cross, caring for the 
wounded brought in by special trains from the battlefields. 

During these three years we saw my father only twice when he came 
home on two-week furloughs. My mother found it taxing to have com- 
plete responsibility for the family, two boys and three girls. Liese, the 
oldest daughter in her early teens, and Helen, who was ten, took charge of 
the younger siblings and the household demands. The separation from 
Father affected Mother’s health. She developed a critical eye disease. For 
weeks we children were alone while Mother was in Berdyansk, a city on 
the Azov sea, to get help from an eye specialist. I remember her sitting for 


Growing Up 


13 


weeks and months in a darkened room to avoid the light which increased 
the pain. 

During this time I developed deep feelings of insecurity as a result of 
Mother’s prolonged suffering, the absence of my father and the necessity 
of spending summers with my grandparents in Konteniusfeld. I found 
myself afflicted with a nervous condition that expressed itself in twitchings 
in my face, shoulders and arms. My walk became unsteady. All efforts to 
get medical help failed. My peers in school and church rejected me. I 
became a very lonely boy at the ages of nine, ten and eleven. 

My health problems did not affect my academic work in school, how- 
ever. I surpassed Hans Suderman and Jacob Wall in my grade three, four 
and five standing. Meanwhile, my older sisters Liese and Helen dropped 
out of school after finishing their fifth grade to help care of the family and 
ease the pressure on our ailing mother. 

The Family Reunited 

Father’s return from Moscow in 1917, when I was eleven, marked a 
significant shift in my development. The social isolation because of my 
twitching problem had left me very lonely. Father’s return to the classroom 
for the last year in grade school boosted my depressed self-image. 

As a boy, I yearned to have a horse of my own, since horse racing 
was a popular village sport in springtime. Without my parents’ permis- 
sion, I frequently went to nearby farms where Russian farmhands, without 
the knowledge of the owners, let me ride the horses. These often were the 
young horses that were not yet trained. Other boys were afraid to ride the 
untrained horses, so here was my chance to regain some self-esteem. Tak- 
ing daring chances made me feel like a hero. Frequently I was thrown off 
and sustained bruises, but no broken bones. The danger didn’t matter: I 
could do what other boys did not dare to do! 

Somehow Mother learned of these boyish pranks, and was not 
pleased. Doctors had prescribed rest, as excitement always increased my 
twitching and brought on insomnia. The punishment, accompanied by 
Mother’s tears and prayers, had no effect on my behavior. I needed a way 
to excel and compensate for my feelings of social inferiority. After years of 
being the smallest in my age group, unable to compete with my peers, 
these dangerous exploits on frisky untrained horses became my way of 
balancing the scales. 


14 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


It was a great day then, when Father finally recognized my need and 
consented to buy a horse. Abram Dueck, in the village of Elisabethtal, had 
a bay mare known for her speed in competition. What a day when the bay 
mare was brought home! I fed her very carefully, only oats and hay to 
keep her slender for racing. 

In spring I entered the village races and won repeatedly. What a great 
feeling for a boy of eleven! A year later the mare gave birth to a colt, a 
perfect picture of the Arabian stallion that had sired him. My excitement 
had no measure. Here I was, a freshman in high school; at the age of 
twelve, I was the proud owner of a fast mare and a beautiful Arabian colt 
named Major. 

Revolution and Anarchy 

The joy of our family solidarity was short-lived. The Russian Revolu- 
tion of 1917 dramatically changed the panorama of life. Central govern- 
ment control broke down, leaving only the provisional local government, 
and even that in a state of flux. The Russian peasants in the surrounding 
villages, with some noble exceptions, felt their day had finally come. Sol- 
diers by the thousands who had deserted from the military joined thou- 
sands of common villagers in a loosely organized movement. They poured 
into the colonies to target the wealthy landowners whom they had served 
as laborers. There was looting and killing as ravaging masses terrorized 
our villages. 

Only the arrival of German troops managed to stem the tide. From 
April 1918 until November 1918 these troops occupied our colonies and 
provided temporary order and security. Their arrival was marked with a 
special reception held in our village because of its central location. Gar- 
lands of flowers, carried by selected girls from several villages, were pre- 
sented to the commander of the troops. For the moment they were our 
saviors from the roving hordes of bandits who had plundered our homes 
and killed many people. 

The German occupation brought to the surface the divided loyalties 
of Mennonite and German colonists in the Ukraine and the Volga region. 
The presence and influence of the troops revived a sense of German pa- 
triotism that had been preserved in the system of education throughout 
the colonies over more than a hundred years. 


Growing Up 


15 


As a boy of twelve I was deeply impressed by the discipline and effi- 
ciency of the German army. I developed significant friendships with sol- 
diers stationed in our village. Their marksmanship, marching precision 
and patriotic faith in German superiority left a notable mark on me, so 
much so that I developed a degree of identification. 

I was in my last year of elementary school and prepared for the ex- 
amination. High school entrance requirements, based on the German model 
of education adopted from the beginning of the founding of the German 
colonies, were quite stringent. We had to pass three days of oral and writ- 
ten examinations before an examining board that did not include our own 
teacher. I passed with a superior grade and felt greatly encouraged. Dur- 
ing the same year a private high school was established in Alexandertal. 

My academic performance, along with the temporary stability of the 
brief German occupation and the return of my father, restored some of my 
personal equilibrium. My twitching and inward tension decreased. As an 
early teenager I recaptured status with my peers, felt less isolated and de- 
veloped more zest for life. 

Fighting Back 

During the German occupation the historic peace position of the 
Mennonites faced a critical test. Vivid memories of the recent wave of 
terror, accompanied by pressure from the German army, generated much 
debate about forming a Mennonite militia, known as the “ Selbstschutz!' 
(self-protection). Barely in my teens, I favored some form of self-defense. 
My concern was to protect my two sisters who in 1917, before the German 
occupation, had to hide in the hayloft to escape the ruthless rape that many 
young women experienced. I was ready to protect my own family even if 
it meant violating a cherished Mennonite principle. 

The German army withdrew. In no time an organized wave of terror- 
ism led by Nestor Makhno began to move into the colonies. 

The fledgling Mennonite militia was no match for the thousands of 
terrorists. We were helpless. My father and several church leaders called 
for an all-night prayer vigil to seek divine intervention. Never will I forget 
that sacred night. 

By mid-morning a detachment of five or six hundred men invaded 
our village. They looted homes and confiscated some horses, but no one 
was killed. That noon hour is forever etched in my memory. We as a 


16 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim, 


family were ready to eat dinner when a tall soldier with red hair approached 
the school house, strode in and commanded that no one move. With a 
sword in one hand and a pistol in the other he pushed Father against the 
wall and with a loud voice ordered: “Do not move if you want to live.” 

For twenty minutes he ransacked every closet and drawer in the house 
looking for valuables. He took Father’s watch, my parents’ wedding rings, 
some new cutlery and whatever money we had. When he finally left we 
remained paralyzed with shock. Would he return to harm us? Gradually 
our composure returned. 

By late afternoon the detachment was ready to move on. Before they 
left the commanding officer demanded to see the elders of the village. In 
a harsh voice he said: “We came here with orders to kill. Something in 
your village kept us from doing what we came for.” That evening the 
whole village gathered again in the church to acknowledge the divine in- 
tervention, the only explanation for the marauders’ change of plans. 

This event shattered my sympathy for the Selbstschutz. Though very 
young, I had gotten personally involved by standing watch during the night 
with a rifle. But the clear evidence of divine intervention led me to repent. 
I became committed to nonresistance and declared my change of position 
to the other members of the militia. This position would be severely tested 
as many of our people were subjected to the crudest atrocities. For the 
time I was able to stand by the principle of biblical nonresistance without 
processing its implications. I was troubled without end by the idea of the 
sovereignty of God in the midst of beastly human behavior. Only years 
later, in the context of biblical and political history, was I able to process 
my youthful decision “to be obedient to the teachings of Jesus,” as my 
father called it. 

Horse Thieves 

By early summer the White Army, loyal to the old regime, fought the 
revolutionary Red Army, forcing a temporary retreat. Major engagements 
of the civil war were fought in the villages of the Molotschna. The offen- 
sive of one army and the counter-offensive of the other lingered in our 
villages until late spring of 1921. Our area changed hands eighteen times. 
All food resources were devoured by the armies. They confiscated our 
cattle for meat. They took our horses, the only power for agriculture. 


Growing Up 


17 


It is difficult for me to describe my pain when a lieutenant walked 
into our barn, saw my bay mare, untied her and led her away to serve in 
the cavalry. I never saw the beautiful horse again. 

Her colt, however, nearing a year old, was left. He developed beau- 
tifully. To protect him from the eyes of the army I hid him in the hayshed 
behind a wall of straw bales. In the darkness of night I would lead him to 
the orchard behind the school to exercise. A black stallion, he was a pic- 
ture of beauty. When he was a year-and-a-half I started to ride him. One 
spring day when he was nearing his second birthday, there was a pro- 
longed calm in the villages with no military occupation. After surveying 
the surroundings to make sure there were no military scouts around, I 
decided to give Major some exercise. I chose a road through the forest on 
the south side of the neighboring villages of Schardau and Pordenau, in 
my judgment the safest road where I could ride without encountering any 
military outposts. 

My judgment was wrong. Out of the blue I heard a sharp call: “Stop.” 
Glancing to the right I saw three soldiers on horseback. “Stop or we will 
shoot,” was the command. There was no escape. I stopped. “Get off your 
horse,” they ordered. I couldn’t believe it; this was only a colt, too young 
for their purposes. The three soldiers had surrounded me. Again the com- 
mand, “Get off the horse.” I froze. There was no escape. 

One of the soldiers got off his horse to pull me off Major’s back. He 
and a second soldier took the saddle from one of their horses, an old brown 
gelding with crooked front legs, and put it on my beloved Major. Then 
they vanished into the forest. 

The center of my joy and excitement was lost. Stunned and devas- 
tated, I rode the old gelding back to the barn. 

Loss of A Brother 

My brother Aron, seven years my senior, was my idol. He completed 
pre-medical school in Halbstadt by the age of eighteen. His intellectual 
brilliance made it possible to complete a four-year program in two years 
and pass his entrance examination to the medical faculty at the University 
of Simferopol on the lower coast of the Crimea peninsula. The distinction 
of a governor’s gold medal as the outstanding student of the province helped 
pave the way to become the youngest student ever admitted to the medi- 
cal school. While in Halbstadt he had met Sara Dyck, a few years his 


18 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


senior, the daughter of a wealthy estate owner. They became engaged but 
agreed to postpone their marriage until he finished medical school. 

Aron’s scholastic distinction continued. At twenty-one he was 
awarded the doctor of medicine degree, the youngest in the history of the 
university. This was in December 1920. 

Our area was separated from the Crimea by the struggling armies of 
the revolutionary war. Sara, Aron’s fiancee, had gone to stay with her 
brother, also a medical doctor on one of the family estates in the Crimea. 
She and Aron were looking forward to be married. 

Aron planned to spend the Christmas vacation with Sara and her 
brother’s family on the estate. First, however, he decided to undergo mi- 
nor surgery to remove a festering sore from behind his right ear. With just 
a light bandage to cover the wound, he boarded a train on December 23 to 
travel to the Dyck estate. Underground spies of the Red Army had dyna- 
mited a bridge that the train needed to pass some twenty miles from his 
destination. Aron had no alternative but to walk the distance on foot fac- 
ing a sharp freezing wind. He reached the estate in the late evening hours. 

On Christmas Day he preached a message to the small congregation 
on the estate. That evening he developed a high fever. The diagnosis of 
Dr. Dyck, his brother-in-law to be, was serious blood poisoning. For po- 
litical reasons he could not be taken to the hospital, nor was medicine 
available to combat the infection. He died December 30 and was buried 
on January 2. 

Aron’s last letter to the family, dated December 20, 1920, reached us 
in mid-January. It described the surgery as follows: 

Six days ago I had surgery on my bone behind my right ear 
to remove a mastoid which was festering. They scraped the 
bone to remove the cause. The surgery was performed under 
anesthesia. I still go around with my head bandaged, because 
the wound is not completely healed. The surgery and 
hospitalization was given to me free, as a member of the staff. 

A letter from Sara, delivered around the same time by a soldier who 
had escaped and crossed battle-line, brought the message of Aron’s ill- 
ness. Only on February 1, again via a letter carried by a soldier from the 
battle-line, did we learn of Aron’s death. 


Growing Up 


19 


We were devastated by the news. Aron had been a hero to all of us. 
Only fourteen and still suffering from insecurity and twitching, I found the 
loss especially difficult. I resolved to take up the cause he had not been 
allowed to complete. I would become a medical doctor. 


CHAPTER 4 


Spiritual Stirrings 


D espite the devout atmosphere of our home, my father’s example 
of faith and the influence of the private high school, I was not 
known in the village for my piety. My pent-up energies found a 
release in playing pranks. Cats and dogs, for example, were not safe from 
me. Armed with a sling and smooth stones from the river, I was a deadly 
threat to them. 

Sometimes I set my sights on human prey. One of these was Mrs. 
Berg, wife of a major landowner in the village. She angered me by repeat- 
edly commenting negatively about my twitching. I thirsted for revenge. 
She frequently walked past the schoolhouse after visiting her mother who 
lived east of the school. I devised a plan. One section of sidewalk had a 
tree on one side and a thick hedge on the other. I tied one end of a long 
string to the tree and ran the rest of it across the sidewalk and through the 
hedge. Hiding behind the hedge in the dark I waited for Mrs. Berg. As she 
approached the string, I pulled it tight. She tripped and fell. Luckily she 
broke no bones. I had my revenge. 

These pranks were my way of acting out adolescent frustrations. By 
today’s standards I was not an evil child, but I was a loner who was haunted 
by a deep sense of sin and unworthiness, much of it instilled by my mother. 

Mother was the central force in our household. With Father gone so 
often, she was left in charge of rearing — and disciplining — the family. Even 
though she loved me, she considered me a problem child, and I found her 
disapproval a crushing burden to bear. From the ages of seven to thirteen 
I received many spankings, all preceded by intense admonition and prayer. 
Toward evening I would be overcome by guilt when our Russian maid, 
gesturing to the corner of the house where my mother customarily bal- 
anced the behavior account of her son, would say, “Well Hans, will you 
and Mother need to visit the large room behind the oven again?” In my 
own mind I had become a “bad boy,” and the pain of my low self-esteem 
ran deep. 

My father, on the other hand, was gentle and tolerant. When he re- 
turned from his travels his warmth and love would be like a balm to my 


Spiritual Stirrings 


21 


soul. But even his affirmation could not completely overcome my wounded 
self-image. 

Meanwhile, our lives were facing threats of a different sort. The months 
of military occupation, the lack of proper food and inadequate medical 
provisions led to a serious epidemic of typhoid. Many people in the vil- 
lage died, among them my childhood friend Jacob Wall. His death af- 
fected me deeply. I lost a dear pal who had befriended me more than 
other boys. 

Before long, however, I gained a new friend, somewhat older, who 
would become a pivotal influence in my life. He was David Reimer, son of 
the village blacksmith. A newly married young man, he took an interest in 
me in my early teens and guided me through my struggle with the social 
rejection I felt so keenly. 

He invited me to his home for conversation as we would watch his 
two children together. He made no mention of my twitching problems or 
my isolation from other youths of my age. His pleasant personality re- 
lieved some of the family and high school tensions I felt. His deep under- 
standing of the needs of a teenager gave me the confidence to share my 
struggles openly. Among other things, we discussed my relationships in 
the family. He pointed out how privileged I was to have a father who was 
so highly regarded for his exemplary devotion and lifestyle. I developed a 
sense of gratitude for what I had, for my performance in school, and for 
who I was as a person. 

Our relationship was such that I was able to discuss my sense of guilt 
for being the black sheep who had caused my mother much pain. I felt 
comfortable expressing these feelings to my new friend. David gently sug- 
gested that the change I needed could only come about if I closed the past 
in repentance and accepted forgiveness. On a Sunday afternoon under 
the shade trees of the church yard, he pointed me to Jesus as the Savior. I 
experienced a conversion. 

It was difficult to confess past wrongdoing to Mrs. Berg and several 
neighbors whose dogs and cats had been the target of my slingshot. But 
the humiliation was wholesome. 

I applied for baptism in the summer of 1920. Because of my past and 
my young age there was a long deliberation in the congregation. Had 
Hans Toews really been born again? Was he a new creature? Wasn’t he too 
young to be baptized? Adolf Reimer, who led the meeting, asked: “What 


22 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


will you do if the church says you are too young to be baptized?” I was 
ready with an answer: “Jesus tells me I must be baptized to tell all the 
people that I have become a follower of Christ. If the church says that I am 
too young, then they shall have to settle that with Jesus.” 

I was then asked to leave the meeting while my request was dis- 
cussed. Later I was told that Mr. Reimer had asked the congregation, “Who 
is willing to answer Jesus, who has told Hans to be baptized?” No one 
responded. Family and friends testified on my behalf, and an affirmative 
decision was reached. I was baptized at age fourteen, perhaps the young- 
est person in the Mennonite Brethren Church of that day. A new chapter 
in my pilgrimage had begun. 

A Caring Church 

As a youth I experienced the church as a very caring community. 
The congregation, aware of my background as a loner, gave me much 
attention. After baptism I received instruction concerning lifestyle. The 
church membership covenant was quite detailed. Many things, such as 
tobacco and alcohol, were directly forbidden. I was instructed to love and 
to live a simple and exemplary lifestyle. Older brethren often took me 
aside to encourage me in my Christian walk. I joined a Sunday school 
class for young people and took my place in the weekly Bible study groups. 

The church was concerned when I graduated from high school at 
age sixteen and prepared to enter college (Agroscbule). Several other young 
men from the community planned to attend the same school. Would we 
young believers maintain a faithful testimony? 

The church program provided many opportunities for young people 
to participate. I was sixteen when first asked to read Scripture and make 
comments as an introduction to the prayer meeting that preceded Sunday 
morning worship. 

Services often went into the afternoon because the membership of 
the Alexandertal church was scattered over several villages (Elisabethtal, 
Steinbach, Schardau, Pordenau, Mariental, Rudnerweide and Grossweide) 
and transportation depended on horse and buggy. 

The practice of church discipline touched me deeply. Every effort 
was made to maintain a strong testimony before the world. There were 
tears and sorrow when people were excommunicated. Simplicity of lifestyle 
was a major emphasis. 


Spiritual Stirrings 


23 


The revival meetings that became so prominent among North Ameri- 
can Mennonite Brethren were unknown in Russia. Instead we had regular 
Bible conferences known as Bibelbesprechungen. Church leaders would 
gather in a central location and prepare the schedule for all Mennonite 
Brethren churches in the Molotschna Colony — Rueckenau, Blumenort, 
Tiege, Waldheim, Sparrau, Alexandertal and Grossweide. Each church was 
assigned a portion of Scripture from the Gospels or the Epistles. The con- 
ferences lasted three or four days, including the weekends. People from 
neighboring churches would attend as possible, especially ministers, dea- 
cons and others carrying congregational responsibilities. Sessions were 
held mornings, afternoons and evenings. 

Each session began with hymns and prayer. The standing or kneel- 
ing congregation would pray for enlightenment and openness to accept 
the Word. One of the ministers would lead the study, providing an over- 
view of the entire passage under consideration and then leading verse-by- 
verse an exegetical study. The local ministers and those from other churches 
would join in the process of exposition. Sometimes the evening service 
would vary slightly, with one or two leading ministers expounding on a 
section of the passage selected for the occasion. 

Visitors from a distance were lodged in the homes of local church 
members. Where facilities were suitable the noon meal was provided at 
the church, mostly consisting of Zwieback, some meat and coffee. 

The Bibelbesprechungen were significant highlights in the life of the 
larger church. They provided understanding of biblical teaching and 
strengthened social and spiritual relationships in the church and in homes. 
Host congregations were often renewed with expressions of confession, 
repentance, cleansing, praise and rejoicing. 

As a young man in my late teens I witnessed evenings of confession 
and cleansing that lasted to the early mornings. In times when there were 
no conversions the question would be asked: “Is there something in the 
life of the church that is hindering the Holy Spirit from convicting sinners 
and bringing them to repentance?” Church purity was seen as a prerequi- 
site for an effective gospel witness. A popular passage was 1 Peter 4:17, 
“For it is time for judgment to begin with the family of God; and if it begins 
with us, what will the outcome for those who do not obey the gospel of 
God?” 


24 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim. 


Midweek meetings called Bibelstunden (Bible study hour) were a 
regular feature of local church life. Families took turns inviting the believ- 
ers of their village to their home, usually for 7:30 on Wednesday evening. 
Some leader, not necessarily the host of the house, would guide the study 
and discussion, much like today’s adult Sunday school classes. Typically 
the meeting concluded with participants kneeling for prayer. 

Sunday evenings were set aside for youth gatherings. Young people 
would meet in groups for singing and testimonies, and frequently also for 
confession and prayer. Teenagers were encouraged to sing in the church 
choir, or in a special youth choir. 

When I was eighteen years old some of the church leaders approached 
me about my potential for church ministry. Would I be willing to preach in 
a church service? I agreed, and a date was set for me to preach on a Sun- 
day morning when I would be home for a weekend from the university. 
My text was Ezekiel 18:23, “Have I any pleasure at all that the sinner should 
die? saith the Lord God: and not that he should return from his ways’ and 
live?” My sermon vividly depicted the lot of the sinner facing eternal death. 
Not everyone appreciated my message. A prominent man from the com- 
munity was so offended he walked out. 

The following weekend, when I was home again, David Doerksen, 
my former high school teacher, asked to go for a walk with me on Saturday 
evening. I knew what was coming. Kindly and lovingly he pointed out 
that my message had been too personal and negative. I had dwelt too 
heavily on the death of the sinner. Other men from the church also came 
to me with criticism. The admonitions were in order, but I did not respond 
well. It added to my resolve not to become a minister. 

Starvation and Death 

Two years of civil war had devastated the colonies. The southern 
part of the Molotschna had been affected more than the northern villages. 
The fall and winter of 1921 found us with insufficient food and clothing. 
The armies had consumed all the reserves. 

Grandfather Janz, a miller, had secretly sent us supplies of flour, po- 
tatoes and beets. Mother hid the supplies in a secret opening behind a 
wall in the root cellar — a space that once had been a stairway but was 
closed during remodelling a few years earlier. A small hole, just big enough 
for me to squeeze through, gave access to the hiding place. In the evening 


Spiritual Stirrings 


25 


I would crawl through the hole to get supplies that mother would prepare 
for the family. 

We would have had enough to last the winter, but Father, forever 
naive and goodhearted, insisted that the food be shared with the poor 
who had nothing. He would repeat the story of Elijah whom God sent to 
a poor widow in Zarephath who said, 

As the Lord thy God liveth, I have not a cake, but an handful 
of meal in a barrel, and a little oil in the cruse: and behold, I am 
gathering two sticks, that I may go in and prepare it for me and 
my son, that we may eat it, and die. And Elijah said unto her, 

Fear not; go and do as you have said. . . . For thus saith the Lord 
God of Israel, The barrel of meal shall not waste, neither shall 
the cruse of oil fail, until the day that the Lord sendeth rain upon 
the earth . . . And the barrel of meal wasted not, neither did the 
caise of oil fail, according to the word of the Lord (1 Kings 17:12- 
16 ). 

Our secret supplies gradually disappeared. Sharing our food with 
other people meant that for months our family had been taking very small 
rations. We were on the verge of starvation, but Father would remind us: 
“We cannot keep food for ourselves while other people are dying. We 
must share in their suffering. If other people die, we too must die with 
them.” This was how my father understood the Christian faith. 

Some people in the village got so desperate they ate cats and dogs. 
The day came when we as a family consumed our last remnant of bread 
baked from the flour of corn milled together with corn cobs, not very nu- 
tritious but something to fill the stomach. Jacob, eight years my junior, was 
bloated, a sign of the last stage of starvation. After this last meal we all 
knelt to pray, the final preparation for death. My father’s prayer went some- 
thing like this: “We thank you for this hour when we see no way for our 
survival. Glorify thyself according to thy choosing. You can provide food 
for us, or you can prepare us to die like many others who died of starva- 
tion.” My father had often said, “When the need is the greatest, the help of 
God will be nearest.” 

In November 1921 we heard of help that was to come from America. 
Would it come before my brother Jacob died? Uncle Benjamin B. Janz, 
mother’s brother, who was in Kharkov to open the way for American re- 
lief, knew of our critical condition. When the first shipment of canned milk 


26 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


arrived in Kharkov he thought of our starving family. In January Alvin J. 
Miller, an American, together with B. B. Janz, hired an old army truck to 
drive through the villages to inspect the conditions and prepare a method 
for food distribution. We never forgot the day when that old truck came to 
Alexandertal, carrying several boxes of canned milk. A day or two later, a 
package from Holland with twenty pounds of beans arrived at the post 
office in Alexandertal. Earlier that fall John F. Harms of Hillsboro, Kansas, 
who knew my father, had sent money to Mr. Goiter, pastor of a Mennonite 
church in Rotterdam, Holland, asking that a food parcel be sent to J. A. 
Toews in Alexandertal. 

Jacob, near death, was slowly nourished back to life. Every hour, day 
and night, the six-year-old was given two tablespoons of milk. The sack of 
beans, rich in protein, was the beginning of our salvation. By March 1922 
the American kitchen opened on the property of Heinrich Goossen, across 
the street from the school. American relief (the Mennonite Central Com- 
mittee program) and the food parcels from Holland restored the food sup- 
ply. Spring brought new life. Father’s faith had triumphed. 

The Mennonite Central Committee relief effort was of enormous his- 
toric significance. It launched a movement in world relief that has not 
waned to this day. I am still moved today when I read the letters of people 
who were saved from death, as recorded in David M. Hofer’s book, Die 
Hungersnot in Russland (Starvation in Russia). 5 Pages 161-163 contain a 
letter from my father to the Mennonites in America, recognizing God’s mercy 
in the hour of greatest need and expressing repentance for the Mennonites 
in Russia, who, despite their wealth, had shared so little with the needy in 
the world. 

End of an Era 

Amid the assaults of civil war and starvation, school life continued. 
In the spring of 1922, at the age of sixteen, I completed my four years of 
high school and took my exit examination. 

The Mennonite colonies went by the European school system whereby 
students were judged exclusively on the basis of a final examination. The 
student appeared before an examining board (not including his teachers). 
Assignments, both oral and written, were written on large paper lots. The 
student then drew the lots for each subject, covering Bible, church history, 
mathematics, science, world history, and Russian and German composi- 


Spiritual Stirrings 


27 


tion. The entire process lasted three days. Despite the crises and interrup- 
tions of the last two years, I passed the exams with top grades. 

As it turned out, I finished high school just in time. The new regime’s 
anti-religious bias found its way to the Mennonite colonies, and things 
would never be the same again. 

Our school was closed that fall; henceforth, private education would 
be forbidden. By Christmas my father was out of a job; as a minister he 
was no longer allowed to teach. Up to then, religious instruction had been 
central. It included courses in Bible introduction, Mennonite Confession 
of Faith, and Anabaptist and church history. In 1923 the government purged 
all religious influence from the schools. 

Uprooted from Home 

My father’s dismissal from his teaching position had immediate im- 
plications for our day-to-day lifestyle. For one thing, it meant moving out 
of the schoolhouse we had occupied for so many years; for another, it 
meant finding a new means of livelihood. 

Some years earlier Father had used money from an inheritance to 
buy a small farm of eighty-two acres across the street from the school. 
Since the new communist government had not yet implemented its land 
reform policies, the property still belonged to us. 

A landless family, the Peter Foths, had lived in the house on the farm 
while the land was rented out to one of the larger local farmers. Over the 
years the rental income had supplemented my father’s meager teacher’s 
salary so that he could give time to spiritual ministry without remunera- 
tion. 

In one of those reversals that were so common following the revolu- 
tion, the Foth family now moved into the school to assume janitorial du- 
ties, and we moved across the street into the old house on the farmyard. 

The house, dating back to the 1820s when the village was founded, 
was quite a contrast to what we were used to in the red brick schoolhouse. 
It was a clay hut with a thatch roof, perhaps the oldest and most primitive 
building in the village. 

Church members helped us renovate the dilapidated cottage. The 
men dug out two feet of earth under part of the house to provide a higher 
ceiling. In one corner, next to the front entrance, was an unheated room 
that became my abode and would remain so until our escape from Russia. 


28 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


My room had a dirt floor, but a wooden floor of six-inch boards was in- 
stalled in the family room and two other living rooms. 

The kitchen, in a corner of the utility room, had no outside window. 
The cookstove, made of brick with holes for kettles, was fueled by straw 
or shrubs. A large brick oven extended into the other three rooms to heat 
the living quarters and serve as a bake oven. It was stoked from the kitchen. 

The barn had room for four horses, three cows, a small stall for a calf 
or a pig, and in one corner, closest to the large shed extending from the 
barn, a small chicken coop. 

Our lifestyle had changed drastically, but Father would have no com- 
plaining. Even in these meager circumstances he found reason to be thank- 
ful. 

Back to the Land 

Getting started in agriculture was no easy task. Not only was my 
father not a skilled farmer, but the economic state of our colonies was in 
ruins. With few horses left in Alexandertal, much of the productive land 
could not be tilled. Wheat, barley and oat seed was in short supply. The 
livestock that remained was poorly fed and weak. 

Many farmers had to work together to utilize whatever energy was 
left. We had the old gelding I had received in exchange for my beloved 
horse Major, and one milk cow. Heinrich Enns, a missionary to the Rus- 
sians, had a cow, as did Heinrich Huebert, the owner of the windmill on 
the hill west of the village. This motley assortment of one old horse and 
three cows was assembled into a team to till our land. Training them to 
pull a cultivator or small plow became my difficult task, for I had gained at 
least some experience during my summers with Grandpa Janz. Neither 
my father, a teacher, nor Heinrich Enns, an evangelist, nor Heinrich Huebert, 
a professional miller, had any experience with primitive agriculture. 

It is hard to imagine the emotional energy needed to coordinate, 
motivate and discipline this horse and cow combination. The Enns’ cow 
was most problematic. After a round or two of the quarter-mile long field, 
she would simply lie down. Nothing could persuade her to get up and 
cooperate. Quite frequently I would see my father and Heinrich Enns 
kneel in the midst of the small acreage and pray while I applied every 
method possible — oral persuasion as well as the whip — to gain her com- 
pliance. 


Spiritual Stirrings 


29 


Corn — the only seed available — was planted with only the help of a 
spade. Later in spring seed for sugar cane and sunflower became avail- 
able. 

That crop yielded enough to provide grain for bread, sunflowers for 
oil, and basic feed for the livestock. Through various quarter, including 
direct gifts from our deacons and a church family, we now also had an ox, 
a cow, a year-old heifer, a pig and ten chickens. 

Mennonite Central Committee had shipped some Fordson tractors to 
help families who had lost their horses. In the spring of 1923 they plowed 
a small acreage of land for families that needed help, and we were fortu- 
nate to be included. For the rest of our tilling we relied on our new team of 
one horse and the young ox, which was easier to train than the three cows. 

Grandpa Janz furnished a wagon, a cultivator, a harrow and a thresh- 
ing stone that could be pulled by one horse. Now we were in business. 
All of us pitched in. Mother, pragmatic and ingenious, did the planning. 
My sisters Liese and Helen both got involved. Though I was only sixteen, 
a recent high school graduate set to enter college in Gnadenfeld in Sep- 
tember, I was in charge of operations. Together we sowed the crop in 
spring and weeded the corn and sunflower fields. Mother and my sisters 
put in a large garden of vegetables, with a small river flowing through it for 
irrigation. 

Harvest was the most difficult. Several neighbors with horses cut the 
grain for us. With our old horse and the ox hitched to Grandpa’s wagon 
we hauled the loose grain to the threshing floor we had prepared behind 
the barn and hayshed. There the horse would pull the threshing stone 
over the grain to loosen the husks. Then we used a hand-operated win- 
now to separate the grain from the chaff. The work was hard, but God 
blessed our efforts. Now we were really farmers! 

Conditions improved considerably the following year. Larger sec- 
tions of land could be tilled. We bought a second horse, made possible 
through money from Holland and North America designated to assist min- 
isters and their families. People from the church offered more help to 
compensate for Father’s ministry away from home. I came home on week- 
ends and assisted where needed. 

All in all the year 1924, in many ways, was much more normal. But 
now the Communist government tightened its grip. Land reforms were 
implemented. The future held out little hope for a return life as we had 
known it, and so the great Mennonite migration to Canada began. 


30 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


Father’s Faith 

My father’s resolute dependence on God never wavered during these 
trying times. His faith was as steady as it was simplistic. I have rarely seen 
its equal. To this day, when I remember my father I am reminded of the 
words of Jesus to Thomas: “Blessed are they that have not seen and yet 
believe” (John 20:29). A few examples will illustrate. 

As mentioned earlier, our area had been the scene of endless civil 
strife as one military division after another marched through. Our villages 
changed hands sixteen times as the armies struggled back and forth be- 
tween offense and retreat. In the process they stripped our orchards bare 
of fruit. 

Jacob, whom we called Jasch, hungered for an apple during the ap- 
proaching Christmas season. “Papa,” he asked with concern in his voice, 
“will we get an apple for Christmas?” Father’s answer to the six-year-old 
was, “Jasch, we have no apples, but God can send us apples for Christ- 
mas.” The two of them then knelt down and asked God for apples. 

On Christmas Eve thousands of troops passed through our villages. 
A military truck, part of a long convoy loaded with produce, was unable to 
make the grade on the banks of the Yuschanlee River in a heavy rain. A 
farmer in Steinfeld, a village some fifteen miles to the west of Alexandertal, 
was called to hitch his horses to the truck and pull it uphill. It worked, and 
the grateful lieutenant of the convoy offered the farmer some produce 
from the truck. The farmer, who knew our family, asked, “Is the convoy 
passing through the village of Alexandertal?” Yes, it was. “In the middle of 
Alexandertal is a schoolhouse,” the farmer continued. “A teacher’s family 
lives there. If you want to reward me for my help you can drop off a box 
of apples at that schoolhouse.” 

The convoy reached our village in the early evening. We were bewil- 
dered when a military truck stopped in front of our house and the lieuten- 
ant lifted off a full box of apples and brought it to our door. He left with no 
explanation. Now Jasch had apples for Christmas, and we were all duly 
thankful. Father, of course, did not fail to explain to Jasch the secret of 
answered prayer. Some time later we learned the background to the an- 
swered prayer when the Steinfeld farmer inquired whether we had re- 
ceived apples for Christmas. 

In late fall of 1922 a Russian evangelist came to Alexandertal. Our 
three-room teacherage, already crowded for a family of eight, still had room 


Spiritual Stirrings 


31 


for the evangelist who needed a place to stay. In the conversation Father 
discovered that the man had only the shirt he was wearing, and it was torn 
at several places. 

The scene is still vivid in my mind. Father came into the kitchen with 
the question: “Mother, don’t I have two shirts?” Mother, suspecting what 
might come, did not answer. He asked again, “Mother, don’t I have two 
shirts?” Quietly mother answered: “Yes Daddy, you have only two shirts 
and you need them to change when you go on your next trip to a Bible 
conference.” “But Mother, the Russian brother’s shirt is falling apart and I 
still have two. Will you get one so I can give him a shirt.” Mother had 
tears in her eyes as she went to a drawer in the next room and brought a 
shirt. But my father wasn’t finished. “Mother, I have one old shirt and one 
new shirt. Is this the old or the new one?” “But Daddy,” she protested, 
“you have only one shirt left.” “But Mamma,” he countered, “does not the 
Bible say you shall give to God the best? I cannot give the brother the 
second best.” 

Mother went back to get the new shirt and handed it to my father. 
“Here, she said, “this is the new one, but what will you do when you are 
far from home and need a change?” “Mamma,” my father answered, “can’t 
we trust God to provide a shirt?” 

When my father was released from his position as a teacher just be- 
fore Christmas 1922 he accepted it as divine providence. Now all his time 
could be devoted to spiritual ministry. The timing seemed ideal, for in 
1923 there was a great spiritual revival in response to the tragedies of star- 
vation and civil war. In spring of 1923 a commission requested that fa- 
ther and Aron Dick from Prangenau spend several months on a mission 
assignment to the Mennonite churches in the Omsk and Orenburg settle- 
ments. Father, with only one shirt, was inadequately clothed for the as- 
signment. 

Meanwhile a shipment of clothing had arrived from MCC in America. 
One of the deacons from the church, who helped distribute the clothing, 
came to Mother to ask about Father’s shirt size. “There are several shirts 
and I thought your husband, who is often away from home, and might 
need some.” 

Two new shirts were brought to our house. When Father was told 
about this unexpected gift he said, “Mamma, don’t you see now, we gave 
away my one shirt, and the Lord gives us back double.” 


32 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


Shortly before Father’s departure to the east one of our two cows 
became ill and died. The loss was a terrible blow to the family. Typically, 
Father gathered us together for prayer. We desperately needed another 
cow to provide milk for the family. This, along with the need for additional 
clothing, became a matter of concern. He wondered: Was it the Lord’s will 
that he spend several months in Siberia? Father announced to the family 
that the Lord needed to confirm his will with regard to the Siberian assign- 
ment. He would pray for a cow and for adequate clothing. One week 
before the planned date of departure two deacons bought a cow from the 
Wiebes in Schardau. What a moment when these men turned into our 
yard leading a cow that had just freshened! 

Only three days before the date of departure a new shipment of cloth- 
ing from America arrived in our village. The shipment contained two 
woolen army blankets. A deaconess from the church knew Father needed 
a suit. She told Mother of the two green army blankets: could they provide 
the cloth for a suit? Three women came to the house to help Mother, and 
in two days they had sewn a suit. So one day before Father’s departure 
there was the new cow, a source of milk for the family, and the new suit. 
We all rejoiced together. Once again, Father’s faith had been vindicated. 

The tangible evidence of my father’s answered prayers had a power- 
ful impact on my spiritual development. On the one hand, it appeared 
that God really entered into issues so mundane as apples, beans, the fam- 
ily cow and an army blanket suit as the affirmation of his care. On the 
other hand, I struggled to reconcile this with the larger issues of the car- 
nage of war, starvation, and the typhoid epidemic that claimed the lives of 
many villagers including the revered missionary Adolf Reimer, father of 
my dear friend Daniel. 

Reflections 

Illness, family separation, death, civil war, starvation — these were the 
dramas of my first sixteen years. My life was being shaped in ways I did 
not yet understand. As Scripture says, “It is good for man that he bear the 
yoke in his youth” (Lam. 3:27). 

Our family had varying responses to the buffeting circumstances. The 
younger boys, Jacob and Henry, may have seen it all as an adventure, as 
did my younger sister Lydia, who was always on top of things and ready 
for excitement. My half-sister Liese, the oldest and the one who struggled 


Spiritual Stirrings 


33 


with symptoms of tuberculosis inherited from her mother, reflected a mel- 
ancholy outlook that was common at the time. Helen, always the sparkle 
of the family with the guitar under her arm and a voice like a nightingale, 
provided hope in our darkest hours. My father’s unswerving faith pro- 
vided an anchor for us all. My mother undergirded us with an ingenuity 
that always saw a way out of any dilemma. All this was working together 
to produce in me a particular kind of clay, pliable enough to be molded, 
yet firm enough to hold shape. 


CHAPTER 5 


College . . . And More! 


T he agricultural college in Gnadenfeld was a new venture established 
by the Mennonite colony. Its campus was the buildings of the 
colony’s former district offices, which had been dissolved by the 
communist regime. The major emphasis was agriculture, virtually guaran- 
teeing the approval of the government, but there was also a strong science 
department, my major interest. The death of my brother Aron, as a young 
physician, had sparked my resolve to study medicine and take his place. 

During this time the communist regime took full control of all col- 
leges and universities. Gnadenfeld became a satellite of the university in 
Kiev. A political instructor was assigned to Gnadenfeld to integrate our 
college into the system of communist indoctrination. 

A girls high school that had been closed by the communists provided 
dormitory facilities. I was fortunate to get a tiny room, sufficient for a bed, 
a small table and a chair. Clothing, of which I had only the bare necessi- 
ties, was kept in a box under the bed. A small pantry served as a storage 
place for food, which students had to provide themselves. 

I earned money for rent, books and incidental expenses by working 
five hours per day, five days per week in a sunflower oil processing plant 
about half a mile from the college. Since Gnadenfeld was only a three- 
hour walk from Alexandertal, I could go home on weekends for food sup- 
plies. Our diet, following the 1922 starvation, consisted mostly of black 
bread my mother baked, some vegetables, carrots and red beets, plus oc- 
casional apples, prunes and pears. Sunflower oil, which I could get cheaply 
at the processing plant, served as a dip or sop for the bread. Even though 
the menu lacked variety, the food was good. Of course, after the years of 
starvation everything tasted good. The Janz grandparents, my second home 
in Konteniusfeld, were only a ninety-minute walk from Gnadenfeld and 
served as a second source of food. 

The daily schedule during the week was quite uniform. From 7:00 
a.m. to noon I attended lectures. From 1:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. I worked at 
the oil processing plant, running the presses. I would return to my room at 
6:30, eat my evening meal, and then study 7:00 p.m. until midnight. The 


College. ..and more 


35 


academic demand was much more stringent than what I would later find 
in colleges and universities in North America. On weekends, with some 
exceptions during exams, I walked three hours on Friday night so I could 
spend Saturday helping around the home. In spring, for seeding time, I 
would take off a week or ten days to put in the crop, than make up the 
academic work later. 

My health gradually improved. I had a growth spurt and finally 
reached normal height. I became physically stronger. My nervous 
twitchings lessened, depending on the state of my emotions. The aca- 
demic demands presented no problem. 

Consolidation of Communism 

The victory of communism was followed by a rapid process of con- 
solidation. Land reform and the educational system were first priorities. 
As noted earlier, my father was released as a teacher because he was a 
minister. Radical restrictions were placed upon estate owners. Numerous 
families from the estates were killed; others fled to the villages of the mother 
colonies. They were stripped of their wealth and their social structure dis- 
mantled. A people of will and ingenuity was crushed. Many became refu- 
gees. As early as 1921, petitions were made to emigrate. The book Lost 
Fatherland: The Story of the Mennonite Emigration from Soviet Russia, 
1921-1927 by John B. Toews, my nephew, documents well the conditions 
affecting the social and economic life of Mennonites in the post-revolution 
era. 6 The first group of 726 emigrants left for Canada on June 22, 1923- 
Larger groups left for Canada in 1924 and 1925. Among them were some 
people from Alexandertal. 

My father promoted emigration for those who could leave, though 
he personally did not feel the liberty to consider this option. As a minister 
he felt an obligation to those who didn’t qualify. The shepherd, he said, 
does not leave the flock. He felt bound by the words of John 10:11: “the 
good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep.” 

Faculty and students at the college felt increasing pressure to con- 
form to the doctrines of communism. In 1924 this became a direct order. 
It became clear that only those who identified with the ideology of com- 
munism would be able to enter the graduate programs required for a pro- 
fessional future. The communist anthem was introduced as the theme 
song on all university campuses. Those of us who professed to be Chris- 


36 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


tians could not sing along with the words: “There is no help from higher 
beings, no God, no Czar, no Potentate. We are the people of the future, 
the past we will destroy and build a people’s future” (free translation). 

I came back for the fall of 1924, my third year. On a balmy Sunday 
evening I had joined a group of students on a stroll through the woods on 
the south side of the college campus. The conversation drifted to a discus- 
sion of our future plans. My family identity was well known to my com- 
rades. When my turn came to share my future plans I boldly declared my 
resolve to go into medicine, to remain true to the legacy of my brother 
Aron. 

“You, a medical doctor,” sneered one of the students who was known 
to be sympathetic to the new ideology. “You are a preacher’s kid and you 
too will end up as a preacher,” he continued sarcastically. My honor was 
hurt. Without any serious thought I snapped back, “I swear, I will never 
become a preacher.” I made the oath with an uplifted fist. 

Later in the evening, back in my small room, I came under deep con- 
viction for what I had said. I considered myself a Christian. What if God’s 
will for me would be different? 

Plunging into a Coma 

Monday morning I was one of several students assigned to help the 
agricultural department thresh some stacked grain. In the process a prob- 
lem developed with the straw stacker. A rope on a pulley attached to a 
pole some forty feet high was used to pull the straw net up so it could be 
emptied on top of a straw stack. On the other end of the rope was a team 
of horses to pull the straw net up. The rope had slipped off the pulley, 
stalling the whole operation. Someone needed to climb up the forty foot 
pole and force the rope back onto the wheel of the pulley. 

The foreman called for volunteers, but everyone was hesitant. Finally 
I stepped forward and climbed the pole to correct the problem. As I was 
working on it the team of horses suddenly lurched forward, squeezing my 
hand into the pulley. I screamed and plunged forty feet to the ground, 
landing on my head. I was limp and unconscious, but still breathing. The 
university doctor examined me and declared the injury to be fatal. Her 
diagnosis was a broken neck. 

The following sequence was reported to me when I regained full 
consciousness eight days later. A rider on horseback was dispatched to 


College. . . and more 


37 


notify my parents. Father and Mother arrived in late afternoon, only to be 
told by the university doctor that the injury was fatal and there was no 
hope that I could survive. 

My parents had come on a borrowed “drugge,” a long flat wagon 
used for hauling merchandise. I was carefully placed on the wagon and 
taken to Alexandertal. After consultation with a village nurse, I was taken 
to a Doctor Bitner in Alexanderkrone, the village of my Grandparents 
Toews. Dr. Bitner examined me, confirmed the diagnosis of a broken 
neck, and refused to touch the problem. 

For several days I lay unconscious in the house of my Uncle Abram 
Toews whose second wife, Tante Lena, was a trained nurse. I would re- 
gain consciousness for short periods, then slip back again. 

I particularly remember one moment of consciousness. I noticed my 
mother kneeling next to my bed. I heard her plead with God to let me die 
because if I lived I would be too brain damaged to think properly. She 
was my first perception in the week-long coma. The second perception 
was to recall my angry vow, “I swear, I will never become a preacher.” As 
my consciousness returned in successive intervals, I kept remembering 
that vow. 

Dr. Heinrich Wiebe, a bonesetter (chiropractor) lived in Lichtfelde, 
the neighboring village to Alexanderkrone. He came to examine me, and 
confirmed the diagnosis of the other doctors. According to the report of 
my mother, Wiebe was reluctant to attempt any treatment. “The chances 
of success are very narrow,” he said. “He may die under my hands if I 
attempt to set the bone in his neck.” 

My family waited another few days and watched my chances for life 
continue to fade. After much prayer they finally reached a decision: “Hans 
cannot live in the condition he is in. Wiebe’s fear that he may die in the 
attempt to adjust the broken neck is the risk we must take.” Surrounding 
my bed with Uncle Abram, Aunt Helen and the nurse, Father and Mother 
then committed me to God — for life or for death. 

