鈥�Jesus loves me, this I know, though my hair is white as snow,鈥� he began. 鈥�And my eyes are going dim, I鈥檝e had cataract surgery. Still He bids me to trust in Him. Though my steps are oh so slow 鈥� I have a cane. I belong to the Canaanites. Though my steps are oh so slow, with my hand in His I鈥檒l go. On through life, let come what may, on through life, He鈥檒l be there to lead the way.鈥�

Davis, who was baptized in 1943 while serving in the U.S. Army, worked from the 1960s through the 1980s in Christian institutions of higher education to bring multicultural awareness and diversity into curricula and campus communities.

He came to EMU near the end of his career, serving from 1980 to 1985 as the first director of the Cross-Cultural Center, the precursor to today鈥檚 .

Davis was introduced in the chapel service by senior Philip Watson, a member of the Black Student Union and a student representative to EMU鈥檚 Diversity Taskforce. Watson spoke of Davis鈥檚 scholarly accomplishments and thanked him for the role he played nearly 35 years ago.

鈥淗e is one of the unsung heroes of EMU鈥︹�� Watson said. 鈥淗is accomplishments paved the way for many of the programs and organizations that are active today, such as the Black Student Union, Latino Student Alliance and International Student Organization. Without people like Dr. Abraham Davis being one of the first to pioneer cultural change at 草莓社区, many of these organizations would not exist today.鈥�

An invitation to lead change

The Cross-Cultural Center, known as the CCC, was a place 鈥渨here international students and students of color could support each other鈥� and where 鈥渟trong relationships鈥� could be established with the predominantly heterogenous campus community at the time.

Davis was also tasked with 鈥渆thnically integrating the curricula in the various departments,鈥� he said in an October interview at Virginia Mennonite Retirement Community with Watson. 鈥淭he curricula was prevailingly ethnocentric at the time, from the white perspective only. I spoke in chapel, bought books and films for the library, spoke in classes, invited other black professors and musicians to campus from around the country.鈥�

In 1980, as a result of a 鈥渃ross cultural task force,鈥� Davis also became minority advocate program coordinator.

鈥淚t was the beginning of things 鈥� It was so new then,鈥� said Davis, of the move towards multicultural curricula and inclusion. 鈥淭here were some who were supportive. Some professors invited me to class and some would send students to me. Some people had never met a black professor with a PhD from a Big 10 university. Even now, that鈥檚 true.鈥�

Carpenter to professor

Davis鈥檚 six years at EMU were among his last appointments in a long and challenging career in academia. He often encountered prejudice and bigotry. Just a few years before he began teaching at Indiana University while earning his doctorate in rhetoric and public address, a crowd of white students had marched with Confederate flags in protest of the election of a black student to the position of student body president.

While Davis jokes that he might now choose a more practical major than rhetoric, and perhaps even a different career, he is sure of one thing looking back over his 92 years: that his professional choices were driven by a hunger to know more about the Bible.

Raised in South Carolina under Jim Crow restrictions and trained as a carpenter, Davis says his parents, neither of whom attended high school, encouraged him to seek further education. But it was his acceptance of Christ at age 22 while stationed with the U.S. Army in Marseilles, France, and his subsequent baptism in Okinawa in 1946, that changed his life.

鈥淎fter I became a Christian, I became much more interested in people than in building things,鈥� Davis says.

Blessed with a beautiful baritone voice and a flair for performing, Davis wasn鈥檛 sure 鈥渨hat direction the Lord wanted me to go 鈥� should I be a singer, a preacher, what?鈥� For a time, he trained as a teacher with the Child Evangelism Fellowship in Santa Monica, California (at this point in the interview, Davis reeled off three short snippets of hymns, all perfectly in pitch, that he used to teach children on the playgrounds in California and his hometown of Beaufort, South Carolina).

Eventually, though, using the GI Bill, Davis pursued studies at Lancaster (Pa.) School of the Bible (now Lancaster Bible College) and then Houghton College in New York, where he graduated in 1955 with a degree in classical Greek and minors in speech and art. He earned a master鈥檚 degree from Temple University (Philadelphia, Pa.) in speech correction the following year and a PhD. from Indiana University in 1971.

When he came to EMU in 1980, Davis had taught a wide variety of subjects at several universities, including South Carolina State College for Negroes (now South Carolina State University), Houghton (where he was also debate coach), Indiana University, and Messiah College, where he rose to be dean of the Philadelphia campus.

鈥榃ork to be done鈥�

Among the speakers to honor Davis were President Loren Swartzendruber and professor emeritus Titus Bender, a member of the committee who hired Davis from his position at Messiah.

鈥淚鈥檓 grateful for the work that Dr. Davis did while he was here and I pray that we can continue his legacy,鈥� said Swartzendruber. 鈥淭here is still much work to be done and we know that.鈥�

He noted that the current campus community continues to work on cultural competencies and communication as it welcomes an increasingly diverse student population (this year鈥檚 includes 37 percent of students who are ethnic minorities or from another country). Swartzendruber also spoke of EMU鈥檚 early support for integration 鈥� the college admitted its first black student in 1949, just one of first two institutions in the former Confederate states to do so.

Though Watson, with the assistance of Multicultural and International Student Services Director , was the organizer of the service, Eric Payne was the link between past and present. It was Payne who met Philip Watson one day outside the fitness center. Payne is an assistant coach with women鈥檚 basketball and Watson a sprinter on the track team. The two started talking, and Payne urged Watson to reach out to Davis, who lives in Virginia Mennonite Retirement Community.

鈥淚t鈥檚 been a mission of mine to see that Dr. Davis get his recognition and I鈥檓 honored to be here to help in that 鈥�,鈥� said Payne, who has coached at EMU since 2002. 鈥淭his is a high point in my life. I told Dr. Davis that a few days ago and he thought I was joking but it鈥檚 true.鈥�

Teacher and coach mentored by Davis

Payne calls Davis a mentor even though the two just missed each other on the EMU campus. A native of Waynesboro, Virginia, Payne came to EMU in 1986 and struggled with the culture on campus. By that time, Davis had seen his position eliminated by budget cuts and was teaching elsewhere. Payne, though, found traces of the professor, of his eloquent rhetoric and his incisive cultural criticism, in the chance discovery of an article by Davis.

Payne quoted a few sentences during the service from the article, which he still has in his possession: 鈥溾�� [M]any if not most are not motivated to intensify or dilute the ethnocentricity in curricula to the adaptive methods of teaching, testing and advising according to the needs of select international and national minorities. However, I am still willing to rap and dilute this hypothesis with faculty and students whenever and wherever they desire individually or collectively.鈥�

The blunt accuracy of the statement, along with the use of the word rap 鈥� 鈥淚 love that,鈥� Payne told the audience 鈥揷aused him to think someone 鈥済ot it.鈥� Though Payne stayed on campus long enough to help invigorate the Black Student Union, he eventually finished his degree at James Madison University.

Still, that chance encounter drew Payne to seek out the professor when he retired to Harrisonburg a few years later. For many years, the two stayed in touch. Payne eventually finished credential coursework at EMU and now teaches at Fort Defiance High School. He plans to graduate from EMU with a master鈥檚 in education in the spring.

He too, along with Philip Watson, who graduates this spring with a degree in psychology, carries on a legacy that was sustained and energized by Davis and his work at EMU.

鈥淚t was one of the great honors of my life to be part of this,鈥� Payne said. 鈥淚 thank God for Dr. Davis.鈥�

Today, the station is managed and operated by James Madison University and almost exclusively plays automated classical music. But for years it was a community fixture that broadcast chapel services, 鈥渆ducational programming鈥� and a variety of music, all facilitated by student-announcers and engineers.

Once reviled, radio becomes a ‘missionary project’

It鈥檚 not clear at what point Mennonite attitudes toward radio broadcasting began to change, but in 1950, a Mennonite men鈥檚 quartet named The Crusaders began to sing live on Saturday mornings for 15 minutes on a local Harrisonburg station, WSVA. Within two years, the program expanded as The Mennonite Hour, which was considered 鈥渁 missionary project of the church.鈥� By the end of 1953, the program was broadcast on 35 stations and EMC offered up space for recording.

In 1954, WEMC was founded with money from the class of 1954 and The Mennonite Hour became Mennonite Broadcasting Incorporated 鈥� which is now known as Mennonite Media.

By the late 1950s, WEMC was running up to 70 weekly programs such as 鈥淢ennonite Hour Chorus,鈥� 鈥淭itus Bender鈥檚 鈥楶oint for Today,鈥欌�� and 鈥淐hildren鈥檚 Story Time鈥� from the balcony of the chapel. The station used a ten-watt transmitter, which had 鈥渁 signal that barely got off campus on a windy day,鈥� according to alumnus Jim Bishop who worked at the station both as a student and later as EMC staff.

WEMC broadcast daily Bible readings (Alexander Scourby recorded on vinyl, Bishop remembers), regular chapel services, community and public service announcements, and coverage of home women鈥檚 and men鈥檚 basketball games. Bishop hosted a weekly campus activities report, as well as 鈥淔ocal Point,鈥� a public affairs program.

