2007 Trinity College Commencement Address: "Why Are We Here?"

Dr. Stan D. Gaede, scholar-in-residence and senior advisor to the president of Gordon College, delivered the 2007 Trinity College Commencement Address "Why Are We Here?" on May 12, 2007, at Trinity International University in Deerfield, Illinois.

It is a deep privilege and honor to be with you today. In part, that's because of the moment. It's commencement day, after all. Hard to find anything better than that. But it also stems from my deep and abiding appreciation for the work that we have in common. At Trinity. And Gordon. And Westmont. This is good work, my friends. And we are privileged—every one of us—to be a part of it. But it does raise the question, Why? Why the privilege, at one level? But why "us," at another? Why are you here, Class of 2007? And why am I here, as well?

I didn't start out here, of course. Few of us did. I grew up on a farm in California, the son of immigrant farmers from Holland and Prussia, who came to America for religious freedom and discovered economic prosperity in the process. We weren't extraordinarily wealthy or anything like that. But my father was reasonably successful. And I grew up privileged by the world's standards. Large house. Swimming pool. I got my own car on my 16th birthday. And a brand new GTO when I graduated from high school. In other words, I was indulged to a significant extent, and I enjoyed the indulgence.

Two other things you need to know about me for full disclosure: First, I was a Christian. And second, I was a slug. That is, as a young boy, I had accepted Christ as my savior. And it was real. I really did give my life to Christ at the age of six. But it did not grab hold of me the way it should. Or to use other language, Jesus became my Savior but not my Lord, nor the pivot point of my life, around which I oriented a great many of my activities.

And so, I was a slug. What I pursued in earnest were three things—athletics, music, and the opposite sex. Pretty much in that order. You will notice, today, that I am not an athlete, nor a musician, nor a member of the opposite sex. Which means I pretty much failed in all of my ambitions. But they were important to me, at the time. And I spent an awful lot of my waking hours working on them.

What I didn't spend a great deal of time working on was being a student, even though I knew that was important as well. I knew that because everyone else in my family told me so and did rather well at it. My older brother and sister were high school valedictorians and salutatorians, for example. But I was not, much to the chagrin of my teachers, parents, and coaches, all of whom told me fairly constantly that I had a lot of potential—which was their way of telling me that I was a slug, not applying myself.

Now, why was that? Well, if you had asked me at the time, I would have said that it was because I had too much to do. Sports, music, and the opposite sex, remember. But that wasn't the real reason. The real reason was that I didn't think of it as deeply valuable. I was a student for one reason and one reason only: to get good enough grades to go to college and get a good job. And so I studied for grades, pure and simple. Which worked, to be honest with you. I'd cram. Get reasonably good marks. And had plenty of time for the other things in my life. Plus, I got into a decent college. Life was good. I thought.

Until the summer after my sophomore year in college. When everything changed. Radically. What happened is that we were vacationing on the coast of California, which we typically did in the summer. One evening after dinner, my cousin Paul and I decided to hang out some more, this time over in San Luis Obsibo. We had no plans. So we just hoped in my GTO and headed south on Route 1. We didn't drive far, however. In fact, just a few miles down the road, we collided head on with another car in a section of the road that was under construction. No one knows exactly what happened. I don't remember the details of the event, nor did anyone else in the other car.

But here's what I do know: In a few seconds, everything that I had come to rely on as valuable and important was gone. My car, for one thing, was totaled. But much more important, when I awoke the next morning in a hospital (after six hours of surgery), everything else about my life had been totaled as well. My leg and ankle—on which I relied for football and tennis—were shattered; they said I might not walk again. Half my face—on which I relied for appearance—was crushed; they said I would never look the same again. But worst of all, my passenger—my cousin and my friend, Paul—was gone. The accident had taken his life.

I don't know if any of you have experienced anything like that before. My guess is that a few of you have. If so, you know what I was going through at that moment. On the one hand, my body was on the edge. Between the pain, the medication, and the surgery, I was in pretty bad shape. But it was nothing compared to the pain deep in my soul regarding Paul's death. As the driver, I felt guilty. Responsible. And absolutely alone. I have never felt so alone in all my life. And nothing that anyone said made any difference at all.

But then something happened that is… well, hard to explain. It took place a few days after the accident, when I was told that my aunt and uncle, Paul's parents, wanted to see me. Uncle Waldo and Aunt Esther, by name. Two people whom I had known and loved my whole life but now very much didn't want to see. "What could they possibly want with me," I thought to myself? "Why would they even want to look at me, much less talk to me?" My mind ran wild with possibilities, and none of them were good. But there wasn't much I could do about it. My leg was in traction and my mouth was wired shut. I couldn't move, much less talk. The only thing I could do was watch as they came into my hospital room, through the door, around the end of my bed, and over by my side.

And smiled. They were smiling! And they kept on smiling. And then they did something that I will remember for the rest of my life. It is as deeply etched in my brain as anything possibly could be. They reached out to me, grabbed my hand, and whispered in my ear, "Stan, we love you. You're our son now, too, you know."