I was transported to Wiebe’s office in Lichtfelde. The experienced 
bonesetter made careful preparations. He placed two planks across two 
sawhorses with a space in between for him to work from below in the 
attempt to set the broken vertebrae. Ropes were attached to a harness 
around my head and feet. Four strong men were selected, two at my head 
and two at my feet. Wiebe knelt under the planks. Upon his command the 


38 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


men pulled with all their strength to straighten the vertebrae. As they pulled, 
Wiebe managed to shift the broken bones into place. At that moment I 
suddenly regained full consciousness, opened my eyes and looked around, 
like awakening from a long dream. 

The neck was carefully braced. I was moved back to Aunt Helen’s 
house for a few days. Then, lying flat on the “drugge,” my parents trans- 
ported me back to Alexandertal. 

I healed remarkably quickly. Within five weeks I went back to the 
university wearing a neck support. Students and faculty helped me make 
up the work I had missed. I passed the Christmas exams. 

My vow against the ministry remained central in my thoughts. I be- 
gan to regard the accident as a providential act of God for it forced me to 
recognize my rebellion. After much struggle I came to an inward conces- 
sion to be open if God called me to the ministry. But it was a conditional 
concession that I serve as a doctor of medicine, or some other profession, 
so I could be independent and not subject to the poverty we had experi- 
enced in my youth. I was open to the ministry as long as I could remain 
economically independent. 

Pressure to Conform 

In 1925 the pressure on society and especially the church to identify 
with communism intensified. All administrative posts in the colonies and 
villages required an open identification with communism. Membership in 
a church became a disqualifying factor for any office in civil service. I was 
shaken to see some men, who held leading positions in church, withdraw 
from the fellowship. Father, as a minister, was stripped of all citizenship 
rights. He could not participate in any function or vote that related to the 
social life of the village. A tax was imposed on churches for every recog- 
nized minister who continued in active service. 

Mother’s brother, B. B. Janz, who at the time served as representative 
of all Mennonites before the government, had been urging his family, 
including my parents, to prepare to emigrate. His brother Jacob Janz had 
already gone to Canada in 1924. We as a family submitted to a medical 
examination to determine our eligibility to also migrate to Canada. Jascha, 
Helen and I were found to have trachoma, a highly contagious eye dis- 
ease. People with this disease were disqualified for Canadian immigra- 
tion. 


College. . . and more 


39 


Political conditions became more and more threatening for the church. 
Father began to question his own church involvement because any official 
relationship with a minister was becoming a liability for the people. Uncle 
B. B. Janz continued to urge Father to consider leaving. 

Arrested! 

Meanwhile, a sudden crisis at college pounded home the reality of 
how vulnerable our lives had become. Dr. Ernst Schrill, a zealous commu- 
nist from the University of Berlin, was assigned to the Gnadenfeld campus 
as a political instructor. All students were required to attend the three 
lectures per week intended to indoctrinate us. The focus of the lectures 
was to continuously discredit Christian beliefs and promote a humanistic 
worldview. Christian students were singled out for special attention. Dur- 
ing the Christmas recess I seriously weighed whether to return for the con- 
cluding semester. 

In January of 1926 I received notice to report for induction into the 
Red Army at the close of the school year. My claim for conscientious ob- 
jection resulted in a call to appear before a court in Halbstadt to defend my 
position. I prepared my case very carefully and became one of the few 
conscientious objectors to be granted an exemption. Others from our group 
were denied this privilege. A number of them who continued to refuse to 
bear arms when inducted were court-marshalled. Some went before a 
firing squad. Others perished in Siberian labor camps. 

The school year was drawing to a close. I was to complete my last 
year with specialization in science as a prerequisite for the medical faculty. 

Dr. Schrill’s lectures continued. He openly defied any belief in God. 
He would bring a Bible to class and make a show of standing on it while 
challenging the existence of God and revelation. He devoted a series of 
lectures to the process of evolution. He described a mysterious process of 
rotating atoms producing friction that resulted in extreme heat, giving birth 
to the first cell of life. 

After many hours of enduring what I considered nonsense, I ven- 
tured a question: “Dr. Schrill, do you have any explanation for what you 
call an unknown cause?” Visibly irritated by the question coming from 
someone known to be a Christian, he replied in anger, “No one can an- 
swer your question; only God in heaven knows that.” The whole class 
erupted with laughter. His intended slur had instead wiped out the basic 


40 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


assumption of his lectures. Furious, he strode out of the lecture room with 
the student body still laughing. 

Earlier, Dr. Schrill had made cynical reference to his pious mother 
who was praying for her wayward son. Evidently his subconscious re- 
tained some spiritual vocabulary from his childhood teaching. What was 
intended as a curse had instead undermined his own argument. 

Within thirty minutes I was arrested, accused of spreading counter- 
revolutionary propaganda on campus, and held in a room adjoining the 
office. The entire student body immediately rose to my defence. The 
debacle, they said, was Dr. Schrill’s own fault. They demanded my re- 
lease. After a few hours I was set free. 

The incident put a big question mark over my future. The next day 
the campus physician advised me to disappear from campus to escape 
further indictments. But how could I leave just before the final exams? A 
few days later she again took me aside. She had gotten wind of plans to 
charge me as anti-revolutionary, a most serious indictment for those days. 
“Your health is not good,” she said. “I can give you a pass to leave campus 
for an extended sick leave in need of climate change.” In retrospect, I can 
see that Dr. Manja Kaschanska saved my future. I left my belongings on 
campus, as if to indicate that I would be coming back. Then I went home 
to consult with the family. 

Carefully we planned our next move. Helen and I would travel to 
Kharkov, ostensibly to have an eye specialist treat our trachoma. While 
there we would consult with Uncle Benjamin. Our timing was providen- 
tial, as we were able to help our uncle make his own escape. Now, some 
seventy years later, it seems like a plot from a mystery thriller. At the time 
it was terrifying. 

Secret Messenger 

As the advocate for Mennonite emigration, which required continu- 
ous negotiations with senior government officials, Uncle Benjamin’s posi- 
tion was growing ever more precarious. He had quietly been making his 
own preparations to leave. He secretly obtained a visa from the German 
Consulate in Kharkov. Under the pretense that a Mennonite representa- 
tive needed to negotiate agricultural and economic exchanges with the 
West, he also obtained a Russian passport and an exit permit. 


College. . . and more 


41 


During our visit, events moved swiftly to a climax. In the early morn- 
ing of May 31 a message showed up mysteriously at our uncle’s office. It 
warned that the secret police (G.P.U.) planned to arrest him the next night. 
No one knew who delivered it. 

Uncle Benjamin continued his regular schedule in the Mennonite of- 
fices. At noon he packed his most needed documents and belongings. 
David Reimer, my mentor from Alexandertal, happened to be in Kharkov. 
He planned the escape for B. B. Janz. 

While the office followed its usual routine, Reimer bought a ticket on 
the courier train that was to leave for Moscow in the early evening. A 
coded telegram was sent to C. F. Klassen, then the Mennonite representa- 
tive in Moscow. Supper was served at the regular time so the housemaid 
would not suspect anything. The railroad depot was within walking dis- 
tance. 

As darkness fell on the city, Uncle Benjamin put on an old overcoat 
with a hood to hide his identity. He used a cane and leaned heavily on it 
while my sister Helen, disguised as an old woman, walked at his side, 
supporting him. David Reimer took the suitcases to the depot by taxi. I 
went to the depot separately. My sister and Uncle Benjamin, looking like 
a feeble old couple, entered the station. When the train came in, David 
Reimer took the baggage aboard as if he were a passenger. Then, just 
before the train started to leave, Reimer stepped out, passed the ticket to 
Uncle Benjamin, helped him onto the train, and stepped back off just be- 
fore the train moved into the night. In Moscow C. F. Klassen was there 
to meet B. B. Janz. With the exit permit and visa for Germany in hand, 
covert arrangements were made to leave Russia. On June 4 he made it 
safely across the border. 

The secret note had been correct. During the night of Janz’s depar- 
ture the police came to arrest him. But they were too late; he was out of 
their reach. B. B. Janz’s family, for whom he had also secured the neces- 
sary documentation, followed him into Germany a few weeks later. Our 
mission accomplished, Helen and I returned home. 

Our Turn to Leave 

Uncle Benjamin’s escape was our clear signal to leave. I no longer 
had a choice in the matter; I could not stay after the confrontation with Dr. 
Schrill. Even Father had by now concluded that his leadership of the church 


42 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


was no longer viable. His brother, Aron Toews, had already left with his 
family the year before. 

Passport applications were filed for my Grandparents Janz, my uncle 
Abram Toews and his family, and our entire family. My grandparents, the 
Abram Toewses and my oldest sister Liese were all cleared for emigration 
to Canada. But there was still our problem with trachoma. Helen, Jacob 
and I made several appearances before the Canadian Doctor Drurie, but 
were not given clearance. 

My stay grew more precarious by the day. The Gnadenfeld college 
expected me back to finish my degree. David Reimer accepted the re- 
sponsibility to negotiate my passport. This would require 250 rubles, which 
Grandfather Janz paid. Everyone else except my father also received pass- 
ports. While passing through Europe Uncle Benjamin arranged with the 
Dutch Mennonite Relief Committee to issue an entrance visa for our family 
to enter Holland, where trachoma was no hindrance. 

My father’s oldest brother, Jacob Toews, lived in Pordenau, the sec- 
ond village east of Alexandertal. His daughters Sara was a very close friend 
of Tina Driedger, whose family were members of our church in Alexandertal. 
Our frequent visits at Uncle Jacob’s home led to a close relationship with 
my cousin Sara and her friend Tina. 

As I prepared to leave Russia my feelings for Tina came to the sur- 
face. With everything up in the air, I felt this was not the time for romance. 
The closer the day of our planned departure came, the more I was led to 
consider our relationship. We spent a few evenings together and discussed 
what course to take. Should we become engaged, as my sister Helen and 
David Pauls were planning to do? 

My status — and future — was in question. Would I be caught while 
trying to escape? The uncertainty was too great to make any life commit- 
ment. We mutually agreed that this was not the time. After I was safely 
across the border we would review our relationship more objectively. 

On September 4, 1926 the church held a farewell for Helen, Liese and 
me. As planned, the engagement of Helen to David Pauls, who also was 
waiting for a passport, was announced. 

In Alexanderkrone we met the Grandparents Janz. Uncle Abram’s 
family was also ready for departure. The next day we left for Melitopol, 
the closest railroad station to the east of the colony to board the train for 
Moscow. Accompaning us was Daniel Reimer, my childhood friend with 
whom a close bond had developed as we became young adults. 


College. . . and more 


43 


Our train for Moscow was scheduled to leave Melitopol at midnight. 
Because I was subject to the military draft, I had to secure a police permit 
to travel, with a specific address where I could be reached. In mid-after- 
noon I went to the police headquarters to register my future address in 
Moscow. Of course, I said nothing of my intent to leave Russia. 

As I emerged from the police office into a large hall of the headquar- 
ters a huge shock awaited me. Suddenly I was face to face with my nem- 
esis, Dr. Ernst Schrill. 

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Stay right here and don’t 
move.” 

As he turned into the police office from which I had just come I dashed 
through a back door into the alley. Without looking back I ran through the 
alleys to the hotel where the family was waiting to go to the railroad sta- 
tion. 

We held a quick strategy council and decided the group would head 
for the station but I would split off a few blocks before we reached it. The 
train was due at midnight. Daniel Reimer and I would watch the station 
from a distance until the train came, noting which car the family was board- 
ing. When the bell rang to signal the train was leaving I would climb 
aboard at the last minute. 

Shortly before the train arrived Daniel and I knelt in a dark alley and 
prayed together. The train came in. The plan was followed. I boarded the 
train just before the signal for its departure. 

The trip to Moscow was uneventful. Here we parted from the Abram 
Toews family, Grandpa and Grandma Janz and our sister, Liese. C. F. 
Klassen, whom David Reimer had wired after I was safely on the train, met 
us. When we related our experiences of the last few days in Melitopol he 
recognized the seriousness of the situation. 

A problem remained. The police office in Melitopol had the number 
of my passport. Alerted by the angry Dr. Schrill, they no doubt would 
notify police in Leningrad where we were to board a ship to Riga, Latvia. 
Klassen suggested the following strategy. 

I needed a new passport number. He knew some officials who could 
be trusted but the process would take at least a week. In the meantime I 
had to hide. Helen and I were given rooms in the attic of a three-story 
house. My parents, who had been with us in Melitopol, were very con- 


44 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


scious of the precarious situation. Now back in Alexandertal, they were in 
continuous prayer. 

After eight days of waiting, I received a passport with a new number. 
A different border crossing was assigned. A night train took us to Sebej, a 
small border crossing on the way to Riga. 

Grandfather Janz, always very frugal, had accumulated a few thou- 
sand rubles. Because there was no banking system in the colonies, he 
kept the money hidden in fifty and one hundred ruble bills. After the 
revolution the money had no value. I asked Grandfather to give me a few 
hundred rubles as souvenirs. On the train from Moscow to the border I 
remembered that the bills were in my suitcase. Helen urged me to throw 
them out of the window of the moving train so I wouldn’t get caught with 
them. But I wanted to keep them, so I hid them behind a partition next to 
a window, where I was sure they’d be safe. After the inspection I would 
retrieve them. 

When we reached the border everyone was ordered to detrain. Each 
passenger was searched. Some had to undress. I had a guitar with me. 
Even though I had acquired a permit to take it across the border, one of the 
inspectors questioned me about it repeatedly. He suspected I had some- 
thing hidden inside. Just then two heavily armed guards strode in holding 
my hidden bills! They stopped at each passenger seeking a confession of 
ownership. I froze in fear. 

As they came closer I continued to argue with my inspector and sud- 
denly smashed the guitar open to prove there was nothing hidden. In the 
intensity of the moment the other guards passed by to question someone 
else. 

The tour of inspection seemed endless. Would they come back to 
question me? I tied the broken pieces of the guitar together. Helen had 
been taken to a separate room and was searched to her underwear. Fi- 
nally, all who were to cross the border were lined up and marched to the 
train. Helen, not knowing that the money had been discovered, thought 
we should go back into the same car. But instead I took her arm and in- 
sisted we go to the one farthest away. 

The guards made one more pass through the cars. As the train began 
to crawl the Russian personnel stepped off and Latvians came aboard. 
Slowly the train pulled away from the border. 


College. . . and more 


45 


A Latvian conductor came into our car and gave us a friendly greeting 
in German. The tension was broken. Helen burst into tears. “Don’t cry,” 
the conductor said. “You’re free now. You’re in Latvia.” By morning we 
arrived in Riga. 

Our first task in the morning was to write our parents that we had 
safely crossed the border. We spent the next few days in a migrant house. 
All passengers and their belongings were disinfected because of lice and 
other insects. On the second day we were free to go into town. We were 
amazed at the new world. The stores were filled with merchandise. 

Within a few days we were pronounced ready to proceed. C. F. 
Klassen had wired Berlin to inform Alexander Fast, who served as host for 
immigrants passing through Germany. He had met every train from Riga 
in the past few days, and he was there to receive us as we stepped from the 
train. He was fully informed of the arrangement with the Dutch Relief 
Committee. A few days later George DeYoung, a Dutch industrialist, came 
to Berlin to take us to Amsterdam. 


CHAPTER 6 


Dutch Interlude 


M embers of the Doopzgesinde Gemeinde (Dutch Mennonite 
Church) and their pastor, C. F. Gorter, assumed responsibility for 
us. I was billeted with the family of George van Tigchelhoven, 
foreman on the docks of Rotterdam harbor. Their three daughters, all single 
and at home, were teachers. Their only son Peter was married, had one 
daughter, and managed a bank in the city. 

Helen was assigned as the chambermaid for Mrs. DeYoung. George 
DeYoung’s brother Ferdinand was Minister of Commerce in the Dutch gov- 
ernment. We spent one of the first weekends with the DeYoungs on a 
large yacht on the North Sea. Ferdinand took a great interest in our family 
background. He learned that my father was a minister and that he had 
been denied a passport to migrate. 

Ferdinand had diplomatic connections with a Russian delegation who 
bought some purebred stock of Dutch dairy cows. Through them he ne- 
gotiated a passport and exit visa for my father. Just before Christmas our 
family was reunited in Holland. Only Liese, who had gone to Canada with 
the Abram Toewses, and Grandparents Janz were missing. 

Arrangements were made for my parents to stay in a hotel. Jasch 
(Jacob) and Lydia found a home with a young couple, the J. Veendorps, 
who had no children. Mr. Veendorp was the superintendent of the 
Rotterdam Zoo. Heinz (Henry), who was eight at the time, was placed in 
the home of a widow, Mrs. F. Zoote, and her daughter, a high school teacher. 
Christmas in the hotel, with the family reunited, was memorable. 

Helen, Jacob and I were placed in care of an eye specialist who gave 
us weekly treatments for trachoma. What had been planned to be only a 
short stopover in Holland stretched to a year and a half. 

Our Dutch Benefactors 

The families we lived with practiced their Anabaptist commitment 
very differently than what we were used to. They understood church 
membership as largely a matter of form with no personal claim to experi- 
ential faith. After work Mr. von Tigchelhoven would relax in his easy chair 


Dutch Interlude 


47 


with a thick cigar. He attended church only on very special occasions. His 
wife and daughters, however attended regularly. Son Peter, the bank man- 
ager, followed the practice of his father. 

They treated us with great kindness and compassion. Frequently they 
invited the rest of my family to their home. We shared many meals with 
them. Whenever they noticed a need that the church relief committee had 
not looked after, they stepped in and provided. The first suit I ever pos- 
sessed was a gift from the von Tigchelhovens, purchased from a presti- 
gious clothing store. The other families — the Veendorps, Zootes and 
DeYoungs — were similarly kind in caring for our needs. 

The Doopsgezinde church was an imposing structure hidden in an 
inner court and surrounded by a high wall, a protective measure left over 
from the sixteenth century when Anabaptists were routinely persecuted. 

The worship services were rather formal. One of the two pastors of 
the church was a woman. The service consisted of organ music, a few 
hymns, some liturgy and the sermon. 

The interior of the church featured a high elevated pulpit with some 
less elevated seats for the church elders who would be formally ushered in 
together with the pastors. The inner wall of the church, decorated with 
artistic woodwork, had two levels of elevated pews that were owned by 
selected families. Each end had a gate with artistic carving. An usher 
would lead the family to its section, open the gate for them and then close 
it again. The DeYoungs belonged to the class that owned such seats. Com- 
mon members, meanwhile, sat in chairs in the middle of the church. 

During our eighteen months in Rotterdam we sat with the DeYoungs 
in their private pew. I remember being invited to an informal meeting 
after the service in the conference room behind the sanctuary. The church 
board and Pastor Gorter and the woman pastor sat around the large con- 
ference table. All except the woman pastor were smoking thick cigars and 
drinking either beer or wine. In a very congenial atmosphere they asked 
Father to share with them about Mennonite Brethren life in Russia. For an 
hour he sketched the historical background of the Mennonite Brethren 
and described our practices and basic understanding of the New Testa- 
ment church. 

My sister Helen reported that the DeYoungs spoke freely to her, in- 
quiring about her faith and that of the Mennonite Brethren. One incident 
stands out. The DeYoungs had a beautiful flower garden behind their 
home. In the evening Helen would frequently spend time there while the 


48 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


DeYoungs read or chatted in the large family room. One evening, some 
time before our parents arrived in December, Helen took her guitar to the 
garden and sang the hymn, “A Wonderful Savior is Jesus My Lord, A Won- 
derful Savior to Me.” When she finished all the verses (she knew 140 hymns 
by memory and played the guitar well), the call bell rang. Inside, she found 
Mr. De Young pacing the room. He asked my sister to sit down. 

“Helen” he said in his fluent German, “how can you sing, considering 
your situation. Your parents, two brothers and one sister are in Russia. 
Your fiance is also in Russia. You don’t know if any of them will ever come 
out. You may never be reunited. How can you sing in the midst of these 
circumstances?” Helen, open as always, gave her testimony. She had Jesus, 
she said, and he had promised not to leave nor forsake us. Then, at their 
request, she sang the song again. Mr. DeYoung continued to pace as she 
sang. When she was finished, he with tears in his eyes said, “I would give 
a million dollars if I could have your faith.” 

The Tigchelhovens would also invite Helen over to play her guitar 
and sing. Often our whole family would sing along. Our type of faith was 
often the subject of conversation. It was something new to them. Yet it 
seemed to strike a deep chord of need in the Dutch Mennonite soul. 

A Spiritual Wilderness 

The eighteen months in Holland were a time of confused transition 
for me. On one hand it was a time of calm after a difficult childhood and a 
tempestuous youth. On the other hand I felt isolated and at sea. I had 
survived the past but faced an uncertain future. 

The Volks University of Amsterdam, only thirty minutes away by train, 
operated a satellite program in Rotterdam. The teachers of the Tigchelhoven 
household encouraged me to enroll in some courses. I felt little urge to 
pursue my aim to become a physician, since my future was so uncertain 
and my stay in Holland only temporary. 

In January of 1927 I enrolled in two courses at the university, One in 
philosophy of modern thought and one in religion. Rationalism in Europe 
was in its heyday. Adding that to my pietist training, personal conversion 
and exposure to atheistic indoctrination in Russia, only made my sense of 
intellectual and spiritual restlessness more acute. 

The time in Holland became for me perhaps what Arabia may have 
been for the Apostle Paul. I was in a strange land, without close friends, a 


Dutch Interlude 


49 


lonely person bereft of direction or purpose. My father noticed my gradual 
withdrawal from the family, my melancholy mood, and my groping for 
moorings. The various assaults on my belief system were taking a toll. 
Communism vehemently denied the supernatural. Rationalism denied all 
claims of certainty and limited reality to the realm of intellectual percep- 
tion. My confidence in God began to waver. In late fall of 1927, a year 
after our escape from Russia, I fell into depression. What was life, without 
an anchor? Early one morning, without informing my host family or the 
parents, I took the train to the beach area known as the Hook of Holland, 
only forty minutes from Rotterdam. I spent all day wandering by the wa- 
ter, searching for light. I walked so long that I missed the evening train that 
was due in Rotterdam at 9:00 and had to take the last train of the day, 
which arrived in the city after 11:30. 

By then I’d missed the last streetcar so I began walking the four miles 
to Belleforstraat 81, the address of my hosts. When I reached the Rotterdam 
city square I stopped to rest on a bench. I found myself sitting in the shadow 
of a monument in honor of William of Orange, who in the seventeenth 
century delivered the Netherlands from the oppression of the French. 

In recognition of his deep religious commitment an open Bible was 
placed under glass at the foot of the monument. A spotlight illuminated 
the page, open to Psalm 119:89. In bold Dutch script I saw the words, 
“Forever, O Lord, thy word is settled in heaven. Thy faithfulness is unto all 
generations: thou hast established the earth and it abideth.” 

It was midnight. Under the monument of William of Orange in the 
city square of Rotterdam I found the answer to my search for an absolute. 
There God convinced me that there is an absolute and the mystery of this 
absolute rests in him. It was like a spiritual rebirth, the new beginning of a 
long spiritual, pilgrimage. The patience and faithfulness of God had per- 
sisted. In the words of Jeremiah, the potter continued to work the clay, 
hoping to form a vessel for his own purpose (Jer. 18:6). 

The beautiful monument was destroyed by the Germans in the bomb- 
ing of Rotterdam during the second World War. But its message to me in 
my time of need has endured to this day. 

Southhampton, England 

The Canadian Pacific Steamship Line and Canadian Pacific Railway 
(CPR) had contracted with the Mennonite Board of Colonization to trans- 


50 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


port Russian Mennonites on credit. Like so many migrant families, we did 
not have the means for the ocean voyage or the railroad fare within Canada. 

Immigrants who did not pass the test required by the Canadian De- 
partment of Health but had already left their homeland (Russia, Poland, 
Romania, Bessarabia) were detained in a CPR camp in Southhampton, 
England. In most cases the problem was trachoma. The camp was admin- 
istered by Dr. Benjamin Unruh, brother to A. H. Unruh, who would later 
become my colleague. Dr. Unruh suggested our transfer from Rotterdam 
to Southhampton. Among the more than two hundred detainees there 
were many children who needed a school while undergoing medical treat- 
ment. Our family was well suited to help teach these immigrant children, 
since Father was an experienced teacher, I had advanced education and 
Helen could teach kindergarten. Such a move would also relieve the Dutch 
Mennonite Church from the responsibility of supporting us. 

My university class concluded in December. The move to 
Southhampton would enable us to continue treatment for our trachoma as 
well as be of service to other immigrants. So shortly before Christmas of 
1927 we bid farewell to our Dutch benefactors and crossed the English 
channel. 

During the year and a half in Holland I had continued my correspon- 
dence with Tina. (The mail to and from Russia was still fairly reliable.) 
Our relationship had deepened. She was prepared to follow me to Canada 
and we would chart our future together. I had sent money to her brother 
Henry, who had been a fellow student in Gnadenfeld, to buy an engage- 
ment ring for Tina on my behalf. A date was chosen and our engagement 
was announced on the same day in the church in Alexandertal and in 
Southhampton. 

In Southhampton, in the crowded facilities of the camp known as 
Atlantic Park, I had the good fortune to share a room with Dr. Benjamin 
Unruh. He occupied the lower level of the bunk bed and I took the upper. 
We spent the mornings teaching the children. My afternoons and eve- 
nings were free. 

The opportunities to dialogue with Dr. Unruh were very significant 
for me at that stage of life. He suggested I read the book Jesus by Friedrich 
Zuendel. I found it very helpful, and reread it several times. It helped 
consolidate my experience at the monument of William of Orange. 


Dutch Interlude 


51 


Dr. Unruh was also an ardent student of Greek. Not knowing how 
long we would stay in Southhampton, I started to study Greek just to exer- 
cise my mind. Dr. Unruh was my coach. 

In April 1928 Lydia, Jacob, Henry and I all passed our medical tests. 
Helen did not. Back in Russia, her fiancee, David Pauls, had finally re- 
ceived his passport and passed through England on his way to Canada 
while we were in Holland. 

I had hoped that Tina would get her passport and come from Russia 
while we were still in England. When she didn’t, I wrestled with whether 
to wait in England until she could come, or proceed to Canada without 
her. 

Our family decided to leave for Canada. Helen, who hadn’t yet passed 
her medical test, would stay back. When Tina came they would come to 
Canada together. 

It wasn’t until June 1929 that Helen was finally allowed to follow. 
But Tina’s persistent efforts to secure a passport had failed. Perhaps it was 
the new regime’s way of punishing her for the wealth of her parents. 


CHAPTER 7 


Starting Over 


I t was the end of March, the season of stormy seas. The journey was 
very difficult. For days the waves washed over the deck of our ship, 
the Melita. Most passengers were very seasick, and our family was no 
exception. What a moment when the ship safely entered the port of Saint 
John, New Brunswick. 

My own emotions were as unsettled as the Atlantic. On the last day 
when the sea became calm I had sat on the deck most of the day ponder- 
ing my future. Deep depression again came over me. The events of our 
recent past could not be erased. What lay in store for us, an immigrant 
people with no financial resources? 

Our destination in Canada was Coaldale, Alberta. Father’s brother, 
Abram Toews and family, together with Grandpa and Grandma Janz, from 
whom we parted in Moscow in October 1926, were already settled there. 
Together with the families of B. B. Janz and Jacob Janz, my mother’s other 
brother who had migrated to Canada in 1923, they had bought a 560-acre 
irrigation farm. 

A stopover in Winnipeg on our way west provided opportunity to 
see Liese, who worked in the city as a housemaid. David Pauls, Helen’s 
fiancee, was in Arnaud, only about an hour from Winnipeg. Many other 
friends who had preceded us from Russia also lived in the area. Father had 
a chance to meet a number of his colleagues in the ministry, including A. 
H. Unruh, who had recently established a Bible school in Winkler. Seeing 
these many friends lifted my spirits temporarily. 

The train took us west to our destination in Coaldale. For hours I 
stood at the window as we passed through the vast prairies of Manitoba 
and Saskatchewan. This was said to be a land of opportunity, but at the 
moment I could see no prospects for a future. 

We had to change trains in Medicine Hat, Alberta. It was the second 
day of Easter, the early days of April 1928. That afternoon we arrived in 
Coaldale. No one from the extended family was there to meet us. Evi- 
dently they had not received the telegram sent from Winnipeg. 


Starting Over 


53 


A letter we received in England had described the approximate loca- 
tion of the farm they had purchased, two miles east of Coaldale. With the 
rest of our family staying in the unheated railroad depot, I ventured out on 
foot to find the farm and contact our relatives. It had rained and the dirt 
road was muddy. After about two miles I spotted a farm house a bit off the 
road. Could this be it? I walked toward the house. As I came closer my 
uncle Jacob Janz recognized me through the window. The three families 
were all assembled there to observe Easter. 

A team of horses was quickly hitched to a large grain tank and two 
uncles, Abram Toews and Jacob Janz, drove with me to the train station to 
get the rest of the family with all our belongings. A great celebration awaited 
us. We talked late into the night, reviewing the experiences of the past 
several years. Each family had their own story. Five years had passed 
since we had bid farewell to the Jacob Janz family at our grandparents’ 
house in Konteniusfeld. The day concluded with a prolonged prayer meet- 
ing on our knees, thanking God for this reunion. 

A Community House 

The 560-acre farm, purchased by the four families — our family was 
included even though we were not able to contribute our share of the 
down payment — had only one five-room house plus a kitchen. A half-mile 
from the main farmyard was a second small house with two rooms that 
had accommodated the farm laborers. The Jacob Janz family moved into 
the little house. We, a family of six, were assigned to the main house. 

To accommodate three families plus the grandparents in one house 
demanded precise coordination. All had to use a common kitchen. One 
room was assigned to each family. The younger generation found accom- 
modation in two empty graineries. Washing facilities were improvised 
outside. The outhouse served all of us, twenty-two persons in all. 

We were the poor family in the group. The other three had some 
means. Aunt Helen would share some food provisions with us. Our diet in 
the spring and summer was very simple. Potatoes, which were cheap, 
became our staple food until we could get vegetables from the garden. A 
sack of rolled oats, also very cheap, supplemented the potatoes. It was a 
meager beginning. Father, always full of thanksgiving, reminded us daily 
to remember our escape from “Egypt” and not to dishonor the Lord with 
complaints. 


54 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


It was spring. We would need tight organization to operate the farm. 
The land purchase was based on trust more than money. The owner, a 
dentist from Lethbridge, had experienced difficulties with previous rent- 
ers. When he heard of the Mennonite immigrants moving into the area he 
agreed to sell the farm without much of a down payment. No one of the 
extended family had any experience in farming except uncle Abe. He 
became the director of the operation and made all major decisions. 

The farm purchase included twenty-three horses and some farm ma- 
chinery. The ownership of the horses was divided by lot. The equipment 
was to serve the four families. 

The crop of the first year was planted and harvested in joint owner- 
ship. By mid-July the B. B. Janz family moved to their own quarters. An 
old shed that was on their part of the land had been remodeled to make it 
livable so they could move to make more room for the others. Grandpa 
and Grandma Janz, who had some finances, purchased a two-room house — 
basically a shed with a slanting roof — in the small town of Coaldale. 

I was not anxious to spend my time farming, but with Lydia only 
sixteen, Jacob fourteen, and Henry (Heinz) ten, my parents could not be 
left alone in these difficult circumstances. My first duty in Canada was to 
assist the family. 

My First Job 

A golden opportunity to earn extra money by clearing land opened 
up to us. The CPR owned large tracts of virgin land that it wanted broken 
up for farming so that Russian immigrants could settle on eighty-acre tracts. 
The CPR designated a major tract of land to us and offered us a good price 
per acre to break the ground and prepare it for farming. Stepping out in 
faith, with a very small down payment, the family group bought a new 15- 
30 McCormick-Deering tractor. I was assigned to operate the tractor, since 
I had earlier taken a mechanical course in equipment operation at the uni- 
versity in Gnadenfeld. So from May until the beginning of fall harvest I 
drove the tractor from early morning until late at night. 

Grandfather Janz, who claimed one of the twenty-three horses and 
hitched it to an old buggy, served as courier. Each day at noon he would 
drive six to ten miles, depending on the location of the field I plowed, to 
bring a supply of fuel, water, food and encouragement to the young man 
of twenty-three who sat on the tractor uncertain about his future. Then he 


Starting Over 


55 


would pick up the plowshares, which had to be changed every day, and 
take them to the blacksmith to be sharpened. 

The long days on the tractor provided plenty of time to ponder the 
trauma of the recent past and to think and worry about Tina, whose letters, 
now sporadic, reported repeated denials of her application for a passport. 
By the end of 1928 no more letters came through. 

For the first year the four families — Benjamin Janz, Jacob Janz, Abram 
Toews and John A. Toews — operated the farm jointly. Each day the fathers 
of the families and the boys received their various assignments. It was no 
small task for Uncle Abe to coordinate the operation. The crops consisted 
of sugar beets, wheat, barley and oats. Each family was assigned a plot to 
plant their own garden. While the four mothers tended their gardens, the 
young women worked in Lethbridge as house-maids for modest wages to 
help support their families. 

The tractor brought in good money and provided a major boost to 
the farm operation. In September, McCormick-Deering sold us a threshing 
machine, again with a very small down payment. Now we were fully 
equipped to do custom threshing. With very few threshing crews avail- 
able, we had a full schedule through September and October. Together, 
our family group could provide all the manpower. The uncles, Abram 
Toews, Benjamin and Jacob Janz; my father; the teenage boys, Peter and 
Victor Toews, Jacob B. and Jacob J. Janz — all carried responsibilities in the 
threshing operation. Some loaded the bundles and brought them to the 
machine; others hauled the grain to the granary. I looked after the opera- 
tion of the tractor and threshing machine. The income was good, but it all 
went into the common treasury to pay for the equipment, land payment 
and the farm operation. 

More Poverty 

The year 1928 was very difficult. Our family was still very poor. A 
small percentage of the harvest income was divided among the four fami- 
lies. Grandfather Janz bought a cow and gave us half the milk for provid- 
ing the pasture and doing the milking. Our menus were very simple: mostly 
potato dishes and, as the summer came, vegetables from the garden. 

Jacob and Henry went to school. Every morning a horse-drawn van 
came past the farm and took them to Coaldale. 


56 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


Father, as always, encouraged the family to trust God and have faith. 
He worked in the garden and looked after the sugar beets, our cash crop. 
He thanked God for the rabbit I caught in the beet fields; it was the only 
meat we had from spring until mid-summer. 

Father had faith that the Lord who provided bread and meat for Elijah 
when he was hiding from the wrath of Queen Jezebel could also provide 
meat for us. That August his faith and prayers were answered. Jacob Dick, 
a farmer and a deacon in the church who had come to Coaldale a few 
years earlier, raised pigs for market. One evening he came over to tell us to 
come by the next morning and get a pig. The Lord had told him we had no 
meat. That evening there was thanksgiving in our home for the pig the 
Lord had provided. 

With the help of Uncle Abram and some money from Grandpa Janz 
we began to build a house on the half section designated for us and the 
Jacob Janz family. It was forty-eight by thirty-two feet. The structure was 
very simple: A two-story shell, a roof and a few windows downstairs, with 
no interior partitions at first. We moved into the shell to escape the con- 
gestion in the community building. There was no barn for Grandpa’s cow 
and the horses. A crude fence would do. 

In mid-summer of the first year Father received an invitation to teach 
at the new Hepburn Bible School in Saskatchewan. The school had begun 
in 1927 in the facilities of the church, with just one teacher. Now Jacob 
Penner of the Hepburn church had purchased an old public school build- 
ing. They planned to introduce a two-year program. No set salary was 
offered, but it was an opportunity for service. 

For Father this was an answer to prayer. He would go to Hepburn for 
the six winter months. Mother and I would stay in Coaldale and work on 
the house. The boys, Jake and Henry, were in school. Lydia, only a teen- 
ager, would look for work in Lethbridge. 

In fall there still were no windows for the upstairs of the house. The 
front door and the downstairs windows were in. We were grateful to have 
a roof and food. 

In September Father went to Hepburn by train. The boys were in 
school. Lydia found a position as a housemaid with a wealthy family in 
Lethbridge. Mother and I remained to build the house, look after the four 
horses and Grandpa Janz’s cow, and tend to the general operation of the 
farm. 


Starting Over 


57 


Liese (Eliesabeth) who had preceded us to Canada in 1926 with 
Grandpa and Grandma Janz and the Abram Toews family, was in Winnipeg 
working as a housemaid. She faithfully sent us her monthly earnings of 
$25, a great help to cover household expenses. Father’s first stipend for 
his work in the Bible school, $45, together with some of the money from 
Liese, was enough to buy our first cow. Helen sent us $12 from England 
that she had earned helping in the kitchen in Atlantic Park. Here was the 
money to buy the first two windows for the upstairs of the house. The sale 
of the sugar beets gave us enough to buy lumber and hardware to con- 
tinue work on the house. We cooked and heated the house with coal I 
gathered from the mines along the Old Man River. A day’s work at the 
mines provided enough coal to last two to three months. 

The house had only two outside coverings with a layer of boards, tar 
paper in between, and then shiplap. Mother and I worked through the 
winter of 1928-1929 to finish the inside. Occasionally Uncle Abram would 
come for a day to led a hand. More of a builder than I, he helped put up the 
partitions and installed the doors and windows. 

The Church in Coaldale 

Since I had some advanced education I was drawn in to lead the 
young people’s group at church. At Christmas Jacob Klassen, a beekeeper, 
resigned as choir director. For some reason the church appointed me to 
succeed him. With my scant musical abilities, this seemed an impossible 
task for me. Lydia, who came home from Lethbridge every other week- 
end, became my coach. 

The music used by the choir was mostly hymns selected from the 
Liederperlen, an eight-volume compendium of German church music. We 
would select the songs in advance and practice at home to do the best we 
could. Our limited musical knowledge, seasoned with a degree of enthu- 
siastic leadership, seemingly was sufficient for that day in Coaldale. I man- 
aged to get some training through a music seminar conducted in Coaldale 
by Franz Thiessen, at the time a music teacher in Winnipeg and later a 
teacher at the Mennonite Educational Institute in Clearbrook, British Co- 
lumbia. He gathered choir directors from the Alberta churches and taught 
the rudiments of choir leadership. 

The Coaldale Mennonite Brethren Church consisted mainly of an 
immigrant group that had come from daughter colonies in Russia, all es- 


58 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


tablished at the end of the nineteenth century. That group, not having 
been part of the progressive cultural and educational programs in the mother 
colonies of the south, was culturally very conservative. A minority of the 
church members came from the more progressive Molotschna area. Many 
of them had professional training. They found it difficult to adjust to farm 
life and to integrate with the others. 

A second consideration that affected all immigrants was educational 
integration. In Russia Mennonites had their own village schools and had 
controlled the training of their children. Now all their children had to 
attend the public school. The new environment and the tensions within 
the two groups in the church resulted in social protectionism. 

The church choir was watched carefully by the congregation. They 
established rules of dress for the choir members as well as other social 
standards that the young people found confining. If the choir wanted to 
present a program at other churches like Grassy Lake, Pincher Creek and 
Namaka, special travel permission was needed. 

On one occasion the choir travelled to Grassy Lake, about seventy- 
five miles west of Coaldale. We went in six cars, all driven by young people. 
On the way, a car driven by Helen Enns, an inexperienced driver, had a 
close shave and nearly hit a road grader. Since I was responsible for the 
group, I decided to ride in her car on the way back. There were no further 
problems. 

The next week, however, I was asked to appear before the church 
council. One of the young people had reported that I had sat in the middle 
front seat of the Enns’ car with a girl on each side. My engagement to Tina 
Driedger was well known in the church, even though she had not yet come 
to Canada. I was admonished by some members of the council for having 
set a bad example for the young people. 

Despite this and other incidents, my brief time as choir leader in 
Coaldale, (two months short of two years) was a much-needed therapy. 
Aside from the quality of music, we had a good time. I never again at- 
tempted to meddle with music since I left Coaldale in 1930. The twenty- 
fifth anniversary publication of the Coaldale church made no mention of 
my brief tenure with the choir. 


Starting Over 


59 


Working and Waiting 

The struggle for survival as new immigrants in 1928-1929 demanded 
all the energy I had. I spent little time thinking of my future. I hadn’t 
received a letter from Tina since the summer of 1928. I had some hope 
that she might be among those who came out of Russia in the fall and 
winter of 1929 and 1930. All efforts to make contact with her failed. Life 
had to go on. 

The spring and summer of 1929 brought new problems. It was the 
first year in which each family assumed full responsibility for their own 
farm operation. We had trouble irrigating the crops. The canal system was 
inadequate, and I lacked the necessary experience. 

Father, who had returned from Hepburn in April, was very helpful in 
tasks that did not require any procedural decisions. He weeded the beet 
fields, tended to the irrigation water when it was properly channeled, and 
nurtured the family to believe God would do the impossible. One ex- 
ample illustrates Father’s practical limitations on the farm. 

As part of the threshing crew he was given a veiy tame team of horses 
and a rack to load the grain sheaves. His task was to bring the sheaves to 
the threshing machine, pitch them into the separator return to the field for 
another load. 

One morning I had moved the machine to a different location about 
a quarter-mile away. Father’s loaded rack was the first to be at the ma- 
chine that morning. The evening before he had unharnessed the horses 
and left the harnesses under the wagon. “Should I come with you to har- 
ness your horses?” I asked. 

“No,” he answered, “I can do it.” 

After he harnessed the horses I noticed that he was slow in coming, 
though the machine was already running. In the distance I saw him come 
walking, but the horses and the load had not moved. I stopped the ma- 
chine and ran to meet him. 

“What is it?” I asked. 

“John,” he said, “those horses are stubborn; they won’t pull. They 
start but then pull back.” 

“Daddy,” I said, “those horses are never stubborn. They’re the most 
faithful team we have.” 

“Yes,” he replied, “but today they are stubborn. I have prayed and 
even prayer does not help.” 


60 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


I reached the team. What was wrong? Father had put the collars on 
the horses upside down. The narrow end of the collar, which goes to the 
top of the horse’s neck, had been put to the bottom. When they tried to 
pull, they choked. After I turned the collars around the horses pulled as 
usual. 

When I brought them up to the machine Father asked: “What did you 
do to make them pull?” 

“Father, you had put the collars on upside down; you put the upper 
part to the bottom.” 

“Does it make any difference how you put them on?” he asked sur- 
prised. 

My father was a saint. You could not be in his presence without 
sensing that he was not of this world. He was completely impractical in 
everyday functions, but a man mighty in faith and prayer. When he was in 
the pulpit you sensed the voice of God in his preaching. Providentially, he 
had been given a wife of keen perception in the practical realities of every- 
day life. They were a God-given team for us as a family. 

We Move the House 

The building site of our house and the projected farmyard was two 
miles west and one mile north of Coaldale. Jacob Janz, mother’s brother, 
had built on the same quarter of land only a small distance to the north of 
us. The original plan was to divide the half section in the middle, with the 
Janz family farming the east half and we the west half. We soon realized 
that the layout of the farmsteads was impractical if we wanted room for 
expansion. It had the potential for disagreements and tensions between 
the two families. By the fall of 1929 it was clear that one family would 
need to move a mile to the west. Before Father left for his second winter in 
Hepburn, the decision was made that we would move east and develop a 
new farmyard. It involved moving a house that was not yet fully finished, 
digging a cellar and building new fences and stalls for the animals. In 
short, it meant to begin again from scratch. Our protests as a family made 
no difference. “We must avoid the potential of tensions within the family,” 
Father said. Then he left for Hepburn. 

Lydia was working in Lethbridge for $25 per month to add to the 
family support. Liese had moved to Calgary from Winnipeg because her 
health was not good and she needed to be closer to the family. The boys 


Starting Over 


6l 


Jacob and Henry were in school. The task of moving the house and estab- 
lishing a new structure of farm operation was left to Mother and me. 

The grain harvest with the custom threshing lasted until mid-Octo- 
ber. The beet harvest was finished by the end of the month. It was Novem- 
ber. Frost had set in. 

All alone I started to dig a cellar for the house. The ground was 
frozen to a depth of two feet, making the task nearly impossible. I worked 
hard with pick, spade and shovel to dig a cellar forty by twenty feet, seven 
feet deep. There was no time to lose. The four horses, two cows — we had 
bought a second cow with money that Father sent from Hepburn — a calf 
and two pigs, all outside without a decent shelter, needed tendeding. Be- 
fore we could move I also needed to scrape out a water hole to store water 
for livestock and household use. 

The winter of 1929-1930 remains etched in memory. I was a lonely 
young man, working desperately in the cold to provide a place to live. 
There was no word from the Tina I loved and longed to be united with. 

In December the cellar was ready. Members of the Toews and Janz 
clans, along with some men from the church provided the long timbers, 
and four wagons. The McCormick Dearing tractor provided the power. In 
two days the job was done and the house stood on its new cellar on a hill 
a mile east. With the help of Uncle Abram a crude barn was built using old 
wood from a large shed that had been torn down. 

When the horses and cows were transferred to the new location at 
the end of February, we had not yet scraped out the waterhole. They were 
taken to the neighbor to water. In March, before spring break, we scraped 
out a waterhole for the livestock. For the household we continued to haul 
water from the neighbors until summer of 1930 when we dug a cistern of 
our own. 

Facing An Unknown Future 

Was this bleak pioneer existence to be my lot in life? Or did God 
have other uses for my interests and abilities? The work with the youth in 
the church, the choir and an occasional opportunity to share a word of 
Scripture in the congregation provided some fulfillment for my searching 
spirit. Could I see myself staying on the farm? What about Tina, from 
whom I had not heard for over a year? Could I make decisions about the 
future without her? 


62 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim. 


From time to time I recalled the experience in Alexanderkrone after 
my fall and injury in Gnadenfeld, when mother knelt at my bedside and 
begged the Lord to take me to himself because there seemed no hope for 
healing. There I had confronted my vow never to become a minister. In 
the miracle of restoration I had pledged my obedience even if it would 
mean the ministry, but only ministry as a layman. I prayed for direction. 

Jacob turned sixteen in April and refused to continue school. He 
wanted to be a farmer. Uncle Abe was his idol. But he was not yet ready 
to shoulder the responsibility of a new farm operation. 

Helen, after more than a year’s wait in England, finally passed her 
medical test and came to Canada. She had not come to Coaldale to see the 
family but stopped in Manitoba with her fiancee. In June 1929 they were 
married. None of the family could afford to travel to Manitoba for her 
wedding. 

I informed my parents that my stay with them was only for the present 
and they shouldn’t expect a long-range commitment. Father’s reply was 
typical: “The Lord will have a way.” 