鈥淚 always wished there were more student-produced programs,鈥� Bishop said. 鈥淪omeone would get one rolling and then it would end when the student graduated or lost interest.鈥�

Alum Dwight Wyse has similar memories of programming. 鈥淚 remember one program that I did for a number of years called 鈥楩olk Music Around the World,鈥欌�� he said. 鈥淭hat was on Saturday nights. I got married between my junior and senior year and my wife and I would go up to run that program together. We played anything from The Singing Nuns to Simon and Garfunkel.鈥�

One year during the biannual revival services hosted on campus, 鈥渢he Holy Spirit seemed to be present,鈥� remembered broadcaster Terry Cowan. Regular programming was dropped for the rest of the day, as students and faculty shared testimonies until the evening.

From Lehman to Astral Hall

In the early 1970s, WEMC, needing more space, moved up the hill into the recently renovated Astral Hall. The higher vantage point boosted the station鈥檚 signal beyond the campus borders and into the greater Harrisonburg area.

Cowan served as WEMC鈥檚 station manager for a number of years and was instrumental in facilitating the move. Cowan, like Wyse and Bishop, learned how to broadcast on the job, as there wasn鈥檛 any training available to the students who wanted to work in the station at that time.

鈥淒uring my time at WEMC, my vision was to provide a window so that the community could see what was going on at the college,鈥� he said. 鈥淏efore the station existed, there were guys who strung telephone wires throughout the community to they could put speakers in people鈥檚 homes so the community could listen to chapel.鈥�

Today, WEMC has a 2000-watt transmitter and is broadcast up and down the Shenandoah Valley. But in the 1960s and 鈥�70s, 鈥渨e were limited in our power because of Sugar Grove observatory to the west,鈥� said Wyse. 鈥淭hey tightly controlled how far you could send your signal.鈥� (Sugar Grove Observatory is still part of a United States National Radio Quiet Zone, in which radio transmitters are strongly controlled so that scientific research and military intelligence work can be conducted.)

Wyse graduated in 1968, but was the play-by-play announcer for men鈥檚 basketball games for a decade. He said one particular game stands out. In 1971, in the old gym. At the time, JMU wasn鈥檛 the athletic powerhouse it is today; it was close game. In the last second, EMU (who had been behind) scored and won the game.

鈥淚 was speechless,鈥� Wyse said.

Unable to let listeners know what had just happened, he looked for help from his fellow commentator. But his partner was gone. He had abandoned his post and was jumping around on the court in celebration.

Interest wanes

By the mid-1980s, WEMC was playing more and more contemporary Christian music and holding bi-yearly 鈥淲EMC Weekends鈥� to raise financial support for the station. Student-announcers would volunteer for 30-hour-plus 鈥渕arathon鈥� fundraisers. Some years they met their goals, but increasingly they didn鈥檛.

It鈥檚 not entirely clear why the station began struggle. Money certainly had something to do with it (pledges became harder to secure) but also student interest in running the station began to wane. In 2007, James Madison University took over the day-to-day running of WEMC, although EMU continues to own the station and license. Students are no longer involved. An EMU advisory board determines programming, which includes broadcasting Park View Mennonite Church鈥檚 service every Sunday following the hour and a half musical program 鈥淢ostly Mennonite, Mostly A Capella.鈥�

鈥淚 think that the original purpose has been changed and I am sorry to see that,鈥� said Cowan. 鈥淚 think it would better serve the college鈥檚 interests if it was still operated as an arm of the college.鈥�

Bishop, who ran a show right up until the JMU take over of the station, agrees. Many alums who were heavily involved with the station over the years view the transition as a tragedy.

But for now the arrangement is working. Since the station moved to mostly classical music, listenership has doubled and the station remains alive. (Financial difficulties were such that by the mid-2000s some suggested the station should close entirely.) And, should the desire and drive emerge in a new generation of students, the station is still there, waiting for new voices to revive the rich tradition.

Editor’s note: While freelancing for EMU marketing and communications, also reported for WMRA in Harrisonburg. She is now Appalachia Health News Coordinator at West Virginia Public Broadcasting.

This is the third article in an occasional series leading up to 草莓社区’s in 2016-2017. Other articles have featured Park Woods Cabin and .

鈥淲hen I first began working聽at Eastern Mennonite College,鈥� recalls professor emeritus Wilmer Lehman 鈥�57, 鈥渢eaching at EMC was seen as a kind of mission of the church.鈥� Back in the era of Sputnik, was a carefully calculated national priority, and teachers of mathematics were in high demand. This small private school struggled to compete with the demand for higher-level mathematicians generated by Cold War anxieties, especially given its status as a Christian-pacifist institution that garnered no funding for defense-related work.

But being a devout Anabaptist, Lehman opted to take the proverbial 鈥渞oad less traveled鈥� in U.S. academia and returned to teach at his alma mater two years after graduation. 鈥淲hen I came [for the 1959-60 school year], I did not know what my yearly salary would be,鈥� Lehman says. 鈥淚 found that it was about $2,500, spread over nine or ten months 鈥� all of which it took just to live. We had to scrape by in the summers.鈥� Later, Lehman would earn a with a math concentration from Cornell University and become a full professor at EMU.

Lehman became the foundation of what has grown into a thriving program in the mathematical sciences. Early in his 40-year career at EMU, he taught Millard Showalter 鈥�62 and then recruited him to be a fellow faculty member. Lehman鈥檚 education continued, even as he was educating another generation. In the early 1990s, Lehman earned a second master鈥檚 degree (this time an , focusing on counseling) at in order to prepare himself for leadership roles in his congregation, Mt. Clinton Mennonite Church, and the conference to which it belongs.

Like Lehman, Showalter earned his graduate degrees while working for minimal pay at EMU. Showalter holds two master鈥檚 degrees, one in math from the University of South Carolina and another master鈥檚 in arts (with a math major) from Vanderbilt, and an EdD from the University of Virginia.

鈥淢illard was quite popular,鈥� said Lehman, adding he was gifted at making math understandable and enjoyable. In fact, at one point Showalter鈥檚 students wore T-shirts that read 鈥淢illard鈥檚 Magnificent Mathematicians.鈥�

Lehman and Showalter taught in tandem for decades 鈥� serving under four presidents and seven academic deans 鈥� until Showalter retired in 1998, with Lehman following in 2000. Both were beloved for their willingness to work one-on-one with students having difficulty in math, acting as both tutor and encourager.

In the summer 2011 issue of , Lehman displayed his 鈥渕ission鈥� approach to teaching in an anecdote recounted by Wayne Lawton 鈥�71. Lawton had returned to college as an older adult and was struggling to catch up in math. Serving as a pastor in Waynesboro while taking classes, Lawton sheepishly approached Lehman, asking if more help might be possible. Lehman replied, 鈥淲hen you pastor a church, do you mind people coming to you for help?鈥� When Lawton said no, Lehman replied, 鈥淲ell, I don鈥檛 mind helping you!鈥�

Showalter recalls his years teaching with Lehman at EMU as 鈥渢he best years of my life.鈥� Although he struggled both to make math interesting to students and to integrate changes in technology and teaching methods, he credits his students for making his career memorable. 鈥淚 was very fortunate to have had excellent math majors. My students not only challenged me to be a better teacher, but also brought creativity and a desire to develop critical thinking and problem-solving skills.鈥� Perhaps because of his infectious enthusiasm 鈥� he once spent an entire sabbatical rewriting lesson plans to adjust to technological changes 鈥� it is no surprise that Showalter says: 鈥淚f I were to again be given the opportunity to choose a life career, I don鈥檛 doubt that teaching mathematics at EMU would be my first choice.鈥�

Reflecting on the 鈥渞ipple effects鈥� coming from his lengthy career, Lehman realizes that he鈥檚 internalized some aspects of teaching. 鈥淚鈥檓 always on my best behavior, no matter where I go,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 never know when I鈥檓 going to run into a former student. I鈥檝e run into them as far away as the Nairobi (Kenya) marketplace.鈥�

In addition to Lehman and Showalter, four other EMU alumni taught mathematical sciences for extended stints: two members of the class of 1962, Del Snyder and Donald C. Miller (who also attended the seminary in 1976-77); Roy E. Heatwole 鈥�64; and John L. Horst 鈥�60, who taught both physics and mathematics and coached award-winning teams in international math-modeling competitions.

When Joe Mast 鈥�64 was a student at EMU in the early 1960s his long-term goal was to be a high school math and physics teacher.聽聽鈥淎t the time, I did not aspire to teach at the college level,鈥� he says. 鈥淸But] I had a great interest in astronomy and electronics.鈥澛燞is physics professor, Robert Lehman, encouraged him to pursue astronomy and return to his alma mater.

As a student at EMU, Mast helped to manage the as chief engineer and station manager and was part of the Astral Society, which focused on astronomy. In the Cold War era, space-race money was available, and he received a special fellowship that allowed him to pursue a master鈥檚 degree and a PhD at the University of Virginia, both in astronomy. Upon returning to then-EMC as a faculty member, the college received its first computer under a grant to small colleges. Mast became EMU鈥檚 first professor.

