On Monday evening, May 12, 2003, Winton H. Beaven died in Kettering, Ohio, at the age of eighty-eight. He was dean emeritus of Kettering College of the Medical Arts and president of Columbia Union College from 1965 to 1970. Beaven was a much-loved and admired speaker and leader, not only at Sligo Seventh-day Adventist Church, but also throughout the entire Seventh-day Adventist denomination.
A memorial service celebrating his life and work will be held on Saturday, July 26, 2003, at 4:00 p.m., at the Seventh-day Adventist Church, 3939 Stonebridge Road, Kettering, Ohio 45419.
The Beaven welcomes memories of him. Please send them by postal mail to 1542 Big Hill Road, Kettering, Ohio 45429, or via e-mail.
By Jiggs Gallagher
(May 19, 2003)
Winton Beaven was—and remains—one of my heroes. I don’t use that word lightly. As a child growing up in Takoma Park in the 1960s, I began to see that he stood head and shoulders above many of his contemporaries.
He was, of course, a thoughtful and engaging speaker. As a student at CUC for two of the years of his presidency, I never once came away from his chapel or assembly talks without a new idea, a new spin on an old idea, or a chuckle. He once gave a speech on speechmaking, saying that if you didn’t spend three to four times the length of the speech on your preparation, you haven’t shown respect for the time of the people listening to you.
Even before I met him, I respected him. Dr. Beaven teamed up with Bill Loveless to produce "Concept," an idea-filled half-hour weekly program on the local ABC affiliate in Washington, D.C. The wise-cracking pair came to be known in the halls of Channel 7 as "The Joy Boys," a moniker then used by Willard Scott and Ed Walker on the radio.
I stood in a cold February wind outside Columbia Hall in 1970, watching CUC’s primary building—and his office—going up in flames in an apparent arson crime that has never been solved to this day. I can still remember him conferring with the firemen, running back and forth, hoping against hope that something would be saved.
But Winton Beaven was a great man on the personal level, too. He encouraged me to pursue my writing career. And he cheered my mother on for returning in middle-age to finish a college degree, and helping her straighten out the kinks of scheduling.
I remember taking pride each time I saw his name pop up in a newspaper or clipping service from around the world—and in my job as communications officer for the General Conference of Seventh-day Adventists in the 1970s I often did. His expertise on alcoholism was welcomed by many in the field.
I saw Winton Beaven as a man unafraid to take on the conventional thinking of those around him, and eager to use his talents to help others. You can’t ask more of a legacy than that.
By William Loveless
(May 21, 2003)
When my family moved to Takoma Park in 1957, we occupied a house a block from the Winton Beaven home. In space identical to ours, where our family of four had a tight fit, seven people—at times it had been more—and a giant French poodle (handsome and long-legged like the rest of the family) occupied the Beaven house—and all of them managed to come out looking freshly groomed, ambitious, and resilient.
Beaven had come to Takoma Park from a professorship at the University of Michigan to serve as dean of Potomac University (the Seventh-day Adventist seminary). Curious about this man who had achieved notable acclaim as director of the Institutes of Scientific Study for the Prevention of Alcoholism, I dropped in on his homiletics class one day. How could this non-preacher teach preaching? He acknowledged his maverick non-preacher status, then with calm assurance demonstrated adeptness in entering a new arena of study. This articulate non-preacher intrigued me.
Later, when I sought a partner to present dialogue sermons, Winton was my target. By then academic dean at Washington Missionary College, chairman of Sligo Church board of elders, and under a heavy parenting load, Winton scrutinized me as I challenged him: "Are you willing to put up or shut up?" Winton’s assent initiated a unique relationship, one of the most meaningful and stimulating friendships of my lifetime. After a season of public dialogues in Sligo Church on Scripture, we took this partnership preaching into a fairly new medium, the local television channel. For six years we met weekly to plan the show.
These TV planning sessions were a great mix of breakfasting, deep discussions of national and international events, exploration of current neighborhood and denominational issues, and equally earnest forays into sports events. And the show would take shape. Winton called the prep time for Concept a theological education for him—a new discipline that he pursued with typical thoroughness. In turn, Winton dispensed to me much of his communication wisdom, the kind of stuff not commonly taught: "If you don’t offer information new to you, it’s not worth preaching."
During this TV preparation time I learned of Winton’s wide-ranging competencies. An expert on the subject of abstinence and the effects of alcohol, he spoke at international institutes for alcohol prevention, traveling extensively in the Middle East and elsewhere during and following his appointment in the General Conference Temperance Department. He achieved and maintained current data regarding alcoholism, translating sophisticated physiological information into compelling, audience-friendly presentations.
Equally impressive was Winton’s mental catalog of the batting averages of all the name players and some of the minor players in baseball. He could reel off the scores for decades of World Series games: who won by what margin. A real baseball aficionado, he could converse on all kinds of sports—track and field, tennis, swimming. At a "Clean Livers’" Water Volleyball game in the college swimming pool that preempted swimming during the noon hour almost daily, Winton was an esteemed team member.