Helen sent word in January 1930 that she and David were expecting 
their first child and that her husband’s farming prospects in Manitoba looked 
doubtful. Further letters mentioned the possibility of them coming to 
Alberta. 

In July Dr. Henry W. Lohrenz from Tabor College in Hillsboro, Kan- 
sas, came to speak in the Coaldale church. I led the choir in the service 
where he spoke. At the close of the meeting he greeted me. Someone had 
told him about me. 

“What are your plans for the future?” he asked. 

I replied that our circumstances did not permit planning; for the 
present I had a responsibility to stay with my parents. “When you are 
ready, consider coming to Tabor,” he said, “we have a good teacher under 
whom you could study English.” 

In early August Helen wrote to say that David was interested in com- 
ing to Alberta. Her message triggered some hope. Could they assume 
responsibility for the farm, and thus give me a way out? 

By the end of August their plans were confirmed. David Duerksen, a 
cousin to my mother who lived in a small house on a twenty-acre plot that 
was part of the complex purchased by the Toews-Janz families, was mov- 
ing his family to Pincher Creek to acquire land and begin his own farming 


Starting Over 


63 


operation. My sister and her husband could move into the small house, 
only a mile from us. David, with the help of my brother Jacob, could man- 
age the operation of the extended farm. 

I felt a tremendous sense of release from my obligations to the paren- 
tal family. Once again, Father had been right. The Lord did have a way. 


CHAPTER 8 


A Student at Tabor 


N ow that my bonds to the farm had been providentially loosened, 
the contact with Dr. Lohrenz became a real beacon of hope. At the 
end of August I wrote to him and received word that I could come 
to Tabor when the fall farm work was over. I stayed with the threshing 
crew until we finished in mid-October. 

Not everyone shared my enthusiasm for further studies. When Franz 
Friesen, the elder of the Coaldale Mennonite Brethren Church, heard of 
my plan, he came by one evening to admonish me. “You have enough 
education,” he said. “You need to consider your obligations to your par- 
ents, who need you. You have responsibilities in the church. You are our 
choir director, and a leader for the young people. To go on to school, after 
all the education you already have, could lead you astray. Maybe you are 
too proud to stay with your family and work in the church.” 

Elder Friesen’s concerns did not change my plans. I applied for the 
necessary documentation to enter the United States. Inwardly, however, I 
was unsettled. Since coming to Canada I had received only one letter from 
Tina and that within the first month in Coaldale. The letter described her 
efforts to get a passport and noted that her aged parents needed her care. 
I had sensed a tone hopelessness. That had been two years ago. I had 
heard nothing from her since. 

Adding to my unease was the haunting matter of the ministry. I had 
not forgotten my recommitment under the monument of William of Or- 
ange, nor the inspiration I received from the book Jesus , which Dr. Ben- 
jamin Unruh had recommended. I felt continued pressure to consider the 
ministry, but I resisted. Was my father’s path of poverty to be my destiny, 
too? 

The choir had prepared a farewell program of songs and well-wishes 
in my honor. Elder Friesen gave his consent for the program on the un- 
derstanding that he would handle its conclusion. The parting with the choir 
was touching. Considerable affection had developed during our nearly 
two years together. 


A Student at Tabor 


65 


Elder Friesen used his time at the close of the program to repeat his 
earlier theme. He read the passage from 1 Peter 5:5, “God opposes the 
proud, but gives grace to the humble,” and delivered a short homily on the 
need to remain humble. But his was not the final word. Afterward, I was 
met at the door by two elderly ladies, a Mrs. Born and Mrs. Dueck. “Hans,” 
they said, “we have been praying that you would be obedient and respond 
to the ministry.” 

Several times during my two-and-a-half years in Coaldale I had re- 
sponded to invitations to speak to the youth group on Sunday evenings. 
On several occasions I had also served as the first speaker on Sunday morn- 
ings. Apparently I had shown promise. 

I couldn’t shake off the words of these two elderly ladies. The last 
few nights before my departure I was awake much of the time pondering 
my future. My immediate task was to learn English at Tabor College. But 
what then? Was medicine still an option? What about the prayers of the 
two saintly ladies? In retrospect I can see that the Potter was continuing to 
mold the clay (Isa. 41:25). 

The farewell at the railroad station was highly emotional. Father had 
already left for his third winter at Hepburn Bible School. Mother and Jacob, 
then sixteen years old, were to continue on the farm awaiting the move of 
David and Helen. Even though I knew they would be fine with the arrival 
of my sister and brother-in-law, it felt awkward to leave them alone. 

Before I boarded the train, Mother took me aside. She expressed 
concern that we had not heard from Tina for more than two years. “Is it 
time that you release her?” she asked. “But if you do,” she added, sobbing, 
“be careful that you don’t develop a relationship with an American girl.” 

Grandfather Janz was also at the train station. He cried as he em- 
braced me. “Hans,” he sobbed, “I think I will not see you again.” Grand- 
father was right. On January 3, 1932, while on his way to a prayer meeting, 
he was struck by a car and killed. It was a tragic ending for such a saintly 
man. 

Grandmother Janz gave me a warm hug and said, “When you come 
through Germany greet my brothers.” No doubt she meant her brothers in 
Hillsboro, Kansas and Corn, Oklahoma. Geographical perception meant 
little to Grandma Janz, who had only two years of schooling. Both Ger- 
many and Oklahoma were far away. 


66 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


From Coaldale to Hillsboro 

The train to Winnipeg and then Minneapolis conveniently passed 
through Arnaud, Manitoba, so I took the opportunity for a three-day stop- 
over to visit Helen and her family. I had not seen her since we left En- 
gland. Now I also had a chance to see their firstborn daughter, also named 
Helen. 

Uncle Benjamin had written to the city missionary, A. A. Smith in 
Minneapolis, whom he had met at the Mennonite Brethren General Con- 
ference in the summer of 1930, asking him to help me change trains in 
Minneapolis for Kansas City and Peabody, a station not far from Hillsboro. 

When I stepped off the train in Peabody, however, there was no one 
to meet me. A stranger noticed me standing forlornly with my baggage as 
the train went on to Newton. He approached me and asked where I needed 
to go. When he heard my broken English he switched to Low German. 
Now we were on the same wave length. A friend of Tabor College, he 
took me to Hillsboro. 

A small room had been reserved for me in the student boarding house 
operated by the N. N. Hiebert family. They occupied a former private 
hospital of a Dr. David Wiebe. Besides their family of nine, they had four- 
teen students staying with them. Room and board was $20 per month. My 
monetary reserve consisted of $75. Some unknown benefactor had paid 
my tuition at the college. 

The name Hillsboro was familiar to me. It was the home of the 
Zionsbote, the first periodical of the Mennonite Brethren in North America, 
which was well-known in the Molotschna. Its editor, Johann F. Harms, 
had sent money to Holland to buy beans for our family in 1922. Before my 
departure from Coaldale Father had impressed upon me that I would meet 
the one whom God had used to save our lives from starvation. 

Late in the afternoon of my first day in Hillsboro, I went on an explor- 
atory walk to see this important place known to the Mennonite Brethren in 
Russia. On Main Street I passed an old man with a long beard, walking 
with a cane. I had momentarily forgotten my instructions to establish con- 
tact with J. F. Harms. 

I greeted the elderly man with the customary “Guten Tag.” He stopped, 
realizing I was a stranger. “Are you a student from Tabor College?” he 
asked. I said I was. “From where have you come?” he asked. “From 


A Student at Tabor 


67 


Coaldale, Alberta,” I replied. “One of my important friends lives in 
Coaldale,” he said. 

Then I remembered the namej. F. Harms. “Are you Onkel J. F. Harms?” 

I asked. “Yes,” he answered. I identified myself as the son of J. A. Toews. 
At that the old man dropped his cane and embraced me. With deep emo- 
tion he said, “You are the son of preacher J. A. Toews!” It was a touching 
encounter. The legendary J. F. Harms became my first contact in Hillsboro 
beyond my hostess Susie Hiebert. 

J. F. Harms became a father figure and intimate friend during my time 
in Hillsboro. Ours was a relationship I cherished all my life. Harms, by 
then a widower, lived in a tiny hut with one room that served as kitchen, 
pantry and living room, and a small bedroom. Without apology for his 
primitive lifestyle, he often invited me to his abode. He did not share the 
narrow worldview so characteristic of the Hillsboro community. He could 
speak critically and analytically — yet with deep love — of the Mennonite 
Brethren in America. 

Harms would share with me his views on the strengths and dangers 
of the large influx of Mennonite Brethren from abroad. I learned the in- 
side stories of the Mennonite Brethren Church that had been left out of his 
book, Gescbichte der Mennoniten Brudergemeinde: 1860-1924. These 
included moral failures in the conference leadership, the tensions within 
the Tabor College administration, the divisions in the church at Henderson, 
Nebraska, and his deep concerns for the future of the Mennonite Brethren 
Church at large. Then he would read some Scripture related to our con- 
versation and we would spend time on our knees in prayer. Truly J. F. 
Harms was a “father in Israel” to the Mennonite Brethren Church of his 
day. 

Hillsboro and Tabor College 

Hillsboro, in 1931, was a small country town with a population of 
2,000. It reminded me of our village life in the Molotschna Colony. Even 
though it was a college town, however, I found the people less sophisti- 
cated than our Mennonites in Russia. 

I was struck by the heavy Mennonite population in the area, nine 
churches in all. There were three General Conference churches as well as 
their school, Bethel College, at North Newton, only twenty-five miles to 
the south. Closer by were three Mennonite Brethren churches, one in the 


68 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim, 


town of Hillsboro and two others, Ebenfeld and Steinreich, in the country. 
In addition, there were the Gnadenau and Springfield Krimmer Mennonite 
Brethren churches, and the Church of God in Christ Mennonite, also known 
as the Holdeman Mennonites. 

I found the Mennonite community in and around Hillsboro to be very 
clannish. The social and spiritual gap between the various Mennonite 
church communities reflected a kind of spiritual narrowness. 

These were troubling times for Tabor College. There was a history of 
tension with its General Conference neighbor, Bethel College. The Men- 
nonite Brethren communities of Hillsboro and Buhler were not pleased 
when Dr. Peter A. Schellenberg, a young Ph.D. in psychology, left Tabor in 
the spring of 1931 to join the Bethel faculty. Dr. H. W. Lohrenz, who with- 
drew from the Tabor administration in 1932, served one year at the Corn 
(Oklahoma) Bible Academy and then also accepted an invitation to Bethel. 
Hillsboro found this very difficult to swallow. 

When Tabor closed its doors for the 1934-1935 school year, it would 
be because of depression economics and the anti-intellectual stance of the 
local community and the wider Mennonite Brethren Conference of North 
America. Founded in 1908, the college had been spearheaded by a small 
minority of progressive people. But in the next twenty-six years it was 
never fully accepted as an institution of the Mennonite Brethren confer- 
ence. It would eventually achieve this status, but the endorsement would 
not be wholehearted. Nonetheless, my experience there was a valuable 
one in the context of my larger life’s pilgrimage. 

A Word from Tina 

In November, only a month after my coming to Hillsboro, there was a 
Harvest Thanksgiving Festival in Dorrance, Kansas. Tabor College was to 
send some students to preach and share in a program for the youth on 
Saturday. Mr. and Mrs. Adam Ross, who recently had moved to Hillsboro 
from Culbertson, Nebraska, were to take two students along. Mr. Ross, a 
retired lay preacher and farmer, was to share in the service. Because of my 
age, and my fluency in German, I was asked to go along and bring two 
messages, one on Saturday to the young people and the second on Sun- 
day morning. The second student assigned to go to Dorrance was Bernhard 
(B.J.) Braun, another immigrant from Russia. We would develop a lifelong 
friendship. 


A Student at Tabor 


69 


My two messages apparently were well received. On the way home 
Mrs. Ross, a sister to N. N. Hiebert, began to ask questions. She wanted to 
know about my family, my education and my background. Finally she 
said, “You are a good preacher, but you should be married. The girls do 
not hear what you say, but they are only interested in you.” 

I had not shared with her was that I was engaged. But her comments 
made an impression on me. I should be married. Was I deluded to hold 
out hope for Tina? I hadn’t heard from her for more than two years. I 
remembered my father’s persistent motto: “With God nothing is impos- 
sible.” Could God also do the impossible for me, and bring word from 
Tina? 

After kneeling in prayer that evening and weeping — very unusual for 
me at twenty-four — I decided to write again to the address given in Tina’s 
last letter. I needed clarity as to our relationship. My letter was very brief: 
“I have not heard from you for over two years. Is there any hope that you 
will get the permit to join me? With continued love, Hans.” 

Before Christmas I received a letter from Tina. The content was as 
follows: “My love for you is unchanged. There is no prospect that I will 
get the needed documents to come. The conditions are very difficult; I 
cannot leave my parents. My brother has been arrested and taken away. I 
am the only one to look after my parents. I must sacrifice any hope of you 
and me ever being united. I release you, though with much pain. You 
must chart your future without me. Tina.” I accepted the message as a 
special favor from God. Our relationship was dissolved. 

I did not hear more of Tina until 1988 when I preached in Germany 
to an audience of recent Mennonite immigrants from Russia. Afterward an 
elderly woman approached me with the question, “Are you the former 
Hans Toews from Alexandertal who was engaged to Tina Driedger?” Fifty- 
eight years after her last letter I learned of her pilgrimage and that she died 
in 1976. 

Back to High School 

Tabor College was not sure how to accommodate me. I had come 
with an extensive academic background: four years at the University of the 
Ukraine plus additional graduate work at the University of Amsterdam. 
However, in terms of formal credentials — degree or diploma — I had only 
a notarized letter from Gerhard Duerksen, who had served on the univer- 


70 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


sity board until 1925 and had emigrated a year before my escape. The 
letter certified my status at the university and listed the courses I had taken. 

Tabor didn’t know how to classify me. Because I had no English 
proficiency and had not completed required subjects in American history 
and government, they classified me as a senior in the academy (high school 
standing). They explained that I could not be given college standing with- 
out having a high school diploma. 

So I took high school courses in English, American History and Ameri- 
can Government along with my college courses. Credit for college work 
was subject to the completion of the American high school requirements. 
The first two months before Christmas I concentrated on the rudiments of 
English, attending the classes of English I and II, in addition to reading for 
hours. For one hour in the morning and 30 minutes in the afternoon I read 
aloud while Liese Schultz corrected my pronunciations. I looked up the 
meaning of the words in the dictionary, making a list of the vocabulary 
and memorizing the meaning. 

Under Dr. H. W. Lohrenz I took theology, using The Christian Reli- 
gion in its Doctrinal Expression by Edgar Young Mullins. Also from Dr. 
Lohrenz I took two years of Greek and Introduction to the New Testament. 
From Dr. Peter C. Hiebert I took Public Speaking to attain fluency in En- 
glish. 

It was most difficult, even humiliating, for me to be classified as a 
high school student, but I was told that was the system of American educa- 
tion. I later discovered that other institutions could be more flexible. Eight 
years later, the Western Baptist Theological Seminary in Portland sent the 
same certified letter and outlines of courses I had taken in Russia to the 
University of Oregon. They fully recognized my previous education and 
gave me bachelor of arts standing, a requirement for acceptance to the 
bachelor of divinity program at the seminary. 

Tabor College academically was a disappointment but it opened some 
important doors. I developed many acquaintances among the rural Ameri- 
can Mennonite Brethren. I now see the Tabor experience as a providential 
chapter in God’s design for my life. For the first time in my academic 
career I was studying in a Christian environment. H. W. Lohrenz and P. C. 
Hiebert had a significant impact on me. Lohrenz combined deep piety 
and respectable scholarship. He was a scholar of New Testament Greek 
and theology as well as biology and botany. He showed considerable 


A Student at Tabor 


71 


interest in those of us from abroad who were older and more mature than 
the average college student. 

Tabor owed much of its stature to Lohrenz. He was the one respon- 
sible for the imposing Greek columns that gave Tabor’s architecture its 
distinctive look. Lohrenz had resigned from the presidency the year be- 
fore I came to Tabor. I found it hard to understand the decline of his 
leadership during the years I was there. 

Peter C. Hiebert was another figure who loomed above the rest of the 
faculty. In many ways his personality balanced that of Lohrenz. Less of a 
scholar than Lohrenz, he was popular among the common people and 
was accessible to anyone at any time. He was the chairman of Mennonite 
Central Committee and had travelled widely in the inter-Mennonite world, 
including a visit to our Russian village of Alexandertal. The unfortunate 
tension that existed between these two leading men of the Mennonite Breth- 
ren Church did not escape the notice of the more mature students. 

In my second semester at Tabor, spring 1931, 1 was appointed to travel 
with the college quartet as devotional speaker, this experience, plus living 
in the Hiebert dormitory, provided continued social integration with Ameri- 
can young people. Friendships born during this time remained with me 
for life. 

The Hieberts were an example of deep commitment to God and the 
church. It was a significant sacrifice of privacy for them to operate a dor- 
mitory for so many students. Their lifestyle was very simple and their 
family relationships exemplary. The Hiebert family reflected some of my 
own family background. Mr. Hiebert was a very pious and devoted man. 
For many years, was the executive secretary of the Board of Foreign Mis- 
sions, he spent many weeks and months away from home. Mrs. Hiebert 
and the family had maintained a small dairy farm in Mountain Lake, Min- 
nesota, before moving to Hillsboro in the summer of 1930 so that Mr. Hiebert 
could be closer to his missions work and teach in the missions department 
at Tabor. 

Mr. Hiebert was very reserved but very kind. I remember him sitting 
in the front room with a little typewriter on his knees, writing letters in 
connection with missions, or writing Sunday school lessons or other ar- 
ticles for the Zionsbote. He was not a powerful preacher, but was widely 
loved for his deep sincerity and compassion. Often he appeared melan- 
choly, perhaps burdened by the endless responsibilities resting upon him. 


72 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


The household of nine family members and fourteen students ran 
smoothly under the quietly efficient administration of Mrs. Hiebert. Her 
practicality reminded me of my own mother, although Mrs. Hiebert was 
more reserved and withdrawn. The students were a mix of young men 
and women, mostly from Nebraska, Minnesota and Oklahoma. The ex- 
ceptions were B. J. Braun and me, both recent immigrants from Russia. 

Ben Braun was in Hillsboro for the second year. He also had been 
classified as an academy student when he came to Tabor. Both of us were 
in our mid-twenties. He was known at Tabor for his academic ability and 
leadership, and had served as student body president. The differences in 
our backgrounds, he being from Siberian and me from the Molotschna, 
were soon bridged. A deep and lasting friendship developed between us. 

Ben and I did not exactly fit in with the other young people. They 
were mostly recent graduates from high school, jolly and rambunctious 
quite different from the youth in our villages in Russia or Coaldale. They 
came from the farms and smaller churches, and college was a place to let 
loose. 

N. N. Hiebert introduced me to the Mennonite Brethren Church at 
Lehigh, a few miles west of Hillsboro. This contact led to the church invit- 
ing me in January of 1931 to preach there on Sundays. The small allow- 
ance of $20 per month covered the cost of my board and room. Special 
gifts of one or two dollars from people of the church helped cover per- 
sonal expenses. At Hiebert’s suggestion the church also provided me with 
a 1927 Model T Ford to commute to church on Sundays. I would continue 
to use this vehicle the following year for ministry travels in North Dakota 
and Montana. 

I Meet Nettie 

The month of March 1931 was an important milestone in my life. 
During chapel hour a nurse from the local hospital appeared on the stage 
and gave a reading titled “The Picture on the Wall,” a story of a nurse car- 
ing for a young man who had been injured in an accident. His recovery 
was in question. The nurse, concerned for the man’s spiritual condition, 
sought a way to speak to him about salvation. She hung a picture of Jesus 
on the wall in front of the injured man’s bed to provide an occasion to talk 
to him about spiritual matters. 


A Student at Tabor 


73 


The man did not respond to the message. He recovered and left the 
hospital. The nurse never heard from him. Many years passed. The nurse 
grew old, became ill and was near death. Her fellow nurses summoned a 
minister to her bedside. As the clergyman entered the room, he recog- 
nized the nurse who now hovered at the gates of eternity. 

“The picture on the wall,” he said. They recognized each other. “Are 
you the man I told the story of Jesus?” she whispered. “Yes,” he answered, 
“the picture on the wall pointed me to Jesus.” He lifted her head to ease 
her breathing. “The picture on the wall,” she whispered and breathed her 
last. 

A hush fell over the chapel when she finished the reading. Faculty 
and students were deeply touched. “Who is that nurse?” I wondered, 
amazed at how she swayed the audience with her touching story. I learned 
that she was a nurse from the local hospital who was taking a literature 
class at the college. It occurred to me that I, too, should enroll in the same 
class. After all, I was there to study English. That was how God brought 
Nettie Unruh into my life. 


CHAPTER 9 


Struggling to Obey 


T hrough the spring months of 1931 my friendship with Nettie Unruh 
became very important. She was a very modest person, with a heart 
for outreach. Information about her background and family had to 
be coaxed out of her, but she spoke freely about her work at the hospital 
and the fulfillment she found in ministering to people. On Sunday after- 
noons she was part of a group that ministered to children who gathered at 
Tabor. I found myself quite attracted to her and wondered how our rela- 
tionship would develop. 

Open Doors 

Meanwhile, the idea of ministry continued to beckon. Tabor stu- 
dents and faculty assumed my future lay in the gospel ministry. During the 
spring semester of 1931 I joined the college’s gospel team, which visited 
churches on behalf of the school. At the same time I was elected leader of 
the Tabor College Mission Band. I was invited to speak at morning wor- 
ship services in the Hillsboro, Gnadenau, Lehigh, Zoar and Ebenfeld 
churches. 

The college administration recommended me to the Mennonite Breth- 
ren Church in Jansen, Nebraska, as an interim pastor for the summer of 
1931. I responded positively because the people there were willing to 
provide some support for my continuing English studies at Tabor. 

Jansen was a small community. Everyone in the church were farmers 
except the Ben Rempels, who lived in Fairbury and had a produce busi- 
ness. There was a good group of young people and children and they all 
affirmed my ministry. The assignment at Jansen intensified my struggle 
about the future. Was the gospel ministry to be a commitment for life? 
What about the medical profession to which I had committed myself? 

To earn additional money for the next school year, I worked on the 
farm of the Peter Reimers during the week. I lived with them and was 
treated as part of their family. I shared the farm work and will never forget 
the experience of cultivating corn with unpredictable mules. In the eve- 
nings I took responsibility for midweek prayer meetings and youth gather- 
ings. Sundays were full, with both morning and evening services. 


Struggling to Obey 


75 


Despite the pressures of pastoring, I found time to ponder my future 
as I spent days on the corn cultivator under the scorching sun. If my friend- 
ship with Nettie developed further, would she be open to the ministry? 

In August, John Krause, an elderly member of the Evangelical Men- 
nonite Church, died. Their house of worship was only two or three miles 
west of the Mennonite Brethren church. Mr. Krause had a large family. 
Some members of his extended family came from non-German back- 
grounds. The funeral was to be conducted in English, but their elder, Rev. 
John Friesen, spoke only German. The Krause family, knowing of my min- 
istry in their neighboring church, asked that I bring the funeral address. I 
agreed. Having never before preached in English I worked hard to write 
out the message. My topic was “Man’s search for a purpose to life,” based 
on Ecclesiastes 1:2-6. 

Just as the Reimer’s and I were ready to leave for the funeral their 
son, Delmer, had one of the convulsions he occasionally suffered. All our 
concern focused on the struggling child. Mrs. Reimer decided to stay home. 
By now it was late, and we drove in hast to the church. 

I was ushered to the platform. As I opened my Bible, I discovered to 
my terror that in the excitement I had left my sermon notes on the table 
back in my room. What now? My first sermon in English, without notes? 
In my distress I prayed for special grace. 

The introductory music and the congregational song ended. All eyes 
were on the young preacher who was to speak. I read the text and spoke 
from memory after rehearsing the sermon over and over again on the corn 
cultivator. I spoke for twenty minutes. At the coffee hour, following the 
service, some people expressed appreciation for the message. 

The incident would come back to me in the fall of 1952 when I was 
pastoring in Reedley, California. I was greeting the people after a morning 
service when a visitor stared intently at me while I shook hands with him. 
He left for a moment, than turned around and came back. He asked: “Are 
you the man who preached the funeral message for John Krause in Jansen, 
Nebraska?” I said I was. “Do you remember,” he asked, “the message you 
preached on 'all things are vanity’?” “I remember too well,” I said. “That 
was the first English sermon I preached.” With tears in his eyes he said: 
“That message changed my life. I became a Christian, and that is twenty- 
one years ago.” That noon at the dinner table I shared with my family the 
story of my first English message. In deep humility I thanked God for his 


76 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


mercy those many years ago. The experience was part of my molding 
process before I surrendered in obedience for the ministry. The Potter 
was softening the clay. 

Conference Speaker 

The Central District Conference in 1931 was at the Silver Lake Men- 
nonite Brethren Church in Marion, South Dakota. The Cornelius Unruh 
family, including Nettie, were members of this congregation. 

The Sunday evening service was designated as a youth rally. The 
Tabor College quartet was to be responsible for the program and I was to 
bring the evening message. Ben Rempel, leader of the Jansen church, had 
provided the transportation to South Dakota. 

The conference met under a large tent that was filled to capacity. 
Afterward I was approached by A. A. Dick, chairman of the Home Mission 
Committee, as to my availability for a month of renewal meetings in the 
churches of the Central District the following summer. I was to give my 
answer the next morning. After a restless night of inward struggle I gave 
my consent. 

The Unruh family was prominent in the Freeman-Marion area of South 
Dakota. I made some casual inquiries about them. Nettie was well known. 
She had been the first from the community to leave for studies. She had 
entered nurses training school, first in Mountain Lake, Minnesota, then in 
Kansas City, and was now a registered nurse having passed the state board 
exams. Some referred to the family as “the rich Unruhs.” Amid the eco- 
nomic depression of the 1930s they were perceived as wealthy. Rumors 
were already circulating that I was befriending their daughter. 

Developments in the months since I left Coaldale had been too over- 
whelming. My relationship with Tina Driedger had been terminated. I 
had entered a new and wider environment of Tabor College and the 
churches of central Kansas. The trips with the college quartet had given 
me opportunity to speak in Buhler, Inman, Hillsboro and Dorrance, Kan- 
sas, as well as Corn, Fairview and Enid, Oklahoma. And now here I was at 
the Central District Conference, the first such conference I ever attended. I 
had pledged myself to a month of services for the following summer of 
1932, later extended to six weeks. The ministry opportunities seemed to 
be coming at a relentless pace. 


Struggling to Obey 


77 


Inwardly unsettled, I returned to Jansen. The ministry there contin- 
ued through fall, by travelling there on weekends by bus. 

Nettie's Influence 

My second year at Tabor was easier. I began to identify with the 
college community and become reconciled to the school’s inability to ex- 
tend appropriate academic recognition. But I was still uncertain about my 
future. My apparent acceptance in the American churches and the increas- 
ing demand for a spiritual ministry were indications of my gifts. But I 
remained uneasy about the poverty that I associated with a long-term min- 
isterial commitment. 

Nettie and I continued to nurture our friendship. My affection and 
admiration for her grew. Shortly after Christmas I felt the liberty to suggest 
the possibility of marriage. She was noncommittal at first. She felt she had 
made a lifelong commitment to the nursing profession. Marriage was not 
something she had considered. I prayed earnestly that the Lord would 
lead her to a positive response, despite the uncertainty of my own plans. 

In February of 1932 I faced a crisis that demanded decisive action. 
Two options, both attractive in their own way, suddenly opened up for 
me. One of these was in business. Sam Schneider, a member of the Buhler 
Mennonite Brethren Church and chairman of the Tabor College board, 
operated a chain of Shell service stations and had other high level involve- 
ments with the Shell Oil Company. He encouraged me to consider work- 
ing for Shell, which at the time was entering the European market. He 
thought my European background, languages and personality would be 
assets for a successful business career. 

The second invitation was to join the faculty of the Bethany Bible 
Institute in Hepburn, Saskatchewan. The first offer provided financial se- 
curity, the second a more permanent involvement in Christian ministry. I 
knew a number of Mennonite Brethren ministers who were successful in 
business and who served in the ministry at the same time. Could I not be 
financially secure and still serve the Lord? 

I wondered what Nettie would say. She came from a home that was 
considered wealthy. What would she choose if she became my life’s part- 
ner? I decided to share my struggle with her. One evening as we walked 
together in the park near the Tabor College campus I told her about the 
two options I had to consider. She was quiet. Then finally she said in a 


78 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


subdued tone, “John, if you accept the position to become a teacher in the 
Bible school and a minister you will always be poor.” We said little as we 
walked back to the Flaming home where she stayed. Then we parted. I 
didn’t see her for another ten days. 

I was at a crossroad. I knew God had gifted me for ministry. That 
part I had accepted. But could I not be active in ministry like William 
Dyck, the owner of a factory and a large flour mill in Russia? Other wealthy 
Mennonite Brethren ministers had served the Lord faithfully. Could I not 
go into the oil business with Shell and still be a minister? Other young men 
at Tabor, like Abram Nachtigal, Henry Rempel, B. J. Braun and Peter Klassen, 
were planning careers in medicine, business and teaching. Did I have to 
be an exception? 

One afternoon I was on my way downtown to mail a letter to my 
parents when I met Nettie, who was on the way to the hospital. We stopped 
and chatted briefly. “John, you haven’t come to see me for quite a while,” 
Nettie said. “I need to talk to you.” “When will you be off duty?” I asked. 
“This evening at nine,” she replied. I agreed to meet her at the hospital at 
nine. 

I couldn’t study the rest of the day. I worried that she would lose 
interest in our relationship if I chose to go to Hepburn. At nine o’clock I 
met Nettie at the hospital. We walked together side by side, then stopped 
under a tree in the park. There was a moment of silence. I noticed she 
was crying. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “It is all right,” she answered. 
“What is all right?” I asked. Again she said, “It is all right.” I repeated my 
question again. Then she said, “It is all right to be poor.” I clasped her 
hand. With very little conversation we continued to walk together. God 
had given me the answer. That evening we pledged our relationship for 
the future. The struggles were not over, but I had made a major decision. 
I accepted the call to go to Hepburn in September of 1932. 

The mutual commitment with Nettie marked a new chapter for both 
of us. We began to talk of our future together. Nettie was concerned how 
she would fit into a family environment so different than hers. She sug- 
gested that I go to Hepburn for a year while she stayed in Hillsboro. She 
needed time to process the decision. It was difficult for her to think of 
giving up her beloved profession as a nurse after all she had sacrificed to 
attain it. 


Struggling to Obey 


79 


She also wanted time to learn German so she could relate to my fam- 
ily, especially my parents. She had grown up in the Silver Lake church, 
where the services were in German, but she did not have a speaking knowl- 
edge of the language. 

Nettie had not yet processed our decision with her own family. Her 
father, knowing of our emerging relationship, had warned her against 
marrying me. He sensed from the tent meetings of the previous summer 
that I was headed for the ministry. He had reminded Nettie of his brother, 
Henry Unruh, who had served in Mennonite Brethren churches in Kansas, 
California and South Dakota. He had pointed out that “those are people 
who always move around and are poor.” 

We agreed that I would go to Hepburn while she would continue 
nursing at the hospital in Hillsboro and study German. We would plan a 
wedding for the summer of 1933- Nettie went back to South Dakota to 
inform her family of our mutual commitment. I passed through South 
Dakota on my way to the scheduled meetings in the Central District churches 
so I could meet her family. I spent the last day of May 1932 in the Unruh 
home, dining with the family and then meeting with Nettie and her parents 
in the evening to request their approval of our relationship. Their re- 
sponse was very kind, and they gave their parental approval to our plans. 
Father Unruh graciously did not mention the concerns he had expressed 
earlier to Nettie. 

A Conference Ministry 

June and July were set aside for ministry in McClusky, Sawyer and 
Johannestal in North Dakota and Lustre, Wolf Point and Larslan in Mon- 
tana. These were small rural churches led by lay preachers who farmed all 
week and preached on Sundays. As a young man from Russia and Tabor 
College, I was something of a novelty, so we had a good crowd of curious 
young people at the meetings. My father had said each service should 
have something for the children and young people. I followed his advice 
and taught them choruses followed by some dramatic story from my back- 
ground in Russia. I told them about starvation, the revolutionary war, the 
loss of my horses and the poverty we experienced. The children and young 
people listened attentively and came back every evening. My ministry 
was something new to them. Visitors from the wider community came as 
well. 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


Our arrangement was that A. H. Unruh would precede me in each 
church with a week of Bible expositions before I followed with a week of 
evangelistic meetings. The grace of God abounded. We saw conversions 
in every church. 

The concluding joint service of the McClusky and Johannestal churches 
was especially dramatic. Unruh gave a brief expository message as the 
introduction to the service. I followed with an evangelistic message and 
an appeal for decisions to accept Christ as Savior. While the small choir 
sang the invitation, “Come, Sinner Come,” an emotional wave burst unex- 
pectedly upon the audience. People flocked to the altar at the front of the 
church, fell on their faces and cried. Parents threw their arms around sons 
and daughters whose souls were in agony. 

I stood behind the pulpit, taken aback. Finally I turned to A. H. Unruh 
with the question: “What shall I do now?” Gently he answered, “Just let 
them cry and weep over their sins. When they calm down we will show 
them the way to forgiveness.” After about half an hour, when the emo- 
tions subsided somewhat, I asked Unruh to take charge. Calmly he read 
them the Scriptures and pointed out the way of salvation. The meeting 
ended with great rejoicing in many households. 

I remembered similar scenes of sorrow and repentance from the re- 
newal meetings in Russia during the post revolution years, but then I was 
only a teenage observer. This was my first such experience as a presiding 
minister. 

The weeks of ministry with Unruh were enormously important for 
me. I learned much at the side of this patriarch. His instruction and ex- 
ample during those six weeks left an indelible impression on me. 

These six weeks of ministry in the summer of 1932 were a strong 
affirmation of God’s call to the ministry. I was overwhelmed by the persis- 
tence and patience of God as “the potter forming a vessel.” I became 
completely at peace about my decision to go to the Hepburn Bible School. 
At twenty-six, my struggle for purpose in life seemed over. 

While in Montana I received the first letter from Nettie since we parted 
in the home of her parents. The letter assured me of her support, but also 
raised the question, “How can I be sure that our decision of the past weeks 
is truly from the Lord?” Now that she was alone she was re-evaluating the 
long-range implications of our decision. Such stmggles would be expressed 
frequently in her letters over the next year. It was not easy for her to think 


Struggling to Obey 


81 


of exchanging her life’s calling for a life of ministry at the side of a man 
whom she knew only superficially. 

A Man Without a Country 

It was a warm day in July. It had been three months short of two 
years since I had left Coaldale. As I drove my little Model T Ford towards 
the Canadian border, I mused over the church’s parting words to me back 
in October 1930: “God resisteth the proud but gives grace to the humble.” 

I was going home to Coaldale. The whole family would be there: 
Father, Mother, Helen and David and their two children, Jacob, Henry, 
Lydia and even Liese, who worked in Calgary but was expected home for 
the family reunion. 

I reached the border town of Sweetgrass, Montana, in late afternoon. 
From the border it was a hundred miles to Coaldale, so I would arrive 
home by late evening. The Model T had a top speed of only forty-five 
miles per hour, but I made good time. I expected to spend the night under 
the roof of the house which I had built. But then came a rude surprise! 

The American immigration inspector informed me that I had over- 
stayed my time in the United States. My visa had expired July 1 and it was 
now July 20. After some negotiations and a word of admonition he let me 
proceed across the border to Canada. 

The Canadian immigration officer, at Coutts, Alberta, was more hos- 
tile. After examining my papers, he informed me that because I had over- 
stayed my time in the U.S. I had lost my Canadian domicile and with it my 
status as an immigrant. With some harshness he said I could not re-enter 
Canada. 

A Canadian border guard then escorted me back to the U.S side where 
an argument broke out between the Canadian and the U.S. officials. It 
seemed no country was open to me. In desperation I asked, “Well, what 
then can I do?” The answer was cruel: “You are a man without a country. 
We will deport you to Russia from where you came.” A chill ran through 
me, despite the heat of the day. 

The American officer questioned me about my stay in the U.S. Had I 
only studied or had I also worked? I forthrightly said I had served churches 
while in school and that they had helped me with financial donations. 
“Are you a preacher?” they asked. “No” I said, “but as a student I did preach.” 


82 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


At first they said that I would need to stay in jail at Sweetgrass until 
they could get a ruling from Washington on how to handle my case. But 
after further questioning they changed their mind. Instead they would 
impound my car and I could stay in a nearby hotel but report to immigra- 
tion every three hours during the day, allowing six hours for the night. 
Leaving all my baggage in the car I checked into the hotel. The price was 
$2 per night. 

Before leaving Coaldale nearly two years earlier I had visited Dr. 
Richards, a dentist in Lethbridge, a friend of the Toews and Janz clan. He 
knew us from the land purchase in which he was involved. I had shared 
with him my plans to go to the U.S. for study. His parting words to me 
were: “Be careful, John, so that you will not get into trouble. If you do, call 
me. I may be able to help you.” 

The hour of needing help had come. Uncle Benjamin in Coaldale 
had a phone. Although it was late at night I called him long distance. I 
told him of my dilemma and mentioned the last words of Dr. Richards. 

The wheels began to turn. Uncle Benjamin would consult with Dr. 
Richards, whose brother, it turned out, was the Canadian minister of immi- 
gration in Ottawa. We agreed that I would call back in two days. 

My case was referred personally to the Canadian minister of immi- 
gration. When I called two days later I was told that he had given assur- 
ance to review my case and instruct the local border official accordingly. 
In the meantime I maintained my schedule of reporting to the U.S. immi- 
gration officials every three hours. I told them Canada was reviewing my 
case and I expected a favorable reply. 

On the third day in the afternoon I dropped by the immigration office 
at Coutts. When I asked if there were any new developments I received an 
angry rebuff. “Your case is not under consideration,” I was told. “There’s 
no way you can get entrance into Canada.” I didn’t tell the officer of my 
connections with Ottawa. 

On the fourth day I again went to the Canadian border and asked the 
same question. The reply was even more harsh than before. “You need 
not come and inquire. Your case is closed. You have lost your Canadian 
domicile.” 

On the fifth day the response was different. Angrily the officer asked 
me, “What connection do you have in Ottawa?” Without answering I asked, 
“What is the message from Ottawa?” Finally the officer answered in an 


Struggling to Obey 


83 


undertone: “You can go.” “Will you hand me the needed document?” I 
asked. After a long silence he repeated his question: “Who do you know 
in Ottawa?” Here I became firm. “Officer, I don’t owe you an answer. I 
want you to give me the documents to enter Canada.” He handed me the 
papers. The wire from the minister of immigration said: “Give free pas- 
sage to John Toews to enter Canada at once.” 

With the document in hand it was now my turn to speak. “You have 
treated me very unkindly,” I said. “I want you to know that Ottawa will 
receive a full report of how you treat people at Coutts.” The tables had 
turned. He apologized and pleaded that I not report the case any further. 

I left, insisting that a report would be sent. 

It was late afternoon. My sense of relief was indescribable. That 
evening I called Uncle Benjamin to report that my long delay was over. I 
also wrote a long letter to Nettie in Hillsboro reporting the outcome of my 
ordeal. 

My car had been impounded by U.S. immigration when my prob- 
lems began. They released it to me upon presentation of my Canadian 
entry permit. But as far as the Canadian officials were concerned, my 
permit did not extend to the vehicle. “The car cannot be imported,” they 
said. A used car dealer in Sweetgrass agreed to try to sell it and would 
send the money to me in Coaldale. I used the car one last time to take my 
baggage to the Canadian checkpoint, then returned the car to the dealer. 

At ten o’clock the next morning David Pauls arrived at Coutts to pick 
me up. With him in his light delivery truck were my two brothers, Jake 
and Henry. “You will hear from Ottawa,” were my last words to the immi- 
gration officer. Three hours later we arrived in Coaldale. The whole fam- 
ily was there to greet me. Mother had kept the borscht hot for our arrival. 
Before we sat down to eat, Father prayed thanksgiving to God for helping 
to reunite us. 

In the family circle I reported in detail the story of Sweetgrass and 
Coutts. Father objected to reporting the border official to Ottawa. That 
would be revenge, he said, quoting Christ’s command, “Love your enemies, 
bless them that curse you and persecute you” (Matt. 5:44). “John,” he said, 
“you will not report that officer to the immigration authority in Ottawa.” I 
heeded the admonition. 

Three years later in spring of 1935 Nettie and I passed through Coutts 
on our way to meetings in Montana. The officer still on duty in Coutts, 


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recognized me immediately. “You didn’t report the incident of a few years 
ago to Ottawa?” he asked. “No, I did not,” I said. The chapter was dosed. 

The car was sold in Montana for $50. The dealer charged $20 com- 
mission plus $2 for a money order. I received $28. 


CHAPTER 10 


85 


Back in Coaldale 


T he reunion with the family after two years of separation was joyous. 
Changes had occurred during my absence. Helen and her family 
had moved to Coaldale and occupied the house on the twenty acre 
farm. After Grandpa Janz’s death in a car accident Grandmother had moved 
in with the Abram Toewses. Father had accepted a teaching position at 
the new Bible school in Coaldale so he could stay with the family. 

The Central District Home Missions Committee paid me $125 for the 
weeks of meetings in North Dakota and Montana. In the eyes of my family 
I had come home a rich man. 

Some things hadn’t changed at all while I was gone. One was the 
cultural narrowness of some people in the Coaldale church. On my first 
Sunday the first person to greet me was Elder Franz Friesen. “You have 
come back,” he said. “Yes, I am back,” I answered. “Have you kept the 
faith?” he asked in Low German. “Yes, Uncle Friesen,” I answered, “I have 
kept the faith.” “But wasn’t everything English where you were?” I couldn’t 
help reacting. “Yes, Uncle Friesen, everything there was English, but there 
are more people who are Christians in the faith that speak English than 
there are who speak German,” I replied. “That could not be,” he said. “All 
English, and you say they were Christians?” Fortunately other people had 
came up to greet me so I did not respond further. 

It was customary in Coaldale to have a brief children’s feature as part 
of the morning worship. Heinrich Kornelson, who was to speak to the 
children that morning, asked if I would address them. Hesitantly I con- 
sented. I told the children briefly where I had been for the past two years 
and that I now had come home. Not having prepared anything, I asked if 
they would like to learn a little chorus. Their response was enthusiastic. 
So I sang the chorus, “Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so.” 
They enjoyed it. We sang the chorus two or three times. 

Johann Dick, a very sincere veteran in the faith, put his hand on my 
shoulder after the service and said, “That was good, but should you not 
have taught that chorus in German? Why English?” These concerns were 
just the tip of the iceberg of a deep ethnic preoccupation that could not 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


differentiate between “faith” and “culture.” To them, language was the 
carrier and expression of faith. 

This phenomenon was not unique to Coaldale. During four centu- 
ries of cultural isolation the Anabaptist movement had frequently allowed 
faith to be wrapped up in culture. Our forebears, mainly Dutch people 
who moved from Holland to the Vistula Delta south of Danzig, spoke Dutch 
for some two hundred years before finally adopting German. During 150 
years of colony life in Russia, German language and traditions became 
virtually indistinguishable from faith. 

In Coaldale the change from German to English was more difficult 
than in many churches. This was due largely to the strong personalities of 
people like B. B. Janz, Heinrich Cornelsen, Bernhard Dick and Jacob J. 
Siemens, all of whom clung to conservative ways. 

The responses to my return were generally very kind. Young and old 
welcomed me back. Many of them already knew that I had accepted the 
call to teach at the Bible school in Hepburn where my father had taught for 
three winters. 

My stay in Coaldale from July 26 to October 10, 1932 was very re- 
warding. In general I felt accepted. I had opportunities to speak to the 
young people’s program (Jugend-Verein ) and also shared in one morning 
worship of my experiences in the “English” world with a brief message 
from the Word. 

Family and Farm 

The family reunion was wonderful. After six years the circle was 
again complete. The various changes that had occurred testified of growth 
and maturity. Henry was a teenager. Jacob, eighteen, still did not feel the 
need to go to high school. I vividly recalled his fifteenth birthday in April 
1929 when he had flatly refused to continue school. The school van, drawn 
by horses, came by that day but only Henry got on board. Half an hour 
later I found Jake sitting in the barn. Nothing I said could persuade him to 
go back to school. He had warned us the previous fall, before Father left 
for Hepburn: “I’ll go to school only until I reach fifteen,” the age up to 
which school in Canada was compulsory. “I don’t like school. I want to 
be a farmer like Uncle Abe. I don’t need high school.” But Father, before 
he left, had instructed us to keep Jacob in school. A consultation with 
Mother confirmed the order. So as the older brother — nearly eight years 


Back in Coaldale 


87 


his senior — it became my task to add the strap to the family’s persuasive 
measures. “You are going back to school,” I told him. His response was 
equally firm: “You can kill me, but I will not go back to school.” Now, 
more than two years later, Jake still had not changed his mind, though he 
would later. He was home and did the farming under the supervision of 
Helen’s husband, David Pauls. 

The family had grown. Helen and David had two children, Helen 
and John, the latter named after his grandfather. Lydia, who worked as a 
maid in a wealthy home in Lethbridge, continued to contribute her monthly 
earnings for the support of the family farm operation. She had matured 
during the two years of my absence. Liese, even though she continued to 
do housework, was not well. She still suffered lingering effects of several 
surgeries on the forehead as a teenager. 

The house had not changed much. It remained where I had left it. It 
had no external siding; the inside still consisted of bare boards nailed against 
two-by-fours. 

After the experience at the Canadian border I made a point of visiting 
the Office of Immigration and Colonization. They recognized my time in 
the U.S. — because I had been attending college — as applicable to the five- 
year residence requirement for Canadian citizenship. In April 1933 1 would 
become eligible to apply for citizenship. 

Naturally the family was intensely curious about Nettie. Her photo- 
graph was passed around and studied carefully. The questions seemed 
endless. What was she like? What was her background? Would she be 
willing to come to Canada? Would she be able to adjust to the lifestyle of 
an immigrant family from Russia? How would my parents, who spoke 
only German, communicate with her? 

Nettie and I exchanged letters weekly. She shared her relief that the 
border problems had been resolved. She continued work at the Hillsboro 
hospital. 

While at Tabor I had missed only one threshing season. Uncle Abe 
had taken my place during the absence. My immediate task now was to 
arrange for the repair of the tractor. After four years of heavy use it re- 
quired an overhaul. That was beyond my capabilities so I took it to a 
machine shop in town. The threshing machine also needed attention, but 
that was something I could handle. Every part of the separator was taken 
apart and replaced where necessary. 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


I also began preparing for the assignment in Hepburn. Dietrich Esau, 
who was principal of Bethany, provided the needed plans by mail. 