On sabbatical in 1978, Mast went to JMU, where he studied computer science courses, and later received a second master鈥檚 degree in computer science. He returned to EMU, where he ushered in a two-year associate鈥檚 degree in computer processing, followed several years later by a major in computer science.

In response to a need by fellow EMU employees for banking services, in 1969 Mast helped to found Park View Federal Credit Union, an idea originating with Dan Bender and developed by Robert Lehman. Three years later Mast began managing the credit union out of his office in the basement of the Suter Science Center, continuing for 10 years.

One of EMU鈥檚 best-known mathematical sons is Robert P. Hostetler 鈥�59, who retired from teaching in 1996 and only stopped writing textbooks in 2007. He now lives as a retiree within walking distance of EMU.

Hostetler holds a bachelor鈥檚 degree in secondary education (math certification) from EMU, a master鈥檚 degree in mathematics, and a doctorate in mathematics education, both graduate degrees from Penn State University.

Hostetler is perhaps one of the most successful authors of math education texts in any language; his books have been used widely by students and teachers for decades. About 300 titles with Hostetler鈥檚 name as author or co-author reside on the Barnes and Noble website. Google Books puts the total count of books, editions, study guides 鈥� anything with his name 鈥� at about 2,400. Some of Hostetler鈥檚 dozens of textbooks have been translated into Spanish, Portuguese and Chinese; they range from college algebra, trigonometry and calculus to The Mathematics of Buying.

One of Hostetler鈥檚 challenges as a professor, he says, 鈥渨as how to share my Christian faith with students,鈥� given the constraints of teaching at a state-supported university, which necessarily is based on the separation of church and state. After consulting with his pastor, Hostetler decided that he would 鈥渟elf-identify鈥� with the faith when introducing himself to each new class. 鈥淚 simply stated that I am a Christian; I believe in a living God to whom I pray for guidance in my teaching and relationships with you students,鈥� he told them. 鈥淚 want to do my best for you.鈥� He says he sometimes learned the outcome of his 鈥渟haring of faith鈥� years later, when former students would get back in touch and tell him, 鈥淒r. Hostetler, guess what鈥擨鈥檝e become a Christian! What you shared in that first day of calculus class, I just couldn鈥檛 get out of my mind over the years, so I鈥檝e made that decision!鈥�

Outside of the university, Hostetler has shared his faith and enthusiasm for teaching and learning as a Sunday School teacher for more than 40 years.

In the spring 2006 issue of Crossroads, Hostetler spoke about an unusual sabbatical he took in 1997-98 during which he taught without pay at EMU as a way of 鈥済oing back to my roots.鈥�

In comparing his classes at EMU and those at Behrend College of Penn State University, Hostetler said the classes were similarly sized 鈥� about 30 to 32 students, with comparable academic abilities. He used the same textbooks (his own), the same curriculum and grading standards at both universities. Though the percentage of students at the high and low ends of the grading spectrum was the same, it was the middle group of students that surprised Hostetler. 鈥淎t EMU, the middle group of students went up in their performance [as the semesters progressed]; at Penn State, the middle group shifted downward.鈥�

Hostetler attributed the improved performance of the average student at EMU to 鈥渁 more caring faculty, the work ethic of students at EMU, the community spirit that helped each student to feel valued, and the fact that EMU students act with Christian charity toward one another and help each other out.鈥� Plus, he added, 鈥渁ttention was given to all students equally, rather than just to the excellent or the deficient.鈥�

At the University Park Campus of Penn State, James L. Rosenberger 鈥�68 is an internationally recognized statistician, with a master鈥檚 degree from Polytechnic Institute of New York and a doctorate from Cornell University. He says that EMU professor Roy Heatwole first sparked his interest in working with statistics. Graduating with a major in math, Rosenberger was able to secure 1-W conscientious objector status during the Vietnam War by working as an analyst and programmer in the Cardiovascular Research Center at New York University Medical Center.

Rosenberger, who is now vice-president of the 18,000-member American Statistical Association, believes statisticians are uniquely situated in positions where ethical decisions are amplified. 鈥淲e are constantly faced with real data which can easily be misrepresented for the benefit of proving a point. Understanding the importance of integrity informs much of my work,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 teach students and consult with researchers to honestly represent the uncertainty in the conclusions of a study or research experiment.鈥�

During the past decade, Rosenberger has guided the development of an online professional master of applied statistics program at Penn State, aimed at mid-career professionals who cannot return to graduate school full time. 鈥淢ore than 500 students enroll in our graduate courses each semester, allowing us to extend the reach of statistics education beyond the campus,鈥� he says.

To Rosenberger, statistics is 鈥渁 wonderful profession.鈥� Not only is it a challenge learning the language of scientific collaboration, but it is a quest for truth. 鈥淲e can get involved in so many interesting disciplines and issues, always facing uncertain information and mountains of data,鈥� he says, 鈥渢o which we apply our tools and skills to uncover the truth.鈥�

Rosenberger鈥檚 accomplishments include: a 2011 Distinguished Service Award from the National Institute of Statistical Sciences, election to Fellow of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, serving as program director at the National Science Foundation, and lecturing around the globe.

One of Millard Showalter鈥檚 students, Merle Reinford 鈥�72, has gone on to earn a graduate degree in math (where most of his courses were easier than those at EMU, he says) and to devote nearly 40 years to teaching math students at Lancaster (Pa.) Mennonite High School. Some semesters, he also teaches math as an adjunct at Millersville University.

Sharpening the minds of his high school students, he has spent 33 years coaching competitive chess, eventually getting elected president of the regional scholastic chess league.

Reinford鈥檚 coaching successes are dramatic. In 33 years his high school teams won 11 league titles, with runner-up success 13 more times. Reinford鈥檚 chess teams have accumulated a plethora of state competition titles, with a record of 315 wins to 90 losses and 23 ties. 鈥淚 have used my enjoyment of the game to play chess with homeless men,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 am not sure if you could call that a ministry or not,鈥� given how much fun he has.

After graduating from EMU, Larry Lehman 鈥�79 got a fellowship at University of Virginia, where he earned his doctorate. He credits two of his math professors, Millard Showalter and Del Snyder, with preparing him for his own professorship at University of Mary Washington, where he spent six years as chair of the math department. 鈥淭hey [Snyder and Showalter] emphasized not just knowledge of facts, but consideration of why things are true, how different mathematical concepts fit together.鈥�

Larry Lehman emphasizes the role that EMU played in his upbringing from childhood: 鈥淚t was more than a school, but very much my home community.鈥� He has embraced the educational spirit he saw in his EMU instructors. 鈥淭eaching has its challenges, of course, particularly with finding new ways to interest and motivate students, but so far I am still enjoying the challenge.鈥�

Wendell Ressler 鈥�80 stayed in Harrisonburg to teach high school math and physics after he graduated from EMU, and then earned his master鈥檚 degree from James Madison University. Ressler, who now holds a PhD from Temple University, found himself thirsting for more knowledge. 鈥淚 loved studying analytic number theory,鈥� he says. 鈥淚n retrospect, it seems that I kept trying to get off the academic track, but curiosity kept pulling me back. Or, maybe I just liked being a student.鈥�

Now a math professor at Franklin & Marshall College in Lancaster, Pa., Ressler does research in the abstract stream of his field 鈥� automorphic integrals, Dirichlet series, and Hecke correspondence. He has an obvious affection for proofs and logic, which he says was nurtured by his EMU profs. 鈥淏y far the most important thing I learned from Millard Showalter and Del Snyder was how to prove things: how to think about proofs, and how to write them,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 have as many fancy courses in my background as many other students in graduate school, but that did not matter because I knew how to prove things.鈥�

Ressler has also found himself living many of the core EMU values of peace and social justice. 鈥淢y with Ray Gingerich and Titus Bender influenced my thinking a lot. I volunteered with the Mediation Center and Christians for Peace when I lived in Harrisonburg, and with St. Vincent鈥檚 Peace Center in Germantown when I lived in Philadelphia. I did war tax resistance and eventually the IRS garnished my wages.鈥�

Ressler is now focused on pursuing environmental justice. He volunteers at Community Mennonite Church of Lancaster, where he pays a voluntary 鈥済as tax鈥� to discourage driving and fund green upgrades for the congregation. He is an avid bicyclist, another love with roots at EMU. 鈥淥ne of my housemates at EMC got me to buy a used bicycle. I loved riding around Harrisonburg and started commuting by bicycle to work. I estimate that I have ridden about 50,000 miles since I graduated from EMC.鈥� Ressler believes that bicycles may help save us from the problems of internal combustion.

Deirdre Smeltzer 鈥�87 returned to EMU in 1998 after graduating from the University of Virginia with an MS and a PhD in mathematics.

Recalling her undergraduate years at EMU, Smeltzer credits two professors, Millard Showalter in Calculus II and Del Snyder in Discrete Math, for nurturing her interest in higher-level mathematics.

鈥淢illard made class interesting, and I found myself doing his homework first,鈥� she says. 鈥淚n Discrete Math, I discovered that I really loved the abstract, logical thinking required 鈥� much more than the hands-on labs of chemistry, which was another major that I was considering.鈥�

As an EMU faculty member, Smeltzer has taught courses on more than two dozen topics in her field and is author or co-author of a number of peer-reviewed articles and a textbook. In the current academic year, she has directed EMU鈥檚 extensive cross-cultural programs on a part-time basis. In the late spring, she was named EMU鈥檚 vice president and undergraduate dean, effective July 1, 2013.