Winton’s presidency at Columbia Union College was marked by fair-mindedness and affirmation of the faculty; he placed great importance on relating to the faculty while juggling the role of president with those of parenting and church affiliation. He supported the inner city program begun at Sligo Church during the civil rights movement of the 1960s and 1970s. He took a notably active part in Ingathering, going door to door carrying an Ingathering can. His personal skills must have made an arresting impression on people who answered his knock on snowy December evenings.
Out of that experience came the story of the occasion when a fund-raising alumna of Clark University, where he obtained his master’s degree, phoned him for a donation. It was not a good time for Winton to contribute. He explained his financial situation: supporting his wife’s medical education and education for five of his six children in private high school or college. Nights later, introducing himself at the door with his Ingathering can, he said, "My name is Winton Beaven and . . ." How could he know, standing at the door of a posh home in Bethesda, that he was facing the alumna who immediately recognized his name and voice from the recent fund-raising call? What delighted his friends was Winton’s self-deprecating willingness to tell this story on himself.
Winton showed remarkable wisdom in reflecting on "learning" to be a father and unlearning some of his initial bloopers at the job. His parenting skills display a certain flair. He and his children did not share identical tastes in music. Thus his dictum: "Listen to it if you like, but keep the volume from invading anyone else’s space." On one occasion when he had presented a thoughtfully prepared obituary at a funeral, he received numerous calls of appreciation for crafting a fine tribute. Teenaged Connie, quite accustomed to her father’s exceptional talents, fielded several calls, read the obituary, and commented, "I don’t see what’s so great about the obituary!" Winton reported Connie’s assessment with amusement.
An amazing array of friends attest to Winton’s positive impact. Some are much younger than he, coming into the family circle as close friends of his children or as students. He remained current with each new generation. A self-educated demographer and sociologist, he noted trends in young people—their buying and listening habits, the object of marketers. Winton championed the cause of the marginalized—the black students just gaining entrance at Columbia Union College, formerly a lily white operation. Friends in the Indian community, recalling his support of their educational aspirations upon arriving in the United States, staged an elaborate farewell dinner for Winton when he left CUC, a sumptuous Indian meal and a handsome sari for his wife.
We watched Winton maintain a network of loyal concerns. He expressed pride in his children’s accomplishments and maintained positive relationships with their varying alliances. The variety and diversity of their pursuits must arise in great measure from the Renaissance nature of their father’s interests and from the freedoms he granted them to pursue their dreams. Winton has followed the fortunes of his grandchildren—coming through with appropriate gifts for graduation and birthday occasions, maintaining a fatherly watch over the four left motherless by Cherie’s untimely death. Asking him about their situation, we got the specifics, succinctly described.
Marriage to Lorraine and the subsequent birth of Lara, the "last of the litter," prolonged his parenting. He didn’t "need" added experience of fathering, but he said plainly that a person of Lorraine’s sensitivities and insight into children deserved to be a mother. The "child of his dotage" brought a new dimension to his life. The six rollicking, merry-go-round children were now adults. A gentle child was in a quieter house. When Winton’s eyelids drooped as he sat in the living room chair, he could hear a little one’s footsteps tiptoeing through the room and whispering, "Sh-h! Be quiet. Daddy’s asleep." It was a soothing the great man, the long-time father, deserved.
The senior class trip to Bimini one spring brought the genial, logical Winton to the fore. When the class sponsor, Lester Harris, needed medical help and was flown to a Florida hospital, he left the enterprising seniors to innovate for Sabbath services. Innovate they did, inviting Adam Clayton Powell, US representative from New York, himself on holiday in Bimini, to be their Sabbath speaker. Prominently in the news just then for being under censure from Congress, Powell became the object of news coverage as he addressed the students.
A flurry of excitement erupted in Takoma Park when the CUC student-Powell connection hit the nightly news. The returning students, alerted to the furor that had ensued, awaited a Monday chapel assessment. The president, always capable of a commanding presence, announced, "I think we need a new school song," and to the tune of "Zippity Doo Dah," he sang, "Bimini Doo Dah." To me he commented, "It’s over. Everyone survived. That’s the important thing."
In a similarly philosophical way the president faced the burning of Columbia Hall, the college administration building, site of his office. Lost in the fire were Winton’s lifelong files, crammed with data, research, and documents representing his widespread interests. Twenty-four hours later, he was triumphantly announcing that the administration and instructional units had been successfully transferred to the new building, now called Wilkinson Hall. What had been transferred, essentially, were space assignments and people. Columbia Union College was in business. His files? Later he would say, "Losing the files was good for me. It pushed me to develop in new ways—staying up to date."
In a more recent encounter with Winton, CUC’s Southern California alumni participated in an overwhelmingly warm tribute to him in 1999. He had sat through anecdotal reminiscences. He could have added many of his own. Typical of his unflagging loyalty to his church, his concern for the welfare of its institutions, and his keen awareness of audience, he addressed the alumni, reminding them that six of his seven children had attended Columbia Union College. "Go and do likewise," he advised his hearers. "Support your alma mater by sending your children and grandchildren to the school that supported you."
To the final day in his eighty-eighth year, Winton demonstrated to all of us a person large of vision, quick of wit, and incisive of thought. We have been blessed abundantly by the ways that he has touched our lives.
EMAIL THIS ARTICLE
|