From August to October 101 worked on the harvesting crew, attend- 
ing to the tractor and threshing machine. October 10 came too soon. The 
Bible school was to open on October 15. 

A Bible School Teacher 

My train trip required a stop in Saskatoon to connect with the train to 
Hepburn, which left every Tuesday. In Hepburn I would be lodged with a 
retired couple, the Jacob Priebs. My father had stayed in the Prieb home 
during his time in Hepburn. A small upstairs room became my bedroom 
and study, as well as a meeting room for consultation with students. The 
Priebs were a very interesting couple. Their marriage, the second for both 
of them, had brought together two large families. Their kitchen and dining 
room were in the basement. The upstairs room next to mine was occu- 
pied by two students of the Bible school, Peter Wiens and Peter Reimer. 
Room and board was only $20 per month. 

Both of the Priebs were very sociable. They entertained many people. 
Mr. Prieb functioned as a bonesetter, or chiropractor. He also extracted 
teeth. All these services were administered in the main front room. There 
were very few dull moments in the Prieb home. 

Teaching in the Bible school was an entirely new experience for me. 
Dietrich Esau, the principal, assigned me three areas: Bible doctrine, per- 
sonal evangelism, and study of the Pentateuch, plus New Testament book 
studies. The students were mostly eighth grade graduates and had to be 
sixteen years old to be admitted. A number of students, however, were 
older men and women, workers in the church who felt the need for more 
Bible knowledge. In my classes I had three men and two women who 
were older than I was. The salary for teachers was $60 per month for the 
six-month school year. With no experience in teaching, other than a lim- 
ited amount of student teaching while at the University in Russia, it was a 
very difficult beginning. 

The Bethany library consisted of only a few dozen books. The library 
budget for that year was $45. My small salary, of which one third went for 
room and board, left very little to acquire personal library materials. 

The curriculum of the first two years was designed to help young 
people acquire more Bible knowledge and relate it to life. The third year, 


Back in Coaldale 


89 


designed for more mature students, covered doctrines of the Bible, theol- 
ogy, church history, and ministry in Sunday school, preaching and mis- 
sions. A number of the early graduates from the upper classes — Daniel 
and David Wirsche, John Dick, Emma Lepp and others — went on to serve 
as missionaries. The available library materials were mostly books from 
Bible institutes — Moody in Chicago, Biola in Los Angles and Northwestern 
in Minneapolis. Authors like Reuben A. Torrey and Dwight L. Moody were 
the major resources in English. The German subjects were based on books 
known from Russia, mostly pietistic in content and very narrow in scope. I 
also used resources from my high school religious studies courses in Rus- 
sia. To expand beyond these limitations I rooted my courses in the biblical 
text. Every class required hours of preparation. 

The interaction with the students was a totally new experience for 
me. A spirit of deep piety and sincerity dominated the school. But many 
theological and philosophical issues of faith and life went unanswered. At 
that time the Mennonite Brethren churches and people of Saskatchewan 
were descendants of the Mennonite immigrants of the 1870s who came to 
Saskatchewan from Minnesota, South Dakota and Nebraska. In culture 
and practice they were similar to Mennonites I had learned to know while 
in Kansas. The churches in the Dakotas and Montana that I learned to 
know in my summer ministry before returning to Canada, were more open. 

Before my arrival in Hepburn work had begun on building a third 
classroom, an addition to the old building left vacant when the Hepburn 
school moved into new facilities. The classroom addition, built at a cost of 
$426.22, was a spacious room with many windows. 

Because I was the only faculty member who had mastered a degree 
of English, my major teaching assignments related to the third-year stu- 
dents. I was the first to teach in English. Dietrich Esau and Jacob Dueck 
were my colleagues. 

Despite the difficulties of starting a new career, it was a good year, a 
time of personal reorientation. Because I could speak both German and 
English, I received many invitations to speak in the churches of northern 
Saskatchewan. The recognition I received far exceeded my maturity. 

I spent June and part of July of 1933 ministering in the churches in 
Laird, Waldheim, Glenbush, Watrous, Mullingar and Saskatoon. In the 
middle of July I returned to Coaldale to resume my place on the threshing 


crew. 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


From Courtship to Marriage 

My relationship to Nettie was generally known and accepted in the 
school and constituency. Our correspondence throughout the year was 
continuous. The mail, which then came to Hepburn only once a week, 
usually had a letter from Nettie. Some of these letters mentioned her inner 
turmoil over our mutual commitment. She read the reports of my experi- 
ence in the Bible school and followed closely the expanding demand for 
my ministry in the churches. She struggled with her anticipated role in that 
context. “Can I fit into that frame of a public ministry?” she asked. In one 
letter she even implied that she should withdraw to make room for some- 
one more suited to the role of a public ministry. I never questioned the 
commitment. Nettie’s honesty and openness to question our mutual com- 
mitment only confirmed that she was a gift from God. 

In April 1933, five years after we landed in Canada, I was eligible to 
apply for Canadian citizenship. Because I expected to spend the summer 
in Coaldale I sent the application to the office in Lethbridge. Their reply 
specified that I remain in Canada and not leave the country while the ap- 
plication was being processed. What a shock! Our wedding was planned 
for August in South Dakota! 

The Coutts experience of a year ago was too fresh in our minds. I 
could not run the risk of violating the law. Nettie found this all very diffi- 
cult. Should we postpone our wedding until after I received my citizen- 
ship? That could be too late to go to Hepburn for my second year of 
teaching. Was she to come alone to a to a strange community in a strange 
country where she knew no one? We had already been separated for a 
year, and now this? For some weeks the problem appeared insurmount- 
able to her. Then, late in June, a letter came with her decision: she would 
come to Coaldale to be married. 

Mother and Lydia were greatly troubled by this plan. Nettie was an 
American, professionally trained as a nurse, and came from a wealthy fam- 
ily. How could we bring her to our primitive house that had no plumbing, 
and didn’t even have finished boards on the walls? Should we rent an 
apartment in Lethbridge for the time she would be in Coaldale? 

I was committed to operate the threshing machine for August, Sep- 
tember and the beginning of October — as school in Hepburn started Oc- 
tober 15. Mother and Lydia thought this was too long for a newly-married 
woman to stay in a crowded house with a family she hardly knew. 


Back in Coaldale 


91 


The wedding date was set for August 27 — in the middle of the thresh- 
ing season. Threshing was to begin August 20. Uncle Abe would take 
responsibility to operate the machine. I would take off August 24 and 
meet Nettie in Medicine Hat, where she had to change trains. We would 
stop our threshing operation for Saturday and Sunday, August 26 and 27. 
Nettie and I would be married on Sunday afternoon. 

With fear and trembling, Mother, Lydia and Helen, who lived just a 
mile away, began to make plans. Sunday afternoon was reserved. The 
customary Polterabend (wedding shower) the evening before the wed- 
ding would be held in a tent that was to be erected next to our house on 
the farm. The relatives — the Toews and the Janz clans — and some of the 
neighbors would bake zwieback, cookies and bread. They would also 
cook borscht and plumamoos. A year-old ox calf would be slaughtered to 
provide meat. 

Various events were planned, though not without some tension and 
questions. A rich program was prepared for the Polterabend. Father wrote 
a play to be presented by Lydia, Jake and Henry. Songs were selected and 
the music organized. The church choir and the extended family would be 
invited for the evening. Nettie was kept informed as preparations were 
made. 

Nettie packed her trunk, two suitcases and the wedding dress she 
had purchased together with her sister Grace. Our last letters were ex- 
changed. 

The day came. On August 22 Mr. Unruh took his daughter to Sioux 
Falls in his new Buick. She boarded the train. It was a line from Kansas 
City that stopped in Sioux Falls and went into Canada and across the Prai- 
ries to Vancouver. She did not need to change trains until Medicine Hat, 
about two hours from Coaldale. No one from her family accompanied her. 
She was alone on the train for two days and one night. She was to arrive in 
Medicine Hat the second night at 3:00 a.m. 

On Wednesday, August 24 I took the evening train to Medicine Hat, 
arriving there at 9:30 p.m. It would be a long wait until 3:00 a.m.! I spent 
the five-and-a-half hours in the railroad station reviewing the more than 
two-and-a-half years since Nettie had appeared on the stage of Tabor Col- 
lege and recited “The Picture on the Wall.” It had not been an easy time for 
Nettie. I had not seen her for more than a year. 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


The train arrived on time. It was a long train. From which car would 
she emerge? I spotted her as she appeared in the door of a car in the center 
of the train. I was immediately at her side. At last she was here! 

We placed her luggage in a locker and spent the next hours in a small 
park next to the station. Here we could be alone as we awaited the 7:00 
a.m. train to Coaldale. 

These were precious hours for both of us. After a year and three 
months we were again together. We reviewed all that had happened since 
our separation. She did not hesitate to share with me the depths of her 
past struggles. There were tears. There were also prayers of thanksgiving 
as we recounted the leading of God in both of our lives up to this point. 
We reviewed the wedding plans. She asked if I had any suggestions for 
how to meet my family, whom she had never seen before. 

A few minutes after 9:00 a.m. the train pulled into Coaldale. My brother 
Jacob met us at the station with David’s old truck. Nettie seemed not to 
notice the contrast between the new Buick that had taken her to Sioux 
Falls and the old truck that met her at the end of her long journey. 

When we arrived at the farm the whole family was gathered to meet 
Nettie. She addressed them in German. Mother embraced her with tears 
in her eyes. Father’s greeting was more formal. Lydia and Helen followed 
mother, embracing Nettie with tears flowing over their cheeks. 

Nettie was not emotional by nature, but the reception overwhelmed 
her. Such outpouring of emotion was not known in the Unruh family. She 
could not withhold her tears. 

Moisture of a different kind came upon us most unexpectedly. A del- 
uge of rain during the night soaked the grain and postponed any further 
threshing for at least three to four days. The family and everyone involved 
in the wedding celebration was now free. Father affirmed that this was a 
special provision of God. 

Six decades later I still remember Nettie’s gracious reaction to the 
primitive environment she now faced. She made no comparisons between 
our poverty and the circumstances from which she came. My family’s out- 
pouring of love helped her relax. Her German, used to converse with my 
parents and also Helen and David, who did not speak any English, was 
remarkably fluent. She appeared relaxed and comfortable when on Fri- 
day she met my sister Liese, who came home from Calgary where she 
worked at the time. 


Back in Coaldale 


93 


Lydia assigned Nettie a corner room upstairs. She unpacked the most 
necessary things. There were no closets for her clothes, just a few hangers 
and nails on protruding two-by-fours. On Friday morning, Nettie joined 
the planning and preparations. Lydia, always ahead of everybody, pro- 
vided leadership. 

More rain came Friday and Saturday. The family and people in gen- 
eral were relaxed. We were the talk of the community. John B. Toews was 
going to marry an American nurse! 

Rain in Coaldale changed the landscape considerably. The roads 
then were not paved or graveled. The soil, when wet, was sticky. David’s 
old truck got stuck in the mud. Horses and trailer were more practical. 

On Saturday a tent was erected beside the house to entertain guests 
and to serve meals on long tables that had been improvised with boards 
borrowed from the lumberyard and placed across sawhorses. A table cloth 
was spread over the boards. The extended family all participated. Some 
of the food was cooked in a large kettle outside. 

The Polterabend on Saturday night brought together the extended 
family, the church choir and friends. Many of them came in rubber boots 
because of the continued rain. Those from some distance away came with 
horses and buggies. My uncle Aron Toews and his family from Namaka, 
Alberta, came by car. The 1928 Chevrolet was to take us, the bridal couple, 
to the church, a distance of four miles. This cultural environment and the 
unusual methods of celebration were new and very strange to Nettie, but 
she took it all in stride. 

Sunday, August 27, brought sunshine after the heavy rains. It was a 
beautiful day. John A. Toews, my cousin, was our chauffeur with his ’28 
Chevy. The roads were slick and the car slid from side to side, but we 
reached the church. 

The choir sang. My uncle, B. B. Janz gave the first message based on 
Psalm 27:1: “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The 
Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” My father fol- 
lowed with a message based on Ephesians 5:25: “Husbands, love your 
wives as Christ loved the church and gave himself for it.” My father also 
performed the ceremony. A coffee hour with refreshments followed at the 
reception. 

Monday and Tuesday were days of family gatherings. We still could 
not thresh because the grain was moist. They were perfect days to intro- 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


duce Nettie to the extended family: the Abram Toewses, the B. B. Janzes 
and the Jacob Janzens, as well as uncles and aunts, cousins and close friends. 
On Tuesday Nettie and I went to Lethbridge. We travelled by horse and 
buggy, something Nettie hadn’t done since childhood. We had lunch to- 
gether in Lethbridge and shopped at Eaton’s. 

By Wednesday the grain was dry and we began threshing at noon. I 
took my usual place and was responsible for the operation. Nettie brought 
mid-afternoon coffee and snacks to the threshing crew. How well I re- 
member that event and all the attention focused on her. Here was a nurse 
from South Dakota, a member of a wealthy family (by the standards of the 
1930s), and still a very common person who could fit right in with our 
immigrant social structure. She had won the admiration and respect of the 
total community. 

The month of September sped by. The weather was dry and the 
threshing went well. Nettie continued to bring mid-day refreshments to 
the threshing crew. Lydia returned to her job in Lethbridge. Nettie spent 
time with my mother, and a very close relationship developed. She had 
become part of the family. 


CHAPTER 11 


95 


Bethany Bible Institute 


T he good time in Coaldale after our wedding ended too soon. It was 
time to move on. We prepared to relocate to Hepburn. A teacher 
from the Herbert (Saskatchewan) Bible School, Nick Janz, who was 
visiting in Coaldale, offered to take us to Hepburn in his 1930 Chevrolet. 
Nettie’s trunk fit into the back seat and the suitcases went into the car 
trunk. With the three of us in the front seat we left for Hepburn, stopping 
overnight in Herbert. On October 11 we arrived in Hepburn. 

There was no house available for us. We moved in with the Priebs, 
who had an extra bedroom and a heated porch on the south end of the 
house. We had all our meals at the Priebs’ table. They were wonderful 
people, but as a married couple we found the adjustment difficult. It was 
too crowded and there wasn’t enough privacy. 

It wasn’t until February of 1934 that a small house — a shed with a 
slanting roof — became available. It had two rooms. One large room served 
as living room, kitchen, pantry and study. The bedroom was large enough 
for a double bed, with no clothes closet. To store our clothes we impro- 
vised a shelf with boxes on top and hangers underneath. A wood stove in 
the big room served for cooking as well as for heat. During the coldest 
winter months, November to February, the water in the house froze dur- 
ing the night if the fire in the stove went out. Water had to be fetched from 
the town well a block away. 

Our lifestyle was very primitive, but at least we had a place to call 
home. It would remain our home until January 1936 when a larger house 
became available to rent. What a contrast to the comfortable Unruh home 
in South Dakota with several bedrooms, spacious living and dining rooms, 
a large kitchen, a full basement, inside plumbing and bathrooms, and elec- 
tricity. But Nettie appeared content. “It is all right to be poor” was part of 
our commitment. 

The school year of fall 1933 marked the sixth anniversary of Bethany. 
George W. Peters joined the faculty to replace the ailing Jacob Dueck, one 
of the three teachers. The enrollment was growing. Plans were made to 
purchase a house to serve as a student dormitory with a kitchen and din- 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


ing hall. Consideration was given to adding a fourth year to the program. 
A course in practical nursing for women students was introduced. 

Bible Institute Administration 

Bethany, with an expanding program, needed to interrelate with other 
Bible schools such as Briercrest and Prairie Bible Institute where some of 
our Mennonite Brethren young people attended. Dietrich Esau, our prin- 
cipal, did not command enough English to negotiate such relationships. 
As a farmer, he could not provide the necessary leadership and attention 
during the six months when school was not in session. On July 27, 1934 
the Bethany association invited me to become the principal. 

I had planned to give a good portion of the summer months to the 
churches in the northern states — the Central District Conference — where I 
had found wide acceptance. To accept new responsibility at school did 
not fit into these plans. The prospect of my assuming the leadership had 
also come up in fall of 1933 but I had declined because I felt I was not 
ready. The association kept up the pressure, and after prayer and consul- 
tation with Nettie I finally accepted. 

In the summer of 1934 a building from Main Street was moved to the 
Bethany campus. A full basement provided the kitchen and dining room 
plus a large pantry. The upstairs had room for a small classroom for fourth- 
year students, a one-room apartment for the houseparents of the girls dor- 
mitory, and rooms for eighteen women students. 

All work on the moving and construction was done by volunteers. 
My full time was needed to recruit volunteers, collect the finances and 
organize the school program for 1934-1935. The first catalog was printed, 
the first official letterhead designed and a broader public relations effort 
launched. 

My father returned to Hepburn to fill the position of a fourth teacher. 
This time Mother came with him. They became the first houseparents in 
the new dormitory. Now in his sixties, he was a major influence in the life 
of Bethany. To the student body, the faculty and constituency he became 
known as Vaeterchen Toews, (roughly translated as “Beloved Daddy 
Toews”). His unquestioning confidence in God’s providential control of 
human history and the life of the individual provided a healthy balance 
during this time of expansion. 


Bethany Bible Institute 


97 


I deeply valued my father’s stabilizing presence and influence, though 
our spiritual and theological orientations were not identical. Though only 
twenty-eight, I was now principal of a Bible school. My background was 
one of Pietism buffeted by exposure to atheism in Russia, rationalism in 
the Netherlands, narrowness in Coaldale, and the influence of Tabor Col- 
lege. Though in principle I had committed my life to the ministry, I contin- 
ued to struggle with the naivete of faith and the implicit theology that 
characterized the early Mennonite Brethren Church and the Bible school 
movement in North America. 

The Bible schools in the 1930s sought to meet a twofold need. First, 
they offered young people a basic grounding in Scripture. The age of 
sixteen was the criterion for accepting a student, with no consideration of 
previous education. The second purpose was to offer advanced courses 
to older students who showed promise for Christian service, either in the 
church or missions. The third and fourth years were added for that pur- 
pose. 

I was responsible for most of the instruction in doctrine and theol- 
ogy. This was really beyond my qualifications, as I had no advanced theo- 
logical training. My biblical training in Russia was enough for the first two 
years, but I was not prepared for the advanced courses such as biblical 
exegesis and theology. Even the courses I took at Tabor did not properly 
equip me for the task. 

I embarked on a rigorous course of self-study. Abraham H. Unruh, 
then at Winkler, Manitoba, suggested materials: Decksel’s Bibel Werk; 
Osterzee’s New Testament Theology, Ohlinger’s Old Testament Theology 
and the works of Adolf Schlatter. Hepburn thus became the place where I 
was introduced to theological studies. Kept busy with administration by 
day, the evenings often stretched into the early morning as I searched and 
studied what I needed for the upper-level students. Looking back now I 
wonder if my overwork then didn’t eventually lead to illness. The benefit 
of these studies, however, became obvious later at seminary where I was 
able to “challenge” a number of courses in theology by writing exams cov- 
ering these areas. 

In time I came to view the Hepburn years with great fondness. The 
commitment of the faculty to the cause of Bible training, the support of the 
constituency and the enthusiasm of the student body, provided a dynamic 
setting. 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


The tuition was $15 per student for the six-month school term. All 
meals were served at the dining hall for $6 per month. Staple foods — pota- 
toes, vegetables, meat and flour — were donated by farmers. A regular 
item in the diet was frozen fish shipped in from the northern lakes for 
seven to nine cents per pound. Wood for the large stoves in each class- 
room was donated by the farmers, who cut it from the poplar forests that 
still existed in the area. These were the depressed 1930s. Prosperity was a 
stranger. Students and faculty alike were devoted to spiritual values, not 
material success. That commitment continues to characterize many of that 
generation, now in their seventies and eighties. 

Bethany’s Faculty 

The years with my father as a colleague at Bethany were very impor- 
tant. Dietrich Esau left the school in the spring of 1936 to accept a position 
at the Mennonite Collegiate Institute in Gretna, Manitoba. Henry G. Wiens, 
a graduate of Prairie Bible Institute who had also done some work at the 
University of Alberta, was appointed to fill the vacancy. He and G. W. 
Peters, another faculty member, both had strong personalities and frequently 
rocked the boat. I had severe confrontations with both of them. During 
that time my father’s wise way of dealing with tensions, which he had 
experienced often in his many years in leadership, was a source of guid- 
ance. 

Nettie particularly remembered one of those confrontations. Several 
times I had mentioned to her that I was experiencing tension with G. W. 
Peters, who stayed at the home of Aron Peters, a store owner whose house 
was across the street from Bethany. One day at the supper table, after a 
typical depression meal of fish and potatoes, I had been very quiet. Finally 
I told her, “I must go to see my father.” An hour later I came back and said 
now I needed to go and see G. W. Peters. He was a very gifted man, but 
very single-minded about some things and insubordinate to the decisions 
of his colleagues. He had defied some decisions of the faculty in matters 
of school policies and curriculum. Nettie sensed tension in my voice. I left 
the house about 7:45 in the evening. When I did not return by ten she 
became concerned. The temperature, typical for January in Saskatchewan, 
was nearly thirty below zero. She waited until eleven, then eleven-thirty. 
What could have happened to me? Had I fallen on the icy road? By mid- 
night she decided to go looking for me. As she neared the Peters’ home 


Bethany Bible Institute 


99 


she saw light in the window of George’s room and concluded that the 
discussion was continuing. She turned around and went back to our little 
shack. About one in the morning I finally came home. She had waited up 
for me. I briefly summarized our long discussion and said, “What a stub- 
born man.” 

The next day Peters’ classes had no teacher. I had left him with the 
words: “If you are ready to cooperate so we can work in harmony, then I 
will expect you to meet your classes tomorrow as usual. If you will not be 
there, I will conclude that you are not accepting the conditions for our 
work together.” The executive members of the board had been informed 
of the approaching crisis and had assured me of their support. From his 
absence I concluded that he would leave the school. But on the second 
day he was back teaching his classes. Nothing more was said of our clash, 
and Peters continued on the faculty. 

A most significant event in Peters’ life was his marriage to Susie Lepp 
in summer of 1935. God provided a balancing influence to his driving, 
sometimes impetuous, temperament in the person of a woman who also 
had a strong personality but was controlled by a tender, wise and gracious 
spirit. 

My relationship with Peters later developed into a lifelong and very 
cherished, friendship. We continued to debate various issues over the years 
but we never let it affect our relationship as very close friends. 

The problem with Henry G. Wiens began when he, a member of the 
faculty, began to date one of the women students, Margaretha Niesen. 
Today that would not be as severe a problem as it was in 1935- The Bible 
institute rules forbade any courtship while school was in session. For a 
faculty member to violate the policy was especially problematic. Wiens 
ignored all admonitions. In the summer of 1936 they married and the 
immediate problem was solved. 

The story of Henry G. Wiens, however, did not have a positive end. 
He left Bethany in 1937 to enter Dallas Theological Seminary and later 
completed a doctorate at the Baptist seminary in Fort Worth, Texas. Against 
my warning, the Reedley Mennonite Brethren Church called him as an 
associate pastor in 1946. He created problems that brought about a crisis 
in the Reedley congregation (to be reported later). Following this crisis, 
Wiens became one of the casualties of the ministry of the Mennonite Breth- 
ren Conference. 


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The Hepburn Farm 

In March 1934, while in Hepburn, we received a letter from Nettie’s 
father mentioning some land he had bought some years ago in the Waldheim 
municipality. He asked if we would be in a position to investigate the 
location of the 480-acre farm that he was renting to a family by the name of 
Loewen. 

Nettie had not known that her father owned land in Canada. At the 
first opportunity I made my way to the municipal office in Waldheim to 
investigate the location. The farm was only three miles northwest of 
Hepburn. That fall Father Unaih sent us the deed for 160 acres of the farm, 
containing some old dilapidated buildings, a house and a large barn. We 
became the owners of a quarter section of land. It was a special day when 
we announced to the renter that we were the owners of the land and that 
upon Father Unruh’s request we would negotiate new rent conditions and 
look after Father’s interest related to the farm. 

In June of 1935 Nettie’s parents and her brother Isaac came to Hepburn 
to visit us and to look over their investment in the farm. A large part of the 
land was pasture, eighty acres were still virgin soil with poplar trees, and 
the rest was in grain: barley, oats and wheat. As a result of this visit Father 
Unruh sent us the deed for the remaining acres and the money to tear 
down the old barn and build a new one. Now we were the owners of a 
480-acre farm only three miles from Hepburn! 

As it turned out, our new renter was no stranger. He was George 
Braun, a playmate from my childhood in Russia. He had been a neighbor 
of my grandparents in Alexanderkrone. Now he and his family moved 
onto our farm for the next two years. 

Nettie and I could no longer consider ourselves poor. We wondered 
if this provision for additional income was intended so we could be inde- 
pendent in our future ministry. 

I had committed July and August of 1935 to a ministry in the Central 
District churches in Minnesota, North Dakota and Montana. We bought a 
1929 Model T Ford to make the trip. Since I had received my Canadian 
citizenship in 1933, we could now cross the border with confidence. Nettie 
travelled with me for the six-week tour, the only time she did so, for such 
an extended time, in the fifty-three years of our very happy marriage. 


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A Family Tragedy 

In November of 1935 Father Unruh, with four other men from the 
community, went to a public auction sale in Sioux Falls. On the way back 
they were in a head-on collision with a drunk driver. Nettie’s father and 
two others in the car were killed. Our shock was indescribable. We boarded 
a train in Saskatoon and travelled via Regina and Minneapolis to Sioux 
Falls to be with our family. The Freeman-Marion communities were also 
in shock. The men, Isaak Schmidt, Henry Buller and our father, Cornelius 
Unruh, were all prominent people of the community. Because the Bible 
school was already in session we could only stay a week to share the family’s 
deep grief. 

We wondered if some premonition had led Father to transfer owner- 
ship of his Hepburn land to us, so shortly before his death. 

Our Ordination 

In 1936, after three years in Hepburn, the North Saskatchewan Dis- 
trict pressed me to accept formal confirmation of my call to the ministry. 
As principal of the Bible institute, they felt, I needed to be ordained. Such 
a distinction was very important in the earlier history of the Mennonite 
Brethren Church. I declined their request because I was waiting for my 
home church in Coaldale to extend this confidence to me. Without my 
knowledge, the Bethany board secretary, Frank J. Baerg, wrote to the 
Coaldale church to inquire about their plans for my ordination. He ex- 
plained that my extensive ministry, in their opinion, required the affirma- 
tion of ordination. The Coaldale leadership responded as follows: “For 
the present we have no intention to recognize the ministry of J. B. Toews 
in an ordination. We are not certain about the future direction of the 
brother.” The statement no doubt had something to do with their earlier 
doubts about my studies, but it also reflected the deep and even fearful 
conservatism of Coaldale. 

When the Bethany board shared the reply with me I felt greatly re- 
jected by my home church. The North Saskatchewan Conference then 
renewed the invitation to be ordained, and I consented. The recognition 
of my ministry was important to me. 

Jacob Lepp, a veteran in the faith, brought the message based on 
Isaiah 53:1-3- He described the humility of Christ as a tender plant and as 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


a root out of dry ground, one who “is despised and rejected of men; a man 
of sorrows and acquainted with grief.” He ended his discourse with the 
statement, “The ministry is a service of deep humility; it promises very little 
recognition. You may be used as a floor mat for people to step on and 
clean their shoes. If you are prepared to be a servant after the example of 
Jesus, express your commitment by rising to your feet.” 

For a moment I was petrified. I looked at Nettie who sat next to me. 
She took my hand and we both stood. Lepp, Jacob Dyck and Peter Nickel 
laid hands on us and prayed, dedicating us to God for such a ministry. 

We had taken another crucial step. Earlier we had said yes to “It is all 
right to be poor.” Now we were making a commitment to humility and 
possible rejection. 

The Farming Experiment 

In the fall of 1936 we bought four horses and the necessary imple- 
ments to operate the farm the following spring. Jacob Neufeld, a Bethany 
student, lived on the farm and tended to the horses. The school year closed 
at the beginning of April. Nettie and I moved for the summer, into the old 
house on the farm. We bought a milk cow and a few calves to take advan- 
tage of the large pasture. 

With four beautiful horses and a one-way seeder disc, I personally 
put in the spring crop. What an opportunity! We had a farm, a good team 
of horses, a large pasture, and a happy marriage. In winter I would teach 
at the Bible school and in summer I would be a farmer. 

One evening I had just finished seeding a field close to the road when 
Jacob Schellenberg, a prosperous farmer a mile and a half to the north, 
stopped and reviewed my work. As I unhitched the horses he came to me 
and said: “If that field will bring a crop, that will be more luck than brains.” 
“Why do you say that, Mr. Schellenberg?” I asked. “You just are not a 
farmer,” he answered. He drove off and I took the horses into the barn, 
fed them and went in for dinner. 

I was very quiet during the meal. After dark I decided to go for a 
walk. Returning to the field I had seeded, I pondered what Schellenberg 
had said: “You just are not a farmer.” I knelt down on the open field and 
prayed. Had we made a mistake, moving to the farm? Nettie had ex- 
pressed her own concerns about this venture. “Do you think that you will 
be a farmer?” she had asked. Inwardly I struggled. 


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At the end of August I bought a New Harvest binder to cut the crop. 
The Schellenbergs looked after the threshing. The crop was only fair be- 
cause of drought. The issue of the farm was a critical factor in my struggles 
over the future ministry to which we were committed. A good farm opera- 
tion had the potential to provide economic security. Was this to replace 
the medical profession to which I had aspired since the death of my older 
brother, Aron? 

We tried again in 1937. Jacob Neufeld took care of the horses and the 
few cattle in fall and winter. I took over the supervision of the farm in 
spring of 1938, the year when Saskatchewan experienced a complete crop 
failure because of drought and a grasshopper plague. 

The Birth of John Eldon 

Both Nettie and I were mature when we married, thirty and twenty- 
eight. We both wanted to have children. For three years we hoped in 
vain. In early spring of 1936 a medical specialist in Saskatoon said Nettie’s 
condition would permanently disqualify her from bearing children. 

At the same time a mother in Laird, some twenty-five miles from 
Hepburn, died, leaving eight children behind. An opportunity arose to 
adopt the two youngest children, one eight months old and the other two 
years. Their father could not provide for them all and sought parents for 
the two children. We entered into discussions with him. 

One night when Nettie could not sleep she awoke me and said, “To- 
morrow we will notify the family in Laird that we will not continue further 
consideration of adoption.” When I asked why, she answered, “I believe 
we will have our own.” More than one year later, on July 27, 1937 our first 
son Eldon John was born (later, when grown, he would change his name 
to John Eldon). We accepted him as a special gift from God. 

The joyous prospect of a child forced the issue of our living condi- 
tions. Our shack had been adequate for us but was not suitable for a child. 
In late fall of 1936 a house on the north edge of Hepburn became available 
for rent. We moved during Christmas vacation. In the spring of 1938 a 
house close to the railroad on the south edge of town became available. 
We purchased the house with a half acre of land for $750 and moved in. 
Our plan was to settle down. We had no idea it would be just for a few 
months. 


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JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


A Brief Pastorate 

Before my coming to Hepburn, Peter Friesen, an ordained minister, 
had resigned from the leadership of the Hepburn Mennonite Brethren 
Church. For some years the leadership was in the hands of a deacon, 
David Schmor, with teachers from the Bible school providing the teaching 
and preaching ministry. Brother Schmor was a very kind person but his 
leadership gifts were limited. The Bible school teachers, whose first prior- 
ity was the school, could not give the time for the spiritual nurture of indi- 
viduals and families. The congregation was suffering spiritually. The Bible 
school, an integral part of the church’s life, was also affected. 

In January of 1937 the church appealed to me to become their leader. 
Considering the unanimous vote of the church, the faculty encouraged me 
to accept the pastorate for a year or two to help bring stability, while con- 
tinuing to teach part-time. After some struggle, Nettie and I accepted the 
invitation of the church. With the close of the 1936-1937 academic year, G. 
W. Peters was appointed principal of the school. 

The Hepburn congregation, then the largest Mennonite Brethren 
church in Saskatchewan, was a wounded fellowship. The resignation of 
Peter Friesen had precipitated a crisis that divided the church. Some large 
family groups had taken different sides regarding Friesen’s leadership and 
had never found healing. To shepherd a flock with so many wounds was 
difficult for us. The church badly needed renewal and reconciliation. 

I had served on the church council for the past three years. In reread- 
ing the minutes of that time, it amazed me how much intense conflict can 
be generated in a congregation that lacks strong leadership. 

During the winter of 1937 and 1938 I devoted much of my time to 
house visitation. With a small sleigh and two horses I travelled from farm 
to farm to visit individual families and groups of people. A midweek prayer 
meeting was instituted. Concern for the condition of the church spread. 
The response to our ministry was very positive. People began to rally. 
There were some conversions. In June of 1938 we had a baptism. 

As a church we had invited J. N. C. Hiebert, a missionary to India who 
was home on furlough, to come to Hepburn for a week of services at the 
end of July 1938. The church was ready. God brought deep repentance to 
the congregation, and many individuals were reconciled. The meetings 
were extended. There were also first-time conversions. It was a blessed 
time. In August we had a second baptism with fifteen people following 
Christ in obedience. 


When I was three: A school picture; the teacher in the middle, my father. To his left, 
the boy with the cap, “Hans” as I was called in my early childhood. To fathers right 
my sisters Helen and Liese. Aron, my older brother standing in the last row, the 
fourth from the left. 


1914-1917, My father in the Red Cross service in Moscow, as a chaplain for the 
Mennonite men. 


A group of college university students, 1925. I am the second from the left in the 
second row. 


A photo taken a few hours before we smuggled out my uncle B. B. Janz to escape the 
secret police in Charkow, spring 1926. From left to right, Helen my sister, David 
Reimer, who planned the escape, my uncle B. B. Janz and myself. 


A farewell picture with 
my close friend Daniel 
Reimer a few hours 
before we left our 
native village, 
Alexandertal. The 
scene, a big rock on the 
meadow across the 
creek Chekrak behind 
our farmstead. 


A family picture taken in the morning of our departure in the backyard of our house. 
From left to right sitting, Father and Mother. Standing, John, Helen, Eliesabeth, 
Lydia, Jacob, Henry and Jacob Dahl, who travelled with us because his family had 
preceded two years earlier and left him behind because he did not pass the health 
inspection. 


The tractor that provided the first job for me. I am at the steering 


wheel. On the tractor, my brother Henry. To the right the house I 


built. 


Our farmstead 
in 1930 when I 
left Coaldale 
to go to Tabor 
College. 


The Coaldale Church choir, a farewell gift from the choir members on the occasion 
of my farewell. Members of the extended family: sitting in the front row from left to 
right, Peter Dick, Helen Janz, my first cousin, myself as the choir director, Mary 
Janz, later Mrs. Jacob Neuman. In the last row second from the right my sister Lydia 
who later married Peter Dick. 


My first car given to me by 
the church in Lehigh, in 
appreciation for my ministry 
while serving them as their 
pastor — preaching on 
Sundays. To my left Lando 
Hiebert, who later became a 
professor at Tabor College. 


One hour before we said yes to 
“until death shall part you.” 


The extended family and guests on the day of our wedding. 


A family picture taken the day after our wedding. Left to right, front row: myself. 
Mother, Helen Pauls, daughter of my sister Helen, Father, John Pauls, son of my 
sister Helen, Helen my sister. Second row: Nettie, sister Lydia, brother Henry, 
brother Jacob, sister Elisabeth, David Pauls, husband of sister Helen. 


Our transportation for deputation in the churches for students and faculty, 1932-1938 
(courtesy Henry and Margaretha Thiessen, Hepburn, Sask.). 


Our farmstead near Hepburn, circa 1952. 


CHAPTER 12 


105 


Rest and Redirection 


B y the third year of our marriage I was beginning to experience times 
of extreme exhaustion. I would come home from school and have 
to lie down to rest. When this condition persisted, we consulted 
Dr. Neufeld, a physician in Saskatoon. He did not find any organic 
misfunctions. With some prescribed vitamins we continued our schedule, 
spending the summer ministering in churches and returning to school for 
fall and winter. 

A Critical Diagnosis 

When we began to operate the farm we assumed it would bring re- 
laxation. When my exhaustion continued we again consulted Dr. Neufeld. 
Still not finding anything abnormal he referred us to a group of doctors 
specializing in diagnostic investigations. Several visits and many tests later 
I was diagnosed as having a malfunction of the adrenal glands. For two 
years I was sustained by daily injections, which Nettie, as a professional 
nurse, could administer. Still, the exhaustion got worse. I withdrew from 
part-time teaching during the final quarter of 1938 to save my strength to 
cope with the demands of the pastorate. In June I had a battery of tests by 
another specialist. He told me, “Mr. Toews, you are a very sick man. Your 
adrenal glands have stopped functioning. You are only being sustained 
by daily injections. You are a young man. Maybe you can be helped if you 
withdraw from all responsibilities and possibly move to a warmer climate.” 
Somewhat dazed, we drove back to Hepburn. “What does this mean 
for us?” we asked. I was only thirty-two years old. We had the school, the 
church, and now also the farm. How could we detach ourselves from all 
this and face an unknown future? 

We shared the diagnosis in confidence with only a few close friends, 
the Frank Baergs, who had become like parents to us during our six years 
in Hepburn, and G. W. Peters as the school principal. While we struggled 
for an answer we continued our work. The farm operation, which we had 
continued with some hired help, was a complete fiasco. Grasshoppers 
and the drought had destroyed our crop. Provision had to be made for the 
farm’s future. 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


The church had just begun to respond to our ministry. Could we 
resign and leave it again without leadership? Where could we go to find a 
suitable climate? Our financial resources, after the heavy investments in 
the farm, were limited. We felt helpless and perplexed. We had invited J. 
N. C. Hiebert to lead meetings in July. The church should not be in uncer- 
tainty. For now we would press on, and wait. 

Hiebert had spent part of his furlough in Salem, Oregon, and attended 
the Western Baptist Theological Seminary. As we told him in confidence 
about our situation he made a suggestion. Oregon provided the mild cli- 
mate our doctor had recommended. I could audit classes there to enrich 
myself while we waited for my health to improve. This sounded to us like 
a direction from God. 

After consulting with the F. J. Baergs and G. W. Peters, the following 
plan emerged. We would inform the church of our situation and the doctor’s 
urgent advice, and request a leave of absence. My father, who was in 
Hepburn, would assume the pastoral responsibilities of house visitation 
and individual nurture. The Bible school faculty would again take charge 
of the teaching and preaching ministry. 

On September 12 we followed through with this plan and shared our 
situation with the church. A small minority of the congregation was by this 
time aware of our crisis. We found understanding. They granted us a 
leave of absence without stipulating a date of return. 

A Change of Climate 

My parents moved into the house we had purchased less than a year 
ago. We turned the farm over to John H. Toews, no relative of ours, and in 
mid-October took the train to Portland without making advance contacts 
or arrangements for our stay. 

My spirits were at a low ebb as we arrived in Portland early on an 
October morning and checked into a hotel close to the railroad station. 
The struggle of that morning is deeply ingrained in my memory. Here I 
was, sick, with a wife and child, and no plans for the future. While Eldon, 
a babe of a year and three months, slept, Nettie and I sank to our knees to 
ask God for guidance. 

We had breakfast. We had marked the location of the seminary on 
the city map. What we needed was an affordable apartment close to the 
seminary so that I could use the library and possibly audit some classes as 
health would permit. 


Rest and Redirection 


107 


I took the streetcar to the location of the seminary. I walked through 
the streets of the surrounding area, looking for a sign, “Apartment for Rent.” 
Four blocks from the seminary, on Salmon Street, I saw such a sign. Upon 
inquiry I learned the facility was still vacant. It was a two-bedroom apart- 
ment with a small living room and a kitchen. The rent was $22 per month. 

I accepted this as a provision of God, paid the first month’s rent and re- 
turned to the hotel. 

That afternoon we packed our few belongings into a taxi and went to 
the apartment. By evening we were settled. The location was very favor- 
able. Some grocery stores were only a block away on Hawthorne Avenue. 
Only two blocks away was an open market. Our resources were limited. 
We had a little money saved from the meager wages at school plus $750 
that Nettie’s father had given us. We thought we could make it last a year. 

Our lifestyle was very frugal. We bought milk for Eldon at the store 
on Hawthorne. A few blocks away we discovered a bakery where we 
could buy day-old bread for twelve cents a loaf. The open market had 
plenty of faiit and vegetables. Nettie found that if she waited until the end 
of the day, about four o’clock, she could buy fruit and vegetables at a 
discount. The wood for the stove was also reasonable. We often thanked 
God for the provisions we found for a time like this. 

The sudden and dramatic changes left many questions for us. We 
struggled with indecision. We had consented to come to Hepburn. The 
provision of a farm that could provide the economic independence I had 
struggled about, had seemed to confirm our direction. But now my bro- 
ken health shattered my interpretation of the past. The physician had said 
my health might restored; he did not say, “it will be restored.” Everything 
seemed out of focus. Nettie, always quiet in times of pressure and diffi- 
culty, showed little alarm. Eldon John, an active child, provided the diver- 
sion we needed. 

Looking back now I recognize the hand of God in our crisis. The 
Potter was at work, teaching us to trust. We had to accept an unknown 
future. 

Seminary Studies 

The change of climate and the freedom from stressful responsibilities 
produced an immediate change in my health. In November and Decem- 
ber we took many walks. Nettie, Eldon and I enjoyed the mild rainy weather 


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JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


together. With no demands, I was able to sleep. I spent many afternoons 
at the seminary library. Soon after our arrival I asked the seminary to pro- 
cess my academic standing. The certified affidavit from Gerhard Duerksen, 
a former member of the Ukraine university senate, describing the work I 
had done, was recognized. The work in the Netherlands, the elementary 
Greek that I began under the tutorship of Dr. Benjamin H. Unruh in En- 
gland and continued at Tabor College with Dr. H. W. Lohrenz, was also 
recognized. My courses in philosophy, theology and public speaking were 
also accepted and applied toward seminary requirements. I was classified 
as a second-year student in the bachelor of divinity program. 

In the middle of January, the beginning of the second semester, I 
enrolled for twelve hours. My health continued to improve. The injec- 
tions on which I had depended for the last two years were discontinued. 
By spring of 1939 I felt like my old self. The change recommended by the 
physician, and the healing grace of God, had restored my health. Alto- 
gether we spent two years in Portland, until the fall of 1940 . 

I enjoyed the academic program at the seminary. Professor W. Milligan 
was particularly helpful to me. He had a Ph.D. in science and philosophy 
and a Dr.Th. in New Testament. My unique Russian background, my 
Anabaptist tradition and my maturity in contrast to the younger students 
earned me his special friendship. 

Commitment to An Anabaptist Theology 

The Western Baptist Theological Seminary had been pioneered by 
the Oregon Baptist Convention, which for years was in tension with a per- 
ceived liberal tendency in the Northern Baptist Convention, especially in 
the area of higher biblical criticism. The Seminary faculty placed major 
emphasis on the early history of the Baptist movement, which had its roots 
in the left wing of the Reformation, namely Anabaptism. They spoke openly 
of Anabaptism as the womb of the Baptist movement, and called for a 
return to the roots of their faith. 

This focus provided many occasions to speak with Dr. Milligan, the 
New Testament scholar, and Dr. Collin Cline, professor of theology, about 
the Mennonite understanding of biblical soteriology and ecclesiology. 
Unforgettable for me was a class discussion where Dr. Milligan singled me 
out by name and said, “He is a Mennonite Brethren; they are people who 
have stayed true to the Scriptures.” 


Rest and Redirection 


109 


Here was where my spiritual consciousness took another decisive 
turn. I made a third ministry commitment that would shape my pilgrimage 
for the rest of my days. The first had been in the park in Hillsboro when 
Nettie said, “It is all right to be poor.” That commitment gained further 
definition during my ordination in Hepburn when I made a second com- 
mitment to be open to the prospect of humility and rejection. 

Now I made a third major commitment to be not only evangelical but 
Anabaptist. I had been born into a Mennonite Brethren family. I had the 
benefit of a father who was a biblicist not only in profession but in actual 
life. But now, at the age of thirty-four, in a Baptist seminary, I made a 
conscious decision that what I professed to believe must also be expressed 
in daily lifestyle and relationships. As the Anabaptist Hans Denck had 
said, “To believe in Jesus means to follow him in life.” 

In the more than half century since, I have never questioned that 
commitment, though I have deep regrets for those occasions when my 
humanity stood in the way of its full realization. Jesus said, “If any one 
wants to follow me, let him deny himself, take up the cross and follow me” 
(Luke 9:23). 

The years in Portland were good for us. Nettie and Eldon spent much 
leisure time together. They frequently took the streetcar to a park with 
some lakes where Eldon frolicked in the grass under the shady trees and 
fed the ducks. 

Our financial support came from several sources. The tuition at the 
seminary was paid through a scholarship furnished by the industrialist R. 
G. LeTourneau, a builder of earthmoving machinery and a member of the 
seminary board. Dr. Milligan’s wide contacts generated many opportuni- 
ties to minister in the Oregon Baptist churches. Each Sunday provided 
some financial stipend. 

For the summer of 1939 we were invited to come to the church in 
Dallas, Oregon. Brother F. F. Wall, their pastor, did not preach English, so 
I had an opportunity to share the ministry. The church paid our rent. Be- 
ing close to the city park with flowing water and many ducks was again a 
paradise for Eldon. 

I had an opportunity to earn some money during the week through 
the kindness of Immanuel Nazarenus, a builder. I started out helping the 
carpenters, but within two days discovered that carpentry was not one of 
my skills. (I did not tell him of my building the farm house in Coaldale 


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JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


where, as my sister Lydia put it, “not a single corner has a right angle.”) He 
assigned me to saw a group of two-by-fours to a specific length, but the 
sixteen pieces I cut did not fit. He reassigned me to paint house exteriors. 
Immanuel, out of the goodness of his heart paid me good wages, which I 
perhaps never earned. 

In fall of 1939 I was invited to be the special speaker at the Pacific 
District Conference in Dinuba, California, and at a Bible conference to 
follow the business sessions. Immanuel offered to drive us there. The 
wife of my brother Jacob, who had come to Portland that fall, offered to 
take care of Eldon so Nettie could go with me on her first trip to California. 
God blessed our ministry at the conference. A second invitation followed 
to come to Los Angeles in January of 1940 for the dedication of the Menno- 
nite Brethren church there. 

On the morning that we left Dinuba to return to Portland, Nettie said, 
“I’m so glad I don’t need to live here. I would never want to live in Califor- 
nia.” How little did we know that the largest part of our life’s ministry 
would be in California. In January 1940 1 received my first invitation to min- 
ister in British Columbia. Again we sensed the blessing of God. A revival 
broke out in the churches of the Abbotsford area that is still remembered 
by people who found new life there more than fifty years ago. 