During his time as an undergrad at EMU, Mark D. Risser 鈥�07 was involved in student government, the student newspaper, and was recipient of a presidential scholarship award. After graduating, Risser worked for EMU in the admissions department before being pulled back to the discipline of rigorous academics. 鈥淲orking in admissions was a fantastic experience, and allowed me to sink my roots a little deeper into the greater Mennonite community,鈥� he says. 鈥淏ut as I didn鈥檛 have an outlet for the mathematical side of my brain, I started feeling the draw of returning to school for something math-related.鈥�

After consulting with his former professors, Deirdre Smeltzer and Owen Byer, Risser was 鈥渉ooked鈥� on the idea of grad school, and decided to pursue a PhD in statistics. He is now a doctoral student at Ohio State University and recently received his MS (also at Ohio State), where he is also involved in research on HyFlex (hybrid, flexible) education methods. Risser says he hopes to have the kind of impact on a future generation of college students as his EMU teachers had on him.

A common characteristic of all of our alumni in higher-level, academic studies of numbers is a strong appreciation for, and commitment to, the EMU community. 鈥淥nce I joined the EMU faculty and took on its mission,鈥� Mast says, 鈥淚 was willing to sacrifice many things to advance the program to the best of my abilities.鈥�

The faculty鈥檚 sacrificial efforts seem to have borne fruit: 鈥淢y educational experiences grounded me in a distinctive Christian understanding where the things I believe impact my life style and goals,鈥� says Jim Rosenberger from his perch as the leading academic statistician at the University Park Campus of Penn State. 鈥淚n particular, integrity became a central core value from lessons learned at EMU.鈥� 鈥� Evan Knappenberger, class of 2014

In late 2013, a closet-building campaign was launched to ensure the growing number of residents of the home 鈥� which helps former inmates find work and provides various therapeutic services as they transition to life outside prison 鈥� had a place for personal storage, says executive director Sharon Glick.

On Mount Clinton Pike, just over the hill from EMU, the Gemeinschaft Home receives funding for 25 residents through the Virginia Department of Corrections鈥� Community Residential Program. Some residents who complete that 90-day, state-funded program remain for a longer period, paying their own way by working jobs they鈥檝e landed through Gemeinschaft, often in the local construction, manufacturing or poultry industries.

About 40 residents are now crammed into the home, with a long list waiting for a spot as soon as one opens. In the fall of 2013, Gemeinschaft (鈥淕uh-MINE-shaft,鈥� the German word for 鈥渃ommunity鈥�) was booking places up to eight months in advance.

鈥淲e constantly get calls from people who want to return,鈥� adds program director Kirk Saunders, who oversees the therapeutic programs all residents are required to participate in 鈥� and to which, according to several people familiar with the home, the program owes much of its success.

In terms of hard statistics, a study in the early 2000s by the Department of Corrections and James Madison University found that ex-inmates who completed a stay at Gemeinschaft were significantly less likely to be re-arrested, convicted or incarcerated than offenders who completed therapeutic pre-release programs in prison.1 Saunders conducted a less statistically rigorous assessment in 2012, when he reexamined the files of 85 residents, chosen at random, who had been discharged within the previous three to five years. Of this group, he says, only a half-dozen or so had ended up back in jail.

According to Lisa Kinney, a spokesperson for the department of corrections, programs like Gemeinschaft benefit the entire state by not releasing offenders into communities where they may be homeless, by reducing the likelihood that they鈥檒l directly return to their pre-incarceration social environments, and by giving them a chance to establish some financial security as they transition back to normal life.

Before the often-added-to house had anything to do with corrections, or had been added to quite as much, it was home to a group of EMU students who lived there in an intentional community called Gemeinschaft. One of the student residents from that era was Barry Hart, MDiv 鈥�79, now a professor of trauma, conflict and identity studies at EMU鈥檚 Center for Justice and Peacebuilding. After finishing his seminary degree, Hart bought the house with two others with the intention of founding an intentional Christian community that welcomed ex-offenders.

Hart and the other co-founders had all been involved in prison ministry, and at first, opened their home to three or four people they鈥檇 gotten to know through that work on a completely informal basis. While everyone worked various jobs during the day, residents made it a goal to share a meal together every night.

鈥淚t was about equality and respect and honoring each other鈥檚 dignity,鈥� says Hart.

Six years into the experiment, it was becoming increasingly difficult to make ends meet. Although local probation officers had caught on to the operation, and were sending residents supported by state per-diems, Hart had become the only 鈥渃ore鈥� member (i.e., non-transitioning ex-offender) of the house, making it hard to maintain any kind of stable community. After finding himself unable to recruit others to join him in the venture 鈥� due, at least in part, he thinks, to the intentional community ideal entering a cultural tailspin in the mid-鈥�80s 鈥� Hart put the house and everything in it up for auction in 1985.

As the auctioneer stood on the front lawn selling off the furniture, Hart and a group of supporters, including long-time sociology professor Titus Bender 鈥�57 and Lewis Strite gathered in a back room talking about the good run Gemeinschaft had had. Right then and there, Hart recalls, they were struck by a collective realization that it just couldn鈥檛 end. Maybe a group could buy the house, form a board, give a little more institutional structure, support and sustainability to the idea?

Strite, whose philanthropy eventually earned him a conference area named 鈥淪trite鈥� at EMU, agreed to contribute a down payment and Hart dashed out to the front lawn to cut the auction short before the house itself was sold. The place was soon reborn as The Gemeinschaft Home, 501(c)3.2

There鈥檝e been other ups and downs in the nearly 30 years since, but the trajectory of late has been strong. Saunders would be glad if they got funding for even more residents from the state, at which point they鈥檇 probably have to tack yet another wing onto the sprawling structure that鈥檚 become something few would have imagined when a group of EMU students living in the original house first began calling the place Gemeinschaft.

鈥� Andrew Jenner 鈥�04

1. One statistic from the study: 13.7% of ex-inmates who entered Gemeinschaft between July 2000 and June 2002 were recommitted to prison by 2004, compared to 23% of ex-inmates released over the same period who did not enter any kind of therapeutic program.

2. Current members of its board of directors with direct ties to EMU are James Good ’61, Ruth Stolzfus Jost ’71, Sam Showalter ’65, Harvey Yoder ’57 and Carl Stauffer ’85, MA ’02, assistant professor of justice and development studies.

I shall never forget that first night.鈥� Soon after I was settled in bed the rats began to stir, one running over my pillow. I was wondering whether to go to sleep and not mind the rats or to get up, when I felt a few bites and then it dawned on me that there were bedbugs at hand .鈥� The night attendant didn鈥檛 know what to do so I sat up with him until 鈥� two or three o鈥檆lock in the morning .鈥� [Then] I finally got a little sleep.

Layman was one of about 12,000 men who performed alternative service as conscientious objectors (COs) during the war through the Civilian Public Service. Men from dozens of religious groups were COs, but the Mennonite contingent with 4,665 COs represented by far the largest church cluster, with the Church of the Brethren being the second-largest group with 1,353 COs, and the Society of Friends (Quakers) the third-largest with 951 COs.

Approximately 3,000 of these COs were assigned to some 40 mental health institutions across the country, filling a desperate need for staff after conscription for soldiers and budget cuts necessitated by the war. As reflected in their diaries, letters and later recollections, many of these young men were appalled at the inhumane conditions they encountered.

Russell Schertz, assigned by MCC to work in Mt. Pleasant Mental Hospital in Iowa, recalled the conditions 50 years later:

As I encountered the deplorable conditions on the mental health wards 鈥� unsanitary filth, patients tied to chairs, in straight jackets, locked in dingy rooms, and sometimes beaten by previous attendants 鈥� I became aware that this was an issue of justice.

At another facility staffed by MCC personnel, the Hudson River State Hospital in Poughkeepsie, New York, Willard Linscheid reported that he was assigned to a ward of 110 to 120 patients, with just one male nurse and one other attendant on duty.

Because of the large number of incontinent and destructive patients, clothing was destroyed and soiled 鈥� much of the time the disturbed patients in the small day room were entirely naked. Because of the wartime shortages of sheets and blankets the majority of patients had only one sheet or blanket on their beds most of the time. If possible, the disturbed and incontinent patients were also given a blanket or sheet, but much of the time they slept naked and uncovered on the hard canvas mattresses.

Charlie Lord, a Quaker CO at a Philadelphia mental hospital known as Byberry, secretly took a series of pictures that ran in Life Magazine on May 6, 1946, as part of an expos茅 of the horrific state of the country鈥檚 mental hospitals. Lord鈥檚 photos showed groups of naked men, huddled together on the bare concrete floors of otherwise empty, cell-like rooms, frighteningly evocative of scenes from European concentration camps still fresh in the minds of the American public.

Working in mental facilities

How did thousands of conscientious objectors end up working in mental health institutions in World War II? The answer starts centuries earlier.

