In my last column I covered some of the bad ones, the “professors from hell.” Now it’s the good guys’ turn. Described below are three instructors that, at first, appeared to be professors from hell, but in the end, became for me like angels from heaven. I’ll always view them truly as . . . Godsends.

The Witness

The first day of class, this state university speech- communications instructor looked young enough to be a student, and reinforced the impression by asking us to call him “Dan”. His small stature, high-pitched voice and geeky appearance made me think this so-called professor was a real loser. Little did I know that in the next 20 minutes my initial disrespect for him would turn into profound admiration.

Skipping the obligatory perusal through the class syllabus, he dove right in with some examples of “speech communication.”

“What are the different meanings of the word ‘run’?” he asked.

After several responses, he then casually offered another example, “Well, how about some different meanings for the word…. ‘Christian’?”

After some rather weak, even embarrassed answers, he chimed in with his definition. He then followed it up with his personal testimony of how he came to Christ and the transformation that took place in his life. As he described in detail his personal relationship with Jesus Christ, I sat dumbfounded. Being a new Christian and a freshman, I didn’t think you could get away with what Dan just did at a state campus. He shared his faith, though, with such ease and warmth, that almost no one noticed — or protested.

I immediately went up to him after class and told him I was a Christian too. He then, with a sparkle in his eye, asked, “Well then, why didn’t you say anything in class today?” I didn’t have an answer for Dan, but I was determined to be bolder for Christ from that day on.

Later that week Dan told us the word “encourage” meant to “put courage into.” I then realized his willingness to openly share his faith had poured huge amounts of courage into my soul and I had a chance to prove it the very next Monday. It was the day the traveling campus evangelist, “Brother Jed”, was making his annual appearance at our university. Standing atop the big fountain in front of the student center, and spouting his version of the gospel, he was ticking off almost every one of the 200 jeering and mocking students gathered around him.

I didn’t agree with all his doctrine or attitude, but I was extremely impressed by his boldness. Sitting on my briefcase in front of him, I watched and listened for hours on end, not even remembering I had classes that day. At one juncture in his fevered preaching and pointing, he stopped and inquired, “Does anybody want to give a witness today?” Instantly, and without asking my brain, my right arm shot up. Brother Jed invited me up on the fountain where I proceeded to share my personal testimony. As I surveyed the listening crowd, who did I see but Professor Dan, who’d just come from the class I had skipped?

Instead of angry looks for missing his lecture, he gave me smiles and nods of admiration. At that instant, as I was nearing the end of my sermonette, I sensed Dan was very proud of me. He should have been. His example of unashamedly identifying with Jesus Christ had been the spark I needed to ignite my faith — and my witness. Surely, he was . . . a Godsend.

The Lover

I sat at the back of the state-government class, partly because my interest level was low but even more because my friends were back there. A lovely, but very proper, older black woman named Mrs. Richardson was our professor, and instead of calling me by my preferred middle name, “Steve”, she insisted upon calling me by my first name, “Leslie.” In spite of my constant protests (and the girls at the class chuckling at me) she would respond to my raised hand by saying, “Yes, Leslie. What would you like to say?”

Finally fed up one day, I blurted out, “Mrs. Richardson, if you keep calling me by my first name, I’m going to start calling you ‘Ruby’ — your first name.” It was an appropriate name, given the bright red lip stick she wore each day to complement her perfect teeth and crystal-clear word enunciations. Each time she called me “Leslie”, I countered with a “Yes, Ruby!” Instead of being terms of antagonism, though, it became a way to express affection for one another. I could tell she liked me, even though we were about to embark upon a semester long verbal battle.

One of Ruby’s teaching methods was to allow students to do extra credit papers on a variety of topics related to government. I kept volunteering to do one until she finally relented and assigned me to prepare and present a paper (with a topic of my choice) the following Wednesday. As I stood to read my essay, I knew my lovefest with Ruby was about to be tested. Her eyes (as well as the other students) grew wide as I announced the title: “The Ku Klux Klan.”