The years in Portland served as our introduction to churches all along 
the West Coast: British Columbia, Washington, Oregon and California. For 
the last ten months of our stay in Portland it was our privilege to serve the 
Powelhurst Baptist Church, which was just getting started. 

With the credit I was given at the seminary for my previous academic 
work, I completed the requirements for the bachelor of divinity degree the 
first semester of 1939, one year after I entered as a full-time student. The 
second semester, in the spring of 1940, plus additional classes in the sum- 
mer, enabled me to complete the residence requirement for the master of 
theology degree. 

Two invitations came to us in February of 1940. The church in 
Hepburn, which had made only provisional arrangements for the pastor- 
ate, hoped we would return. Bethany Bible School, too, was asking for 
our return. The other door open to us was an invitation to teach Bible at 
Freeman (South Dakota) College, Nettie’s alma mater. Freeman offered 
the chance to devote one quarter per year plus the summer to continue my 
studies. We chose to go to Freeman. In late summer of 1940 we were 


Rest and Redirection 


111 


ready to return to Saskatchewan, liquidate our household, make future 
arrangements for the farm and move to Freeman College for the new school 
year in September. 

The Freeman College Experience 

We recall our two years in Freeman with deep affection. Mother Unruh 
had been a widow since 1935. The move gave us our first opportunity to 
relate to Nettie’s family. We rented a very small apartment in town, though 
Mother’s large house on the farm was also open to us and we spent much 
time there. Eldon, then three years old, delighted to follow his Uncle Isaac, 
the youngest of Nettie’s brothers, who operated the family farm. 

Freeman College, though owned and operated by the General Conference 
Mennonite Church, was truly an inter-Mennonite institution. The commu- 
nities of Freeman, Marion and Bridgewater had a cluster of churches rep- 
resenting various ethnic and conference affiliations. In addition to several 
General Conference churches there were also Krimmer Mennonite Breth- 
ren, Evangelical Mennonite Brethren, Hutterites and Mennonite Brethren. 
The students from these churches represented an ecumenical Mennonite 
stew. Faculty members also represented several Mennonite varieties. 
Despite their own uniqueness of character, these church traditions were 
open in relationship and functioned well together. 

The Bible department, which served both the junior college and the 
academy (high school), concentrated on a historical approach to Scrip- 
ture. With my experience at Bethany and my recent seminary training, I 
found the assignment very elementary. During the 1940-1941 academic 
year I found time to write my thesis for the completion of the master of 
theology degree on the subject, “The Christ of the Johannine Theology,” I 
went back to Portland for graduation in the spring. 

The Freeman sojourn, though short, broadened my experience with 
the various Mennonite groups. For a few months I served as an interim 
pastor in the Salem Mennonite Church and also taught their catechism class 
to baptismal candidates. The pulpit committee, seeking a permanent re- 
placement for Dr. Peter R. Schroeder, their pastor for many years, even 
invited me to consider the position on a long-term basis. I had the oppor- 
tunity to minister widely among General Conference churches in South 
Dakota, Minnesota and Nebraska, as well as the Krimmer and Evangelical 
Mennonite Brethren of the Midwest. With my own spiritual and theologi- 


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cal commitment settled, I experienced great liberty in my ministry. The 
struggle for self-identity, which had been so much a part of me during the 
years before Portland, were in the past. 

Freeman was also the place where our second son, Paul, was born. 
November 27 has been a very special day ever since. We enjoyed the 
benefit of being close to the larger family during this time. Nettie’s mother 
was there to care for Eldon and to help with the new-born. For a time we 
even moved in with her. Mother Unruh was a very gracious person. She 
did not carry an ounce of selfishness. Her life was devoted to her hus- 
band, which was not always easy, and to her family. 

Nettie’s sister Grace taught in one of the local schools. Emma, the 
youngest of the family, worked in a department store in Minneapolis. 
August Unruh, an older brother, and his family lived on a farm only a mile 
or two from the parental farm. Nettie’s sister, Martha Ratzlaff and her fam- 
ily, also lived only a few miles away. All in all, our time in Freeman was a 
great period of our life, and the only time in our fifty-three years of our 
marriage that we could enjoy firsthand all the love of the Unruh family 
circle. 

Fort Worth, Texas 

In the summer of 1941 I left Nettie and the boys with Mother on the 
farm and went to Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Fort Worth, 
Texas, to begin studies toward a doctor of theology degree. Nettie, Eldon 
and baby Paul were happy in the caring environment of family and com- 
munity in Freeman. 

The experiences in Fort Worth were academically encouraging. By 
spending a few summers there I could complete the residence require- 
ments. There was also a possibility of spending the spring quarter of 1942 
to work in Fort Worth. 

One experience in Fort Worth that first summer has remained indel- 
ibly in my memory. One day I received a note in a closed envelope telling 
me to stop by the office of the student dean. When I arrived he invited me 
to sit down. Noting my Russian background he explained that I needed to 
conform to the social rules of the institution. Two violations were called to 
my attention. 

In the dining hall we were served by American black stewards. I felt 
free to speak to these young men and after the meal would converse with 


Rest and Redirection 


113 


them. This, I was told, violated the social distance that was observed by 
other white students. 

I had committed the same “offense” with a group of black women 
who sat under a large tree behind the dining hall peeling potatoes and 
cleaning vegetables. I had accepted their invitation to sit down on an 
empty chair and chat with them. They were very friendly and appeared 
delighted that I noticed them. 

These incidents, the dean said kindly but firmly, violated the 
institution’s standards of social conduct. He wanted me, as a foreigner, to 
know the local customs. Whites were to have no contact with blacks. 

I found this very difficult to accept. I left the office without respond- 
ing. I was outraged that a theological institution known for its emphasis 
on evangelism and scholarship would have such a blatant policy of segre- 
gation. I had chosen Southwestern on the suggestion of Drs. Milligan and 
Cline. How could the seminary in which Harvey E. Dana, a great New 
Testament scholar and president from 1919 through 1938, or his successor, 
Dr. Lee Rutland Scarborough, known for his evangelism and author of the 
book With Christ After the Lost, be so inconsistent in their understanding 
of the New Testament? It became a severe test for my biblical Anabaptism, 
which had come into focus while in Portland. 

A Fork in the Road 

In spring of 1941 two invitations came to us; one from Tabor College, 
our own Mennonite Brethren school, and one from the Mennonite Breth- 
ren church in Buhler, Kansas. The Buhler congregation had a significant 
historic background. Abraham Schellenberg, one of the leaders of the 
1870s immigration, had spent the largest part of his life ministering there. 
For the last fourteen years the church had been served by Peter R. Lange, 
known in his day as the “Prince of Preachers.” We were not ready to re- 
spond to these invitations, as we were comfortable in Freeman in the circle 
of our family. 

While in Fort Worth, a request came from Buhler to stop in for a Sun- 
day on my way back to Freeman. I consented. It was an uplifting experi- 
ence. After the evening service the church committee renewed the request 
to consider their invitation. A significant plus for Buhler was the overnight 
train from nearby Newton to Fort Worth. Being located in Buhler would 
make it easier to complete my studies for the doctorate. 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


Rejoining the family after a long summer in Texas was a joyous occa- 
sion. Awaiting me was a letter from Tabor College, outlining the impor- 
tance of considering it as a place for my future ministry. We were not 
ready to respond to either invitation but eventually I informally told Tabor 
I would come there after another year at Freeman. 

My second year’s schedule at Freeman College included a number of 
invitations for Bible conferences. One was for a four-day ministry with the 
large General Conference church in Henderson, Nebraska. While deliver- 
ing the message on Friday night I noticed four men from the Buhler church. 
One of them was Peter Reimer, whom I knew so well from my ministry in 
Jansen, Nebraska. The Reimers had moved to Buhler and had joined the 
Mennonite Brethren church there. They requested a brief meeting. 

They said they had been sent to personally convey the continued 
prayers of the church that the Lord would direct us to consider the Buhler 
pastorate. They knew also that Tabor College had extended us an urgent 
invitation. Peter R. Lange, their former pastor, had joined the Tabor fac- 
ulty. My thoughts raced. Should I also go to Tabor College? 

Back in Freeman, Nettie and I considered these invitations together. 
The plea from the Buhler congregation through their delegation lingered 
with us and caused us to reevaluate our decision to go to Hillsboro. 

Tabor was in crisis. William Bestvater, one of the most gifted Bible 
teachers, a former principal of the Herbert Bible School, and for years a 
pastor of the church in Shafter, California, had been released from the fac- 
ulty because of moral indiscretions while in Shafter. 

Two major considerations helped us decide which invitation to ac- 
cept. First, I realized that if I went to Tabor I would inevitably become 
embroiled in various institutional crises. Second, the Bible department at 
Tabor did not reflect a clear commitment to the Anabaptist faith that I had 
recently made a priority. Peter R. Lange, the new head of the Bible depart- 
ment, had described its focus as follows: 

(a) It was to be central to the life of the college. 

(b) It was to be evangelistic, instilling a passion for the lost. 

(c) It should train future missionaries for the conference. 

(d) It should magnify the prayer life of the individual student 
as well as the church. 

With my recent commitment to an Anabaptist theology, I considered 
Lange’s emphasis for the school pietistic and limiting. It aimed to be broadly 
evangelical but seemed to lack clear direction or theological character. 


Rest and Redirection 


115 


In reflecting on our decision to accept the Buhler invitation I can see 
a desire to become more firmly rooted in the life of the church. It was in 
the pastorate that I recognized the implications of a consistent Anabaptist 
commitment. In the interest of my development, I needed to be immersed 
in the church community. Buhler was in the plan of the Potter as he formed 
the vessel. 

The General Conference of the Mennonite Brethren Churches of North 
America was scheduled to convene in Buhler in summer of 1942. The 
church urgently hoped that the Lord would furnish a pastor to provide 
leadership for this important event. For me to fulfill this role would re- 
quire going there at the end of Freeman’s second quarter. That was the 
time I had planned to return to Fort Worth, since the one quarter and the 
summer would enable me to complete the residence requirements for the 
doctorate. Another consideration was the need to stay close to Nettie’s 
mother, whose health was failing. 

The decision was difficult. We finally concluded that our long-range 
future required further pastoral ministry, an area where we I had the least 
experience. We could always return to teaching later. Since the spring 
quarter of 1942 was provided for, Freeman could spare me. In October 
1941 we committed ourselves to move to Buhler. The next year’s General 
Conference made it urgent to be there for spring and summer. We made 
the move at the beginning of March. 


CHAPTER 13 


The Buhler Ministry 


O ur new home in Buhler was the parsonage across the street from 
the church. It was the first comfortable house we had lived in 
since our marriage. Not everything else in Buhler would match 
that degree of comfort, however. We found a church in transition. I would 
learn some critical lessons about what it means to be a pastor. 

One of these lessons was that congregations need more than a pulpit 
ministry. Under P. R. Lange, the Buhler church had been blessed with 
great preaching. He read widely in the devotional literature of his day. 
His sermons tended to be more topical than deeply exegetical. He would 
read the text, close the Bible and in an oratorical style present the mes- 
sage. From the perspective of polished delivery, Buhler had experienced 
great preaching. 

The Role of a Shepherd 

In Lange’s years, however, the relational dimension had received less 
emphasis. The church annual report dated December 27, 1942 notes that 
membership was 502, of which 103 were non-resident. In some of these 
cases years had gone by with no contact with the church. A clear lesson to 
me was that building the body takes more than preaching, it also takes a 
strong relational dimension. Jesus said, “I am the good shepherd; I know 
my sheep and my sheep know me” (John 10:14). It was in Buhler where 
the Lord taught me what it means to be a shepherd of the flock. 

I made it my first priority to get to know my people and to be avail- 
able so they could know me. Church records show that within the first ten 
months of 1942 I made 124 house visits, 41 consultations with members in 
spiritual need, plus 6l hospital calls and 49 sick visits in homes. I also 
preached 122 sermons, 66 in morning and evening worship services, and 
the rest at weddings, funerals, family events and special meetings. 

Nettie accompanied me on many visits, especially those in homes. 
God gave us reliable people to serve as babysitters for our boys. Ably 
assisting in the leadership of the church were Ministers John Hildebrandt 


The Buhler Ministry 


117 


and A. R. Epp, plus the four deacons who served at the time. All were very 
solid people and offered every support I needed. 

There were tensions below the surface that needed to be addressed. 
One prominent member had borrowed money from many others in the 
church, and when his business failed he could not pay it back. This cre- 
ated much pain in the congregation. There were also cases of family dis- 
unity. Some families were so stricken that parents and children sat on 
opposite sides during church services. There were wayward young people 
who needed care and guidance. 

Unified leadership and a faithful ministry of intercessory prayer be- 
came the keys to addressing these tensions. Within the first eighteen months 
we began to see victories from God. Some divisions were finally settled 
through God’s providence as certain people were removed through death. 
Our struggle toward 

purification resulted in a great renewal that God brought to us through the 
special ministry of Theodore Epp from Back to the Bible Broadcast. 

Through all this, we as a family experienced much love and care. We 
were the first pastoral family to come to the church from the outside. Up 
to that point all leadership had come from within the community fellow- 
ship. 

The Test of Impartiality 

One of the early tests at Buhler was that of impartiality in relation- 
ships. My predecessor for the past fourteen years had come from within 
the community and had long ties to certain families. A circle of close friends 
had supplemented his meager income as the first paid pastor of the church. 
Business people, friends from his youth, had regularly provided him with 
new cars that he would otherwise not have been able to afford. Now I 
came along with an old car, a 1934 Chevrolet, which had been given to us 
by Nettie’s mother. 

The Buhler church was somewhat sophisticated. It had a strong group 
of wealthy and talented people. The local bank and flour mill were owned 
and staffed by members of the church. Other establishments, too, includ- 
ing stores, machine shops, garages, filling stations, city government and 
the post office, were all staffed by members of the church. 

Without ulterior motive, some men from the business community 
became concerned about the old car their new pastor was driving. Being 


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JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


wartime, new cars were unavailable, so they purchased a good quality 
used car and came to present it to us. It was an awkward moment. I had 
already learned of the lifelong friendship between the former pastor and 
certain people in the church. I did not want to question their motive, nor 
could I accept their well-intentioned gift. I told them gently that in my 
position as pastor I could not accept such a gift from a particular group 
within the church. They seemed to understand. 

One Sunday morning several months later, John Hildebrandt, chair 
of the church council, came up to the platform and asked for the opportu- 
nity to speak. On behalf of the church he read a statement expressing 
appreciation for our ministry and said that the whole congregation, in- 
cluding every Sunday school class, had participated in the purchase of a 
car for their pastor. Then he handed me the keys to a 1941 Ford. Now I 
could accept the gift, for everyone had had a share in it. The gift was a 
project that unified rather than divided the church. 

This was a lesson for all of us. The service of the pastorate demanded 
that I be known not as a hireling, not one who served because I was paid, 
but as a servant irrespective of any economic returns. This became a life- 
long principle of ministry for me. It remained consistent with our covenant 
in the park in Hillsboro: “It is all right to be poor.” 

The Painful 1943 Conference 

The conditions of wartime had necessitated postponing the General 
Conference, giving the Buhler church more time to prepare. Planned for 
1942, the conference assembled May 26-30, 1943- Being host pastor gave 
me a new level of General Conference participation. At the 1933 confer- 
ence in Reedley, California, I had been appointed to the General Confer- 
ence youth committee along with J. W. Vogt of Hillsboro and Leslie Wiebe 
of Corn, Oklahoma. In 1936 this committee was enlarged to five mem- 
bers. A youth committee meeting in 1934 marked my first active participa- 
tion in a General Conference assignment. In 1937 The Christian Leader 
was launched as the first English publication of the General Conference. I, 
with J. W. Vogt and Leslie Wiebe, served as the editorial committee. 

The Buhler conference dealt with several crucial issues. One was a 
conference policy on how to handle moral lapses of ministers. It con- 
cerned one of the most popular and esteemed Bible teachers of the con- 
ference. A second very painful experience of historic proportions was the 


The Buhler Ministry 


119 


censure of the Tabor College president, Dr. P. E. Schellenberg, over ques- 
tions of the orthodoxy of his faith. I found it devastating to see students 
from the college publicly question the spiritual integrity of their teacher 
and president. 

The crisis of Tabor College in the 1940s was partly a consequence of 
its own history. The motive for establishing the institution in 1908 had 
been to lead Mennonite Brethren beyond their spiritual and cultural isola- 
tion as a rural agricultural people. It was to draw them, as the college song 
said, “To a higher plane of vision.” 

The initial response of the young people to the opportunity of a Chris- 
tian liberal arts education was phenomenal. Seventy-five percent of the 
graduates of the first eight years went to graduate schools. Ninety-four 
percent of the graduates of the second decade went on in their search for 
knowledge. By 1920 Tabor graduates attended such prestigious schools 
as the University of California at Berkeley, Yale Divinity School and the 
University of Chicago. 7 The churches, however, were not prepared to ab- 
sorb such a wave of talented men and women. As a result some of the 
most gifted potential leaders were lost to other denominations and institu- 
tions. 8 

This phenomenon was not unique to the Mennonite Brethren, how- 
ever. The early history of Tabor was strongly affected by a seismic clash 
that affected American Christianity generally. This was the struggle of fun- 
damentalism versus modernism, with the battle between creationism and 
evolution at its center. 9 

As the only Mennonite Brethren institution of higher learning, Tabor 
quickly became enmeshed in the spiritual struggle on the larger American 
religious scene. The extent of this involvement is reflected in the annual 
Bible Normal (Bible conferences) that provided the focus for Tabor’s reli- 
gious emphasis. The roster of conference speakers in the 1920s and 1930s 
included such fundamentalist luminaries as R. A. Torrey, James Oliver 
Buswell, J. W. Riley, William Evans, Paul Ruth, J. D. Drowell and Gerald 
Winrod. 

The narrow fundamentalism that dominated Tabor College during 
this time was a reflection of the larger Mennonite Brethren Church. Before 
the 1950s and 1960s the United States Mennonite Brethren had no scholars 
in theology who could articulate the fundamentals of their own Anabaptist 
heritage. Thus it was not surprising that Mennonite Brethren would be 


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JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


drawn to the side of fundamentalists who shared several emphases with 
Anabaptism: the emphasis on Scripture as inspired, absolute truth, repen- 
tance, conversion and sanctification, as well as a strong eschatological thrust. 
My own spiritual pilgrimage reflects a strong fundamentalism because that 
was the major emphasis to which I was exposed in North America. At the 
time, all literature available to me came from fundamentalist sources. 

The leadership of P. E. Schellenberg had promised a new era. Not a 
trusted churchman like his predecessors H. W. Lohrenz, P. C. Hiebert and 
A. E. Janzen, he was nonetheless ready to chart a way out of the religious 
controversy of the 1920s and 1930s. A grandson of Abraham Schellenberg, 
he was deeply committed to the Mennonite Brethren Anabaptist heritage. 
The opposition to his leadership came from the ranks of the fundamental- 
ists in the Mennonite Brethren churches, some trained in Bible institutes 
like Northwestern, Moody and Biola. Some of my friends, Tabor alumni 
and graduates of Central Baptist Seminary, were among the leaders who 
could not reconcile themselves with P. E. Schellenberg’s leadership. 

During the elections at the 1943 conference I was nominated from 
the floor and subsequently elected to become secretary of the Board of 
Education. Our committee subsequently released several articles defend- 
ing the Tabor administration and signed by Dr. A. H. Unruh as chairman 
and me as the secretary. But the discontent persisted. The birth of the 
Pacific Bible Institute in Fresno, California, in 1944, was in part a protest 
against the assumed “liberalism” in Tabor College. 

My involvement in this struggle was very difficult. Coming from an 
educational background that included exposure to Pietism, atheism and 
rationalism, I had surrendered to a faith in Christ that was rooted not in 
intellectual understanding but rather in obedience. Paul’s word in 2 
Corinthians 10:5 — "Casting down imaginations and every high thing that 
exalteth itself against the knowledge of God, and bringing into captivity 
every thought to the obedience of Christ”— seemed so contrary to 
fundamentalism’s struggle for proof and its rejection of all that did not fit 
into a narrow and simplistic frame of scriptural interpretation. 

Throughout my ministry I have been troubled by the absence of his- 
torical perspective among Mennonite Brethren. Esteemed leaders and 
colleagues, though deeply committed to the Scriptures, do not connect 
our theological heritage to the Anabaptist origins in the sixteenth century. 
Even a pamphlet on “Mennonite Brethren Distinctives,” published in 1966, 


The Buhler Ministry 


121 


made no reference to our historic origin so distinctly focused in the I860 
founding documents of the Mennonite Brethren. 

Into Africa 

Another historic decision at the 1943 conference was to accept the 
mission work of the Africa Mission Association ( Afrika Missions Verein), 
formed by the Mennonite Brethren churches in Canada. The background 
to this was that for twenty years the Board of Foreign Missions had not 
responded to the mission interests of the seven to eight thousand Menno- 
nite Brethren who had immigrated to Canada from Russia in the years 1923- 
1932. To provide an outlet for their mission interest, these immigrants had 
organized a separate mission society and sent some of their own young 
people to Africa. The operation of two separate mission boards within the 
conference caused tension and endangered future unity. The 1943 confer- 
ence sought to find a basis to incorporate the work and personnel of the 
Africa Mission Association into the larger General Conference effort and 
thus remove the threat of eventual division. Unfortunately the tension was 
not so easily resolved. 

The original 1870s immigrants from Russia were by and large from 
the less prosperous class of Mennonites. In addition, they had not been 
part of the rapid economic and cultural development among the Russian 
Mennonites in the second half of the nineteenth and the first part of the 
twentieth century. It was during those fifty years that the Mennonites in 
Russia emerged from their isolation. Many young Mennonites went to 
Europe for advanced education in architecture, engineering and theology. 
The industrial development and the growth of Mennonite institutions of 
higher learning were also products of this period. Thus the immigrants of 
the 1920s and 1930s reflected a degree of economic and intellectual so- 
phistication that the previous immigrants did not have. The differences 
between the “Russlander” (new immigrants) and the American-Canadian 
Mennonite Brethren were quite distinct, and both groups felt them keenly. 

One example will illustrate the tension. In the spring of 1946, my first 
year at the Mennonite Brethren Bible College in Winnipeg, P. R. Lange of 
Hillsboro and Heinrich S. Voth of Winkler, Manitoba, both members of the 
Board of Missions for many years, came to the college to interview two 
women students who had applied to be missionaries to India. Both women 
were “Kanadier” (1870s immigrants to Canada). 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


The college faculty had already reviewed these women’s suitability 
for such an assignment in anticipation of the pending visit from members 
of the board. The review raised concerns about their suitability in terms of 
gifts and social relationships. I, as president, was delegated to convey our 
evaluation to the board representatives. My report elicited the following 
response: “The time has not yet come that the Russlander will tell us whom 
we send to India as a missionary.” Both of the candidates were sent to 
India despite our objections. One of them had to be recalled from the field 
during her first term because of relational tensions she created with the 
nationals as well as in the mission fellowship. The second one married a 
missionary in India whose wife had died, and found a place as a mother 
and helpmate in a family. 

This tension in the leadership of the mission program continued for 
more than twenty years before it finally dissipated. 

Citizenship Crisis 

It was during our Buhler ministry that we again faced a potential citi- 
zenship problem. We had left Canada to go to Freeman in 1940. In August 
of 1944 1 visited the Canadian Consulate in Chicago to clarify my immigra- 
tion status and discovered something I had not known about Canada’s 
immigration regulations: naturalized citizens of Canada could not reside 
outside the country beyond five years. 

Recognizing the implications for us and the Buhler ministry, we tested 
a twofold approach. First, I applied to Canadian immigration authorities 
to extend my citizenship status beyond the five years. Second, in case my 
request would be denied, I explored the possibility of obtaining U.S. citi- 
zenship. This had been suggested by C. N. Hiebert, co-owner of a large 
flour mill in Buhler and a close friend to U.S. Representative Clifford R. 
Hope from the Wichita district. 

Complicating my desire for U.S. citizenship was American involve- 
ment in World War II. Would they grant citizenship to a conscientious 
objector? As a pastor I had gone to court to represent some of our young 
men who were drafted into the army but refused to bear arms. One man 
from the Buhler church had been imprisoned. I had intervened in an ef- 
fort to get the imprisoned brother re-assigned to a noncombatant classifi- 
cation. We succeeded in the attempt. I discussed the dilemma with 


The Buhler Ministry 


123 


Representative Hope and he assured me that he was in a position to repre- 
sent me and get my application approved. 

Months of uncertainty followed. In December C. N. Hiebert received 
a letter from Representative Hope. He had tested my application with 
members of the Supreme Court. After some weeks they wrote Representa- 
tive Hope as follows: “The request for U.S. citizenship of the Rev. J. B. 
Toews would be ruled upon according to the McKintosh and Warkentin 
applications which both were rejected.” (Dr. Warkentin was also an immi- 
grant from Russia and at the time professor at Bethel College, North New- 
ton, Kansas.) 

With that option now closed I had to decide whether to risk my Ca- 
nadian citizenship status a second time. The 1932 border-crossing crisis 
was still too vivid in our memory. 

The Call to Winnipeg 

In November 1944 I had received a letter from the board of the new 
Mennonite Brethren Bible College in Winnipeg, inviting me to consider 
accepting the presidency. Dr. A. H. Unruh, with the help of two part-time 
teachers, had opened the college that year with a student body of twelve. 
It was felt he did not know sufficient English to develop the institution and 
attract students during wartime. My initial response to this inquiry was 
somewhat cynical. 

Exactly a year earlier my uncle B. B. Janz had come to Buhler to visit 
us after a meeting in Hillsboro. He expressed concern about my ongoing 
work toward a doctoral degree (I had continued my studies in 1943 by 
attending summer school). “Hans,” he admonished, addressing me by my 
nickname in the extended family, “you are going too far.” He said Menno- 
nite Brethren had only one example of a man who acquired a doctorate in 
theology. That was Dr. Benjamin Unruh in Europe, and he had estranged 
himself from the brotherhood (Janz was in continuous correspondence 
with Unruh in matters of immigration). Dr. A. H. Unruh, meanwhile, had 
received an honorary D.D. from Bethel College in Kansas. 

Uncle Ben reviewed my educational pursuits in Russia, the Nether- 
lands, Tabor College and Western Baptist Theological Seminary, pointing 
out the degrees I had already earned. He noted that I was the first Menno- 
nite Brethren to get so much theological education. 


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“Hans, now that is enough,” he warned. “You will not be accepted in 
the brotherhood if you continue to pursue a doctoral degree in theology. 
You will lose your simple faith in the gospel.” 

These were strong words, and in those days B. B. Janz’s words car- 
ried much weight in the Mennonite Brethren Church. Now, only a year 
later, he was writing to me as a member of the Winnipeg college board to 
invite me to accept the presidency. It all seemed very manipulative. I was 
ready to decline. I felt hurt. I could not forget the conversation of a year 
ago. But the uncertainty of my citizenship called for caution. Could this 
be a providential opportunity in case the Canadian authorities declined 
my request for an extension? 

We shared the matter with the church. Special prayer meetings were 
held to lead the Canadian immigration authorities to extend my permit to 
stay in the U.S. without penalty. But in early March 1945 the Canadian 
Consulate sent us a negative reply. 

Days of severe struggle followed. Our ministry in Buhler had just 
begun. Should we risk losing citizenship and face the possibility of expul- 
sion? The reality of war made the situation all the more tenuous. On 
March 21, 1945 I announced my resignation to the church and accepted 
the call to the college in Winnipeg. The following three months in Buhler 
were very trying. 

Nettie’s sister Grace had accepted a teaching position in Buhler to be 
near us. Nettie’s mother, who needed help from her daughters, had moved 
in with Grace and lived only a block away from us. The plan had been that 
Grace and Nettie would care for her together, as we had visualized a long 
stay in Buhler. July 1945 came too soon, not only for us but also for Mother 
Unruh, for Grace and for the church. 

Now we had an entire household of goods to dispose of. The people 
of the church had helped us to furnish the house, the first parsonage the 
church owned. They had equipped the kitchen with a range and a refrig- 
erator, a luxury during the war years. The church leadership suggested a 
public sale. I found the process too difficult to handle. On the day of the 
sale we turned the entire house and contents over to the brethren of the 
church. We couldn’t face the pain if seeing the first real household we had 
acquired in twelve years of marriage being turned over to a public auction. 
So on the day of the sale Nettie went to be with her mother. I took the two 
boys, Eldon, eight, and Paul, four, to Hutchinson to play in the city park. 


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125 


I preached my last sermon as Buhler’s pastor. I managed to contain 
my emotions during the farewell service. The last night in Buhler was 
most difficult for Nettie and me. We slept little. Our departure was sched- 
uled for early morning. We had been asked to stop at the church before 
leaving. To our amazement we found a large group of people assembled 
there at 6:00 a.m. to give us a last expression of their love. 

On the Road Again 

The first day of our trip, Nettie and I were very quiet. Inwardly we 
both pondered the question, “Why?” Our sons in the back seat took the 
change as an adventure and had many questions. Where would we live? 
Would there be a park to play in? Eldon was concerned who his teacher 
would be. They had their apprehensions. Freeman and Buhler were only 
small towns, and Winnipeg was a big city. 

I had been in Winnipeg in April to find a place to live. Since it was 
wartime, housing was scarce. With the help of Cornelius A. DeFehr, a 
prominent Mennonite Brethren business man, I had bought a house, only 
one year old. It was on Henderson Highway, a very busy street, but in 
1945 there was not much choice in Winnipeg. “The street we will live on 
in Winnipeg has much traffic,” I warned the boys. “Streetcars, trucks and 
cars travel on the street passing our house.” 

“Are the streetcars bigger than our car?” was Eldon’s question. Would 
we have a sandbox? Were there other children to play with? These were 
all questions of importance. 

The second day of our travel was the fourth of July. Our progress 
was slow. We had to make frequent stops for the boys who became very 
restless penned up in the back seat of the car. Toward evening we began 
to look for a motel to provide some freedom for the boys. But in 1945 
motels were less common than today, and we found nothing. We had to 
drive on. 

It was 8:00 in the evening when we reached the border. Wartime 
inspections were more thorough than usual, and we faced many ques- 
tions. Nettie and Paul had been born in the U.S. I had been out of the 
country for five years. The official wanted to know why we wanted to live 
in Canada. 

Finally we were allowed to cross. By now the boys in the back seat 
had fallen asleep. We looked for motel accommodations at the border, but 


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it was the fourth of July and “No vacancy” stared us in the face at the few 
places we found. We had no choice but to drive on to Winnipeg, another 
two hours. 

It was after midnight when we arrived in Winnipeg. We were com- 
plete strangers. At every hotel we stopped there was no vacancy. We 
wondered if we would have to spend the night in the car. Then we reached 
the large Canadian Pacific Railway depot. Beside it was the luxurious CPR 
Hotel, perhaps the highest-priced hotel in Winnipeg. It was 1:30 a.m. 

“John, we cannot stay on the street,” said Nettie. “We don’t know 
where to go even in the morning. The boys need to be cared for. We can’t 
go to people without cleaning up and changing clothes. 

And so we spent our first night in Winnipeg in the most luxurious 
hotel in the city. It was past two o’clock when we finally retired. What an 
introduction to Winnipeg. 

The next morning we took our time and ate a leisurely breakfast. 
Nettie stayed with the boys while I studied the map and went to locate the 
residence of C. A. DeFehr, who had the key for our new home. I picked 
up the key and went back to the hotel. Nettie and the boys had been on a 
walk, investigating the area around the hotel. A beautiful flower garden in 
the back of the hotel offered the needed diversion for the boys while they 
waited for my return. By noon we were in our house on Henderson High- 
way. 

We had shipped our personal belongings from Hutchinson by train 
and had to wait ten days for their arrival. The stove had been bought with 
the house, and we had brought along basic cooking utensils, dishes and 
bedding. So for the first week or so we camped in the house and slept on 
the floor. 

The DeFehrs helped us to get settled temporarily. They provided a 
table and some chairs. They owned a furniture and appliance store, and 
let us select the items we needed most without a down payment. 

On the third day, having made the most urgent preliminary provi- 
sions for Nettie and the boys, I decided to visit the college, which was a 
mile and a half from our house on the same street. No one was there. I 
had failed to ask Mr. DeFehr for a key before he left for his cottage on Lake 
Winnipeg. The college building was a former public school bought by Mr. 
DeFehr in foresight that it might be suitable for the beginning of a college. 
In the churches it was referred to as Bine Hohere Bibelschule, a “higher 


The Buh ler Ministry 


127 


Bible school” in distinction to local Bible schools like Winkler, Hepburn, 
Herbert, Coaldale and Yarrow. No one was around the school. The back- 
yard was overgrown with high weeds. I checked around to see if I could 
find a window that wasn’t bolted. I found one next to the back door and 
crawled through. Now I was inside what was to be the Mennonite Breth- 
ren Bible College. 

I found a spacious hall, four classrooms, a very small office and a 
furnace room with an old furnace that turned out not to work. The one 
room that had been used during the 1944-1945 school year had a wood 
stove in the back with the stove pipes going through a window. It also had 
school desks, a teacher’s desk and long blackboards. The office had one 
bookshelf, a desk and a few chairs. The other three classrooms had school 
furniture, some desks, tables and chairs. The rooms were thick with dust. 

My spirits sank. Here I was in Winnipeg to be president of a school 
that in reality had not yet begun. Amid the dismal surroundings I remem- 
bered the fulfillment and joy of the ministry in Buhler. In contrast the task 
before us here in Winnipeg appeared totally impossible. Was there no 
other alternative? 

That July afternoon has remained indelible in my memory. I fell to 
my knees in the empty building that had stood vacant for a number of 
years before C. A. DeFehr bought it. Amid the locked doors and the high 
weeds I asked first to understand the implications for me and my family, 
and then pleaded for God to show how the impossible could be achieved. 
I crawled back out through the same window and walked the mile and a 
half home to join Nettie and the boys. I did not share with her my utter 
frustration. 

The belongings sent by train from Hutchinson, Kansas, arrived after 
ten days. The household began to take shape. As there was only one 
bedroom downstairs, the boys had to sleep upstairs. Gradually the family 
settled down. 

Very soon the busy street became a problem. On several occasions 
the boys’ ball rolled out on the street and Eldon or Paul ran after it. Nettie 
soon decided this was not the house for us. “The danger for the boys is too 
great,” she said. 

On the world scene, the German armies in Europe had capitulated in 
May of 1945. The war in the Pacific continued to rage, but atomic bombs 
on Hiroshima and Nagasaki soon sealed the outcome of that struggle. 
Politically there was the prospect of peace. 


CHAPTER 14 


The Winnipeg Chapter 


T he birth of a Bible college in Canada near the midpoint of the twen- 
tieth century was a logical, but controversial, next step in a long 
history of Mennonite Brethren Bible teaching. 

It must be remembered that the Mennonites, throughout their four 
hundred-year history in Prussia and Russia, had operated their own pro- 
grams of education. Mennonites who came to North America, first in the 
1870s and then later following the Russian Revolution, surrendered this 
privilege. As their isolated, tightly knit rural communities began to feel the 
pressure of urbanization from the larger society, it became clear that they 
would have to regain control of religious education in order to nurture 
their faith as they had in the past. 

Small, local bible schools sprouted in numerous communities across 
Canada. The first one opened in 1913 in Herbert, Saskatchewan, led by 
Johann F. Harms, the legendary Mennonite Brethren editor and educator. 
It closed from 1918 to 1920 and then reopened in 1921 under the leader- 
ship of William Bestvater. More schools opened as the second wave of 
Mennonite immigration to Canada began in the 1920s and continued for 
several decades. Twenty Mennonite Brethren Bible schools emerged in 
Canada in the years 1924 to 1955. Following the Second World War Men- 
nonite Brethren high schools also emerged in Ontario, Manitoba, Alberta 
and British Columbia. 

The Bible schools provided courses not offered in public schools: 
religious instruction and German. The purpose was to train young people 
for work in the church as Sunday school teachers and lay ministers. 

By the early 1940s conference records show a growing desire to unify 
the various Bible school programs. In 1943 the conference expresses the 
need for a “ Hoehere Bibelschule?’ (a higher Bible school) to prepare work- 
ers for the ministry in the churches and teachers for the Bible schools. 

The July conference of 1944 received a report from a committee led 
by B. B. Janz that contained a complete plan for the higher Bible school, or 
college, to be opened in the fall of the same year. The conference records 
reflect a lengthy debate. What would the establishment of such a college 


The Winnipeg Chapter 


129 


do for the many Bible schools scattered across Canada? Should it be a 
Bible college or a school that could be affiliated with a university with a 
broader program of higher education? 

There were some strong voices in opposition to the idea of a new 
college. Some came from places like Winkler, where supporters of the 
existing Bible school (in which A. H. Unruh had been a leading figure) felt 
threatened by the new developments. A letter from a Winkler man to a 
number of the Coaldale delegates focused the issue sharply and implied 
that proper conference procedures had been violated. 

Nonetheless, the decision was made to proceed, and A. H. Unruh left 
his post at Winkler to launch the new school in Winnipeg. Unruh, then 
sixty-five and not fluent in English, had no intention of assuming the re- 
sponsibility to build a college, but as a leader who had earned the trust of 
the conference he was willing to do what he could to help make a start. 
The task of actually developing the new institution would be mine. When 
I accepted the position I was not fully aware of the depth of the tension in 
some quarters. 

The momentum of the new development and the response from stu- 
dents silenced most critics in the constituency. The evidence of need was 
beyond dispute. The rallying of the churches behind the college was also 
due in no small measure to the strength of the college board. Men like 
Johannes Harder of British Columbia, B. B. Janz of Alberta, John M. Neufeld 
of Saskatchewan, C. A. DeFehr, Cornelius C. Warkentin and Heinrich Toews 
of Manitoba, and Henry H. Janzen of Ontario, were very much “the confer- 
ence” of the 1940s. 

Pioneering A Bible College 

It was in early July when we arrived in Winnipeg. The college was to 
open on September 15, giving us two months to prepare. C. A. DeFehr 
provided some additional furniture for the office. Physically, things began 
to take shape. 

We still had no catalog outlining the planned three-year program of 
the college, with the second year to be added in 1945-1946 and a third year 
in 1946-1947. I spent all my time the last two weeks of July writing a draft 
for a catalog, outlining a preliminary study program that would take the 
students beyond the local Bible schools. Principles and policies for the 
college also needed to be formulated. 


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JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


The executive committee of the board met quite frequently. Dr. Unruh, 
the founding president for the first year, was not available for consultation. 
He was busy in the western provinces serving in Bible conferences and 
promoting the new college without an official catalog. A small pamphlet 
outlining the projected courses was made available for distribution. We 
also had a preliminary list of students who had expressed interest in com- 
ing. 

My next task was to project a study curriculum. In the year 1944- 
1945 A. H. Unruh had been the only full-time faculty member with three 
adjunct faculty: Heinrich Wall for German, and Isaak Friesen and Abraham 
J. Voth for Old and New Testament. No further faculty had been appointed, 
yet we were to begin a college in two months! 

A pamphlet titled “ Auskunft uber das Bibel-College’ (Information 
About the Bible College) (translation) was quickly prepared with a pre- 
liminary course designation for a three-year curriculum, much of it bor- 
rowed from other school programs. 

Two new faculty members, with whom I had corresponded while in 
Buhler, were recruited: Rueben M. Baerg, Hepburn, a graduate of Bethany 
and the University of Saskatchewan in Saskatoon, and Jacob H. Quiring, 
who had just completed his work in the college of theology at Tabor. Ad- 
junct faculty members available in Winnipeg were Ben Horch in music 
and his wife Esther Horch in English. 

With this skeleton faculty and a curriculum that was projected but not 
yet backed up with academic resources, we prepared to begin school on 
October 1, 1945. There was no library. My personal library of some one 
thousand books served as the nucleus. 

Students were billeted in private homes. We had no facilities for meals 
on campus. A two-story house next to the college was for sale. Cornelius 
A. DeFehr, who had bought the school building for the college and then 
offered it to the conference, also purchased this house for our purposes. A 
kitchen and dining hall were established downstairs. 

We managed to recruit Margaret Peters to establish a kitchen service 
to feed the students. She had come by train from Vancouver, accompany- 
ing a newly- widowed woman and her two small children. (One of those 
children, Alvin Dueck, would later attend the Bible college and eventually 
become my colleague at the Mennonite Brethren Biblical Seminary in 
Fresno.) She agreed to stay on with us and become part of our new team. 


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131 


The upstairs of the house, with four rooms and a bath, provided hous- 
ing for eight students. Another residence, a three-story structure on 
Glenwood Crescent, was rented to house an additional twelve students. 

The school heating system, an old steam boiler that had not been 
used the first school year, proved to be non-functional. In October, while 
a new boiler was installed, we met in cold classrooms. Students and teachers 
wore extra clothing. 

How, under these circumstances, we began the school year with sev- 
enty-five day students and twenty-three evening students remains a mys- 
tery to me even now, half a century later. In the providence of God, this 
was the right time to meet a need for higher education that had been felt 
by the Canadian Conference. The close of the Second World War that year 
was also a major factor in the good response to our new program. Young 
men released from the military and alternative service were ready to at- 
tend school. 

I began my first school year with a full teaching load plus the very 
demanding administrative work. Plans for student housing and dining 
hall facilities required much attention. The library became a critical issue. 
I spent many weekends in Minneapolis visiting second-hand bookstores 
to select books to lay the base for a library. Rueben M. Baerg, who had 
been at Northwestern Bible College and knew the city, was a great help in 
this selection process. 

The lodging of students in private homes could only serve provision- 
ally. Additional facilities needed immediate attention. At first we consid- 
ered enlarging the existing building. Blueprints were prepared to add a 
student dormitory and an assembly hall on the second story. But this plan 
had to be abandoned for lack of building material, plumbing in particular. 
A plan for a new building was launched. 

In spring of 1946 we began construction on the student building, 
later called Ebenezer and today called the C. A. DeFehr Residence Hall. 
Building materials were still scarce. The frame of the new building was 
constructed of two-by-six lumber from a grain elevator that was dismantled 
in a small town not far from Winnipeg. Plumbing supplies were especially 
hard to come by, so only one bathroom was built on each end of the first 
and second floors. These new developments as well as the refurbished 
heating system would never have been accomplished without C. A. DeFehr. 
He personally drove from town to town in Minnesota and North Dakota, 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


scouring hardware stores to gather whatever nails, plumbing fixtures and 
building supplies he could find. 

A Man of Vision 

Much of the credit for developing the college must go to C. A. DeFehr, 
a visionary entrepreneur who had a heart for the church. After fifteen years 
in business in Russia DeFehr lost everything in the Russian Revolution and 
had to start all over again. When he arrived in Canada in 1925 his only 
assets were courage, vision and a deep commitment to God and the church. 
He developed a small import business selling agricultural equipment and 
milk separators. Over the years his business prospered. By the time we 
came on the scene in 1945 his three sons and his son-in-law, Bernhard B. 
Fast, carried the major responsibility for the expanding business, C. A. 
DeFehr and Sons. He remained the major director of the business but the 
day-to-day management was largely in the hands of the family. 

DeFehr’s vision was far ahead of other leaders in the church. He was 
always dreaming for the future, on behalf of the Mennonites in general 
and the Mennonite Brethren in particular. The Mennonite Brethren Bible 
College was the result of the vision of C. A. DeFehr and the Canadian 
conference leadership. DeFehr saw the need for it well in advance of other 
conference leaders. He was essentially the initiator and builder of the col- 
lege. 

DeFehr and his wife, Liese, were warm, loving people who cared 
deeply for the church. Their home on Glenwood Crescent was always 
open to faculty and students. Through our extensive work together he 
and I grew into a father-son relationship. 

On one of our visits to the DeFehr home Nettie shared her concern 
for our boys’ safety because of the heavy traffic on Henderson Highway. 
A few weeks later C. A. DeFehr stopped by and invited Nettie to accom- 
pany him to look at a house on Noble Avenue, a quiet area of towering 
Elm trees closer to the college. “Would this home be suitable?” he asked. A 
few days later he stopped by again to tell us the house was bought and we 
could move in. He would look after selling the house on Henderson High- 
way. He sold it for $12,000. We had bought it for $8,000. Nettie would 
always claim it was the only time in our long marriage that we ever made a 
profit on anything. 


The Winnipeg Chapter 


133 


In spring of 1946 we moved to Noble Avenue. Our new home had 
four bedrooms and a bath upstairs, a spacious living room, dining room, 
kitchen and a study on the main floor. A beautiful winding stairway led 
from the entrance to the second floor. The full basement was a delight for 
our two boys. 

C. A. DeFehr remained a close friend to our family, even though he 
was one of those who could not understand why we would leave the col- 
lege after only three years. I could not share with him the real reason why 
we made the decision to move on. 

When the new dormitory was dedicated in late fall of 1946, the name 
Ebenezer — ’’Hitherto the Lord has helped us,” — applied not only to the 
building but also to the initial years of the college. In no way could I take 
credit for the rapid development of the institution in program, facilities, 
constituency support and credibility attained in the academic community. 
It was the Lord’s doing, and marvelous before our eyes. 

Faculty and Curriculum, 1945-1948 

The response to the opportunity of a college in Canada was over- 
whelming. In the fall of 1945 we had seventy-five day-time students and 
twenty-three evening students and thirty-eight Sunday school teachers who 
took advantage of special courses in Christian education. 

The faculty for the second year, A. H. Unruh, H. H. Janzen, Jacob H. 
Quiring, Rueben Baerg and I, were ill-prepared for the assignment. This 
becomes increasingly apparent to me in retrospect as I reviewed the offer- 
ings in the catalogue of these years. The two senior members of the fac- 
ulty, Unruh and Janzen, lacked academic credentials but were especially 
gifted in Bible exposition and were known throughout the Mennonite Breth- 
ren conference and beyond for their great preaching. The other faculty 
members, though academically better prepared, had to accept assignments 
far beyond their expertise. Overall, however, we managed to fulfill the 
objective of the college as stated in the more fully developed 1946-47 cata- 
log: 

The Mennonite Brethren Bible College seeks to provide an 
opportunity for earnest young men and women to prepare 
adequately for the high calling of Christian service as ministers, 
teachers, missionaries and workers in other fields of Christian 
work. The institution, even though a school of the Mennonite 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


Brethren Conference, recognizes the unity of all true believers 
and therefore offers its service and opportunities to men and 
women of all other evangelical denominations in our Canadian 
land and the northern areas of the U.S.A. 

The personalities and the giftedness of A. H. Unruh and H. H. Janzen 
gave the college the necessary visibility and trust from the very beginning. 
In character and personality both men outranked many of the choicest 
academicians. Their annual Bible conferences held in the last days of De- 
cember attracted hundreds of ministers, teachers, church workers and oth- 
ers who valued good Bible expositions. They were a special gift to the 
church, and played a key role in the development of the College. 