For generations, members of the traditional 鈥減eace churches鈥� 鈥� the Anabaptists, including the Mennonites, Amish and members of the Church of the Brethren, along with the Quakers 鈥� have taken the position that Jesus opposed killing other humans or even treating them violently. Period. For many, this position extends to not supporting organizational efforts to kill people, as represented by military efforts.

Before the twentieth century, religiously inspired non-combatants in North America and Europe typically were expected to provide substitutes for their lack of military service, pay stiff fines, or do prison time if they resisted conscription. The consequences for refusing to fight were sometimes severe. In the region of Virginia where EMU is now located, Mennonites were hunted down for their refusal to join the Confederate Army in the 1860s.

During the last year of the war, when the Confederacy was sorely in need of men. . . attempts were made to impress young Mennonites into the army, with the result that many went into hiding in the mountains [of western Virginia], some of them being hunted by army scouts who had orders to shoot them at sight.

During World War I, men who refused military service on religious grounds began to be called 鈥渃onscientious objectors鈥� or 鈥淐Os.鈥� In addition to men in the peace churches, there have been COs in smaller numbers from dozens of faith traditions, including Catholic, Methodist, Baptist, Presbyterian, Lutheran, and Jewish. Jehovah鈥檚 Witnesses also consistently refuse to do military service, though their reasons typically are different from those of most COs.

In the WWI era, 138 Mennonites were court-martialed for refusing to comply with conscription and were sent to prison. Nearly 2,000 other Mennonite men, however, were able to do alternative service in camp-type settings, a role for COs negotiated by the American Friends Service Committee (a Quaker organization). Yet most COs were not given productive roles in the WWI-era camps. More often they were subject to degradation.

Men were forced to stand at attention, sometimes with outstretched arms for hours and days at a time on the sunny or cold side of their barracks, exposed to the inclemencies of the weather as well as to the jeers and taunts of their fellows until they could stand no longer; chased across the fields at top speed until they fell down exhausted, followed by their guards on their motorcycles; occasionally tortured by mock trials, in which the victim was left under the impression to the very last that unless he submitted to the regulations the penalty would be death. Every conceivable device 鈥� ridicule, torture, offer of promotion and other tempting inducements were resorted to in order to get them to give up their convictions; but with only few exceptions the religious objectors refused to compromise with their consciences.

The counter-productive treatment of CO鈥檚 during WWI motivated leaders of the peace churches to lay the groundwork for better alternative-service possibilities during future wars. The Selective Service Act of 1940 provided for COs to do work of 鈥渘ational importance” under civilian direction.

In World War II, this work took the form of largely unpaid labor聽 鈥� on farms and on government-owned land, fighting fires, being guinea pigs in medical experiments, and working in understaffed hospitals, particularly mental institutions. Despite the conditions under which they labored 鈥� and their extraordinary length of service (the last COs were released in March 1947) 鈥� COs were treated scornfully in wider society. They were called cowards and worse epithets, hung in effigy, refused service in public places, and subject to venomous campaigns by veteran鈥檚 groups.

To ensure hardship, the COs were required to serve at least 100 miles away from their homes. Most of the Mennonites did their alternative service under MCC鈥檚 umbrella 鈥� an arrangement set up with the federal government. MCC assigned them to federally approved work situations and provided the only compensation they received, which was no more than $15 monthly for essentials (shoe polish, shaving cream, toothpaste, and such).

In tacit acknowledgement of the scorn heaped on COs, John F. Kennedy said:

War will exist until that distant day when the conscientious objector enjoys the same reputation and prestige that the warrior does today.

Seeking Improvements

Though it never attained the infamy of Pennsylvania鈥檚 Byberry, Virginia鈥檚 Western State Hospital in Staunton, Virginia, less than 30 miles south of EMU, had similarly disturbing conditions. It was one of the first institutions staffed by COs. Charged with assisting 2,000 patients, the first 19 men sent by MCC worked an average of 76 hours per week for their first year in this hospital, receiving an allowance of $2.50 per month. One CO did not have a single free day in seven months of work. Eventually a total of 110 COs worked in this institution between 1942 and 1946.

Among the EMU alumni in the CPS unit at Western State Hospital was Clarence Kreider 鈥�40, who kept a journal detailing the inadequate meals served to hard-laboring staffers (e.g. on January 3, 1943, beans and prunes for lunch, and red meat and sour pears for dinner; the next day,聽 potatoes and apples for lunch, and meat and more apples for dinner).

When a Staunton Episcopal priest, W. Carroll Brooke, learned about the appalling conditions for both patients and employees at Western State, he gathered testimony from the COs in Civilian Public Service (CPS). Together they urged officials at the state level to replace the hospital鈥檚 superintendent and increase funding for mental hospitals. Trained cooks were among the improvements to emerge from the efforts of Brooke and the leaders of CO units in other Virginia hospitals.

In 1945 Harry L. Kraus Sr. asked to be assigned as a CO to Western State, in part to be closer to his future wife, Mildred Brunk, living in Harrisonburg. Caring for the patients at Western motivated Kraus to overcome great odds to become a physician after the war. He and Mildred raised chickens to pay the fees for his undergraduate studies (he started at EMC but finished at Bridgewater in 1951, for reasons of class scheduling).

Across the nation, the COs found that mental hospital conditions 鈥渨ere deplorable. . . . They [non-CO staffers] treated patients like animals,鈥� said retired EMU administrator Paul T. Guengerich, who served in the CPS from July 21, 1942 to March 9, 1946. In a 2006 interview with EMU undergraduates, Guengerich said that patients 鈥渨ere abused, and our COs that worked in hospitals did all they could to bring some change to that. They felt that these patients deserved being treated like human beings.鈥�

With as many as 300 patients for each attendant, however, there were times that the COs felt uncontrollably frustrated, showing 鈥渇its of temper鈥� and employing 鈥渦nnecessarily rough language and rough handling of patients,鈥� admitted Linscheid. Yet the patients and their families expressed gratitude to the CPS-assigned workers, telling the COs they were doing a much better job than previous staffers.

Referring to the Hudson River Hospital, Willard Linscheid said in the short term:

Our efforts were concentrated on giving better and kinder treatment to the patients and to keep the ward as clean as possible under the circumstances鈥�. We all chafed under this necessity of giving only custodial care and we were all keenly aware of the improvements that could be made with more attendant help, more supplies and better facilities.

In the longer term, Linscheid said:

We were all fired with a desire to expose mental hospital conditions to the general public in the hope that such an expos茅 would lead to action toward improvement of such institutions. Certainly to work for any length of time on such a ward a person must either agitate for betterment or sear his conscience entirely to the ills of humanity.

The COs struggled with how to handle patients鈥� violent outbursts, especially given the shortage of staff. Henry E. Nachtigal, a 26-year-old General Conference Mennonite from Kansas, died on September 1, 1945, after he received a head injury from a patient at Western State Hospital in Staunton.

Patients in a New Jersey hospital killed an abusive attendant 鈥� who was not a CO 鈥� with his own billy club. The next night, a Mennonite CO named James Kuhns was told to enter that same ward and take charge. Kuhns went armed only with the keys to open the door to the outside. 鈥淚 could walk out anytime. They could have taken my keys and walked out too.鈥� But the patients didn鈥檛; they liked Kuhns better than the attendant they had killed. Kuhns worked on that ward for several months and developed relationships that made it 鈥渁n enjoyable experience.鈥� He especially liked tending long-time residents who had chronic illnesses, such as tuberculosis.

By the end of the war, more than 1,500 CPS men had worked in Mennonite-run units at mental hospitals in 14 states, including at least 29 who are EMU alumni.

Women鈥檚 CPS Service

In support of the conscientious objector cause, around 300 women volunteered to work with CPS units at mental hospitals during the war.

Edna Ramseyer, a dynamic woman who taught home economics at two Mennonite colleges, Bluffton and Goshen, initiated the 鈥淐.O. Girls鈥� with these goals: relieving human need, strengthening the witness of the Christian peace movement, and supporting the stand taken by male COs.

鈥淐.O. Girl鈥� Bernice Meyer Miller explained: 鈥淚 was motivated to show the world that COs were not slackers, but were willing to serve in positive ways.鈥�

Ruth Miller Willems, a nurse at the MCC-staffed Rhode Island State Hospital, said:

Frequently I was assigned to care for the most disturbed patients. I was often frightened but tried not to display my emotions for the sake of the employees and patients. I tried to win their respect by showing love.

Some of these volunteers were the wives of COs, but many were college students who used their summer breaks to work in mental hospitals.

At the Cleveland State Hospital in Ohio, CPS men and women under the American Friends Service Committee jointly filed reports on how abuse and neglect had led to the deaths of patients. The hospital administration retaliated. Deteriorating work conditions caused CPS workers to be withdrawn from that hospital in November 1943. A year and a half later, at the request of a new superintendent, CPS workers returned under the care of MCC. In 1945, 19 women recruited from Mennonite colleges came and gave 鈥渦nusually good care鈥� to patients in the women鈥檚 infirmary at Cleveland; the following summer, the program was repeated with 22 college women.