That was it. Just a few very simple words. Which completely changed my life. Why? Well, what I heard that day were words of forgiveness, of course. Forgiveness, grace, and adoption. And when I heard them, I knew instantly—absolutely and finally—what it was that I believed and why. And I knew it, this time, from the inside out.

You see, what my aunt and uncle did for me on that day was remind me of who I was. And whose I was. And they did it by putting into practice what my Lord did for me—for every one of us—on the cross. Our sins nailed Jesus to the cross, remember. But through it, his Father (our Father) offered us forgiveness, a pardon we did not deserve, and adoption into his family, through the work of Christ.

And the question that confronted me in the days after that—and which I would contend confronts every one of us sitting here this morning—is, So what? So we have been forgiven and adopted into the family of Christ? What does that mean? What does that really mean? And, of course, we all have to figure that one out on our own. No one can tell you precisely what that will mean for you. But I can tell you what it meant for me. And to be honest with you, it came as quite a surprise. A shock, in fact. Because it meant—for the first time in my life—that I became a student. Or better yet, I understood what it meant to be a student.

And why was that? Two reasons, I think. In the first place, I lost something in the accident that had always inhibited my learning in the past. They were the false values that consumed so much of my energy prior to that time. I don't mean sports, music, and the opposite sex, by the way. Each of those is good. Very good, in fact. I recommend them heartily. But I was pursing them for the wrong reasons. They were my avenue to success and popularity; a means to an end. And it was that "end" that was not good.

I learned that lying in the hospital, by the way. You see, if I had been involved in athletics or music or people for the right reasons, then nothing could have taken that away from me by the accident. Nothing. What one learns in sports—about endurance, discipline, and character—I would still have had. That can't be taken away from you. Or what one learns in music—the beauty, joy and wonder of music—no accident can ever take that away from you. But what I cared about in athletics and music had been taken away, because what I cared about was… me. My success. My accomplishment. My performance. And all of that, now, was gone.

Which was good. Because it was replaced by something much grander and much better. And that was gratefulness. I was grateful. Because I understood for the first time in my life what God had given me in Christ. His grace, mercy and love. And as a result, I became… well, immensely thankful. Grateful beyond words. And that's what turned me into a student. Or better yet, a learner.

I know that some of you are probably scratching your heads right now about the connection between gratefulness and learning. So let me confuse you even more, by telling you about a very special person in my life by the name of Judy. She lives with me. Because she's my wife. I met Judy just one year after the accident by the way. And the odd thing is, I knew that I wanted to marry Judy the first time I saw her. I'm serious. I just saw her, one day, walking across campus. And the minute I saw her, I knew that she was the one. Or at least, I hoped she was the one.

Now I know what you're all thinking. You're thinking, "The guy's a pervert. Or a moron. Or worse. You know, he sees someone, and he thinks he's in love." But… that's not what was happening here. At least, not entirely. Yes, I did think Judy was beautiful. Lovely, in fact. But this wasn't just a visual thing. I thought, when I saw her, that I really knew her. Knew something about who she was and what she valued. I know it's weird. And it hasn't happened to anyone else I've ever known, before or since. So it's clearly an aberration.

But it did happen to me. And from that day on, everything seemed to go absolutely according to plan. I asked her out on a blind date, and, surprisingly, she agreed. And we started going out together. Clearly seemed to like each other. And while I didn't tell her so, I continued thinking, as the months went by, that this was it. The way it should be.

Until one day, something happened that kind of knocked me off my feet. We were just talking, as I was walking with her back to her room. And, out of the blue, she suddenly dropped this bombshell that she was thinking of transferring to another college the next year. Smith. Or Wellesley. Or some such place. Can't remember exactly. But I was absolutely flabbergasted. Dumbfounded. I wasn't at Wellesley, obviously. So why in world would she be considering transferring there?

Well, I dropped her off and then went back to my room, as blue as blue can be. I mean, I was depressed. Major depressed. And the more I thought about it, the more depressed and perplexed I became. Why was this happening, I thought to myself? Did I get it completely wrong? Didn't she feel about me the way I felt about her? The questions were endless. And finally, I just couldn't take it anymore. So I gave her a call and asked if we could meet for a few minutes, just to talk. She said she was studying for an exam and it wasn't really convenient. "Not convenient," I thought to myself. "There's a bad sign!" But I persisted. And finally, she said, "Okay, just come over to my room, tap on the window, and we can talk for a few minutes."

Which I did. Raced over to her room, in fact. Knocked on the window, as she suggested. After which she very kindly cranked the thing open, stuck her head out, and smiled. She was smiling! And all of the sudden, the words came tumbling out. "Judy, we have a pretty good relationship, right," I said? "Right," she responded. "And we like each other a lot, right?" I asked again. "Right," she responded. "Well, how in the world then can you be thinking of transferring to another school?!"