A. H. Unruh, then in his late sixties, did not show his age in the class- 
room. His strongest contribution was in the exegetical study of the New 
Testament. He was a scholar who emerged, not from institutional aca- 
demics, but as a product of prolonged immersion in Scripture, wide read- 
ing of German theologians like Adolf Schlatter, and a broad historical 
outlook. In debate he could easily hold his own against any of his aca- 
demically trained counterparts. A. H. Unruh was a theologian par excel- 
lence and a very popular pulpiteer. 

Unruh was a man of broad scholarship, deep piety, and sincerity 
embodied in a cheerful and engaging personality. His classes were never 
dull. He made the Bible come alive through stories and experiences from 
real life situations. In hours of relaxation he would be the entertainer of 
the gathering. In our faculty meetings he would spice the deliberations 
with humorous anecdotes that often derailed us from the agenda. At one 
such meetings, where he told story after story, keeping the faculty in con- 
tinuous laughter, I finally had to ask that he preserve his humor for a planned 
social gathering at our home, and for the hour concentrate on the agenda. 

H. H. Janzen, though less of a scholar, had strong gifts of exposition 
and was a forceful preacher. He was with us only one of the three years of 
my tenure. 

Two other key faculty members, Jacob Quiring and Rueben Baerg, 
both young and growing into their ministries, were an effective stabilizing 
force for us. Together the faculty was a marvelous provision for the Men- 
nonite Brethren in that era of history. 

We all worked together to develop a coherent curriculum that would 
accomplish the aims of the college. The departments of Old and New 


The Winnipeg Chapter 


135 


Testament studies were divided among the existing faculty. My part in the 
instructional program was the department of theology. With limited re- 
sources and a library of just a few hundred books, I had to rely on the 
methods I had used at the Bible school in Hepburn. It took all my ingenu- 
ity to scratch together whatever Anabaptist and other materials I could 
find. These included a book by Collin Cline, my former professor at West- 
ern, as well as Osterzee, Kohler, Mullins and Strong. The courses were 
basically biblical theology with the Scriptures as the main source. 

The music department was a strong feature of the college right from 
the beginning and has remained so to this day. It was a product of the 
vision of Ben and Esther Horch, whose musical influence has been influ- 
ential throughout the entire Mennonite Brethren conference. I found my- 
self troubled by the immediate popularity of musical interest. Ben and 
Esther were so successful that I feared music might detract from the bibli- 
cal and theological core. 

Troubling Undercurrents 

While the college was greeted with a large measure of acceptance 
and success, there were nonetheless troubling undercurrents that cast doubt 
on whether my tenure should be long-term. 

The college board was dominated by Canadian Conference leaders 
who had shown great vision in bringing the new institution into being 
even before the constituency was ready. They quickly demonstrated a 
desire for strict control, however, as well as some isolationist tendencies 
that I knew would make our journey together difficult. At the first board 
meeting in the fall of 1945 they already made clear to me that they had a 
rather fixed understanding of how the college should be run. I found 
several features of their understanding distasteful. 

For one, they indicated a desire to be sharply separate from other 
Mennonite groups. There was no interest in entering into discussion with 
the General Conference Mennonites who were also moving to establish a 
college. I was also concerned about an apparent desire to remain cultur- 
ally isolated. German, I was told, should be the language of the college, 
with a minimum of instruction in English. Then there was the matter of 
stringent rules to govern the social life of the student body. After my years 
of exposure at schools in the south, I chafed under the “straightjacket” 
model for a college with mature students. 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


With all the affirmation and encouragement that came from constitu- 
ents as they saw the rapid development of the college, I could not recon- 
cile myself to the narrow vision of the board to whom I was responsible. 
They demanded a full report on the language question at every board 
meeting: How many chapel services were conducted in English and how 
many in German? Classes were scrutinized as to the language used in in- 
struction. In the second year the chairman of the board expressed his deep 
gratitude for the strong progress of the college and ended with the words: 
“You have been given to us as the brother who will save the Mennonite 
Brethren Conference from Verenglishen (anglicization).” I continued to 
work hard but began to question whether it was my assignment to wear 
myself out in a culture struggle that I saw as fruitless. 

In February 1947 I participated in a Bible conference at Pacific Bible 
Institute in Fresno, established three years earlier. Following the confer- 
ence, I ministered briefly in the Reedley Mennonite Brethren Church. Sev- 
eral people from the leadership approached me as to whether I would 
consider coming to the West Coast. With the impending retirement of 
George B. Huebert, they were looking for a replacement. 

Only a few months later the Reedley church found itself in a severe 
crisis. They had called H. G. Wiens, who had just completed his doctor of 
theology degree in Fort Worth, Texas, as an associate to G. B. Huebert. 
With the advancing years of Brother Huebert, Wiens surrounded himself 
with a group of people who wanted a change. The subsequent struggle 
very quickly divided the church. Through its strong lay leadership, the 
church demanded the resignations of both Huebert and Wiens. But the 
loyalties were sharply divided. One group had been committed to G. B. 
Huebert, another to H. G. Wiens. A third group was deeply affected by 
Pentecostalism. 

One year later, in January 1948, I received a telephone call from 
Reedley, again inquiring if we would consider the pastorate of the church. 
A letter followed. For a number of days the letter stayed on my desk in the 
office. I recalled so well Nettie’s statement when we were in California for 
the 1939 Pacific District Conference in Dinuba, “I am so glad that we will 
never need to live in California.” 

Given my uncertainty over leading a college that would increasingly 
be the focal point of the conference’s cultural struggles, I was open to 
considering a change. The college itself was well established and had 


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137 


gained acceptance at the grass roots of the conference. The faculty was 
solid and, for the 1940s, well qualified. The relationship with the Bible 
schools had been resolved, and the future course seemed set. Inwardly I 
was asking myself whether my task was done. After much prayer I felt free 
to share the letter with Nettie. On a Friday evening I took it home and 
handed it to her without comment. 

Late that evening while I was working on a sermon Nettie came from 
behind, placed the letter before me on the desk, and said, “If you want to 
go to Reedley then go, but do not ask me to go there.” I didn’t respond. 
Inwardly I had reached an openness to accept the invitation on the condi- 
tion that Nettie agreed. 

Several days went by. Neither one of us mentioned the Reedley let- 
ter. On Wednesday evening, after the boys had been put to bed, Nettie 
came into my study, bent over from the back, put her arms around me and 
said, “I have promised to never stand in the way when God would call you 
to a ministry. If you feel inwardly led to consider the Reedley invitation, I 
will go with you.” 

We now had the basis to pray together for the Lord’s leading. Nettie 
was expecting our third child, and a move at this time would be difficult. I 
also wondered if my leaving the college would injure the cause. 

By the March board meeting we had reached a decision, and I handed 
in my resignation. For several weeks the board was not ready to accept 
the resignation. Leading brethren from the conference pleaded with us to 
reconsider, but we felt our decision was the right one. 

Our furniture, including the piano, was crated and shipped by train 
to California. Grace Unruh, Nettie’s sister, had taken a sabbatical from her 
school and was able to assist in the transition. The time of the move for the 
family was critical. Not only was Nettie expecting, but she was also forty- 
five years old. Would her advanced age and the move affect the develop- 
ment of the child? We found the departure difficult and depressing. 

On June 29 we left Winnipeg by car, heading west. We stopped in 
Coaldale to visit the family before going on to California. Aunt Grace was a 
great help to us in a time of the move. She shared the back seat of the car 
with John, ten, and Paul seven. Nettie, facing the last two months of her 
pregnancy, appreciated the reclining seat in front. 

For me the journey was a time of inner turmoil. Although we had 
made a clear decision after much prayer and thought, I now found myself 
haunted by second thoughts. The outpouring of appreciation and affec- 


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tion from friends and colleagues on our departure from Winnipeg, as well 
as their frequent skepticism as to whether our leaving was really of God, 
followed me over the endless miles. 

Over and over again I replayed the questions. Why had we left just 
when the college had begun to hit its stride? Why would we want to give 
that up to accept the pastorate of a large church that was reeling from a 
painful split? My doubts reached the point of crisis. I realized I was not 
ready to assume my new position while still tormented by this uncertainty. 

We reached Fresno on July 4. I rented three rooms in the California 
Hotel, one for Nettie and the boys, one for our sister Grace and one for me 
to be alone and seek the Lord’s face. 

I struggled for two days and two nights. Nettie, very much concerned, 
struggled with me. Those days in the hotel in the summer of 1948 became 
for us a crisis like that of Jacob when he wrestled with God: “And Jacob 
called the name of the place Peniel: for I have seen God face to face and 
my life is preserved” (Gen. 32:24-32). 

Finally, early in the morning I found victory as I humbled myself be- 
fore God and declared my uncertainty: “Have I made a wrong decision 
which may lead to a Waterloo, a defeat in my ministry? If so, I will accept 
it. I will confess my error publicly and accept the consequences.” In my 
distress I asked for God’s mercy in case I had not understood him. If, 
however, the decision was in keeping with his will, I asked for a threefold 
confirmation: 1. A healthy baby. I asked that the child, due in less than 
two months, would be normal and healthy, not affected by Nettie’s ad- 
vanced age nor the stress of moving while she was in this condition. 2. A 
healthy college. At the informal farewell at the college one faculty member 
said to me in an accusing tone: “If our enrollment next fall is way down, 
you shall know that you are responsible.” For a second confirmation that 
I had understood the Lord correctly was that the enrollment at the college 
would be equal or beyond the last year of my leadership. 3- A healed 
church. The disunity in the Reedley church was grave. The strained rela- 
tionship of G. B. Huebert and H. G. Wiens and their respective supporters 
had defied every effort at reconciliation. Could the impossible become 
possible? My third request for confirmation was that within the first year of 
my ministry we would witness the reconciliation of the two men and the 
restoration of the unity of the church. 


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Nettie and I committed ourselves again to God, asking that he reveal 
himself to us while we would continue to wait upon him. On July 7, in the 
morning, we called the church in Reedley to say we were in Fresno and 
would arrive by noon. Deep peace had come to our hearts. 


CHAPTER 15 


Back to the Pastorate 


W e settled into a rented house on Reed Avenue. In anticipation of 
our coming the church had begun plans to build a parsonage. 
With our furniture (as well as my small library) still on the way 
from Winnipeg to Fresno, kind people of the church had set up whatever 
we needed to get settled. 

July 9 was my first day in the church office. I planned to spend my 
first hours praying and preparing for the installation message on Sunday, 
July 11. But first thing in the morning I received a message from Esther 
Enns, the church secretary, that a Mrs. Klassen had called and requested a 
visit. I instructed Miss Enns to phone Mrs. Klassen and explain that we had 
just arrived and perhaps my visit with her could wait. That afternoon Mrs. 
Klassen called again. Her message was urgent: “I must see the new pastor 
today.” 

Thinking her need must be critical, I set out to find her home. With 
the help of a map drawn by Miss Enns I finally located her small house, 
isolated in the middle of a vineyard. I knocked at the door, but no one 
answered. I knocked again and again. Mrs. Klassen was an old widow 
who lived alone. She was also quite deaf. Upon repeated knocking she 
finally appeared at the door. 

“Are you the new pastor?” she asked. She set a hearing horn to her 
ear and I had to speak quite loudly into it for her to hear. “Are you a 
college president?” was her second question. I said yes, I had come to 
Reedley from a college in Winnipeg. She stared at me for a while. Then 
she said, “The Reedley Exponent [the local newspaper] has an article about 
you, telling how great a man you are. It also says you came from Russia. 
Where in Russia were you born?” I replied that I had been born in the 
Molotschna Colony, in the village of Alexandertal. “Was your father a 
teacher?” she asked. Again I replied in the affirmative, always speaking 
directly into the hearing horn which she held to her right ear. “Was your 
mother’s name Margaretha Janz?” Again I replied, “Yes that is correct.” 
She was quiet for a long time. I was beginning to wonder what was 
so urgent to draw me here on my first day. Finally she broke the silence. 


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“Then you really are not a great man like the Exponent says. You are only 
the son of Miller Janz’s Margaretha. I served as a maid in the Janz’s house. 

I know your mother, Miller Benjamin Janz’s Margaretha’s son. Now I know 
from where you come. You have nothing to brag about. You are not a big 
man. You are Miller Janz’s Margaretha’s boy.” 

For a moment I was stunned. Did I have to come here, my first house 
call in Reedley, to have this elderly lady tell me who I really was? 

I drove back to the office. I could not continue my sermon prepara- 
tion. You are not a big man: you are only Margaretha Janz’s boy. That 
message stuck. It has followed me through the years of my ministry, not 
only in Reedley but through life. It was a good reminder that by the grace 
of God I am who I am. Any identity I had was through God’s mercy. The 
introduction to Reedley through God’s messenger, an old widow with poor 
hearing, was significant then, and continues to be. 

Tension from the Start 

My installation message was based on 1 Corinthians 2:1-8: “And I 
brethren, when I came to you, came not with excellency of speech or 
wisdom, declaring unto you the testimony of God. For I determined not to 
know anything among you, except Jesus Christ, and him crucified.” The 
text was appropriate, for the disunity in Reedley was so similar to the 
Corinthian church. The solution there, too, was no different than what we 
needed in Reedley. 

The various “camps” in the church wasted no time making their con- 
cerns known to me. At the end of the service I greeted people at the door. 
Because of her condition, Nettie preferred not to stand with me in line. 
When all the people had passed, one man came by alone, stopped, peered 
into my eyes and said, “You will not be my pastor except you exonerate G. 
B. Huebert.” Within the first week two other men from the church ap- 
proached me to demand the exoneration of H. G. Wiens. Then a delega- 
tion of three came to me to ask about my position on the gifts of the Spirit, 
speaking in tongues, prophecy and healing. The lines had been drawn. 

G. B. Fluebert, the pastor for fourteen years, was a man of God. By 
profession he was a banker, a manager with the Bank of America, a suc- 
cessful man in the community. God had laid his hand on him and called 
him into the ministry. As a student of Dr. R. A. Torrey at the Bible Institute 
of Los Angeles he had been strongly influenced by fundamentalism. The 


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secret to his effective ministry, however, was that he was a man of prayer 
and a student of Scripture. He was well known on the wider evangelical 
scene. Before accepting the pastorate of Reedley, his own home church, 
he had travelled extensively as a tent evangelist. 

Huebert came to Reedley at a crucial point in the church’s history. 
His ministry led first to reconciliation with the church in Dinuba, which 
had separated from the Reedley church in 1925 in protest of the inroads of 
charismatic Pentecostalism. Under Huebert’s leadership the church grew 
from a membership of 450 to 1,200 in 1948. Through my earlier ministries 
in Reedley in 1946 and 1947 G. B. Huebert had become a friend and spiri- 
tual mentor. 

H. G. Wiens was also well known to me. He had been a member of 
the faculty at Bethany Bible Institute for two years. I had an open door to 
both of these men who were now in conflict with each other. This per- 
sonal relationship proved to be a great benefit during my initial months in 
Reedley. I sought opportunities for their fellowship whenever I could. 

Our Third Son Arrives 

On August 24, 1948, only six weeks after our arrival in Reedley, our 
third son, James, was born. God had given us a normal, healthy child. We 
united in prayers of thanksgiving. Nettie’s age and the stress of our move 
from Winnipeg had not adversely affected our newborn baby. We had 
received the first confirmation that we had understood the Lord in coming 
to Reedley. 

That same day, August 24, while Nettie remained in the hospital, I left 
for the Mennonite Brethren General Conference in Mountain Lake, Minne- 
sota. Aunt Grace was a special blessing during this time. She assumed 
responsibility for the boys at home, looked after Nettie in the hospital, and 
cared for both mother and newborn when they were discharged. Grace 
was an angel of God to our family on so many occasions through the years 
of our ministry. Not only did she frequently give of her time to our family, 
but she was also a strong financial support in my worldwide assignments 
in later years. 

The 1948 Conference 

The delegation from California had reserved a special railroad car to 
travel to Mountain Lake. The fellowship on the train was good. There was 


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singing, visiting and two Bible study sessions per day, one in the morning 
and one in the evening for the trip there and back. My assignment was to 
provide an exposition of Paul’s letter to the Philippians. With us on the 
train was the veteran missionary from India, John H. Pankratz. It was his 
last involvement in the Mennonite Brethren Conference before his 
homegoing just a few years later. 

At the previous conference in 1945 1 had been elected to the Commit- 
tee of Reference and Counsel. Now in 1948 1 also became a member of the 
Board of Missions. For the next fifteen years I was privileged to work with 
both of these committees. 

Two decisions of historical significance were reached at the 1948 
General Conference. First, a delegation from South America, representing 
Uruguay, Paraguay and Brazil, had come to North America to apply for 
membership in the General Conference of Mennonite Brethren. The posi- 
tive response of the North American body made them a district of the larger 
conference. 

The second major decision was the overture of Mennonite Central 
Committee to the Mennonite Brethren to accept the responsibility for the 
postwar relief program in Japan with the intent to make it a stepping stone 
toward a church-planting mission. The 1948 conference thus marked the 
beginning of the most effective church-planting program of the Mennonite 
Brethren in the post- World War II period, the church in Japan. 

The proximity of Mountain Lake to the Freeman-Marion area of South 
Dakota gave me my last opportunity to visit Mother Unruh. She had moved 
back to South Dakota from Buhler, Kansas, so she could be close to Martha 
Ratzlaff, her oldest daughter, and her two sons, August and Isaac Unruh. 

On Saturday evening, after the last session, Erwin Adrian from Buhler 
offered to drive me to Marion, a three-hour trip. I spent Sunday morning, 
September 2, with Mother Unruh, whose health had deteriorated and was 
being cared for at the Thiessen Home for the Aged. It was an unforget- 
table morning! We visited together. I reported the birth of our son James 
and told her about our entrance into the ministry in Reedley. We con- 
cluded the visit with a brief study of 1 Peter 1:3-9, meditating on the blessed 
hope that awaited us in our heavenly inheritance. 

Less than two months later Mother Unruh entered that inheritance. 
Nettie, in her motherly concern for baby James, not yet three months old, 
chose not to make the long trip to South Dakota to escort her mother to 
her last resting place. 


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Shepherding the Flock 

I returned from the 1948 General Conference very conscious of the 
challenging task before us in the Reedley church. In order to have a fruit- 
ful ministry, a way had to be found to respond to the two camps demand- 
ing exoneration of their respective former pastors, as well as to those who 
leaned in a charismatic direction. 

Days of fasting and prayer followed my return. In total helplessness 
I came to the realization that only the power of the Word could remove the 
hindrances. With the consent of the executive of the church council, Wil- 
liam Wiebe, H. R. Wiens and Peter Funk, I made it a point to go about my 
ministry without referring to the problems in the church. I experienced 
great liberty in preaching the Word and teaching in the midweek services. 

Two aspects became central to our ministry in Reedley. First, the Lord 
led me to systematic expository preaching. The Gospel of John, Ephesians 
and portions from the Synoptic Gospels provided the subject matter for 
the fall and winter months. In summer I presented a series of character 
studies from the Old and New Testaments. God honored the exposition 
of the Word. 

The second aspect of our ministry was visitation. As was the case in 
Buhler I needed to know the people in order to minister to them. In the 
first years I made several hundred house visits. I visited the older people 
during the day and the professional and business people in the evenings. 
Frequently I would go to homes for supper. I ate very little. The word 
spread that the pastor did not like fancy and heavy meals. I came not for 
the sake of the meal but to know the people. Nettie would go with me on 
Tuesdays and Thursdays, while a baby-sitter looked after baby James and 
met the boys when they came home from school. 

We felt accepted from the very beginning. People were open. They 
loved us and trusted us. A factor that may have helped in this regard was 
the neutrality with which we could move among them. We were not allied 
with any particular faction or groups of friends. 

My January 1949 pastoral report to the church stated my position on 
special favors or gifts from individuals or groups of people, a lesson I had 
learned in Buhler. For example, all income in the form of honorariums 
from ministries in other churches or in conferences, above the provisions 
made by the church for our well-being, was to be turned over to the Board 
of Trustees for the church budget. Throughout our ministry we found that 


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living modestly and receiving only enough to cover necessities tended to 
bolster people’s confidence in us. This policy was not without struggles. 
But overall the discipline of serving not for salary but rather as a service to 
the Lord and to people has brought our family great rewards of a different 
kind. 

During our visits with the former pastors I left it to them to refer to 
their spiritual hurts and the unresolved tension in the church. All three 
members of the executive were also their close friends and maintained 
their relationship with them. 

Inner healing began to occur during the fall months. It was clearly a 
moving of the Spirit from within. Frequently, after the worship services on 
Sunday morning, small groups of brothers and sisters would meet in the 
basement for cleansing, reconciliation and restoration of relationships. 

God gave me the liberty at the end of November to meet with the 
former pastors individually and broach the topic of reconciliation. God 
gave the church that liberation on December 6, 1948. Huebert and Wiens 
both appeared before the congregation and announced their mutual for- 
giveness and reconciliation. The past was brought under the forgiving 
grace and mercy of the cross. Here was the second confirmation I had 
sought from God. The third confirmation was not long in coming. We 
had been awaiting information about the college in Winnipeg. Was it go- 
ing well, as we had prayed? We received a Christmas card with brief words 
of greeting from John A. Toews, a member of the faculty in Winnipeg. A 
brief footnote at the bottom of the card said, “Our enrollment for this year 
is 131.” That was one student more than the previous year. 

Christmas 1948 was special for us. Both Nettie and James were healthy; 
the church was experiencing renewal; the former pastors had found grace 
in forgiveness and reconciliation; and the enrollment in Winnipeg had not 
declined because of our leaving. It was clear to us that we had understood 
the Lord in coming to Reedley. We were in the place he wanted us. 

It was not until the next spring that we discovered one of the secrets 
underlying the workings of the Spirit of God in the Reedley church. One 
Saturday evening I needed to make an unannounced visit to one of our 
deacons. I drove to his home, located in the midst of a large vineyard, and 
was surprised to see a number of cars parked on the yard. My first reaction 
was: “What, a party in a deacon’s home on Saturday evening?” I paused in 
my car, wondering if I should leave without pursuing the purpose of my 
coming. I decided to follow through and proceeded to knock on the door. 


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Mary Leppke, the deacon’s wife, answered the door. “Brother Toews,” 
she said with a tone of surprise. After a brief hesitation she invited me to 
step inside. In the midst of the spiritual struggle of the church over the 
past two years, a group of four couples had banded together to urge God’s 
intervention on behalf of the church. They had promised to make the 
intercession for the church a daily responsibility, and to set aside each 
Saturday to fast and then meet in the evening for united prayer. The focus 
of their intercession was threefold: (1) the unification of the church; (2) 
the reconciliation of the former pastors; (3) the provision of a pastor who 
would preach the Word strongly and who had compassion and love for 
the people of the church. “We did not want you to know about these 
prayer meetings,” said one of the women. “It was a commitment between 
us and God.” 

The secret of God’s leading of the past year was clear. The commit- 
ted prayer of the group was an important part of the answer to the events 
of the past months. Our struggle to leave the college in Winnipeg, our 
coming to Reedley and the moving of God’s Spirit in the events toward 
liberation of the church could not be separated from the intercessory group 
I met that evening. 

A Highlight of Ministry 

Soon after our arrival the church had decided to build a parsonage 
only a few blocks from the church. It was dedicated on February 20, 1949- 
With three spacious bedrooms, kitchen, dining room, a spacious living 
room and a study, the new parsonage was a very gracious provision for 
our growing family. 

We entered into a period of rich and stable ministry. The years 1948 
to 1953 could be described as the highlight of my sixty years of public 
ministry. The most appropriate thing to be said about this period is, “This 
is the Lord’s doing” (Ps. 118.23. 

The core of the church had retained its spiritual vitality through the 
difficult years of tensions and disunity. On November 3, 1948 the church 
baptized thirty-one people who testified of having found salvation through 
faith in Christ. Other baptisms followed in the years 1949 through 1954. A 
special phenomenon that may account for the blessings of God upon the 
Reedley church in those years was the church’s continuous concern for 
sanctification. At numerous meetings there were public confessions as 


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people grieved over inconsistencies in their lives and asked the church for 
forgiveness for having harmed the testimony of the church. 

From 1949 to 1953 the church ordained seven missionaries and sent 
them to foreign assignments. The ranks of the church workers were 
strengthened in the selection of more deacons. Ongoing attention was paid 
to the calling out of new workers from the congregation. The entire mu- 
sic, Sunday school and youth programs were staffed by volunteers. 

On May 21, 1950, Henry R. Wiens, the principal of Immanuel Acad- 
emy, was called as a full-time associate to the pastor. His leadership and 
ministry had been crucial in the previous times of trouble. The value of his 
contribution to the restoration of the church cannot be overestimated. His 
major strength was in relationships. Because he had the spirit of a true and 
loving shepherd, people extended him an unusual degree of confidence. 
He was a man of prayer, an intercessor for the people. He and I were quite 
different in character and temperament, but we worked very well together. 
In fact, as I reflect on our ministry together I consider H. R. Wiens to have 
been the real pastor of the church; I merely carried out the preaching min- 
istry. 

Other members of the church council executive were also vital sup- 
porters in the Reedley ministry. William Wiebe, a raisin farmer, was a man 
of wisdom and leadership ability who knew his people and had earned 
their confidence. He was a counselor to many people, young and old. He 
was one of the group that established Hartland Camp in the Sierra Nevada 
mountains. The cause of the church always took precedence over his own 
plans and aspirations. His wife, a school teacher, shared his commitment. 
With no children of their own, the church became their family. 

I need to also mention Luther Linda and Peter Funk as members of 
the core leadership of the church. Luther, a pilot and a fruit rancher, could 
always be counted on. The cause of the church always took precedence 
over his own interests. He chaired the building committee from 1949 to 
1952 when the new building was erected. His own stewardship motivated 
others to help support this project. 

Peter Funk, an insurance broker, was a sparkling supporter of the 
church. As a member of the Navigators he made it a point to memorize 
Scripture and to disciple other young men. His freedom in witnessing to 
people in the community was irresistible. He and his wife, Martha, and 
their two children maintained a home that had a magnetic attraction to 
both friends and strangers. 


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Dozens of others provided the context in which the church pros- 
pered. There was Sam Knaak, who gave two years of time and talent to 
build the sanctuary; the deacons, Abe Leppkes and John Brauns, both fruit 
farmers; and Ernie Enns, a banker who gave his time for the music depart- 
ment as leader of the large church choir and the male choais. August 
Schroeter was the parliamentarian of the church and conference. Ben and 
Anna Marie Nachtigal, business people struggling for economic survival, 
had room in their hearts for everybody. John Enns, a pilot of a small plane 
who operated an automobile repair shop, chaired the board of trustees. 
Henry R. Martens, a car dealer, was always concerned for the church. His 
wife Lydia, served as the soul of the Ladies’ Missionary Circle and the leader 
in the conference women’s organization. The Otto Reimers, a deacon 
couple, could always be counted on. 

There were many more who carried the church in love and devotion. 
In the midst of joy and appreciation for such a fellowship one is inclined to 
forget the sad experiences when some members strayed from the narrow 
pathway of following Jesus. In those cases there were tears and sorrow as 
people were disciplined and even excommunicated. The pain of such 
occasions was shared by many people and often resulted in restoration of 
the lost sheep to the fold. 

Congregational records show that the church had already begun to 
feel crowded in 1946. Thanks to the growth of renewal, this became a 
pressing concern in 1949- On several occasions there had been talk of 
remodelling the existing sanctuary to provide more room. Another op- 
tion, considered at the congregational meeting of January 31, 1949, was to 
establish a second church of four hundred to five hundred members. I 
personally supported this solution, but the general response was weak. 
The church wanted to stay together. 

On February 20, 1949 it was decided to build a new sanctuary with 
seating for two thousand. Of special note was the insistence that this project 
not erode existing budget commitments to the mission program of the lo- 
cal church and conference. As it turned out, construction would be inter- 
rupted twice over the next two years when our mission obligations fell 
short. As the largest Mennonite Brethren congregation, we needed to give 
priority to our obligations to the conference mission program. 

A unique feature of the financing plan was its inclusion of all house- 
holds in the church. The original cost estimate of $323,595 was appor- 
tioned among all members, each to give according to their means. 


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Sam Knaak devoted two years to serve as construction foreman. 
Whatever work could be done by laypeople was handled by volunteers 
from the church. This involvement in a common cause strengthened our 
sense of unity and commitment. The small minority who did not partici- 
pate for various personal reasons did not dampen the enthusiasm of the 
others. 

The new church was dedicated on May 4, 1952. The cost, somewhat 
beyond the original estimate, was $423,000, of which $72,000 was bor- 
rowed. The volunteer labor, not included in the cost, was estimated at 
$29,665. On October 6, 1952 another $17,315 was committed, leaving an 
indebtedness of $56,432. 

Two passages of Scripture served as the basis for the dedication mes- 
sage: 2 Chronicles 2:4, “Behold, I build a house to the name of the Lord my 
God, to dedicate it to him,” and Psalm 26:7-8, “That I may publish with the 
voice of thanksgiving, and tell of all thy wondrous works. Lord, I have 
loved the habitation of thy house, and the place where thine honor 
dwelleth.” 

This was a great day in the history of the Reedley Mennonite Breth- 
ren Church. A spirit of thanksgiving and praise rang through the hearts of 
the people. “The Lord hath done great things for us, whereof we are glad” 
(Ps. 126:3). For Nettie and me this day was an Ebenezer: “Hitherto the 
Lord has helped us.” That evening, after our boys had retired, we reviewed 
the leading of God in our life and ministry since coming to Reedley nearly 
four years earlier. What we had experienced was “more than we could ask 
or think.” The day concluded with a prayer of new dedication to God who 
had been so gracious, longsuffering and kind to us. 

Wrestling Against Principalities and Powers 

Our ministry in Reedley taught us how the sufficiency of God can 
triumph over human frailties when people take responsibility for their ac- 
tions and humble themselves before him. 

The reconciliation of the two pastors followed deep self-searching 
on the part of the church. A statement of confession and repentance on 
the part of the church was presented. The statement spoke to the charac- 
ter of the church as a body, which shares in or may even be the cause of 
sin in their midst. The body humbled itself before the Lord, asking for 
forgiveness where its failures had created a climate that made the leader- 


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ship struggle possible. The statement of confession filed in the council 
minutes of November 29, 1948 became the basis for the subsequent recon- 
ciliation in December 1948. 

A major lesson for me was the realization that the church shares the 
responsibility for the sin and relationships within the body. That Decem- 
ber meeting marked not only the confession of two men, but also a time of 
restoration for the entire church. Among the darker moments at 
Reedley were having to deal with members’ moral failings. We experi- 
enced both defeats and restoration in this area. On some painful occa- 
sions the church body had to excommunicate members because of sin or 
wrong relationships. 

The Korean War from 1950 to 1953 also created problems in the local 
church. A number of our young men accepted the draft into the regular 
army, both in noncombatant and combatant classifications, rather than 
choosing alternative service. The teaching of our Mennonite Brethren 
position of biblical nonresistance had been neglected. For me, as pastor, 
this became very painful. 

Because of our size the Reedley church was a major force in the larger 
community. This became clear in our deep involvement in school issue. 
Immanuel Academy — now Immanuel High School — operated by the 
Reedley, Dinuba and Zion churches, was a point of tension. We as a church 
were a large voting block. To wield power in the community as a body 
that operated its own school carried many implications, especially when 
the vote of the church put one of our members into the position as school 
superintendent. I wept when we as a church failed to be salt and a light 
within the community. 

An Expanding Ministry 

Requests for my involvement in external ministries, both in the Men- 
nonite Brethren Conference and beyond, grew during this time. The fourth 
Mennonite World Conference took place in Newton, Kansas, August 3-10, 
1948. I declined participation because of our recent transition from 
Winnipeg to Reedley. My absence did not prevent my appointment to the 
World Conference Presidium. The assignment necessitated several meet- 
ings in the interim, 1948 to 1952. The fifth Mennonite World Conference 
convened in Basel, Switzerland, August 10-15, 1952. The theme for that 


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conference was “The Church of Jesus Christ and Its Mandate.” I was asked 
to bring a message titled “The Church — A Living Faith.” 

My membership on the Board of Missions from 1948 onward required 
my attendance at two meetings per year. As secretary of the board I was 
also responsible for correspondence. Since the 1945 General Conference 
in Dinuba I also served on the Board of Reference and Council, requiring 
an additional two meetings per year. 

I also kept up my involvement in various Bible conferences, which 
occupied several more weeks. The Reedley church showed great under- 
standing for the importance of these services, even though they took me 
away from the duties of the church, especially in the visitation program. 

A Taste of Africa 

In 1952, as a member of the Mennonite Brethren Board of Missions I 
was asked to visit the Belgian Congo (now Zaire), the fastest-growing area 
of our ministry abroad. The Mennonite World Conference, meanwhile, 
would be in Switzerland. This leg of the trip grew in scope as an extension 
was planned for some of us to also visit the Middle East and examine the 
broader implications arising after the Second World War. The Reedley 
church accommodated these demands, permitting my absence for several 
months that summer. This was made possible by the pastoral strength of 
H. R. Wiens, who ably took over my duties. 

We made special family arrangements to lighten the load on Nettie 
during my prolonged absence. John, then fifteen, was sent to our farm in 
Saskatchewan. The previous year we had built a new house on the farm, 
then occupied by the Toby Schmidt family. We felt that working on a farm 
with cattle and a large pasture would provide plenty of interesting work 
for a teenager. We built the house in the hope that one of our sons might 
eventually become a farmer. 

Paul, eleven, was “adopted” for the summer by a kind family in our 
church, the W. W. Wiests. They would bring him home each Saturday 
evening and call for him again on Sunday evening. 

Nettie, with four-year-old James, remained in the Reedley parsonage 
and maintained weekly communication with the other boys. The summer 
of 1952 was our introduction to a new way of life that would become a 
pattern for us: Nettie and the boys spending weeks and months alone while 


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I gave time and energy to wider ministries. Not everyone would always 
agree with my choice of kingdom priorities. 

Only two weeks after the May dedication of the new church Sanctu- 
ary I left for six weeks to our Congo mission field, followed by a visit to 
other missions on the vast African continent. 

The Africa work, begun by Aaron A. Janzen as an independent faith 
program in 1914, had been accepted as a conference responsibility at the 
Buhler conference in 1943- A missions official had visited the work in 
1949 to check on its status but since then the program had mushroomed to 
thirty-two missionaries. Some significant issues demanded attention. 

The work of the Africa Mission Society was located in the Kassai Prov- 
ince, in the northern part of the Congo. The larger field was in central and 
southern Congo. Distance and different languages made it impossible to 
rotate missionaries between the two fields, affecting the total ministry of 
evangelism, education and social services, including the health program. 
A second difficulty on the field was the development of a program of edu- 
cation that would be recognized by the Belgian government and qualify 
for government subsidy. The missionaries themselves were seriously di- 
vided about how to proceed on this question. A third issue concerned the 
establishment of a missionary children’s school in cooperation with the 
Congo Inland Mission. 

There were no principals and policies to govern the expanding pro- 
gram. Relational tensions arose that hindered the work of the Holy Spirit. 
The report to the Board of Missions for the October 1952 meeting contains 
the details of our negotiations and the directives that were set for the fu- 
ture. 

That trip, however, had further implications that would affect our entire 
future ministry. Missionary A. A. Janzen, who had pioneered the work in 
the Congo since 1914, was anxious for me to gain a broad exposure to 
local conditions. He wanted me to travel with him through some of the 
areas that were still without missionaries, schools or medical programs, 
and where witchcraft and superstition still prevailed. With deep emotion 
he related the plight of the elderly who were carried into the jungles far 
from their native village and left to die, their bodies prey for wild beasts. 

We travelled from village to village by jeep, loaded with the neces- 
sary provisions of water and food and accompanied by two natives. Mis- 


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sionary Janzen, then at retirement age, reflected with deep emotion on the 
spiritual condition of these people. 

For the night we camped in a clearing in the jungle, with a small tent 
serving as our bedroom. The natives slept next to the jeep to protect us 
and guard our food and water. I awoke in the middle of one night, and 
realized I was alone. Janzen was not in the tent. I took a flashlight and 
surveyed the strange surroundings. One of the natives noticed my con- 
cern but could not explain where Brother Janzen had gone. 

In the dead silence of the night I heard some groaning off in the 
distance. Probing with the flashlight I crept through the thick of the jungle 
in the direction of the sound. There I found A. A. Janzen kneeling in prayer. 
His burdens so consumed him that he did not notice my approach. I could 
hear his prayer. In deep agony he pleaded for the multitudes who had not 
yet heard the gospel. He mentioned me by name, asking God to place 
upon me the burden for their spiritual condition. He asked that I not find 
rest until I filled the gap that needed leadership. I withdrew quietly. About 
an hour later he returned to the tent, not aware that I had heard some of 
his pleading. Unable to sleep I lay quietly until dawn. 

The natives had prepared us a breakfast of cooked eggs, bread and a 
hot drink. I did not let on to my host that I had overheard his agonized 
intercession, but I was deeply touched by his request that God move me to 
consider the leadership of this work. However, I sought to put the whole 
incident out of my mind. I had been given the great privilege of a ministry 
in Reedley, a challenge that captivated me. In no way was I open to give 
ear to the missionary’s prayer. 

I spent the concluding weeks of July visiting other missions to survey 
their methods of evangelism and study the indigenization of their institu- 
tions, schools and dispensaries. In the Congo I spent some time with the 
Congo Inland Mission, the Baptist Mission and the Catholic missions. My 
visit was extended to French Equatorial Africa. Here a Swedish mission 
had developed an industrial complex operated by the national church with 
only minimal supervision from abroad. 

I made a stopover in Nigeria and travelled extensively to see the work 
of the Sudan Interior Mission which was a leader in building true indig- 
enous churches. The methods of the Africa Inland Mission also gave me 
insights I had not grasped before. 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


My remaining travels to Europe and the Middle East were highly in- 
formative and enriching. In Europe I spent a week with Cornelius Wall, 
who introduced me to the many refugee camps that had sprung up in the 
aftermath of World War II. 

Up to that point my knowledge of the greater worldwide Mennonite 
family had been largely limited to the Dutch Mennonites during our stay in 
the Netherlands from 1926 to 1928. Now, at the world conference, I was 
able to enlarge my acquaintance with other Mennonite branches. I was 
also able to witness the efforts that were made to heal the rifts that had 
been created during the war as Mennonites from various countries had 
been forced to confront each other on opposite sides of the conflict. 

Touring the Middle East with a delegation representing various Men- 
nonite groups was likewise enriching. Getting a firsthand glimpse of Italy, 
Cyprus, Israel, Egypt, Jordan and Greece enlarged my grasp of biblical 
history. Only a few years had elapsed since Israel had become an inde- 
pendent state. The political tension throughout the total Middle East was 
evident everywhere. 

By September 1 we were finally together again as a family. We had 
many experiences to share — John from Hepburn, Saskatchewan, and Paul 
from the Wiest farm. Nettie and James, the keepers of the house, had 
experienced a major earthquake, which Nettie had found very unnerving. 
Little did we realize that this kind of family separation would become in- 
creasingly common. 

A Crisis Decision 

The insights from the summer of 1952 required a time of processing. 
The post-war period had created unlimited opportunities for the expan- 
sion of missions abroad. Two centuries of colonialism had come to an end 
and all the colonies of western Europe were crying for independence. 
Around the world old political structures were being dismantled. India 
gained its independence in 1948, the same year that the nation of Israel 
was born. 

As I pondered the great need I had seen and the urgent prayer I had 
heard in the jungle, I got a clearer picture of what would be needed for the 
Mennonite Brethren Church to remain a faithful steward of the gospel. A 
new era in the history of missions was dawning. The leaders of the Sudan 
Interior Mission in Nigeria and Ethiopia, with whom I had spent much 


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time, had pressed upon me the need to change our mission approach, 
both in relationships and strategies. 

My report to the board in October 1952 urged a review of our mission 
programs in India, Africa and South America. The board acknowledged 
the need for change and decided that if we were to set a new direction we 
would require additional leadership. Abraham E. Janzen, the executive 
secretary, was preoccupied with day-to-day administration of the world- 
wide program, which at the time included Europe, India, Japan, Africa, 
Colombia, Mexico, Brazil and Paraguay. Another administrator was needed 
to look after promotion and overall direction. 

I was not open to this assignment. I felt the right person for the task 
was G. W. Peters, then the president of Pacific Bible Institute in Fresno. He 
taught missions and was well-versed in the changing currents in world 
affairs and their effect upon missions. The question was delayed to the 
spring meeting. When the board met again on April 9-11, 1953 the matter 
of a promotional secretary was high on the agenda. Several candidates 
were considered, among them Orlando Harms, G. W. Peters and J. B. Toews. 
After lengthy deliberations there was a unanimous vote to ask me to as- 
sume the position. 

Inwardly smitten, I returned to Reedley. I was not open to leaving 
the church where we had experienced the working of God in such a mar- 
velous way. I had told the board that I would take their request under 
advisement, but inwardly I was committed to continuing my present min- 
istry. In my view the request was not even realistic. The new position 
would demand continual absences from my family at a time when they 
needed me most. The Reedley church, with its fervent commitment to 
missions and evangelism, was my first love. In my devotional hours over 
the next months the call to missions emerged again and again. Nettie, of 
course, shared the struggle with me. For me to leave Reedley at the time 
would be a sacrifice not unlike that of God asking Abraham for his son, 
Isaac. 

The words of Genesis 22:2 continued to ring in my ears: “Take now 
thy son, thine only son Isaac, whom thou lovest . . . and offer him for a 
burnt offering upon one of the mountains which I will tell you of.” In July 
I shared the struggle with the Reedley church leadership. At first I found 
very little sympathy for my inner conflict. The evidences of God’s bless- 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


ings upon the church ministry were too convincing. How could we con- 
sider interrupting them? 

An additional factor that entered our deliberations was Nettie’s health. 
The fiercely hot summers sapped her energy. She was always tired. It 
appeared that the water cooler was also a culprit. The atmosphere in the 
parsonage was too damp. Modern air-conditioning systems were not yet 
common. 

Finally we made our decision, and on Sunday, August 18, 1 read my 
letter of resignation to the church. Many people in the audience wept. I 
managed to contain my emotions in public but back in the office I broke 
down and wept like a child. Some brethren from the leadership followed 
me into the office and put their arms around me. Standing in a circle, we 
wept together. For me this was akin to the offering of Isaac. 

The date of my departure from the church was set for December 1953, 
in consideration of the boys’ school schedule. John, sixteen, was in high 
school; Paul, thirteen, was in grade eight; James was in kindergarten. 

The farewell Sunday was very difficult for all of us. With a trailer 
behind our eight-cylinder Pontiac we left Reedley early on a Monday morn- 
ing. For the first few hours we were all very quiet. Here and there we 
wiped tears from our eyes. Our attachment to the Reedley congregation 
had been deeper than we realized. 

The three-day journey to Hillsboro, Kansas, was uneventful. A stop- 
over in Buhler, where we had left eight years earlier, brought back some of 
the pain of leaving that pastoral ministry. Looking back now on six de- 
cades of public ministry, I have to say the combined eight years of the 
pastorate in these two communities has remained the highlight. The sense 
of being physically part of a people and serving them in the varied stages 
of life, seeing God working in their lives, providing leadership, ministering 
to their needs in the congregation and in their homes, has never been 
equalled in my nearly forty years of service to other segments of the com- 
munity of faith. 

If relinquishing the Reedley ministry was a personal sacrifice to me, it 
would pale when compared to the sacrifice my family would end up mak- 
ing for the cause of missions. The next ten years would be a time of con- 
tinuous irregularity in our family life as I would be gone from five to eight 
months per year. 


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157 


Nettie, in her unflinching devotion, became more and more the cen- 
ter of the family while I saw my arena of duty as being the wider North 
American and international community of faith. Steadfast in her devotion 
to Christ, she never wavered in her support of the public ministry to which 
we were called. Raising our three sons and providing hospitality for the 
many missionaries and the constant flow of conference-related personnel 
who passed through our home, tested her to the uttermost. In her quiet 
and unassuming way she reflected the qualities of both Martha and Mary. 


The Unruh sisters: From left to right, Martha — Mrs. Pete Ratzlaff, Nettie, my wife, 
Grace, a teacher by profession who related very close to us in our ministry. She 
financed most of my travel during the years I served as mission secretary. Emma, a 
store clerk, circa 1972. Other members in Nettie’s family were two brothers, August 
and Isaak. 


Student housing, Ebenezer Hall dedicated fall 1946. 


College Board. From left to right, Heinrich Neufeld, Herbert, David Wiens, 
Vancouver, B. B. Janz, Coaldale, C. F. Classen, Winnipeg, Heinrich Toews, Arnaud, 
Chairman, C. C. Peters, Yarrow, A. H. Unruh, Winnipeg, J. B. Toews, college 
president, C. A. DeFehr, Winnipeg, Abram Voth, Winnipeg, B. B. Fast, Winnipeg. 


Our family in Reedley, 1953. 


One of many departures during the years in mission administration. A. E. Janzen to 
my left. 


The Indian oxen cart with 
P. V. Balzer and from left 
to right, myself, C. A. 
DeFehr, mission treasurer 
for Canada and J. P. 
Kliewer, board member. 


Leaders of the church in 
Zaire. From left to right 
standing: myself, Matshitsa 
Matsi, Djimbo Kubala, 
Kilabi Balulu, Arnold Prieb. 
Front row: Ngangu Diyoyo, 
Ernest Dyck, Makose 
Mbavu. 


A congregation 
of the Japan 
Mennonite 
Brethren church. 


CHAPTER 16 


A Decade in Missions 


B efore my arrival, A. E. Janzen had been the sole administrator of an 
international ministry of nearly 150 missionaries in Africa, India, 
Brazil, Colombia, Paraguay, Mexico and Japan. He was assisted by 
only two office workers. The budget for the 1951-54 triennium was 
$285,435, an astonishing low amount even in those days. My new position 
had a broad mandate. As “promotional secretary,” I was to re-examine the 
theology, philosophy and practice of Mennonite Brethren missions, imple- 
ment appropriate changes, and generate understanding in the constitu- 
ency for the new approaches. 

Colonial Legacy 

The status of Mennonite Brethren missions in 1953 can be under- 
stood only in the context of a colonial system where each missionary or 
group of missionaries functioned as an independent entity. The task of 
these entities was to “save souls.” The first principle of missions clearly 
stated, “He that winneth souls is wise” (Prov. 11:30). The millions who 
had never heard the gospel were lost. They must hear. The dedication of 
the Mennonite Brethren Conference, the missionaries and the administra- 
tion was deeply sincere. The orientation of our missions thrust up to that 
point may seem simplistic, but the evident blessings of God were convinc- 
ing. 