In one hospital the C.O. Girls developed these guidelines for themselves:

• Speak a greeting to anyone, everyone on the hospital campus, in the corridors, on the wards, in the cafeteria;
• Be willing to do any task regardless of how menial or filthy;
• Be willing to mingle and eat with others in the dining room;
• Discuss first with your ward attendants any concerns you may have about unsatisfactory conditions; and
• Be at anytime ready to give witness to what you believe.

Eleanor Roosevelt’s Support

In early 1943, Eleanor Roosevelt interviewed a number of COs at an MCC-staffed hospital in Marlboro, New Jersey.聽 In her 鈥淢y Day鈥� column on January 16, 1943, Roosevelt described these COs in positive terms:

We met here with some of the group of Mennonites, who are conscientious objectors, and who have volunteered to serve in hospitals for mental cases. They are a very fine group of young men and bring a spiritual quality to their work because of their religion. In many ways, this is probably raising the standard of care given the patients.

On July 9, 1945, at the invitation of Edna Ramseyer, Eleanor Roosevelt and her secretary visited the MCC-sponsored mental health unit of the Hudson River State Hospital in Poughkeepsie, New York. Two days later in 鈥淢y Day,鈥� Roosevelt referred to meeting a group of workers belonging to the Mennonite church and elaborated:

The superintendent told me that they had undoubtedly raised the standards for the care of patients, and that they had been of tremendous help in disclosing certain practices which existed there and about which he never before could get any real evidence. He said if they could stay longer they would probably improve the standards even more.

At war’s End

Reflecting on his four CPS years that concluded at the Hudson River institution, Samuel Yoder wrote:

In late December 1945 I was discharged.聽I was going home. The overnight trip gave me time to reflect on my four years.聽I had served in five units from coast to coast.聽I had switched cultures and church affiliation. I had met wonderful persons in CPS, believers from Mennonite General Conference, Mennonite Brethren, Brethren in Christ and a large number from the Mennonite Church of which I am now a part.

I had matured in my Christian faith and was stronger and more sure about my peace position.聽My experience in three mental hospitals in a small way was a part of the fabric that laid the foundation for our own Mennonite Mental Health program . . .

. . . I arrived in Goshen via New York Central on a Saturday morning and as I stepped off the train there was no band to play, no parade to ride in, not even yellow ribbons tied around the old maple tree.
But there was the horse and buggy 鈥� my folks were there to meet me and welcome me home.

Modeling a Better Way

By 1947, as a national reform movement was taking off in response to the Life expos茅 and other stories told by the COs, MCC had convened a committee to study the possibility of establishing church-sponsored institutions offering mental healthcare services as a humane alternative to the state institutions.

鈥淭hese people felt there had to be a better way,鈥� said LaVern Yutzy 鈥�70, a therapist who served nearly 20 years as CEO of Philhaven, one of the Mennonite mental healthcare facilities that was established in the aftermath of the CPS experience during WWII. 鈥淪o they said, 鈥楲et鈥檚 see what we can do about this.鈥欌��

In 1949, Brook Lane Farm in Leitersburg, Maryland, was the first Mennonite mental healthcare facility to open its doors, with beds for short-term treatment of 23 patients with acute mental illnesses. While some in the church thought that Brook Lane and other similar institutions should largely rely on compassionate treatment in a 鈥渉ome-like atmosphere,鈥� other leaders in the reform movement cautioned that professional medical staff was a necessity. Eventually, the latter group prevailed. When Brook Lane opened, a psychiatrist from Baltimore began making twice-weekly visits to see patients there.

Within a decade, four other church-run facilities to treat mental illness opened across the country. Kings View opened in 1951 in Reedley, California, followed by Philhaven, established in 1952 in Mount Gretna, Pennsylvania. In 1954, Prairie View opened in Newton, Kansas, while the Penn Foundation began seeing its first patients in Souderton, Pennsylvania, in 1956 (it has since relocated to nearby Sellersville).

During the 1960s, three more Mennonite-affiliated institutions joined the group: Oaklawn in Elkhart, Indiana (1963); Kern View in Bakersfield, California (opened in 1966, but now closed) and Eden, in Winkler, Manitoba (1967).

Grant M. Stoltzfus 鈥�38 was an EMU alumnus who played a role in the post-war establishment of these Mennonite institutions. During his three years of service with the CPS, Stoltzfus had worked for a time at the notorious Byberry hospital in Philadelphia.

In 1945, Stoltzfus became the director of a unit at the Woodbine Colony for the Feeble Minded in Woodbine, New Jersey, where more than 20 men worked with hundreds of children with intellectual disabilities.

His final CPS assignment was writing educational pamphlets and researching how churches could run mental healthcare facilities for the National Mental Health Foundation, a reform-focused organization sparked by the CPS experience.

Stoltzfus eventually served as a professor of sociology at EMU from 1957 until his death in 1974. Former students recall his unflagging interest in mental health care and the way he influenced them to work in the field.
Another alumnus who played a prominent role in the early days of Mennonite-led reform in mental healthcare was Norman Loux 鈥�42, M.D. He left a prestigious job at a psychiatric hospital in Rhode Island to serve as the founding聽 medical director of the Penn Foundation. Loux remained in that position from 1955 to 1980.

Community-Oriented Care

Belying their small size, the Mennonite-sponsored mental health facilities played important roles in sparking wider initiatives. Originally founded to provide the mentally ill with humane and compassionate alternatives to state institutions, their institutional missions soon grew to encompass outpatient and day treatment programs.
Another innovative approach taken by many of these organizations was a therapeutic focus on treatment within the larger community, resulting in broader outreach efforts and increased involvement of patients鈥� families.

Retired EMU sociology Professor

Titus Bender 鈥�57, who earned a doctorate in social work at Tulane and who spent decades involved with the lives of marginalized people, published an article in 2011 about the impact of Mennonites on the larger mental health movement. In it, Titus spoke about a shift from volunteers to professionals in the 1960s:

Volunteers as a significant segment of hospital staffs gradually gave way to increased emphasis on clinically trained staff. This created some consternation among a segment of the Mennonite constituency who had envisioned a 鈥渉omelike atmosphere鈥� and lay involvement as crucial ingredients of a Mennonite-sponsored mental health program. Increasingly, the encouragement from the center was for Mennonites interested in mental health care to get professional training. Volunteers continue to play a vital role in assisting those with emotional stress to become integrated into the community.

The efforts at Mennonite institutions attracted national attention. Prairie View received a gold medal from the American Psychiatric Association (APA) in 1968 for its community mental health services, while Kings View received the same honor in 1971 for its contract model with local government to provide mental healthcare. In the 1960s, Prairie View and Oaklawn were cited as examples of innovative providers of mental healthcare in publications by both the APA and the federal department of Health, Education and Welfare. And in 1964, a profile of the Penn Foundation鈥檚 treatment programs was the lead chapter in a book of case studies compiled by the APA.

鈥淸These institutions] can take pride in their accomplishments on a national scale,鈥� wrote Lucy Ozarin, a longtime physician with the National Institute of Mental Health, in the early 1980s. 鈥淸They have] served as a. . . model for a nation to follow in providing psychiatric care where and when people need such help.鈥�

Mennonite College Role

While the church-founded mental health聽 institutions were becoming established and recognized, EMU was taking steps to prepare students for entering the mental healthcare field.

In 1961, Laban Peachey ’52, who had been a 19-year-old CO at Rhode Island State Hospital in 1946, became the founding chair of EMU鈥檚 department of psychology. 鈥淚 was definitely influenced to go into psychology by working at the hospital,鈥� Peachey told Crossroads in February 2012. 鈥淏ut I didn鈥檛 want to work with ill people; I wanted to keep people from getting ill.鈥�

Beginning with graduate courses in psychology at Boston University and the University of Virginia, Peachey worked his way toward a doctorate in counseling psychology from George Washington University in 1963. In the late 1960s, he chaired a Rockingham mental health group that preceded today’s community services board. Peachey was president of Hesston College, a Mennonite institution in Kansas, for 12 years before re-settling near EMU, where he earned a master of religion degree at age 70.

After establishing its psychology major in 1961, EMU gained accreditation for its social work program in 1975. In 1993, the masters in counseling program became EMU鈥檚 first graduate studies program outside of its seminary.

As of early 2012, 575 graduates had majored in psychology, 665 had majored in social work, and 221 had earned master鈥檚 degrees in counseling. Of course, not all of these 1,461 graduates remained in the mental health arena. This number, though 鈥� constituting about 10 percent of our current alumni group 鈥� does indicate significant interest in mental health among our alumni.

鈥淓MU has had a long history of training people for service to people who are the most vulnerable,鈥� Tom Martin 鈥�78, a professor of psychology at Susquehanna University, told Crossroads. “If you look around in this society and ask, 鈥榃ho are the most vulnerable ones?鈥� you鈥檝e got to look at people with severe and persistent mental disorders 鈥� It鈥檚 really in the Mennonite DNA to do this kind of work.”

Love and Attachment

In the spring of 2011, EMU hosted an unprecedented conference called 鈥淐onversations on Attachment: Integrating the Science of Love and Spirituality.鈥� A number of internationally recognized speakers cited the results of several decades of research to support their assertions that caring relationships are as necessary to human life as air, food and water.