Honestly, I don’t know what possessed me to choose and research that topic. Incredibly, Ruby sat on the front row, listening with rapt attention, expressing interest and taking notes. When I sat down, she said, “Thank you, Leslie” and went on with class. Now getting a chance to reflect on my topic and paper, I was sure Ruby would give me an “F.” But when I got my paper back the next day there was not only an “A+” at the top, but a second “A+” right next to it. She had actually doubled my extra credit because of my paper and presentation!

I sat at my desk stunned. I looked at my grades again and then at Ruby standing at the front. Her sly smile and twinkle in her eye let me know she loved me in spite of my foolish immaturity. Her character was shining through as she absorbed any pain I might have dished out during my talk, and instead, offered me grace in exchange.

That day a black female professor and a white male student bonded. She modeled to me unconditional love in the face of humiliation. I certainly deserved retaliation and retribution, but got warmth and kindness in its place. I learned a lot more than state government that semester. I learned that race and gender and titles do not need to separate people. I learned that love covers a multitude of sins — my sins. Finally, I learned to call Ruby, “Mrs. Richardson”. Now, it was my way of telling her how much I loved and respected her. For me, she will forever be . . . a Godsend.

The Drill Sergeant

He paced back and forth like a soon-to-be father caged up in the hospital delivery waiting room. This administrative-management professor with the bald head, big chest and intimidating scowl would rant and rave, trying to motivate us students to think more deeply. Like a buck private at boot camp, I dared not sit any place but front and center to glean all the keen insights Dr. Johansen gained from his 30 years of running corporations.

Constantly reeling off case studies to simulate corporate problems to be solved, he liked to put the student in the “hot seat” by whirling around, pointing his finger at someone, and demanding them give him the solution to the company’s dilemma he’d just described. As a result, everyone sat terrified and petrified, fearful that Dr. Johansen would call on them to respond. With his Ph.D., CEO demeanor, and drill-sergeant teaching style, I felt sure this was one of the most hardened, arrogant profs I’d ever met up with.

One day he was role-playing as the new owner of a huge livestock company in Wyoming who’d just purchased the company, thinking it was financially sound, when in fact, it was in deep trouble. He’d been told there were giant herds of healthy cattle in various parts of the state, but it was a scheme to get him to buy the struggling firm. Spinning around, and aiming his long finger at me, he said, “Mr. Shadrach, I am the sole owner of this cut-rate cattle company, and you are my management consultant. What do you tell me now?”

I paused, looked down, looked to the side, and finally up into his death stare. I then calmly said, “Dr. Johansen, it appears to me that somebody gave you — a bum steer.”

The class erupted in howling laughter, and even the professor, in all his glory, finally cracked a small smile. For a moment there, I thought I caught a glimpse of a sense of humor, maybe some personal warmth, possibly even a slight degree of enjoyment of his class and students. But no, it was back to business as usual, and the daily grind of the prof and his students, the king and his subjects, the CEO and his subordinates.

Towards the end of the semester I happened to go to the church of one of the students I was discipling. It was a rather stuffy, formal ceremony with robes and candles and padded pews, until the 6’ 10” former-basketball-player-turned-pastor stood to preach. Man, did he lay it on the line and everyone listened intently. At the end, he asked if anyone wanted to come forward to humble themselves before God and commit their lives to Christ. But for a full, very awkward minute, no one moved.

Suddenly, I spotted across the small sanctuary a single, solitary figure walking slowly to the front, getting down on his knees, and humbling himself before God. I had to do a double and triple take to truly believe it was really Dr. Johansen there on his knees, confessing his sins and committing his heart to Christ. The music played, the pastor waited, but no one else apart from the distinguished, esteemed professor responded to the invitation to seek God’s face.

At that moment, I looked into my own heart; the pride, the arrogance, the judgmental attitudes I had toward the prof and so many others. I went home that day and got on my face before God and confessed my own sins, seeking and receiving Christ’s cleansing. I did at home — in private — what only Dr. Johansen was willing to do that Sunday in public. The Lord used him to show me my own self sufficiency and conceit. Looking back, all I can surmise is, he must have been . . . a Godsend.