At this time the Mennonite Brethren mission program was still based 
on the concept of a mission station as the center of operational outreach. 
The Mission Council, consisting of all bona fide missionaries on the field, 
took full responsibility for the program of evangelism and institutional ser- 
vices (including schools and hospitals). Missionaries were given a perma- 
nent place as “fathers and mothers in Christ” in the indigenous church. 
They would remain part of the indigenous congregation for life. These 
practices, outmoded as they seem, were nonetheless an accurate reflec- 
tion of the colonial mindset that had prevailed up to that point. The mis- 
sion board and some in the constituency saw that missions had to change 
following the worldwide collapse of colonialism in the postwar era. 


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My assignment as promotional secretary related to the home con- 
stituency as well as to the overseas programs. Both parts of the task were 
very demanding. All travel among the churches in the U.S. and Canada 
was either by car or by train. Each year I would drive for weeks on end, 
criss-crossing North America, from east to west and north to south, visiting 
the churches. Missionaries often would travel with me to report at mission 
conferences. Train travel meant spending many nights sitting up, as Pull- 
man cars were too expensive for a mission agency. 

The days and weeks of close contact with missionaries provided op- 
portunities for counsel and confidential exchanges. Beneath the sincerity 
of our missionaries I found deep spiritual needs, tensions in relationships 
with fellow missionaries, and problems with the structure of mission min- 
istries. In the missionary pecking order, older workers dominated the pro- 
gram and the younger missionaries and single women were relegated to 
secondary roles. Seniority had to be earned over a period of years. 

In the years 1955 through 1957 I had the opportunity to visit India, 
Belgian Congo, Colombia, Brazil, Paraguay and Uruguay. On first arriving 
in India in 1955 I was greeted by two senior missionaries with the gruff 
question, “What do you want here?” With the approval of the board I had 
prepared an extensive set of questions related to the work on each station 
and the work schedule for each missionary. The tone of these missionar- 
ies’ greeting implied some resentment to the detailed inquiry. On my sec- 
ond day in India I received a request from the nationals for a private meeting, 
with no missionary present. When I mentioned this request to some of the 
missionaries they openly protested. In spite of the protest I did arrange a 
meeting with only national leaders, who then shared some of their deep 
tensions. They pointed to the changes that had occurred in India following 
the country’s independence in 1948. They felt the missionaries should 
have transferred more responsibility to them in recognition of their new 
nationhood. 

A Matter of Money 

The notion of an active missions administrator who actually travelled 
to the fields on a regular basis was a new one to many in the constituency. 
It took time for them to recognize this as a wise use of funds. 

In the 1950s the study and evaluation of programs was seen as the 
task of the missionaries. The task of the board and the churches was not to 


A Decade in Missions 


161 


interfere but to enable the missionary to go to the “heathen,” bring them 
the “good news” and report back to the churches. 

At the 1956 Pacific District Conference a brother from Shafter, Califor- 
nia, who had followed my extensive travels, came to me with the ques- 
tion: “J. B., where can we now send our money for missions so that you 
cannot use it for traveling around the world?” 

“Brother Siemens,” I replied, “none of the money that is sent in for 
missions is spent for my travel.” 

“Who then pays for it?” he persisted. 

“It comes,” I said, “from private sources designated for travel in the 
study of our mission programs abroad.” 

Most of my overseas travel on behalf of Mennonite Brethren missions 
was paid for privately. The largest share of it was provided by Grace Unruh, 
Nettie’s sister, and our personal resources. Our sister Grace, a teacher all 
her life, had many questions about the glowing missionary reports she had 
heard over the years. Her desire for an unvarnished version of the truth 
was such that she was willing to finance a good deal of my foreign travel in 
an effort to gain an accurate report. The only trip that was completly charged 
to the agency was an emergency trip to Africa in I960 when the revolution 
forced all our Congo missionaries, staff and families — more than ninety 
persons — to be evacuated. 

A New Direction 

My visits abroad and my consultations with many other mission agen- 
cies in various countries gave insight into the radical changes we would 
need in mission relationship, theology, methods and structure. 

Some members of the mission board, in particular G. W. Peters and 
H. H. Janzen, agreed with my concerns. From 1955 to 1957 1 shared openly 
with the constituent churches the need for major readjustments in our 
worldwide ministry. Some found these views hard to accept. In the mid- 
1950s the Mennonite Brethren Church had nearly 200 missionaries in for- 
eign lands. Their motives were genuine. The support from the churches 
had been amazing. It had been the golden age of Mennonite Brethren 
missions. Why change now? 

With the help of people like G. W. Peters, we prayed earnestly for the 
future of Mennonite Brethren missions. The struggle found expression in 
a document I wrote that was first accepted by the board and then pre- 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


sented to the 1957 General Conference. Extensive travel to the churches 
and consultation with leaders in the constituency preceded the confer- 
ence, held in Yarrow, B.C., on October 20-23. By now the delegates were 
ready for the changes outlined in the document and voted their approval. 

The document projected the role of the missionary to conform to the 
New Testament expansion of the gospel. Like Paul, the missionary pro- 
claims the good news and serves as the planter of the church. The mission 
is only the enabling agency to help plant the church and then provide 
assistance in teaching and nurture with the local church becoming respon- 
sible for its own expansion within its respective culture. 

Some of our older missionaries found the new direction very difficult 
to accept. They were products of a time that had passed. One incident 
illustrates the tension some of them felt. At a missions conference in 
Greendale, B.C. following the 1957 conference, two missionaries from In- 
dia presented reports. The first one concluded her report in tears and said, 
“What will happen with the work in India now, with the decision of the 
conference, we do not know.” The other missionary also concluded his 
report with deep emotions, adding, “How the work in India will continue 
with the new direction accepted by the conference only God knows, and 
if it fails, J. B. Toews will need to accept the responsibility.” 

I was stunned. I was to speak next. To gain time for a reply I asked 
the choir to sing two songs. By the time the singing stopped I had decided 
not to reply directly to their comments. I changed my text to Acts 28:28, 
“Be it known therefore unto you, that the gospel has been sent to the gen- 
tiles and they will hear it.” My message expressed confidence that God 
had made provision. The work would go on. 

The older missionaries can perhaps be excused for finding the new 
direction so difficult. As recently as 1947 their relationship with the na- 
tional churches had been officially defined as one of parent and child. The 
new approach anticipated their removal from the churches as early as was 
feasible to give nationals liberty for self-identity in the context of their na- 
tive culture. For some missionaries this implied the end of what they had 
understood to be a lifelong relationship to the national churches. Their 
struggle was somewhat like parents having to separate from their children. 
The next triennium, 1957-1960, was very demanding. In consideration of 
A. E. Janzen’s advancing age I was asked to take additional administrative 
duties as executive secretary. The new policies and their implications for 


A Decade in Missions 


163 


each of our fields needed to be worked out. National governing councils 
were created for each field to take over decision-making. The missionar- 
ies were asked to serve only in advisory capacities. The missionary coun- 
cil, formerly the legislative body, was now to function as a fellowship. The 
implementation of the new policies was difficult. The older missionaries 
from India were withdrawn. A younger generation of workers was assigned 
to help the church develop its independence. The overall relationship of 
the North American church to the national churches abroad found expres- 
sion in the statement, “Partnership in Obedience.” 

The years i960 to 1963, my concluding years in the mission program, 
were spent on implementation. Written policies are one thing, but the 
realization of the ideal was something else. The General Conference of 
I960, the Mennonite Brethren centennial, was a milestone. Our mission 
report was titled “A Century of Grace and Witness.” For a hundred years 
the missionary emphasis had been on “saving lost souls.” The initiative 
had come entirely from the West — Europe and North America. Theoreti- 
cally we had turned the corner with the 1957 resolution that made our 
chief objective the establishing of national churches that could more effec- 
tively evangelize their own people. 

The I960 centennial featured representatives from the national 
churches India, Japan, Africa, Mexico, Colombia, Brazil and Paraguay. The 
“Partnership in Obedience” principle was confirmed. I saw it as a great 
day in the history of Mennonite Brethren missions. In theory, at least, the 
focus had shifted from an outmoded paternalism to a new era of 
indigenization. The commitment to partnership with the churches abroad 
was again strongly affirmed at the 1963 conference in Winnipeg. 

A Disappointing Process 

Little did I realize that the actual implementation of this new partner- 
ship would not be fully realized for another thirty years. Despite good 
intentions, it has been difficult for North Americans to change the practices 
of the past. Into the recent past some Mennonite Brethren missions re- 
tained their colonialist flavor while others moved more rapidly toward 
indigenization. 10 

When asked to comment on the commitment to Partnership in Obe- 
dience, one Colombian Mennonite Brethren leader responded, “Obedi- 
ence to who?” and “Partnership with whom?” He said it took at least a 


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JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


decade before attempts to develop a fraternal rather than paternal rela- 
tionship began to appear on the field. Even then, the changes were largely 
cosmetic in nature. He adds: 

The Colombian leaders continued to have the mindset that they had to be 
obedient to the decisions made by the missionaries and, in the end, Hillsboro 
always had the last word. Of course, it was said that the Colombian Con- 
ference was autonomous to make decisions but since we were partners 
with the Mission, this partnership was understood to be in only one direc- 
tion and not reciprocal. Hillsboro was the “Vatican” for us. The mission 
board who insisted that they were partners with the national conference 
always found ways to subtly impose the decisions that they wanted in 
relation with personnel, projects and finances. It was obvious that we 
Colombians understood partnership in one way and in Hillsboro it was 
applied another way. How can you be a partner at the same level, frater- 
nally speaking, when everything is decided vertically, i.e., from the top 
power downward? 11 

This leader also complained that missionaries found it difficult to re- 
late on an equal footing with national leaders, partly because they tended 
to be people with a domineering middle-class mindset and lifestyle. “The 
missionary goes as a chief and not as a facilitator,” he said. The national 
churches feel they have little to contribute to the dialogue because “Big 
Brother has all the answers.” 

Reflections 

Were my ten years of administration in Mennonite Brethren missions 
a failure? Were we three decades ahead of our time? Or did we expect 
change to come too quickly? 

Reflecting on this part of my faith pilgrimage I make several observa- 
tions: 

1 . To serve in leadership during a time of major fundamental change 
is rewarding. The process of change, however, can be very painful for 
those directly affected, in this case the older missionaries. 

2. The commitment of the Mennonite Brethren Church to the cause 
of missions in the 1950s and 1960s reflected a high degree of understand- 
ing and unflinching support. 

3. The personal relationship to the missionaries over a period of a 
decade provided unlimited opportunities for close fellowship. Missionar- 


A Decade in Missions 


165 


ies are not saints. Their calling requires continuous affirmation and spiri- 
tual nurture. In general they are a lonely people, often separated from 
their children and extended family. Singles feel this isolation most keenly. 
Maintaining a continuous sense that their assignment is a service unto the 
Lord is difficult. The weakening of this priority expresses itself in personal 
spiritual struggles which generate many tensions in inter-personal rela- 
tionships. Providing a spiritual ministry to the missionaries, though re- 
warding, constituted the most difficult aspect of my ten years in mission 
leadership. 

4. Maintaining my personal spiritual resources was no easy task. My 
energy and strength were sapped by the demands of relating to some 200 
missionaries and making daily decisions affecting our program of spread- 
ing the gospel. 

5. For half a century the missionaries had been the center of the 
missions program, with little accountability. Their reports to the constitu- 
ency tended to be highly inflated. To change the structure was very diffi- 
cult. In the churches the missionaries carried an image of holiness and 
exemplified the highest degree of spirituality. The contrast between this 
elevated image in the churches and the reality as reflected in personal rela- 
tionships on the field was very difficult for me to accept. But they were a 
product of our making. For decades they were isolated from the home 
environment, responsible only to themselves and to God. When they came 
home on furlough they were celebrated as exhibits of godliness. No won- 
der there was a gap between image and reality. Adjusting to this disso- 
nance served as a maturing influence in my own spiritual pilgrimage. 

6. Finally, my years in missions took a toll on my family. Nettie and 
our three sons, the older two both teenagers, were asked to accept the 
continuous absence of husband and father. Their acceptance of having to 
take second place may have been the greater contribution to the cause of 
missions during this period of my life. 


CHAPTER 17 


The Seminary Presidency 


I n the early 1960s I was invited to consider a teaching position at the 
Mennonite Brethren Biblical Seminary in Fresno. The invitation was 
tempting for a variety of reasons. For one thing, the years of intensive 
travel as a missions administrator had taken their toll, and the prospect of 
a more relaxed assignment for us as a family was appealing. 

I was also drawn to the idea of making a significant contribution to 
Mennonite Brethren higher education, particularly in the area of fashion- 
ing a more specific Mennonite Brethren identity. 

I had spent nearly ten years in Mennonite Brethren education at 
Bethany Bible Institute and the Mennonite Brethren Bible College. I had 
spent another ten years in the pastorate, and ten more in missions admin- 
istration. I was concerned that the character of our educational efforts did 
not reflect the passion for a lifestyle of faith and discipleship that had been 
such a distinctive stamp of our Mennonite Brethren and Anabaptist for- 
bears. 

The Vision for a Seminary 

The Mennonite Brethren journey in seminary education had not been 
smooth. In 1948, the Mennonite Brethren General Conference agreed to 
consider the need for a seminary and a commission was appointed to study 
its feasibility. The 1951 General Conference Yearbook records a plan to 
establish a General Conference seminary close to one of the existing schools. 
But in 1954 when the General Conference began to lay the foundation for 
such a seminaiy, the Canadian Conference delegation withdrew from the 
negotiations. 

At the following year’s Canadian Conference the Mennonite Breth- 
ren churches of Canada took a position that removed them from any obli- 
gation to such a program of seminary education. At this conference I 
delivered a message titled, “The Bible and Higher Education in the Con- 
text of the Spiritual Conflict of our Day.” The response to my message was 
very positive, but it failed to change the Canadian Conference position of 
non-participation in theological education at the General Conference level. 


The Seminary Presidency 


167 


Some of the Canadian leadership from the 1920s (B. B. Janz of 
Coaldale; Johannas Harder of Yarrow, British Columbia; Aron A. Toews of 
Namaka, Alberta; Jacob Thiessen of Dalmeny, Saskatchewan, later 
Vancouver; Heinrich Toews of Arnaud, Manitoba; and others) carried a 
deep prejudice against the Mennonite Brethren educational program in 
the south. I well recall B. B. Janz’s reaction after he visited Tabor College 
in 1932. The guide who took him through the campus showed him the old 
gymnasium where a group of young people dressed in shorts and sleeve- 
less shirts were playing basketball. In his report to the Coaldale church he 
described the spirit of worldliness he had observed in the Tabor gym, re- 
ferring to it as a “culture of nudity, void of any degree of modesty.” 

Other Canadian leaders wanted to avoid any involvement with Ameri- 
can Mennonite Brethren in matters of education. The establishment of the 
MB Bible College in Winnipeg had been intended by some as a move 
toward isolation. 

The U. S. churches were also not united on educational issues. His- 
torically, the center of the Mennonite Brethren Conference had been 
Hillsboro, a small rural town. It had Tabor College, the MB mission board 
offices and the MB Publishing House. The establishment of Pacific Bible 
Institute in Fresno, Calif., in 1944, was the beginning of a shift in this domi- 
nance. But the question remained: how could a conference of only 10,500 
members support a four-year college in Hillsboro, a Bible institute in Fresno, 
and now also a seminary program as a new department of the Bible insti- 
tute? It seemed like an impossible task. 

The key to making the impossible happen, was the U.S. Conference 
Board of Education, specifically its chairman from 1954 to 1971, Ed J. Pe- 
ters. He had accepted the call of the U.S. Conference to the Board of 
Education as a call from God. Peters, a prominent business man, was a 
founding member of Mennonite Economic Development Associates 
(MEDA) and a director of Hume Lake Christian Conference. He held many 
other positions of responsibility in church and community ventures. Vari- 
ous slogans that he liked reflected his energetic spirit: “The job assignment 
is not too big, maybe the man is too small for the job.” “If you can’t do the 
job, God will surely find someone else in your place to do it.” He under- 
stood prayer as related to human responsibility: “Do not fight your prayer 
in waiting for God to act, rather go to work and implement your prayers.” 
In the struggle for finances for education he would say, “God made too 


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JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


many Christians and not enough dollars.” Many other slogans were com- 
mon with Ed Peters, who believed that “nothing is impossible if God has 
assigned it to you.” 

Peters, together with Peter A. Enns and Dr. Menno S. Gaede, were 
the key movers in the development of the seminary. Despite the tension 
among midwesterners who visualized a seminary in Hillsboro, Enns and 
Gaede took a leap of faith and purchased property for the seminary next 
to the new location of Pacific College in Fresno. 

In the spring of 1955 the Board of Education approached me to ac- 
cept the presidency of the new seminary. I declined for several reasons: 
First, the seminary program was considered only provisional, subject to 
ongoing negotiations towards a joint sponsorship by the U.S. and Cana- 
dian conferences. Second, the Fresno location for the seminary was also 
considered provisional; the permanent location was to be selected by the 
two conferences when agreement was reached with Canada. Third, the 
faculty already appointed from the Bible departments of Tabor College 
and Pacific Bible Institute did not project an Anabaptist character for the 
seminary. It was to be known as an evangelical seminary, and all publicity 
identified it as such. With the rising religious pluralism and individualism 
of the 1950s I could not see myself leading a program that did not project 
a distinct Anabaptist identity. Fourth, I had just taken on responsibility for 
the Mennonite Brethren mission program and its major thrust of moving 
beyond the colonial captivity of the past. I could not leave this task unfin- 
ished to tackle another need that was no less worthy but had a very uncer- 
tain future. 

A decade later, however, I felt differently. Somewhat exhausted from 
the ten years in missions, having guided the transition from colonialism to 
the policy of “Partnership in Obedience,” I was open for a change. Now R. 
M. Baerg invited me to come to the seminary to fill a void in the faculty. 
The prospect of teaching missions and theology appealed to me. I ac- 
cepted the invitation and the Board of Education approved my appoint- 
ment at its August 20-21, 1962 meeting. At the fall 1962 Board of Missions 
meeting I resigned as executive secretary, effective September 1, 1963. 

Our Need for Change 

After so many years of various types of administration I was now, at 
age fifty-six, ready for a quieter assignment of teaching. Nettie and I felt a 


The Seminary Presidency 


169 


need to be closer together as a family. Our youngest son, James, was then 
a teenager. Our relationship as husband and wife also needed more re- 
laxed time together than the previous thirty years of ministry had allowed. 

I accepted the invitation to the seminary on the condition that I would 
not be required to be involved administratively. I needed a rest. I also 
envisioned completing my doctorate, which I had given up twenty years 
earlier because of the prevailing lack of understanding in the conference 
for advanced theological education. With summers free from teaching, 
resuming my studies became part of the attraction to the seminary. 

The fact that our son John and his family were already in Fresno was 
also a factor in our decision. He was studying at the seminary and teach- 
ing at Pacific College. John negotiated the purchase of a house for us on 
East Townsend, a half block from the seminary. 

At the time we viewed the change from Hillsboro to Fresno as a tran- 
sition. Inwardly I longed to return to the pastorate. There were openings 
for us in churches in both Canada and the U.S. The future of the seminary 
in the summer of 1963 was still not clear. The seminary property, adjoining 
Pacific College, needed development. The building, a stately old man- 
sion, needed major renovations to meet the city’s building code. The semi- 
nary faced significant questions. Should it become the theological 
department of the college, a continuation of the College of Theology at 
Tabor? Could the prospect of a joint seminary with Canada be realized? 

Amid many questions we moved to Fresno and I began teaching. 
Nettie, James and I basked in the prospect of spending more time together. 
The chapter of mission administration was behind us. We were looking for 
direction for the future. 

Pressure, Again 

September, October and the first part of November were quiet months 
for us. But the calm would not last long. By mid-November 1963, 1 came 
under pressure from members of the board to consider the presidency. R. 
M. Baerg had notified the board that he looked for an early relief as acting 
president. 

I soon realized the future of the seminary was at a crossroad. Ed Pe- 
ters, Menno Gaede and Peter Enns, put great pressure on me, suggesting 
that the future of the seminary depended on my affirmative response. The 
time from mid-November 1963 until February 1964 thus became another 


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JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


time of crisis for us. We had anticipated relief from administrative respon- 
sibilities and now we were again in a squeeze. Looking back I find it 
difficult to interpret my naivete in coming to Fresno. 

I had no interest in accepting the leadership of a provisional pro- 
gram, as the seminary essentially had been up to that point. Only upon the 
board’s decision to proceed with the seminary development, envisioning 
a permanent independent institution subject to the ratification of the U. S. 
Conference in 1965, would I even think about such a position. After lengthy 
consultations with members of the Board of Education and with the lead- 
ership of the Canadian Mennonite Brethren Conference about the pros- 
pect of finding a basis for a future joint seminary, Nettie and I finally agreed 
to accept the assignment, though not without major reservations. On March 
6, 1964, after being with the seminary only six months, my appointment as 
president was announced. 

My commitment in accepting the position was threefold: First, to 
redefine the seminary’s identity as an institution committed to an Anabaptist 
approach to the interpretation of Scripture and to the life and character of 
the church. Second, to upgrade the faculty and other resources to meet 
the demands for a graduate-level academic program. Third, to develop 
the campus to provide adequate facilities for a graduate institution with 
the prospect that it could become the permanent location for a joint semi- 
nary with Canada. 

Struggle for Anabaptist Identity 

The initial step toward developing an identity more consistent with 
our historic understanding of the faith was a statement of purpose and 
philosophy released in 1964. This statement called for graduate-level theo- 
logical education that was committed to a bibliocentric curriculum, an ex- 
periential faith, an Anabaptist concept of a disciplined church, and a New 
Testament understanding of mission and evangelism. These commitments 
would require major changes in the curriculum. 

The guiding principles identified the seminary as being historically 
committed to the Anabaptist view of the church and introduced the re- 
quirement of a full four-unit course in Anabaptist history and theology. 
The name became the Mennonite Brethren Biblical Seminary to identify 
the core character of the institution. 


The Seminary Presidency 


171 


The content of the curriculum was further tested and focused on ar- 
eas such as: 

• The meaning of Christian experience. A creedal faith, or genuine 
relationship. 

• The style of life. Easy Christianity, or Christian discipleship and self- 
denial. 

• The interpretation of Scripture : A particular system, or a 
hermeneutical community. 

• The nature of the church-. A covenant community of biblical dis- 
ciples, or a highly-organized institution. 

• The nature of the ministry. A professional pastor who does the 
work of the church, or a gift that God gives to the church for the purpose 
of equipping the saints for the work of the ministry. 

• The mission of the church-. Evangelism versus social concerns, or 
proclamation in both word and deed. 

• The centrality of ethics -. A question of only war and peace, or the 
lordship of Christ in all of life, including suffering love for enemy. 

The dialogue of the initial years involved a larger circle of partici- 
pants, including faculty from the college in Winnipeg. The conversation 
with leaders from Canada with regard to a joint seminary continued. 

Developing A Faculty 

In order to work toward an accredited seminary we needed to 
strengthen the faculty. For the initial years, 1964 to 1970, we sought to fill 
this need with qualified part-time faculty: Peter J. Klassen in history, Elias 
Wiebe in Christian education, Dalton Reimer in public speaking and com- 
munication, and pastor Werner Kroeker in homiletics and preaching. Abram 
J. Klassen was added to the faculty as professor in theology in the second 
year. George Konrad joined us in 1966 as professor in Christian education. 
Orrin Berg from Pacific College introduced the first course in counseling in 
1967. Other part-time faculty over the years were Melvin J. Loewen, Henry 
J. Krahn, Larry Warkentin, R. M. Baerg and Waldo Hiebert, who in 1968 
had left the faculty to pastor the Reedley Mennonite Brethren Church. A. J. 
Klassen became the academic dean in 1967, and completed doctoral work 
at Claremont Graduate School. While we waited for Elmer A. Martens to 
earn a doctorate in Old Testament, Dwight Acomb served as professor of 
Old Testament. Paul Hiebert served as professor of anthropology and 


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JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


missions for the year 1970-1971. To make graduate studies for members of 
the faculty possible we needed to provide financial subsidies, which were 
provided from individual donors and special friends of the seminary. 

We continued to work on strengthening our course offerings. We 
consulted with other Mennonite seminaries in Elkhart, Indiana, and 
Harrisonburg, Virginia, to help us rebuild a curriculum consistent with our 
denominational identity. Recognition must be given to the new dean, A. J. 
Klassen, for his role in restructuring the curriculum. As a student of Harold 
S. Bender, the Mennonite church leader and historian, he was well versed 
in the field of Anabaptist studies, which were incorporated into the core 
program. 

In 1969 the seminary attained associate membership in the American 
Association of Theological Schools. Full accreditation was delayed subject 
to the expansion of the library holdings. In January 1972 we received full 
academic accreditation with the Western Association of Schools, Colleges 
and Universities. Full accreditation with the American Association of Theo- 
logical Schools followed in 1973- 

Campus Development 

In 1955 the seminary had begun in the Pacific Bible Institute facilities 
in downtown Fresno. In 1961 it was moved to its present location at 4824 
E. Butler. This property consisted of six and one-half acres of land and a 
mansion built in 1917. The home was surrounded by a large variety of 
trees. A narrow gravel road ran from the northwest corner of the property 
and wound through the forest of trees to the southeast corner. There was 
also a swimming pool and a maintenance shop. 

As long as the seminary location had been only provisional, few ef- 
forts to develop the campus had been made. Now that the Board of Edu- 
cation had committed itself to this permanent location, campus 
development became a pressing issue. Since we had no provision for this 
in the conference budget, the task appeared impossible. The Southern 
District, specifically Kansas, opposed the development of a seminary on 
the West Coast and contributed nothing to campus development. They 
continued to argue — naively, I thought — that the seminary should be es- 
tablished in Hillsboro, close to Tabor College. Both Tabor and Pacific Col- 
lege, meanwhile were appealing to the constituency for resources for their 
own expansion. 


The Seminary Presidency 


173 


I remember the spring, summer and fall of 1964 as a time of inner 
crisis. Had I committed myself to an impossible task? What about our fam- 
ily needs, which had been a major factor in leaving the mission administra- 
tion? 

I recalled a slogan that had become a guiding principle for me while 
I was in missions administration: “God’s work done in God’s way will not 
lack God’s provision.” For me the burning question then became whether 
developing the seminary was really God’s will. Could this assignment be a 
step that would lead to a more positive response from Canada for a joint 
venture in seminary education? A student body of thirty-five (the enroll- 
ment of the 1964-1965 academic year) was not enough to sustain a pro- 
gram that would earn the respect of accrediting agencies. I came to rest in 
the story of Abraham who was asked to obey without knowing the future. 

As it turned out, relationships from the distant past came to my aid. 
In October 1964, while at a conference in Delft, Minnesota, I shared my 
concern with a group of people whom I knew from my early years of 
ministry in the Central District. I made contact with A. N. Dick, a builder I 
had learned to know in Montana in the 1930s. A lengthy discussion with 
Brother and Sister Dick planted the seed which would provide the answer 
to our campus development needs. From the fall of 1965 through the fall 
of 1969 the Dicks gave us six months of their time every year. 

October 1965 through March 1965 was spent renovating the main 
building to meet the city code. The whole heating system and the plumb- 
ing needed replacement. Two bathrooms were converted into faculty of- 
fices and a third bathroom was relocated. One large bedroom was 
subdivided into two offices. The kitchen on the main floor was torn out to 
provide a workroom. Major foundation work was necessary. During the 
rainy season the basement floor would take in up to an inch of water. A 
deep ditch was dug around the foundation to the north and east of the 
building to install the appropriate drainage. City regulations also required 
installation of a complete sprinkler system, at a cost of $16,000. Dan 
Loewen, a plumber from the Bethany Church, did most of the plumbing 
for this major renovation, donating his time. 

The plan for the seminary campus was laid out carefully in consulta- 
tion with members of the Board of Education, faculty, architects and spe- 
cialists in landscaping, and finally approved by the City of Fresno. Many 
trees had to be removed to make room for an entrance from the north side 


174 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


on Butler. Landscaping was necessary to provide space for other build- 
ings. The initial expense of the renovation and campus development in 
1965 and 1966 was $23,673. 

Basic student housing was also urgently needed, but again there was 
no budgetary provision. Once again the answer was in the donated labor 
of A. N. Dick as well as Hugo Wiens of St. Catharines, Ontario, and others 
who volunteered for shorter and longer periods. 

We began the development program with the understanding that we 
could not go into debt. The financial provisions would determine our rate 
of progress. The example and influence of A. N. Dick attracted other vol- 
unteers from the Central District. There were times when all work had to 
be stopped because funds were exhausted. Here the volunteers them- 
selves stepped in, calling their friends in Minnesota, North Dakota and 
Montana to tell them work had stopped for lack of finances. Their voices 
were heard, and more contributions came in. 

Mission Memorial Court, the complex of ten two-bedroom apartments 
for student families, was made possible by donors who wanted to com- 
memorate missionaries and family members. Major contributors were Mr. 
and Mrs. D. W. Gloeckler, San Jose; missionary John H. Lohrenz, India; 
John W. Friesen, Big Bow, Nebraska; the Cornelius C. Reimer family of 
Shafter, California; Mr. and Mrs. Menno Siemens, Shafter; and friends of 
Krimmer Mennonite Brethren missionaries from Dinuba, California. The 
modest monument inscribed with the names of all Mennonite Brethren 
and Krimmer Mennonite Brethren missionaries who were called to their 
reward before 1967, stands in the center of the court. For me personally, 
Mission Memorial Court is a monument of God’s faithfulness to his people 
who know how to pray and to trust him for the humanly impossible. 

Another important symbol is the Prayer Chapel, erected in memory 
of Herman Warkentin by his parents, Mr. and Mrs. H. K. Warkentin. This 
chapel reflects the centrality of prayer in the life of an institution dedicated 
to the preparation of church workers and missionaries. 

The idea of a prayer chapel came to me during a visit to Westmont 
College in Santa Barbara, which had a prayer chapel in the center of the 
campus. I spent some time in that chapel, and became convinced that we, 
too, needed a similar center to symbolize the focal resources that would 
determine the future of the institution. Months later I was led to think of 
Herman Warkentin, a missionary who lost his life in India in 1953- I gath- 


The Seminary Presidency 


175 


ered my courage and shared the vision with Herman’s parents. I took their 
favorable response as another sign of God’s purpose for the seminary. 

Despite all this activity, the campus remained inadequate. The cen- 
tral building housed the administrative offices, faculty offices and three 
classrooms. My vision for the seminary was a faculty of eight and a student 
body of seventy to seventy-five. The enrollment in 1968-1969 was sixty. 
Additional office and classroom space was an absolute necessity. We 
needed a chapel large enough for faculty, staff and sixty students with 
their families. 

The Pacific District Conference and the U. S. Conference also needed 
office space, and after long negotiations it was decided to locate these 
facilities on the seminary campus. This combined interest enabled us to 
make plans for a joint seminary-conference building. A. N. Dick, together 
with volunteers from Minnesota, North Dakota and Montana, again pitched 
in to erect a facility to house a chapel with a seating capacity of 120, a large 
classroom, and offices for faculty and conference personnel. The total 
cost, with furnishings, would be $106,042. Gathering a third of this amount 
was again a step of faith. The building was completed in the spring of 
1970. 

Looking back on these six years of campus development, I am amazed 
at the way God provided. This does not mean there were no crises along 
the way. One memorable experience occurred in December of 1969. My 
spirits had dipped to a low ebb. We did not have money to pay the meager 
salaries of the faculty, nor was there money to continue work on the con- 
ference building. 

Close to despair, I drove to the farm of William Wiebe, a deacon of 
the Reedley MB Church. He had been a very close friend during my time 
there. William and his wife, Renetta, were at the supper table. I walked in 
without greeting them, went to the fireplace, sat down on the ledge and 
burst into tears. The Wiebes were taken aback. William drew near and sat 
beside me. I could not control my emotions for some time. Had God 
forsaken me? Was there some hindrance that prevented am answer to our 
prayers in this time of need? 

After some time of silence I could open up and share with my friends 
the desperate situation in which I found myself. An hour passed. I re- 
gained my composure. William led out in prayer; Renetta followed. I, too, 
managed to pray, pleading with God to find a way out. 


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JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


A long period of silence followed. Suddenly William got up, went to 
his desk, and wrote out a check for $1,000. “Here,” he said, “take this as 
the down payment, and exercise faith that God will provide your needs.” 

In the weeks that followed, the last week of December and the be- 
ginning of January, our needs were met through people whose hearts God 
touched. The dedication of the conference building in the fall of 1970 was 
a day of deep gratitude. My faith in the slogan, “God’s work done in God’s 
way will not lack God’s provision,” was confirmed. 

Reflections 

By 1970 1 felt I had accomplished the major task of my assignment: to 
lead the seminary towards a Mennonite Brethren-Anabaptist orientation; 
to upgrade the faculty and program; and to gain accreditation as a gradu- 
ate-level institution. I enjoyed the half-time teaching load I carried in or- 
der to remain closely involved with the academic program and the student 
body. Here I found a level of satisfaction that had eluded me as an admin- 
istrator. 

The resistance of the Southern District Conference to the West Coast 
seminary had gradually diminished. The U. S. Conference as a body had 
accepted the seminary as its responsibility. At the convention in Dallas, 
Oregon, in 1965, the conference participated in pledges that liquidated the 
indebtedness on the original purchase of the seminary property. 
Discussions with Canadian Conference leaders had continued. My good 
connections with them provided a basis for ongoing conversation. My 
Canadian background, my years at Bethany Bible Institute and the Menno- 
nite Brethren Bible College, and my ten years of mission administration 
were all factors in the continued relationship. 

The Winnipeg college had tried in 1965 to add a seminary program 
leading to the bachelor of divinity degree but was not successful. The 
basic issue was one of exposure. Students who had already spent three 
years at the college could not be expected to remain in the same environ- 
ment for an additional three years. The faculty of the college was well- 
qualified, but could not meet the demand for new academic exposure and 
environmental stimulant. 

Thus the question of a unified program for the Mennonite Brethren 
General Conference remained alive. A proposal surfaced in 1969 to con- 
sider establishing a unified seminary in the Vancouver area of British Co- 


The Seminary Presidency 


177 


lumbia. The Americans rejected this recommendation and proposed in- 
stead “that the U.S. Conference extend an invitation to the Canadian Con- 
ference to join the U. S. Conference in our seminary program” This proposal 
was rejected by the 1969 session of the General Conference. 

At the 1971 Canadian Conference John H. Redekop, then chairman 
of the college board, presented an analysis of the status of the Mennonite 
Brethren Bible College in which he pointed to the “blurred” image of the 
college in its academic program as well as in the view of constituents. As 
a result of this realistic reappraisal, the Canadian Conference appointed a 
commission to “study the future of theological training in terms of: (a) a 
cooperative arrangement with the Fresno seminary; (b) a 
transdenominational or duster seminary; (c) other possibilities.” At the 
same time the Canadian Conference appointed two observer participants 
to the Fresno seminary board. 

In January 1972 this study commission suggested to the Canadian 
Council of Boards that it initiate the process of joining with the U. S. Con- 
ference to develop the Fresno seminary as a General Conference school 
for theological training. The direction toward a North American Menno- 
nite Brethren seminary was now set. Further decisions in 1974 and 1975 
would complete the process. 

I reached the age of sixty-six in September of 1972. The pressures of 
eight years of administration had affected my health. Periodically I would 
experience chills and insomnia. Nettie, who was very sensitive in observ- 
ing the symptoms, pressed me to terminate administrative duties. 

At the fall meeting of the Board of Education I shared my concerns 
and my wish to step down from the presidency. Some board members felt 
this would be premature because my key relationship to both the Cana- 
dian and U.S. Conferences was still needed. “You must wait to complete 
the merger,” they said. 

The January 1972 recommendation of the Canadian study commis- 
sion found wide support. I was told privately by Canadian Conference 
leaders that the process towards a joint seminary was virtually assured. 

I confirmed my decision to terminate my presidency on July 1, 1972. 
By the grace of God, the objectives of the assignment had been met. The 
seminary had stabilized academically, an Anabaptist direction had been 
set, and accreditation had been attained. The campus had been devel- 
oped to a degree adequate for the program visualized. The prospect of 


178 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


becoming a General Conference seminary was close at hand, subject to 
the process of defining the principles and policies of cooperation. I felt at 
peace about stepping down. 

Economically we were in a position to live comfortably. The frugal 
lifestyle that had governed the years of official ministry prepared us to 
manage on a reduced economic income (minimal Social Security because 
of the low salaries throughout our ministry, a monthly pension of $100 
from the seminary and $80 from the mission board, and a small income 
from some limited investments). We had paid for the house on East 
Townsend in 1963 with proceeds from the sale of the farm in Saskatchewan. 
Nettie’s health, never robust, gave us some concern. Nonetheless, we were 
generally comfortable with the circumstances in which we found ourselves 
in 1972. 

My decision to decline one more term as president necessitated ap- 
pointing an interim leader until Canada was officially on board and could 
fully participate in the selection of the president for the future. Henry H. 
Dick, at the time the minister-at-large for the U.S. Conference, was asked 
to assume the interim position. 

I considered it prudent to be gone for the first semester of the 1972- 
73 school year in order to free the interim administration to begin on its 
own. I accepted a ministry in the churches of Austria and Germany and at 
the Mennonite Bible school in Bienenberg, Switzerland. I would return to 
a full instructional assignment at the seminary for the second semester. 

When I got back from Europe in November, I was approached by the 
Mennonite Brethren Historical Commission to consider the position of its 
executive secretary. The assignment was to promote the historical con- 
sciousness of the Mennonite Brethren and the publication of historical 
material. The invitation appealed to my lifelong interest in the history of 
the Mennonite Brethren in the context of the larger Anabaptist movement 
and I accepted. In addition to a full teaching load, I began to project the 
enlargement of an archival and research center at the seminary and adja- 
cent college. I. G. Neufeld and Peter Klassen had already begun a Menno- 
nite historical library and archival collection. I now began to invest energy 
in building on their foundations. 


The Seminary Presidency 


179 


A Test of Motives 

Not long after beginning this new phase I faced a difficult and pain- 
ful experience that I had not previously encountered: my motives for min- 
istry were questioned. 

As recounted earlier, I had in my younger years struggled to obey 
the Lord’s call. The matter had been settled that evening in the Hillsboro 
park in 1932 when Nettie said, “It is all right to be poor.” Never, in the 
years since, had we doubted our “yes” to God’s call. But now, in the fall of 
1973, the integrity of our commitment was tested. 

I had begun a full schedule of classes at the seminary. After twenty- 
five years of administrative responsibilities Nettie and I were happy to be 
free of such concerns. Our joy and sense of fulfillment was short-lived. 
On October 3, 1973, Henry H. Dick, the new president, questioned me 
about the appropriateness of my continued relationship with the school. 
He also had questions about my continued ministry in the broader Menno- 
nite Brethren Conference and beyond. I recorded his concerns as they 
were presented to me: 

1) He wondered whether my teaching schedule, which was a re- 
sponse to the request of the academic dean and approved by the faculty, 
was really my own attempt to exert continued influence. 

2) He did not think it appropriate as an ex-president, even though 
I was now a full-time faculty member, to attend faculty meetings. 

3) Now that I had resigned from the seminary presidency he felt 
that I should also withdraw from other conference positions because of 
their direct and indirect relationship to the ongoing development of the 
seminary. 

4) He likewise questioned the impact on the seminary of my con- 
tinued ministry in the conference. 

5) He was concerned about the appropriateness of my consider- 
able personal correspondence with many individuals in the conference 
and specifically with Frank C. Peters, a leading figure in Canada, whom I 
had encouraged to consider joining the seminary faculty. 

The incident took me by complete surprise. Had Nettie and I dras- 
tically misunderstood the Lord and the circle of believers who we con- 
sulted before deciding to remain with the seminary when we had numerous 
other open doors for ministry? A full week of heart-searching followed. 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


Nettie and I reexamined our entire past ministry together, laying ourselves 
open before God. The psalmist’s cry became our honest and longing de- 
sire: “Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me and know my anxi- 
eties; And see if there is any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way 
everlasting.” (Ps. 139:23-24) For days and weeks we sought the Lord, ac- 
knowledging that we could not claim our motives through decades of min- 
istry had always been pure. Deep in my inner being I had found satisfaction 
and affirmation. But I recognized again that I was no holy man without 
fault. 

Our conclusion, after this earnest soul-searching and consultation 
with various faculty members, board members and conference leaders, 
was that I should neither leave the seminary nor withdraw from broader 
ministry. Nettie and I eventually came to peace about the decision. In our 
view, the events of the next twenty years confirmed that we had under- 
stood the Lord correctly. 

In retrospect, this difficult experience had a positive outcome. It 
led to a serious self-examination that turned out to be beneficial. Today I 
thank God that he permitted the test to come my way. 


The Seminary when it was purchased in 1955. 


Left to right Mrs. and Mr. A. 
N. Dick, Mountain Lake, 
Minnesota who gave five 
years as volunteers to 
develop the Seminary 
campus, myself and Nettie. 


i 


a* 


Administration building after its restoration. 


Ten two bedroom apartments known as the Mission Memorial Court. 


Some Seminary board members in 1972, the day the institution was accredited. 
From left to right: Marvin Steinert, John Friesen, Dr. M. S. Gaede, myself, Peter 
Enns, E. J. Peters (chairman). 


Faculty and adjunct faculty in celebration of accreditation of the Seminary. Left to 
right: Elmer Martens, Henry Krahn, Ken Berg, D. Edmond Hiebert, Adonijah Pauls, 
Hans Kasdorf, J. B. Toews, Orrin Berg, A. J. Klassen, Dalton Reimer, Loyal Martin, 
Delbert Wiens. George KnnrnH Tr.hr. : 1 ' 


The prayer chapel built by Mr. and Mrs. H. K. Warkentin in memory of their son, 
Herman, missionary to India. 


CHAPTER 18 


A Continued Ministry 


The Historical Commission 

I grew up in an environment of historical awareness. My father’s li- 
brary, though limited, included a core of world history, Anabaptist his 
tory, the history of Pietism, and Peter M. Friesen’s noted history of Men- 
nonites in Russia. One of Father’s favored expressions was that “the present 
is a continuation of yesterday and influences the direction for tomorrow.” 
My uncles B. B. Janz and Jakob B. Janz also had an impact on my 
historical consciousness. When they and my father spoke of specific per- 
sons in leadership or in social and family relationships, they would always 
ask, “Who were the parents? What was the family background?” They 
invariably asked about the past to understand the present. 

The last message B. B. Janz, my uncle, delivered to the Canadian 
Conference in Ontario in 1953 was entitled “Mennonite Brethren: From 
Where to Where.” And a typical expression of my cousin the late John A. 
Toews, another historian in the clan, was that “a church without the past 
will soon be a church without a future.” 

Besides the broad influences that shaped my historical patterns of 
thought, the statement of Alvin C. Porteous in The Search for Christian 
Credibility, has nurtured my spirit: “In order to do justice to the elements 
of both continuity and change in formulating Christian beliefs, our theo- 
logical reflections must keep in fruitful tension all three modes of time: 
past, present, and future.” 

From 1972 to 1982 I concentrated my efforts on establishing the Men- 
nonite Brethren archives and a historical research center, in addition to 
continued part-time teaching at the seminary and broader ministries at home 
and abroad. To get some professional direction for the assignment I spent 
a few weeks at the George Washington University in Washington, D.C., 
and earned a certificate in archival classification. 

Initially, the archives were located in the northwest corner of the 
Hiebert Library (1972-1980), but that did not provide room for proper or- 
ganization and classification. The remodeling of the library in 1980 pro- 
vided adequate space for the development of the center. 


182 


JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


Rachel Hiebert, a professional librarian, was a godsend for the project. 
She assumed responsibility for the organization and classification of the 
archives from 1976 to 1984, and then served as cataloger from 1984-1987. 

In 1974 the plans for a Historical Commission were processed by the 
Canadian Conference in July in Vancouver, and the U.S. Conference in 
September in Henderson, Nebraska. The August 1975 meeting of the Gen- 
eral Conference in Winnipeg, granted approval to the structure of the Cen- 
ters for Mennonite Brethren Studies to be attached to the 
conference-operated schools in Winnipeg, Hillsboro and Fresno. That 
action marked the official beginning of the Fresno center as the General 
Conference archival repository. 

In the meantime, work was under way on producing long-needed 
materials to undergird our historic understandings. In 1973, with the en- 
couragement of the Historical Commission, I accepted the task to translate 
P.M. Friesen’s Alt-Evangelische Mennonitische Bruderschaft in Russland 
(1 789-1910). The first plan was to distribute sections of the book to sev- 
eral people qualified for translation, such as college and high school teachers 
with competence in English and German. It became clear in two years that 
this process was producing an uneven translation. An editorial committee 
was selected, consisting of myself as chair, along with leading historians 
Abraham Friesen, Peter J. Klassen, John B. Toews, and Harry Loewen. Large 
sections of the first translation were redone, and other sections edited. 
This process required another two years of intensive work. 

The small honorariums and travel for the joint meetings of the com- 
mittee required a budget of $32,000. The Kroeker Foundation of Winkler, 
Manitoba provided the initial $15,000 and C. A. DeFehr and Sons of 
Winnipeg provided another $5,000. The remaining $12,000 came from 
individual business people and churches. The English translation was re- 
leased in the summer of 1978 under the title The Mennonite Brotherhood 
in Russia (1 789-1910). 

The year 1978 also marked the release of my book The Mennonite 
Brethren Church in Zaire. As time permitted, I had worked on the manu- 
script for four years. To have the church in Zaire share in the process I had 
made a special visit there in 1973 with the first draft of the manuscript. 
Their contributions were helpful in preparing the final manuscript which I 
presented to them for approval in 1976. 


A Continued Ministry 


183 


Attics and Closets 

The 1975 General Conference approval for the Center specified that 
its permanent location was to be at the seminary. The first step in estab- 
lishing the archives was to gather a full set of conference yearbooks from 
private collections. My broad ministry in the churches was the channel for 
gathering these materials. In many cases we searched attics and closets for 
long-neglected books and records. 

A second phase was the search for minutes, agenda and correspon- 
dence of the various conference boards. This required tracing the names 
and addresses of the board and committee secretaries of the past, writing 
to them, and searching for what could be retrieved. This required much 
time and energy. The most complete records were found in the Board of 
Foreign Missions files located in the Tabor College Library. H. W. Lohrenz 
and A. E. Janzen must be credited for their foresight and initiative in pre- 
serving these materials. 

The hardest task lay before us: gathering the historical records and 
minutes from individual churches. In 1977 1 determined to visit every church 
to see what records and minutes could be found and then to microfilm the 
material for our permanent collection. 