With their grounding in the teachings of Jesus, the COs assigned to mental hospitals in WWII knew well the importance of love. Now there is a growing body of scientific proof that love is not just a preferred mode of conduct, it is truly necessary for human survival, as covered in the 鈥淐onversations on Attachment鈥� conference. (See more at .)

The integration of science and love is reflected in the life of CO James Kuhns. After his CPS years, he earned degrees in the sciences 鈥� chemistry, physics and math 鈥� at Goshen College, one of EMU鈥檚 peer institutions under the umbrella of Mennonite Church USA. For seven years, Kuhns worked in the scientific arena and earned a master鈥檚 degree in physical science. He and his wife did MCC service in Ethiopia for three years. But he found himself longing to return to his CPS days when he was focused on people鈥檚 minds. He returned to graduate school and earned a second master鈥檚 and then a doctorate in clinical psychology.

Kuhns worked as a clinical psychologist for the next three decades. Interviewed by EMU students as a retiree in Harrisonburg, he said that his life鈥檚 work could be summed up in one Greek word, agape, which he defined this way:

It鈥檚 to establish a relationship with other people that is positive to help them become what they can become. . . Not in terms of what you can give to me, but [in terms of] what you are in need of. I will nurture, I will encourage, I will support. And if we show that type of love to our associates 鈥� whether it鈥檚 parents, child, husband, wife, country-to-country, vocation 鈥� problems disappear.

This Christian-based emphasis on relationships, on caring, on compassion 鈥� on agape 鈥� is what caused the Mennonites serving in mental health institutions in WWII to be praised by Eleanor Roosevelt and many of the institutions鈥� superintendents toward the end of the war period.

Roosevelt also accurately grasped that the CO experience had caused the Mennonite church to open itself to the world and to feel called to service beyond its own cluster of farm communities. Of the male and female Mennonite COs she met, Roosevelt wrote in “My Day” (July 11, 1945):

Many of them are preparing to travel for their churches after the war and undertake relief work in different parts of the world, and what training they get in hospitals here will be of value in the future.
By modeling another way 鈥� and calling attention to abusive treatment 鈥撀� the EMU alumni who served in mental health facilities joined other COs in transforming the way mental health is handled in North America. And they paved the way for hundreds of future EMU students to embrace the importance of mental health, to view it as a responsibility of a caring community, and to make it their own life鈥檚 work.

鈥� Andrew Jenner 鈥�04 & Bonnie Price Lofton, MA 鈥�03

For a bibliography, see the bottom of following page. EMU historical librarian Lois Bowman ’60, assistant historical librarian Cathy Baugh, and alumni database specialist Braydon Hoover ’11 offered considerable research assistance for this report on conscientious objectors.

Harding and his late wife, Rosemarie, were close friends and colleagues of Martin Luther King Jr., during an era when the Hardings were active members of a Mennonite church.

鈥淚 come as one who does not like to lecture or preach,鈥� said Harding, during his remarks in chapel on the morning of Feb. 26. Characterizing his visit as a dialogue with everyone else on campus, he invited others鈥� feedback and thoughts throughout the next two days. 鈥淟oving dialogue is part of what keeps me going and keeps us going.鈥�

That evening, Harding continued that conversation as part of the Albert N. Keim History Lecture series, when he spoke about America as an idea that hasn鈥檛 yet been fully realized.

鈥淚 am absolutely obsessed with the question of how you build a deep democracy in this country,鈥� said Harding, who played an active leadership role during the Civil Rights movement and continues to work toward a more just, participatory society through his nonprofit organization, . He lives in Denver, Colo., where he was a professor of religion and social transformation at the Iliff School of Theology from 1981 until his retirement in 2004.

Helped MLK to articulate stance against Vietnam War

In the 鈥�60s, Harding worked closely with King and other Civil Rights leaders, playing important behind-the-scenes roles in the movements to challenge segregation in Albany, Ga., and Birmingham, Ala. Harding also drafted King鈥檚 famous and highly controversial speech, delivered in New York City in on April 4, 1967, exactly one year to the day before King鈥檚 assassination.

In it King called for the U.S. to “undergo a radical revolution of values,” adding: “When machines and computers, profit and property rights are considered more important than people, the giant triplets of racism, materialism, and militarism are incapable of being conquered.” King also explicitly linked capitalistic socio-economic practices to the absence of “fairness and justice” both at home and abroad. This passage 鈥� evocative of current questions regarding the U.S.’s role in Iraq and Afghanistan 鈥� shows the strong stance and unequivocal language in that Harding/King speech:

True compassion is more than flinging a coin to a beggar; it is not haphazard and superficial. It comes to see that an edifice which produces beggars needs restructuring. A true revolution of values will soon look uneasily on the glaring contrast of poverty and wealth. With righteous indignation, it will look across the seas and see individual capitalists of the West investing huge sums of money in Asia, Africa and South America, only to take the profits out with no concern for the social betterment of the countries, and say: “This is not just.” It will look at our alliance with the landed gentry of Latin America and say: “This is not just.” The Western arrogance of feeling that it has everything to teach others and nothing to learn from them is not just. A true revolution of values will lay hands on the world order and say of war: “This way of settling differences is not just.” This business of burning human beings with napalm, of filling our nation’s homes with orphans and widows, of injecting poisonous drugs of hate into the veins of peoples normally humane, of sending men home from dark and bloody battlefields physically handicapped and psychologically deranged, cannot be reconciled with wisdom, justice, and love. A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death.

Harding is the author or co-author of five books, including Martin Luther King 鈥� The Inconvenient Hero. In the 2009 edition of his book Hope and History, Harding called attention to 鈥渢he continuing frontiers for justice, for community, for the redemption of the soul of our nation.鈥�

Struggle still necessary for a more just, humane society

He wrote of the continued swamp of materialism, sexism, homophobia, and poverty, along with 鈥渁ntidemocratic, bullying military interventions of our government.鈥� In order to 鈥渒eep going toward a more just and humane society鈥� we (the people) have to accept that there will be personal, fiscal and psychic costs. Yet by acting out of 鈥� and building upon 鈥� love, we will 鈥渞eceive the power to carry on the struggle.鈥�

In Hope and History, Harding said he dreamed of a community-based 鈥渞ainbow wedge,鈥� which would be 鈥渁 force for the creation of new political, cultural, ecological, and economic realities.鈥�

At EMU, Harding explained that being 鈥渨e, the people鈥� means being active as citizens because, in the absence of this, our leaders will always be happy to step in and take things in self-serving directions.

In December 2013, Harding married another longtime peace and justice activist, Aljosie Aldrich Harding, who accompanied him on the visit to EMU. During classes and other discussion, Aljosie encouraged students to live their lives being primarily for, rather that against, things in order to promote change.

The Hardings鈥� EMU itinerary also included visiting an undergraduate African-American history class, a seminary class, speaking at a seminary chapel, and informal lunchtime conversations with students and faculty.

Harding’s ties with the Mennonite Church

Vincent Harding鈥檚 long association with the Mennonite Church began in the late 鈥�50s, when he was studying for his doctorate at the University of Chicago and began attending Woodlawn Mennonite Church on the city鈥檚 south side. In 1958, five Mennonites 鈥� Harding, another African American man, and three white men 鈥� decided to travel through the South 鈥渢o manifest and test our faith in Christian brotherhood.鈥� Harding鈥檚 decade-long association with King began on this trip, when King welcomed the five men into his home, though he was in bed recovering from a stab wound.

In his book Martin Luther King 鈥� The Inconvenient Hero, Harding wrote:

Before we left, he [King] turned to Ed Riddick, the other African-American traveler, and to me, and he said, very seriously, “You Mennonites understand what we’re trying to do in this nonviolent movement. You ought to come down from Chicago and help us.” I never forgot the invitation, or the reasoning behind it.

Harding and first wife Rosemarie moved to Atlanta, Ga., in 1961 to lead a new, interracial voluntary service unit support by , where they lived around the corner from Martin and Coretta King. (Rosemarie was the first African-American woman to graduate from EMU鈥檚 sister school, Goshen College; she died in 2004.)

The following year, the Hardings visited EMU to talk about their involvement in the civil rights movement, and to challenge the broader Mennonite community to more active participation in the struggle for racial justice.

鈥淚t was easy for people scattered around [these] often-isolated Mennonite worlds to have only the weakest possible understanding of what was going on,鈥� recalled Harding during his recent visit.

On being insensitive to the sin of racial prejudice

When the Hardings arrived in Harrisonburg in May, 1962, they were troubled by the EMU community鈥檚 lack of awareness about the extent of segregation in Harrisonburg itself and, as they later wrote in a report, 鈥渁 frightening moral insensitivity to the sin of racial prejudice and discrimination.鈥� The couple used the opportunity to challenge those on campus by presenting them with a series of questions, such as whether it was morally acceptable for Mennonite teachers to participate in segregated professional organizations, or whether 鈥淢ennonites should continue to take advantage of the false privilege of a pink skin by making use of facilities that are denied to their Negro brothers.鈥�

鈥淏efore we left Harrisonburg, we felt that there were many individuals 鈥� students and adults 鈥� who were beginning to struggle deeply with the implications of discipleship in their situation,鈥� the Hardings wrote later.聽Harding remained in contact with EMU as it began changing, visiting in the late 鈥�70s at the invitation of Titus Bender (then a professor) and again in 1995 as part of EMU鈥檚 observation of .