And then I stopped. And she looked at me, gave me a little smile, and didn't say a thing. Instead, she crawled out the window. Gave me a hug. And finally said what I had been waiting for her to say… all my life, it seemed. "Stan. You slug, don't you know I love you?" That was it. That's all I remember, in fact. To this day, I don't know why she was thinking of transferring. But at that moment, I didn't care. All I cared about was the simple, wonderful, amazing fact that she loved me. Loved me as much as I loved her.

And do you know what I did then? Well, I jumped in my car and drove all over the town, singing at the top of my lungs. With the windows rolled down. I'm lucky I wasn't arrested for disturbing the peace! Or looking so stupid. But I didn't care. I was overjoyed. And grateful. Grateful to Judy, of course. But grateful to God as well, for giving me the gift of her love in the first place. A gift I did not deserve. But a gift he chose to give me, nevertheless.

But now I want you to notice something—both in the gift of Judy and also in the gift of grace that my aunt and uncle gave to me that day in the hospital: What was the response? Well, in both cases, it was gratitude. Immense, enormous gratitude for something I did not deserve. And what happens to you when you are grateful for such a gift? Well, you take care of it. You become a good steward of it. In the case of Judy, I tried to become a good friend and, soon thereafter, a good marriage partner. I showed my love for her and my gratefulness by being a faithful husband. A good steward of our marriage.

And that's exactly what happened to me in my relationship with God, once I understood the full measure of his grace that day in the hospital. I didn't just become grateful in feelings. I became grateful in fact. Grateful for all of his gifts in my life. And most especially, grateful for the privilege of being able to learn. To learn about his creation, his world, his Word. In fact, for the first time in my life, I became absolutely thirsty for understanding. I wanted to drink in everything I could, out of gratitude to God, and a desire to be a good steward of what he had given to me. Which meant that finally, finally, finally… I became a student. Finally understood my calling. Finally understood why I was in college.

And now I want to say something that's a bit dangerous, because it's pretty personal. And sort of direct. But I'll say it anyway: That's why you were here as well. You were here to be a student. That's why you came to Trinity. You were not here to get a better job someday, though I suspect you will. You were not even here to get a college degree, though that will happen in just a few minutes. You came here for one reason, and one reason only, and that was to learn and grow and become the person God created you to be. That's why you were here. And my plea is simply this: Don't stop. Don't stop learning. Don't stop growing. And don't forget the gift you were given to be here in the first place.

How many of you have seen the movie, Saving Private Ryan? Some of you. Most of you. There is a line in that movie which I think is powerful, and worth remembering—especially for those of you who are graduating today. The line comes at the end of the movie, and it is uttered by the Captain, played by Tom Hanks, in his very last breath of life. Do you remember it?

You'll recall that this Captain had led a small contingent of soldiers through Europe to save Private Ryan. He needed saving because he had lost all of his other brothers in the war, and the general in charge decided that he didn't want the last remaining brother in the family—Private Ryan—to die as well. And so, this special squadron was put together, and searched all over France for him. Finally found him. And, in fact, did save his life. But here's the thing: almost everyone in the squad lost their life doing it, including the Captain who led them on the rescue mission.

And so, in his last breath, the Captain—knowing that he was going to die and knowing as well that they had accomplished their mission and that Ryan would make it home alive—looked into the eyes of a watching Private Ryan and told him something he would never forget. "Earn it," he said. "Earn it."

I think there is a sense in which those words apply to each one of us who are followers of Christ, by the way. Especially those of you who have been given the privilege of being here, at this school. Because, in the first place, it is a privilege. This doesn't happen to many people. Most folks in the world don't go to college. And very few of those who do, come to a place like Trinity. With its mission, its people, and its opportunities.

But even more important—for all of us who know Christ—those words apply. Why? Well, think again about the story of Private Ryan. The Captain wasn't saying "earn it" in the sense that, if Ryan did something, then he would get a reward. The reward was already his. He had been saved. And he was saved at the cost of the lives of others. In the same way, we can't earn our salvation. If we are one of Christ's disciples, our salvation has already been accomplished. Jesus paid the price. Jesus gave his life so that we might live. The question is, are we going to really live? Live, that is, like those who know what they have been given? That's what "earn it" means in that movie. And that's what it means for each one of us, as well.

My life—your life—has been purchased at the price of a complete innocent. Jesus—righteous in every way, God's own Son—dying on the cross instead of us. And then God coming into each of our hospital rooms, walking around the edge of our bed, picking us up from our shattered lives, and saying, "You're my son now, you know; my daughter."

And the only question left is, how will we live our lives as a result? Will we earn it? Will we live our lives as those who are grateful beyond measure? Driving all over town, singing at the top of our lungs, living in gratitude to God? That's the question of the hour, Class of 2007, because it's the question of your life. My prayer for you is that you would love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength and overwhelmed by that love, become the most grateful learners—and thus, the most faithful stewards, the best neighbors—the world has ever seen. For good reason. For very good reason.

Have a great day, graduates. Have a great life.