I first made several trips to San Francisco to consult with firms that 
specialized in microfilming. I learned that what we needed was a camera 
set for a specific light environment. We then decided to purchase a travel 
trailer and equip it with a microfilm camera and appropriate lighting. With 
the assistance of Jake Riediger, then the General Conference treasurer, we 
estimated the cost of the project and came to the conference with a plan 
and a budget. 

The proposal was approved. I purchased a new travel trailer, had the 
equipment installed by a specialist and tested the process on the seminary 
campus. The good results in microfilming the records from local Fresno 
churches bolstered our confidence that the undertaking could work. We 
purchased a new truck and began to plan the journey to the churches 
across Canada and the U.S. 

In the providence of God, Jake Riediger suggested that his nephew 
Bill Reimer, at the time a student at Columbia Bible College in Clearbrook, 
B.C. and a very knowledgeable and gifted young man, be recruited to do 
the microfilming and to drive the truck. Bill, open to adventure, responded 
favorably to the opportunity. 


184 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


After the close of school in spring 1978, Bill and I drove to Montana 
to begin our task. From the town of Lustre, Montana, we went to British 
Columbia, and then east through the Canadian provinces, then down to 
North and South Dakota, Minnesota and Nebraska. We left Kansas and 
Oklahoma to be done from the Tabor College Center. When we were 
finished the trailer and truck were sold. The entire process took nine 
months. 

Open Heart Surgery 

I took the place of Hans Kasdorf on the seminary faculty for the sec- 
ond semester of the 1978-1979 school year while he had heart by-pass 
surgery. Little did I know that by spring of 1979 1 would be a candidate for 
the same operation. 

My case was critical because the obstruction was in the main artery 
close to the entrance of the heart. The nine months of travel among the 
churches had been hard on me, and were followed by a full teaching load 
upon my return. 

The physician, “Dr. Sam,” spoke candidly of the risk of the surgery. 
Recovery was not a foregone conclusion. Nettie, always a realist, wanted 
to make preparation in case of my death. She insisted that together we 
select a burial place. After a visit to several cemeteries we heard of Belmont 
Memorial Park. The park-like setting, with large trees and a bell tower in 
the center, struck a chord in her heart. “John,” she said, “would it not be 
nice to put you in the shadow of the bell tower?” “Yes,” I said. Little did we 
realize that she would be first to rest in this beautiful spot. 

The surgery was successful. I spent a whole week in intensive care. 
God’s grace and providence spared my life. I was told that recovery would 
take six months, but it went faster than anticipated. My recovery from 
heart surgery was remarkable. I have accepted the additional years as a 
special gift of God, an extension of my days for a specific purpose. 

Eighteen months before the surgery I had learned that one of my old 
friends, Heinrich Woelk, a fellow student in high school in Russia, had 
survived the communist purges. While convalescing, the message came 
that he and his family had come to Germany. Because I was forbidden to 
teach and preach for six months after the surgery, I decided to go to Ger- 
many and meet the classmate I though had been dead. Nettie was hesi- 
tant, but finally agreed to let me go. 


A Continued Ministry 


185 


In October 1979 1 travelled to Germany. We had a wonderful reunion 
at the Frankfort airport. What an experience after fifty-three years, to meet 
a cherished friend whom I had considered dead along with all the rest of 
my friends and classmates. (To my knowledge, only one former classmate 
succeeded in leaving Russia in 1924. He was Johann Janzen, for many 
years a teacher in the Manitoba school system.) 

The two weeks of my stay in Germany laid the groundwork for the 
book Die Mennoniten Brudergemeinde in Russ land, 1925-1980 by 
Heinrich Woelk and Gerhard Woelk, a very valuable chapter of history of 
the Mennonite Brethren Church. 

The Cloud of Witnesses 

The extensive travel in our North American churches and the new 
trends I saw emerging at home and abroad, impressed me deeply that the 
church in general, and the Mennonite Brethren fellowship in particular, 
was facing a major shift at its center. The conference seemed preoccupied 
with programs and structure rather than with matters of inner character 
and spiritual moorings. I became deeply concerned that our historical and 
theological consciousness be nourished on an ongoing basis. 

To assure resources for the future historical research and writing I 
came upon the idea of establishing an endowment for the Center of Men- 
nonite Brethren Studies to be known as “The Cloud of Witnesses.” With 
the approval of the conference in 1987, an endowment fund — projected to 
eventually reach $500,000 to $750,000 — was launched. The first contribu- 
tion came from the estate of J. C. Ediger of Henderson, Nebraska. The 
second contribution came from the estate of Otto B. Reimer of Reedley. 
These plus some smaller contributions from individual donors helped us 
pass the $100,000 mark. At this writing some $200,000 has been commit- 
ted from various estates. I maintain the hope that in the providence of 
God more resources will be forthcoming to meet this need. 

I retired from the center in 1982 at the age of seventy-six. I was deeply 
grateful that Paul, our second son and a professor of history at Fresno 
Pacific College, was appointed as director to succeed me. 


CHAPTER 19 


A Conference Servant 


L et me pause here to reflect on other conference ministries with which 
I was involved over the years. They illustrate some of the issues that 
have occupied the Mennonite Brethren over the years, and point to 
larger concerns. 

Perhaps this is also the appropriate place to explain my use of the 
term “brotherhood.” Today this term has fallen out of fashion, but for 
much of Mennonite Brethren history it represented a bond of spiritual fel- 
lowship and mutuality that transcended gender. Ironically, it originally 
expressed the inclusive nature of the renewal movement that broke away 
from the larger Mennonite church in I860. The mutual connectedness and 
interdependency that this term sought to convey appears to be declining 
as Mennonite Brethren approach the twenty-first century. 

Youth and Education 

I entered the ranks of the larger conference in 1936, at the age of 
thirty. I was chosen to serve on the General Conference Youth Committee 
from 1936 to 1939- From the start, my involvements brought me in touch 
with controversy. In 1937 the conference launched The Christian Leader, 
an English language publication aimed at young people. As a member of 
the Youth Committee executive I was directly involved in the editorial re- 
sponsibility. 

The introduction of the Leader can be seen as a milestone in the 
conference’s struggle to shift from German to English. The youth who 
descended from the 1870s migration of Mennonite Brethren to North 
America had lost their literacy in German, even though many churches still 
used German as the language of worship. Those churches composed of 
more recent immigrants from the 1920s and 1930s opposed the publica- 
tion of the Leaderbecause they saw it as a threat. The refusal of the Coaldale 
Mennonite Brethren Church to ordain me, referred to earlier, may have 
been related to my membership in the committee that published The Chris- 
tian Leader. 


A Conference Servant 


187 


In 1943 1 was elected to serve on the Tabor College board. Here again 
I soon found myself in the midst of turmoil, namely the seismic shift from 
one generation of leadership to another. Up to 1942 the reins of the col- 
lege had always been in the hands of trusted churchmen like H. W. Lohrenz, 
P. C. Hiebert and A. E. Janzen. The arrival of Peter E. Schellenberg, how- 
ever, represented a departure from this tradition. 

He was a grandson of Elder Abraham Schellenberg, one of the 
founders of the Mennonite Brethren Church in North America. He was a 
scholar, a psychologist, with an analytical faith that was deeply rooted in 
salvation history. But some constituents were suspicious: Could a psy- 
chologist be a true Christian? At the 1943 General Conference in Buhler he 
publicly shared his testimony, and the board affirmed his leadership. 

I personally had profound respect for P. E. Schellenberg. I felt he was 
a man of great commitment who saw a clear direction in the overall pur- 
pose of the college. But a small group of older students in the Tabor bible 
department continued to question his integrity and to agitate against him. 
Their suspicions spread into the constituency and undermined his leader- 
ship. At work here was a larger public conflict between fundamentalism 
and liberalism that affected Mennonite Brethren more than we recognized 
on the surface. He was not understood by the constituency, nor by the 
board that came into office in 1951. Schellenberg terminated his presidency 
in 1951, but the tensions that led to his departure were not so easily re- 
solved. 

Reference and Counsel 

In 1945, at the conference in Dinuba, Calif., I was elected to the Com- 
mittee of Reference and Counsel and subsequently served a total of fifteen 
years. Those years marked the beginning of a profoundly destabilizing 
era in Mennonite Brethren history. In one generation, 1950-1970, the church 
went through a cataclysmic cultural and spiritual transition. A rural, agri- 
cultural, homogeneous people shook off their migrant past and became 
urbanized, professional and fully integrated into the culture of their day. 
(This transition is explored in chapters 16-21 of my earlier book, A Pil- 
grimage of Faith) The church found itself groping for moorings amid this 
sea of change, and the Committee of Reference and Counsel was at the 
forefront of the struggle. Its 1948 conference report highlighted some ma- 
jor concerns. First, the strong infiltration of parachurch organizations that 


188 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


came into our churches like a wave after the switch from German to En- 
glish. Second, for the first time, the issue of divorce and remarriage be- 
came an urgent issue. Third, deep concern was expressed over the spiritual 
welfare of the churches. Fourth, nonresistance was a burning issue in light 
of the Second World War experience, and continued to remain a concern 
through the 1980s. 

A major task that came to me through the 1951 conference was to 
carry out negotiations with the Krimmer Mennonite Brethren Church, which 
had made overtures to merge with us. One of the hurdles was the KMB 
program of overseas missions. All their missionaries served with parachurch 
mission agencies. The repeated meetings with KMB leaders from 1951 
until the actual merger in I960 took much time, as we sorted out how to 
integrate their mission interests with ours. The fact that there was a no- 
table lack of unity within the KMB constituency did not help. 

Early Fragmentation 

The 1951 conference saw the beginning of a slide away from our 
historic sense of brotherhood and a rising sense of individualism and au- 
tonomy. The record of that conference contains a lengthy document that 
I authored: “A Frank Analysis of Our Spiritual Status (our duty as we see 
it).” This document pointed to the “revolutionizing changes” affecting the 
church and made “An Appeal for a Reaffirmation of the Historic Principle 
of the Interrelationship of Mennonite Brethren Churches” with Proposed 
Ways and Means to be Considered to Strengthen the Existing Weaknesses.” 

The conference response was to refer the document to the local 
churches for review and reaction. By doing so we lost the full intent of the 
document. The churches had changed, and there was a reaction to the 
central authority of a special conference committee as suggested in the 
document. The 1954 conference handed more General Conference au- 
thority to the provincial conferences in Canada and the regional confer- 
ences in the U.S. where implementation of the directive control of the 
conference was gradually lost. We on the Committee of Reference and 
Counsel during this time felt that the basic principle of central authority 
was now gone. This accounts for the fragmentation we find in the Menno- 
nite Brethren Church today, with regional conferences and local churches 
(and their pastors) being increasingly independent of any larger sense of 
accountability. (See also chapter 21 of A Pilgrimage of Faith.) 


A Conference Servant 


189 


The 1957 conference drew attention to the spirit of individualism and 
called for greater unity and love for the church. The contentious issues 
being dealt with at the time had to do with baptism and nonresistance. 
The concern over disunity led to a resolution calling for the preparation of 
books that would shore up Mennonite Brethren identity in the areas of 
history, biblical doctrines, polity and practice, and missions. 

I was asked to prepare the book on “Mennonite Brethren Theology 
(Biblical Doctrine).” I worked on it, as my schedule allowed, for the next 
several years and prepared a tentative outline. I read all the writing of 
Mennonite Brethren in the Friedenstimme in Russia, the Zionbote in North 
America and other papers by Mennonite Brethren to gain insights into the 
various trends in our history. My conclusion, after all this research, was 
that Mennonite Brethren had an implicit biblical theology; they believed in 
the Bible and found the answers for faith and life as needs demanded. 
This research eventually led to the manuscript, A Pilgrimage of Faith, which 
was finally published in 1993 (thirty-six years after the original assignment). 

I withdrew from the Board of Reference and Counsel in I960 be- 
cause of the press of responsibilities with the Board of Foreign Missions. I 
had served for fifteen years. The tone of this period can be detected in the 
concerns raised in conference messages of the time. 

In his “state of the conference” message at the 1954 Canadian Confer- 
ence, B. B. Janz lamented the encroachment of dangerous tendencies: 
materialism, worldliness, thirst for honor, spiritual shallowness, disobedi- 
ence of children and youth, lack of personal pastoral care ( Seelsorge ), weak- 
ening of church discipline, child conversions before maturity, and general 
spiritual decline. 

By the time we celebrated the centennial of the Mennonite Brethren 
Church in I960, there were deep concerns about our future. In his centen- 
nial conference message, G. W. Peters called for repentance and renewal. 
John A. Toews noted that our concept of salvation, our sense of separation 
from the world, and our view of scriptural authority were all suffering ero- 
sion. 

Board of Missions and Services 

I did not serve on any General Conference boards from I960 to 1966. 
I was too busy implementing the missions policies of 1957. Some mission- 
aries felt I was too dictatorial in establishing policies that limited individual 


190 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


liberties. One had to do with personal gifts to missionaries. Some of our 
overseas workers still accepted personal gifts from churches and individu- 
als in addition to their mission board support, a carryover from before 
1957. In some cases these private funds were quite substantial. We had to 
work hard to re-educate the missionaries and their donors to limit per- 
sonal liberties and channel these gifts into the general treasury. 

My resignation as executive and promotional secretary of missions in 
the spring of 1963 was an extremely difficult decision. I was anxious that 
the new leadership continue the progress we had made to forge a new 
partnership with the national churches. Missiologist Hans Kasdorf has sug- 
gested that our vision for “Partnership in Obedience” was far ahead of its 
time. In my view, not much progress has been made in this area since 
then. 

In 1966, at the conference in Corn, Oklahoma, the Board of General 
Welfare and Public Relations was merged with the Board of Missions and 
renamed the Board of Missions and Services. I was urged to accept a six- 
year term on this board, 1966-1972. 

These six years were difficult for me. For one thing, little attention 
was being given to the relationship to the national churches, as mentioned 
earlier. For another, the whole concept of missionary service was chang- 
ing. The basic understanding of missions as a service performed with no 
guaranteed remuneration was abandoned. Until then, our missionaries 
had served with a mere allowance for basic needs rather than a stipulated 
salary. These allowances would vary according to circumstances and costs 
of living in the various countries. 

The conference assumed the responsibility of providing for the mis- 
sionaries’ needs in retirement. For example, when the Jakob J. Dicks re- 
turned from the field because of illness, they settled in British Columbia. I 
negotiated the financial arrangement with the B.C. Conference, which built 
them a house with voluntary labor and assumed a portion of their support. 
The mission office provided a subsidy. Similar provisions were made for 
other missionaries. In the case of the Peter V. Balzers and John Lohrenz 
the conference support was minimal because they owned land with oil 
rights and did not need help. 

Office personnel lived by the same policies. When I joined the mis- 
sion staff in 1954 my allowance was $290 per month, at the time the high- 
est allowance paid. 


A Conference Servant 


191 


This all changed in the 1970s. Missionaries and administrators re- 
ceived regular salaries. A typical high school teacher’s salary was accepted 
as the standard for a missionary, plus special expenses like travel, cur- 
rency exchange and child support. Missionary service became a profes- 
sional occupation, with standard financial returns. 

For me, and for us as a family, this became a major issue. We had 
always believed strongly in the service concept. When I left the seminary 
presidency in 1972 my annual salary was $10,000. I had volunteered to 
serve with the limited income. Nettie and I were still committed to our 
1932 covenant, “It is all right to be poor.” My successor began his admin- 
istration with a salary of $18,000. 

The issue, however, was not dollars but rather dependence, trust and 
faith. I felt then, as I do now, that something was lost when we made the 
shift to a professionalized ministry. 

A second issue for me while on the mission board was the introduc- 
tion of the Good News Corps, a new opportunity for short-term service in 
missions. Even though I recognized the benefit such service could bring, 
I was troubled because it did not demand long-range commitment. To 
receive the benefit of one year of language study for two years of service 
with no long-term obligation was, in my view, not acceptable. As it turns 
out, very few Good News Corps workers have gone on to long-term mis- 
sionary assignments. 

These two concerns — the professionalization of the ministry and the 
short-term service program — led me to question my continued service on 
the mission board. Still, at the 1972 conference I was elected for another 
six years. I became uneasy as I contemplated this prospect. On the last 
day of the conference I asked the delegation to release me. I suggested 
they replace me with John Kliewer, long-time missionary in Zaire and at 
the time pastor of the Silver Lake Mennonite Brethren Church in South 
Dakota. The conference granted my request. 

Continual Drift 

As I reflect on my years in various levels of conference leadership, I con- 
tinue to grieve over the relentless move toward greater professionalization 
of the ministry. I believe it has resulted in the institutionalization of the 
church. From a covenant people — a brotherhood — we have drifted to 
become a mere association of independent churches. This is partly due to 


192 


JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


the influence of American evangelicalism with its emphasis on the benefits 
of salvation without a consistent biblical theology manifested in the char- 
acter of the church. 

To have these changes take place during my years of conference lead- 
ership has been a most difficult experience for me. All attempts to mold 
the Mennonite Brethren fellowship appear to have been ineffective. The 
trend of accommodation was unstoppable, despite a Board of Reference 
and Counsel composed of strong leaders like A. H. Unruh, B. B. Janz, J. W. 
Vogt, H. H. Janzen and B. J. Braun in the 1950s and John A. Toews, David 
Ewert and Cornelius J. Rempel in the 1960s. 

The death of John A. Toews while chair of the General conference in 
1979 was a major loss in the historical struggle. The coming leadership of 
the 1980s was more from the ranks of professional pastors who were less 
interested in history and theology. Their concerns focused on their own 
positions in the local church and on evangelism. Church planting became 
the center of the conference program, with less attention paid to the spiri- 
tual qualities that the churches needed in order to be effective in reaching 
out to their immediate communities. 


CHAPTER 20 


In the Shadow of Death 


N ettie and I spent considerable time apart in the summer of 1976. I 
felt it was necessary to take an extended visit to Africa to check the 
final draft of The Mennonite Brethren Church in Zaire with the 
national church. As a continuing teacher of history and theology, I also 
felt the need for a longer exposure to the world mission scene. 

Nettie spent that summer with her sister, Grace, in Hillsboro. During 
the previous winter and spring she had complained of loss of energy, diz- 
ziness and general lack of well-being. While in Hillsboro, upon the urging 
of Grace, she went to the clinic at the Bethel Hospital in Newton. The 
diagnosis suggested a blood abnormality, perhaps even polycythemia (an 
over-production of red blood cells). 

Back in Fresno we consulted her doctor, but he was unable to con- 
firm the Newton diagnosis. Numerous tests failed to substantiate the pos- 
sibility of polycythemia. Her doctor suggested we go to the University 
Hospital in San Francisco, which specialized in blood diseases. 

Signals of Concern 

We spent two days with the specialists in San Francisco. The Newton 
doctors had been correct. The verdict was polycythemia. We were openly 
told there was no cure for it. The suggestion was to have monthly blood 
tests. When the blood thickened, it was to be drawn to let the red blood 
cells multiply again. The doctors indicated that the condition would ulti- 
mately be fatal. The culmination would be either a rapid blood cancer or 
a series of strokes. The time frame they gave us was about two years. 

Nettie, a nurse by training, took the news very seriously but charac- 
teristically did not panic. She was seventy-five at the time; I was seventy- 
two. Monthly blood tests were initiated immediately. At first it was 
necessary to draw blood only every other month. Very realistically, but 
calmly, Nettie began to express concern about the medical care that even- 
tually would become necessary. In the spring of 1978 she suggested we 
sell our house and move into an apartment at Twilight Haven, a nearby 
retirement center with multiple levels of care. I did not feel ready for such 


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a change, but agreed to her suggestion in light of my continued absences 
in ministries and teaching. 

We applied for an apartment at Twilight Haven, only two blocks from 
our house, across the street from the Special Events Center of Fresno Pa- 
cific College. Nettie would feel more secure there during my absences, 
and help would be available if needed. 

Nettie’s disciplined diet, long walks twice a day, and monthly blood 
tests at the hospital sustained her. She did not want her condition to inter- 
rupt my ministry. Her ailment worsened as time went on. Soon it was 
necessary to take a pint of blood every month. 

In December 1983 she suffered her first stroke, which left her slightly 
handicapped in her lower extremities. She recovered remarkably, so much 
so that she encouraged me to accept an invitation for a ministry in Russia 
in 1985. I went but my absence took a considerable toll on Nettie despite 
her earlier improvement. 

The plan had been to spend three weeks in Russia followed by an- 
other three to four weeks of ministry in Europe. During the three weeks in 
Russia Nettie and I were completely cut off from communication as no 
private international calls were going through. The moment I arrived back 
in Frankfurt, Germany, on October 3, I called Nettie. Her first question 
was, “Are you still alive?” The three weeks of uncertainty had been too 
much for her. “John,” she said with a pleading voice, “I need you.” 

I immediately canceled the engagements in Europe and made arrange- 
ments to catch the first plane out of Frankfurt to Los Angeles. By late 
evening the same day I was home. Nettie was relieved. During my ab- 
sence she had suffered a light stroke. 

While I was away an apartment in the same complex but on Winery 
Avenue, had become available. It was larger and somewhat closer to the 
library and seminary. We moved to the Winery apartment the next month. 
My schedule was revised to stay home, as Nettie was at a stage where I 
needed to remain close. 

January 6, 1986 

On January 6, the anniversary of the founding of the Mennonite Breth- 
ren Church in I860, 1 was in San Jose for a weekend. Nettie was still wait- 
ing up for me when I returned. As we sat and reviewed the experiences of 
the weekend, she suffered another stroke, this one very severe. I carried 


In the Shadow of Death 


195 


her to her bed and called the doctor. He suggested we let her rest at home 
overnight. 

She was transferred to the hospital in the morning. Several weeks of 
hospitalization followed. At times we expected her to die, but then she 
would rally. She regained full consciousness. By the end of January she 
had recovered sufficiently to come home. I took personal responsibility 
for her care with the help of a nurse who would come in when needed. 
February and March went well. It was very rewarding to care for her even 
though it was very taxing. 

On March 23 her sister Grace in Hillsboro had a serious accident. A 
silk scarf she was wearing caught fire as she bent over the gas stove and 
she was badly burned. Grace, who had been such a vital part of our lives, 
was at the point of death. Since travel for Nettie was out of the question, it 
was decided that I would rush to the Wichita hospital to be at her side. 
Nettie was transferred to the Valley Convalescent Hospital for the time of 
my absence. 

It was clear when I arrived in Wichita that Grace would not live long. 
I made arrangements for her funeral, selected the coffin, and advised the 
Hillsboro Funeral Home of procedures. I felt it best to fly home for a day 
and personally inform Nettie of Grace’s condition, and than return to Kan- 
sas for the funeral. On the evening of my return, April 7, the message came 
that Grace had died. 

The loss of our dear sister was too much for Nettie and me. I was 
hospitalized with heart irregularities. Nettie had another serious stroke. 
We were both in the hospital from April 7 to 14. Paul flew to Hillsboro to 
participate in Grace’s funeral. I regained stability after a week of rest in the 
hospital. A few days later Nettie could be transferred to the hospital wing 
of Twilight Haven. 

A Peaceful Homegoing 

The time from May until October 15, 1986 was a very sacred period 
for Nettie, me and our family. John and Paul with their families were in 
Fresno; James was in Salem, Oregon. 

In the providence of God, Hans and Irene Pankratz and their chil- 
dren, from Paraguay, were at the seminary. Irene, a nurse by profession, 
became a God-sent angel for us. Every day, Monday through Friday, Irene 
would come to Twilight Haven at 2:30 in the afternoon, help Nettie into a 


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wheelchair and bring her home to our apartment. She would provide 
fellowship for Nettie and a measure of outdoor exposure by wheeling her 
to the seminary and college to dispel the atmosphere of the sickroom. I 
continued my regular schedule of work during the day, coming home at 
five for a supper prepared by Irene. I would care for Nettie during the 
dinner hour and roll her back to the hospital care unit of Twilight Haven 
for the night. 

Periodically Nettie would have light strokes, but they did not affect 
her mental functions. Our communication remained vibrant through the 
final months of her illness. Many visitors called on her. 

On Saturday, October 12, we again had our evening meal together. 
She looked at the daily paper. While sitting side by side we talked about 
family matters. Both of us had accepted the fact that our time together was 
growing shorter every day. After dinner we played a German record of the 
Janz quartet in Germany. The concluding hymn was, “I have a home that 
awaits me above, and I will not be a stranger there.” Quietly Nettie wiped 
her tears. The music stopped. Silently we sat for a few moments, then she 
said, with eyes glistening, “I have a home above where Jesus is, and I will 
not be a stranger there.” Neither of us realized this would be the last time 
we were together alone in our apartment. 

Sunday morning, October 13, when I came to her bedside before 
going to church, the nurse in charge told me Nettie was running a low 
fever and could not go out that day. John, Paul, and their wifes came to 
her bedside Sunday afternoon and we visited with her. Her doctor came 
Monday afternoon to check the cause of the fever. His diagnosis was that 
her kidneys were failing. He called me to say he wished to send an ambu- 
lance to take her to the hospital for dialysis. I asked him to wait a moment. 

Nettie, years before had requested no heroic medical measures to 
prolong her life. Now when I went to her bedside to tell her that her 
doctor wanted to transfer her, she calmly said, “Please let me stay here and 
don’t take me to the hospital.” The family concurred. I called the doctor 
and gave him the decision. The decision had been made. Quietly we waited. 

Late Monday afternoon Nettie slipped slowly into a coma. The imme- 
diate family came to her bedside. There were moments when she would 
recognize those surrounding her. By evening she did not respond. The 
hour of separation was near. 


In the Shadow of Death 


197 


We took turns at her bedside. At Paul’s urging I went to the apart- 
ment at midnight to rest but could not sleep. In two hours I was back at 
her bedside and urged Paul, who had stayed with her, to go home. 

I sat with her, my finger on her pulse, while she rested quietly. At 
3:45 a.m. the pulse became irregular. Ten minutes later she took a deep 
breath, attempted a second breath, and her pulse stopped. I called our 
sons. They came quickly. Nettie’s spirit had departed. It was 4:00 a.m., 
Wednesday, October 15. 

The seminary was hosting a study conference that was to begin that 
afternoon and last until Friday. Nettie’s funeral had to be delayed until 
Monday. All her life she had adjusted to the schedules of special meetings 
and conferences. This was true even in death. 

Many guests who had come to the study conference postponed their 
departure from Saturday to Monday. A large contingent of conference 
leaders and guests was present at the service. The shadow of the Bell 
Tower, the spot she had selected for me at the time of my heart surgery 
seven years earlier, became her resting place. 

A Serious Injury 

Because of Nettie’s condition I had delayed neck surgery that was 
necessary due to a car accident I was involved in while winding up our 
sister Grace’s estate. Grace, who had died in April, left her entire estate to 
an endowment for the Chair of Missions and Evangelism at the Mennonite 
Brethren Biblical Seminary. I traveled to Hillsboro to look after the liqui- 
dation together with my brother-in-law, Isaac Unruh. An invitation for a 
weekend ministry at the Mennonite Brethren Church in Ebenfeld (Hillsboro) 
set the time for a weekend in June. 

When I landed at the airport in Wichita on a Wednesday, my baggage 
was missing. Two days later we received a message that the baggage had 
been located and was now available at the airport. After a day’s work 
sorting Grace’s personal belongings, Isaac and I decided to drive to Wichita 
for the luggage. 

The evening traffic on Highway 54 was heavy. We stopped for the 
last traffic light before the airport turnoff. Through the rearview mirror 
Isaac saw a car approaching at full speed. “They will hit us,” he screamed. 
He did not finish the warning. The car, driven by two young people, 


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slammed into our rear end resulting in a chain reaction involving three 
other cars in front of us. 

I had not been prepared for the crash. When everything stopped I 
was unconscious. I had suffered severe whiplash from the rear impact. 
The collision with the car in front of us threw me forward so I shattered the 
windshield with my forehead. I have very little memory of what followed. 
I regained consciousness in the hospital. 

Later, at my bedside, the physician asked about my previous neck 
injury. The X-rays revealed the injuries I had sustained many years ago, at 
the age of nineteen in Gnadenfeld, Russia. I spent three days in intensive 
care before I being transferred to the hospital ward. The need for major 
surgery was established. 

As Nettie was then deteriorating, I could not think of staying in Wichita 
for any duration. Our son John came to Wichita to help me back to Fresno. 
My surgery would have to wait. I lived with heavy neck braces, much 
pain, and a loss of equilibrium. 

A month after Nettie’s burial I submitted to surgery. The recovery 
took many weeks. My equilibrium, for a time, was quite good. Gradually, 
however, I experienced increasing instability in mobility, and needed a 
cane for balance. 

Surgery only one month after Nettie’s death deepened the conscious- 
ness of her loss. Her tender care and undying affection, which had sur- 
rounded me in past surgeries and illnesses, was missing. Painfully, I had 
to process the reality that she was no longer at my side. She had been the 
center of our family life, and she was gone. 

A burden for my brethren from Russia, the Umsiedler Mennonites 
who were immigrating to Germany, became one of my chief concerns. 
Annual ministries in Europe became a major focus of my life in the initial 
years of widowhood. The ministries in Europe, South America, U.S. and 
Canada became the substitute for the void in my life left by Nettie’s pass- 
ing. 


CHAPTER 21 


A Return Home 


T he 1980s presented two occasions for me to return to Russia. For 
safety reasons, I had turned down an earlier opportunity to revisit 
the land of my birth. 

In the mid-1950s I had been invited by Harold S. Bender to join a 
Mennonite Central Committee delegation to Russia to gather information 
on dislocated Mennonites. During the 1930s many Mennonites, especially 
ministers and community leaders, had been persecuted. Some had been 
banished to Siberian labor camps; some had been executed. I declined 
Bender’s invitation, as I had escaped only thirty years earlier while subject 
to military service and did not consider it safe to return. 

My fears and suspicions had been fueled by an incident in 1940. While 
at the seminary in Portland, I had applied for a U.S. resident visa to accept 
an invitation to Freeman, College in South Dakota. The U.S. Consulate 
required a birth certificate. Because I had been born in Russia I wrote to 
the Russian Consulate in San Francisco. They demanded that I submit my 
passport, which they promised to return, as evidence of my Russian birth. 
Months later I was notified that my request for a birth certificate was de- 
nied. My passport was never returned. I took this to be a serious omen. 

By now, in 1985, things were different. A new era was dawning in 
the Soviet Union. It seemed hardly likely that my escape of sixty years 
earlier would be a matter of concern. 

David Redekop of Winnipeg, a veteran of several previous visits to 
Russia, had received an official invitation from the Mennonite Brethren 
churches in the Orenburg region through the channel of the All-Union 
Council of Evangelical Christian-Baptists of the U.S.S.R. The invitation was 
for us to visit and minister in the churches. Along with Johann Koehn, a 
former resident of the Orenburg settlement who had migrated to West 
Germany five years earlier, we traveled to Russia in September 1985. 

If we needed any reminding, the customs inspection in Moscow 
quickly demonstrated that we were in a different world. At the suggestion 
of others who had visited among the Russian Mennonites I had packed 
books on Anabaptist faith and Mennonite history as gifts for our brothers 
and sisters in their search for identity after so many decades of isolation. 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


These included the works of Menno Simons, P. M. Friesen and A. H. Unruh. 
Now, however the customs officer declared all this material confiscated. 

Johann Koehn stood by and watched. On the flight to Moscow he 
had informed us that he would not reveal his fluent knowledge of the 
Russian language. He had secured a German passport and did not want to 
let on that he was a former Russian. But he could not contain himself 
when he saw what was happening. In perfect Russian he burst out and 
challenged the customs officer. “We have come to your country as official 
delegates upon invitation of the Union Council of the Churches in Russia. 
The books that you confiscate contain the material which we came to 
present to the Russian churches. You have no right to confiscate official 
material that is being brought at the request of your own Russian organiza- 
tions.” 

After a brief but heated exchange of words the customs officer backed 
off and returned all the books. The first round of confrontation with the 
Soviets had been won. The books were later given to Johannes Dyck a 
young historian in Karaganda and at the time the official historian of the 
union council. 

As official guests of the council, we were met at the airport by Walter 
Mitz-Kovitch of the Theological Institute of the Evangelical Christians. Mr. 
Mitz-Kovitch remained our official host through the time in Russia. The 
union covered all our expenses in the Soviet Union. 

Being back in the Russian environment was a test of how much of 
the language I had retained after some sixty years. I could still follow 
personal conversations, and understood the content of public presenta- 
tions. But I did not have the vocabulary to personally respond to the 
conversations. I resorted to speaking through an interpreter. 

The official leadership of the union was very cordial. A number of 
consultations were arranged and we participated in the celebration of the 
hundredth birthday of the first chairman of the union, Jakob Zhidkov, who 
had died some years earlier. 

I was deeply moved by the public meetings in which we participated. 
I again felt the deep soul of the Russian people. Our arrival in Orenburg 
was celebrated with a welcome dinner. Daniel Janzen, leading minister of 
the church in Donskoye, Peter Enns, leader of the church in Orenburg 
city, and Victor Serpevski, the presbyter of the Orenburg region, served as 
our hosts for the visit. 


A Return Home 


201 


The Orenburg settlement, consisting of fourteen villages, was estab- 
lished in the 1890s. The Mennonites of this area were not affected by 
World War II; they were not evacuated as were the Mennonites in the 
Ukraine. The villages were basically unchanged. 

The heart of our visit were the public worship services. We were the 
first Mennonite delegation from abroad to visit Orenburg. Earlier visits 
had not been permitted to come to this area. 

The services were moving. Our first public service was arranged for 
the evening of our arrival in Donskoye. Every seat in the church was filled. 
The windows were opened and people sat outside, many of them stand- 
ing for the entire service, which lasted until after midnight. To meet our 
brothers and sisters who had been isolated for more than sixty years and 
find them strong in the faith was overwhelming. Several choirs partici- 
pated in the service. A night lunch was served at 2:00 a.m. 

A group of three people from the non-registered underground church 
asked to meet with me alone during the night to share their experiences. 
The underground church had suffered much persecution. The word of 
Christ, “I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against 
it” (Matt. 1 6 : 1 8) , was strongly confirmed in the testimony of these three 
who, like Nicodemus, had come during the night to find some encourage- 
ment. 

In private conversations we heard many stories describing the suffer- 
ing the Mennonites had endured during World War II; many of the men, 
fathers and sons, had been taken away, never to return. 

Upon our return to Moscow Johannes Dyck was called from 
Karaganda for personal consultation. In several private conversations he 
gave me a picture of the status of the church. He represented the Menno- 
nites who organizationally had identified with the Mennonite Baptist con- 
nection. I had read several articles in the Bratskij Vestnik, the paper of the 
Christian Baptist Union, outlining the historical roots of Anabaptism. All 
the books I had brought along were received with much gratitude. 

Some of the tension in which Johannes lived was reflected in his in- 
sistence that we not visit in the hotel but rather talk while strolling along 
the streets of Moscow. He felt the need to protect his identity and to pre- 
vent the possibility of our conversation being recorded by hidden micro- 
phones in the hotel. These furtive conversations enlarged my consciousness 
of divine mercy in my escape sixty years earlier. Why had I been able to 


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escape the suffering, isolation and death in the Siberian forced labor camps 
where most of my contemporaries ended their lives? The visit to Russia in 
1985 was a powerful reminder of how fortunate I had been. 

A Second Visit 

Four years later, in the summer of 1989, it was my privilege together 
with my three sons and their spouses to make a second visit to Russia, this 
time as a tourist. On this trip I was able to meet some of the friends from 
my youth. Of course, none of these were men, only women. They had 
lost their husbands and sons to the cruelty of war, evacuation and persecu- 
tion for being Germans and Christians. 

The return to Moscow for the second time provided an opportunity 
to reminisce. I recalled the several weeks in 1926 when we hid and anx- 
iously prayed for the change of my passport. The house where we hid, at 
that time the office of the Mennonite Center, is still there. Deep gratitude 
filled my heart that the process succeeded. 

The twenty days in Russia on this second return provided two events 
that touched me deeply. The first was a visit to Karaganda. In the middle 
of the vast expanse of Asiatic Russia is the memorable region of Karaganda, 
known for its rich coal mines. When our people — mostly women and 
children — were displaced from the villages in the Ukraine they were brought 
to these regions and used as laborers in the mines. 

The evening meeting in the Mennonite Brethren Church gave us the 
opportunity to meet a number of women from Alexandertal who had been 
part of my youth group. Now old and feeble, reflecting their years of grief 
over the loss of their husbands and sons, they sat before me in the audi- 
ence. 

I was asked to speak. Our group joined members of the choir and 
sang with them. Some faces looked familiar, though I could not identify 
them immediately. One was the wife of my spiritual mentor, David Reimer, 
to whom I owed so much. He was the one who negotiated my passport so 
I could escape. There was also Tina Reimer, one of our youth group from 
Alexandertal. The next morning, when I left the hotel for a brief walk, 
Liese Reimer sat at the door. We visited together for a time and reviewed 
the days of our youth. Again I wondered, why had I been spared the 
horrors that they had experienced? 


A Return Home 


203 


The second moving experience was a visit to the villages of my child- 
hood and youth. Halbstadt — now renamed Molochansk — was so familiar 
to me. Several buildings were still standing: the hospital where my mother 
had her eye operation, the Kommerz-schule (college) where my brother 
Aron studied, and the teacher’s college. 

In Gnadenfeld I found the campus of the Agronomic Institute, a sat- 
ellite of the University of the Ukraine, where I had experienced the crisis 
that necessitated my escape. I also found the high school, adjoining the 
Agronomic College, where I taught chemistry and algebra while at the 
college. The buildings of the oil refinery, where I worked as a student, 
were gone. 

The most touching experience came when we reached the village of 
Alexandertal. The school building in the center of the village, where I was 
born, was still standing though somewhat remodeled. The original build- 
ings on our homestead across the street were gone, but the place still had 
the grand view of the river and the large meadow beyond the valley. The 
church of my childhood and youth was also still there. It had been remod- 
eled as a community center. The sight of the church brought back memo- 
ries of the events so important to my development. I recalled my early 
childhood, the Sunday school on Sunday afternoons, the young people’s 
meetings, the weeks of Bible conferences. Here I had given my testimony 
before baptism and here I had preached my first sermon at the age of 
eighteen. 

The next day we drove to Alexanderkrone, the birthplace of my fa- 
ther. The time was too short to absorb all the memories. The chance to 
return to the places of my birth, childhood and youth remains a highlight 
of my life. To make that visit together with my sons was all the more 
rewarding. 

Interpreting the History 

The broad exposure of many years of ministry and the search for 
historical records provided the setting for reactivating the assignment of 
the 1950s to write the theology of the Mennonite Brethren. 

Following the trip to Russia, I committed myself to write two books. 
One of these was the spiritual pilgrimage of the Mennonite Brethren Church. 
It was published in 1993 under the title, Pilgrimage of Faith, and drew on 
my many years of reading, travelling and ministering in Mennonite Breth- 


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JB: A Twentieth-Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


ren churches in Europe, North and South America, Africa, Asia, and now 
Russia. The second book I committed myself to write was the story of my 
own pilgrimage, the book you now hold in your hands. 


1978 celebration of the completion of translation and publication of P. M. Friesen’s 
work: “Alt-Evangelische Mennoniten Bruderschaft in Russland, 1789-1910.” Left to 
right: Peter J. Klassen, one of the translates and editors, myself, Elmer Martens, 
member of the Board of Christian Literature and President of the Seminary. 


Ebenezer — Our 50th anniversary, 1983. 


Nettie’s resting place under the shadow of the bell tower in the Belmont Memorial 
Park. 


CHAPTER 22 


Epilogue 


M y lifespan (1906 to the present) has covered most of the twentieth 
century, a period described as a time of “breakneck changes, an 
era of the most troubled, unsettling, costly, adventurous and sur- 
prising time ever. More has changed and faster, more has been destroyed, 
more accomplished than in any comparable interval in the five thousand 
years since recorded history began.” 12 It had been my fortune to live dur- 
ing this watershed of history. 

Who would have thought, when I came on the scene, that life would 
change so quickly and dramatically. At first, our small Russian village was 
sheltered and serene, the cradle of a tight, culture-bound people with an 
unquestioning religious faith. But then, at the age of eight, the calm was 
brutally shattered as the First World War broke in like a thunderbolt and 
changed the course of history. 

My life was abruptly transformed with the absence of my father for 
three years (1914-1917) and the revolution that followed. The stability of 
the past gave way to a boiling cauldron of civil war, starvation and political 
and social upheaval. There seemed to be no flickering light at the end of 
the tunnel of time. 

The discipline and concentration required to complete my high school 
and university studies during this time of chaos strained me almost to the 
breaking point but equipped me with endurance and confidence that would 
serve me well. Though spiritually in a wilderness, I experienced the mer- 
cies of God even beyond mere survival. 

It was my fiance, Nettie Unruh, a woman so totally unselfish and kind, 
who helped me come to terms with God’s purpose for my life. Her words, 
“It is all right to be poor,” freed me to submit in humble obedience. She 
provided a center with spiritual sensitivity and wisdom that marked the 
course of my life’s ministry. As the mother of our three sons she was the 
heart of the family. She was the glue that held everything together during 
the weeks and months when my duties took me away from home. 

The tumult of the twentieth century became the cutting edge of 
struggle in my sixty years of public ministry. The cultural revolution of the 


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post- World War II years has tested my faith and commitment to the utmost. 
The Mennonite Brethren Church, torn from its spiritual, social and cultural 
isolation, was tossed into the tempest of most unprecedented change. 
Within a quarter century (1950-1975) a rural agricultural people was scat- 
tered into urban centers and integrated into a new milieu of professional- 
ism. The central tenets of the church’s faith and practice were shaken to 
the core. The interdependent fellowship of the Mennonite Brethren Church, 
in the midst of rampant individualism and pluralism, developed into an 
association retaining a structure of program in missions and education but 
with little abiding commitment to being a people in the world but not of 
the world. American evangelicalism, preoccupied with “being saved” and 
garnering the benefits of the gospel without the attendant costs in ethics 
and lifestyle, became our dominant model. Following this trend of 
evangelicalism, “there is a deemphasis of the more offensive aspects of the 
gospel: the nature of internal evil, sinful conduct and lifestyle, the wrath of 
a righteous and jealous God and external agony and death in hell.” 13 The 
commitment to the absolutes of the Scripture in true discipleship — ’’take 
up the cross and follow me” — has become for many a mere matter of choice. 
Many years in leadership positions amid this environment created con- 
tinuous tensions as I sought to remain true to my understanding of Scrip- 
ture. 

At this writing I have reached the age of eighty-eight. I must now 
face the prospect of concluding my ministry with Elijah under the juniper 
tree, saying it is enough, despite not seeing the seven thousand who re- 
main confident that the Unchangeable One, “who has begun the good 
work in you (the Mennonite Brethren Church) will perform it unto the day 
of Jesus Christ” (Phil. 1:6). 

The experiences of sixty years in ministry have equipped me with a 
fervent confidence that my God is a God of the impossible. The Mennonite 
Brethren Church, as it searches for spiritual renewal, will again find repen- 
tance and experience a new beginning to rise to the high purpose of its 
calling as a renewal movement within the biblical Anabaptist faith. 

Under the tender watchcare of our three sons and their families in 
their respective services to the church and the larger society, and with the 
all-sufficiency of my Lord, I am content as I approach the transition from 
the things that are seen and temporal, to the things which are not seen and 
eternal. 


Epilogue 


207 


The overarching response to my pilgrimage is well expressed in the 
words of Philipp F. Hiller: 

What mercy and divine compassion, 

Has God in Christ revealed to me! 

My haughty spirit would not ask it, 

Yet He bestowed it, full and free, 

In God my heart doth now rejoice: 

I praise His grace with grateful voice. 

Eternal wrath should be my portion: 

The Lamb of God for sinners slain; 

Removed the curse and condemnation, 

His blood atoned for every stain. 

God’s love in Christ on Calvary’s tree 
From guilt and shame has set me free. 

Great God, accept my adoration, 

Help me Thy mercy to confess; 

In Jesus Christ is my salvation 
He is my hope in life and death: 

His blood, His righteousness alone 
I claim before Thy judgment throne. 

Thy bounteous grace is my assurance, 

The blood of Christ my only plea, 

Thy heart of love my consolation 
Until Thy glorious face I see: 

My theme through never ending days, 

Shall be Thy great redeeming grace . 14 


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JB: A Twentieth -Century Mennonite Pilgrim 


Endnotes 


1. David McCullough, “Extraordinary Times: Living in an Era of Breakneck 
Changes,” Life, Fall 1986, 189. 

2. The Complete Writings of Menno Simons: c. 1496-1561, trans. Leonard 
Verduin, ed. J. C. Wenger (Scottdale, Pa.: Herald Press, 1956), 307. 

3- ThielemanJ. van Braght, The Bloody Theater or Martyrs Mirror of the De- 
fenseless Christians, trans. Joseph Sohm (Scottdale, Pa.: Herald Press, 1951). 

4. Peter M. Friesen, The Mennonite Brotherhood in Russia (1 789-1910), trans. 
and ed. J. B. Toews et al. (Fresno, Calif.: Board of Christian Literature, General 
Conference of Mennonite Brethren Churches, 1978), 230-232. 

5. D. M. Hofer, Die Hungersnot in Russland und Unsere Reise um die Welt 
(Chicago: K.M.B. Publishing House, 1924), 161-163. 

6. John B. Toews, With Courage to Spare: the Life of B. B.Janz (1877-1964) 
(Winnipeg: The Board of Christian Literature of the General Conference of the 
Mennonite Brethren Churches, 1978), 55-56. 

7. Paul Toews, “Henry W. Lohrenz and Tabor College,” Mennonite Life 38 
(Sept. 1983): 11-12. 

8. Ibid. 

9. Ernest R. Sandeen, The Roots of Fundamentalism: British and American 
Millennarianism, 1800-1930 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1970), 188- 
207. 


10. For more extensive analysis of why it took so long to make this transition, 
see chapter of 18 of J. B. Toews, A Pilgrimage of Faith: The Mennonite Brethren 
Church, 1860-1990 (Winnipeg: Kindred Press, 1993). 

11. Interview in possession of author. 

12. McCullough, “Extraordinary Times,” 189. 

13- James Davison Hunter, American Evangelicalism: Conservative Religion 
and the Quandary of Modernity (Hew Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 
1983), 87. 

14. “Mir ist Erbarmung Widerfahren,” tr. Frieda Kaufman. 


o one of our generation has experienced 
JB’s measure of Mennonite Brethren history. 
He is the last of those who overlapped with the first 
generation of our fellowship. He has presided over and 
helped shape our collective experience through most of 
this century. In some ways he is Mennonite Brethren 
history. His life, spent in devotion to the church, is a 
microcosm of the swirling changes that have buffeted 
and burnished our pilgrimage together. 


Wally Kroeker from the Foreword