Titus and Ann Bender became friends with Harding when they led a Mennonite voluntary service unit in Meridian, Mississippi, from 1958 to 1969. Titus says Harding pushed him personally, and EMU collectively, to move forward in realizing that 鈥渘onviolence is not inaction鈥� and that 鈥渙ne can work for creative change without being violent.鈥� While the Hardings鈥� tough questions during their first visit caused some discomfort on campus at the time, the university鈥檚 eventual embrace of nonviolent social activism is reflected today by initiatives like the and the undergraduate major in .

Harding inspired restorative justice pioneer Howard聽 Zehr

Harding also was a major influence on , who is regarded internationally as one of the founders of the field of restorative justice. Today Zehr is co-director of CJP’s .

鈥淚 remember sitting at the dining room table with him as he patiently helped a na茂ve white boy understand racial injustice in this country,鈥� said Zehr, referring to several visits Harding made to his family鈥檚 home and church in Indiana. Zehr subsequently enrolled in Morehouse College in Atlanta (MLK’s alma mater) and became its first white graduate in 1966. Harding “was a major factor in developing my consciousness and concern about justice,鈥� Zehr said.

Reflecting on the recent visit, EMU professor said that Harding challenged and inspired the university, as he has been doing since he first came to campus more than 50 years ago.

鈥淗e reminds us again and again that we are the people we are waiting for. We are the ones who can make change happen,鈥� Sawin said. 鈥淚t is in our talking together that we are at our most human, and this sacred conversation is what makes us whole and helps move us toward the world that is yet to be 鈥� the world we want for our children.鈥�

Choosing to identify with those who are oppressed

During the Feb. 26 evening event, Harding was asked how King, if still living, would assess our country鈥檚 progress toward the goals outlined in his famous 鈥淚 Have a Dream鈥� speech. Harding responded that King wasn鈥檛 expecting miracles. Simple solutions and quick fixes were never part of the plan. He recalled one of the most celebrated ideas King described in that speech, that someday his children would be judged by the content of their character, not the color of their skin.

鈥淗ow do you get to know the content of a child鈥檚 character?鈥� asked Harding, pointing out that King鈥檚 vision was itself a plea for greater engagement. Building the beloved community, he said, isn鈥檛 limited to passing new laws that, in theory, advance racial equality. Building that community means creating stronger connections and developing relationships across the racial divides that persist in our country.

In his last public presentation at EMU, a Thursday morning chapel at the seminary, Harding focused on these words of Martin Luther King Jr.

I choose to identify with the underprivileged.

I choose to identify with the poor.

I choose to give my life for the hungry.

I choose to give my life for those who have been left out of the sunlight of opportunity.

I choose to live for and with those who find themselves seeing life as a long and desolate corridor with no exit sign.

This is the way I鈥檓 going.

If it means suffering a little bit, I鈥檓 going that way.

If it means sacrificing, I鈥檓 going that way.

If it means dying for them, I鈥檓 going that way, because

I heard a voice saying, 鈥楧o something for others.鈥�

All of Vincent Harding鈥檚 talks at EMU on Feb. 26 and 27 can be accessed online:

鈥淟oved into Life: a personal testimony鈥�

鈥淚s America Possible?鈥�

鈥淢artin Luther King鈥檚 Choices and Ours鈥�

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Addressing a well-filled Lehman Auditorium on Jan. 17, professor traced EMU鈥檚 history from the early 1940s and the first admission of black students, through the 1960s, when visiting black Mennonite activists challenged the white Mennonite community to raise their voices against racial inequality.

Before an even larger crowd on Jan. 20, professor (an expert on history and mission) spoke of the impact of King on the nation 鈥� indeed the world 鈥� but stressed that 鈥渨e鈥檝e domesticated him,鈥� making him 鈥減alatable to our own image, our own dreams,鈥� rather than responding to his call to address the 鈥渟tructural issues behind poverty.鈥�

Both speakers shared a common theme: the dangers of adulation.

King鈥檚 posthumous transformation from man to superhero is 鈥渄angerous,鈥� Sawin said, because such moral leaders are not 鈥済iants,鈥� but regular people 鈥渨ho stumbled and wandered and worried as they strove to make a better world.鈥�

“Take the first step”

Instead of comparing ourselves to King鈥檚 outsized image and yielding to feelings of fear and inadequacy, Sawin suggested following the example of King and those in the Eastern Mennonite community who struggled for integration: 鈥淭ake the first step in faith,鈥� Sawin said, quoting King. 鈥淵ou don鈥檛 have to see the whole staircase. Just take the first step.”

EMU’s predecessor, Eastern Mennonite College, took its first steps toward desegregation, in defiance of local and state law, in the late 1940s. This change was not without controversy within the Mennonite community: though EMC became the first historically white college in Virginia to reverse its racial policy and accept a black student in 1948, the did not lift its strictures on integrated worship, including shared communion, foot-washing, and the kiss of brotherhood, until 1955.

Facing social, financial and academic obstacles (including overt and covert racism), the first six black students did not stay to complete their degrees, based on Sawin鈥檚 search of EMC records. Local resident Peggy Webb was urged to head to for her first two years of college, before EMU belatedly let her enroll in 1950-51 and earn a degree in 1954. Her tenacity was surely influenced by her mother, Roberta Webb, a teacher and member of Broad Street Mennonite Church, who was a strong advocate of racial equality.

By the mid-1950s and 1960s, a handful of Mennonites 鈥� some from Eastern Mennonite, including Titus W. Bender 鈥�57 鈥� were active in the civil rights movement. (Bender, a professor emeritus who resides in Harrisonburg, spoke during chapel earlier in the week of his experiences as a pastor in the 1960s working on racial reconciliation efforts in Mississippi.) But while Mennonites were strong critics of the Vietnam War, their silence on civil rights eventually prompted King to level criticism. 鈥淲here have you Mennonites been?鈥� he asked one church leader.

Prodded into action by the Hardings

The EMC community was eventually prompted into further action by African-American Mennonite activists Vincent and Rosemarie Harding (Vincent will speak on campus in February). During two visits to EMC in 1962 and 1963, the couple concluded that most white Mennonites were not aware of the effects of segregation. They challenged those who were aware to set aside their strict non-resistance practices to advocate for racial equality. In response, two professors formed an integrated committee that became largely responsible for the desegregation of Harrisonburg’s schools and hotels. Other Mennonite efforts followed, including attention to the subject by the official, and very popular, radio program of the Mennonite Church, 鈥淭he Mennonite Hour.鈥�

In his Monday chapel talk, Evans brought the discussion into the present by elaborating on Sawin’s suggestion that King鈥檚 image has been burnished, the jagged edges smoothed by the passage of time and the nation鈥檚 collective memory. King has been heavily memorialized 鈥� in the names of streets, schools and community centers; with larger-than-life statues; and in simplistic lessons for schoolchildren, said Evans. King is one of three Americans to be honored with a federal holiday. But these symbolic gestures have made him 鈥渓ess than the revolutionary he was.鈥�

鈥淏y domesticating him, we鈥檝e made him too big to imitate and perhaps too nice to matter,鈥� Evans said. 鈥淭oo many of us forget that though, today, King is revered, yesterday he was reviled.鈥�

Motivated by divine discontent

Considered a Communist and an agitator, King was critical of white supremacy, economic exploitation, racial oppression, and worldwide violence. Though he advocated non-violence and passive resistance, King confronted white America with 鈥渁nger, discontent, and maladjustment鈥濃�� all qualities that Evans pointed out are removed from today鈥檚 popular image of King.

The collective memory of our nation has forever linked King to his famous 鈥淚 Have a Dream鈥� speech delivered in August 1963 at the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom. Yet the qualities required to be a dreamer, Evans said, are those of the perpetually dissatisfied, what King himself described as the 鈥渄ivine discontent.鈥� These qualities made King a towering force of energy, charisma and inspiration, but they also made him dangerous 鈥� and eventually led to his death.

To best honor King, Evans said, see him as who he was: as the revolutionary thinker expressing the anger of moral outrage, as a man of normal stature rather than the moral giant, as a culpable human with faults and excesses, and as the perpetual dreamer unsatisfied with the inequities of the world.

And to best honor King, 鈥渄o not let the memory of a giant King comfort us more than the history of this small man. We can鈥檛 be content with the domestication of MLK or what he stood for. Be maladjusted. Be divinely discontented鈥� about social and economic inequalities here in our own community, Evans said. 鈥淔or if we are truly to walk in the way of Martin Luther King Jr., the missionary, we must be willing to walk as he walked.鈥�

For more information about the history of African Americans at EMU, see these stories and podcast:

Much pain, one big gain, from being an African American student at EMU in 1962-63

鈥淭ake the First Step in Faith: A History of Inclusion at EMU鈥� 鈥� podcast featuring Mark Metzler Sawin