We stepped off the train looking for a rickshaw—three American boys, each with twenty-four years of Adventist tradition. Steve, from northern Montana; George, a Michigan native; and me, a southern Californian—combined we were well traveled, with over one hundred countries between us—and now we were heading to Spicer Memorial College. Disgusted with the post-colonial rail service—six hours in a dirty, crowded, open-air coach—we were hungry and standing on the train platform in Pune, India, on a Friday afternoon.

Having recently graduated from college, George Kimmel and I had been living in Mumbai (Bombay), India, for the last five months. Together we had written and shot a short film of our own and I was filling my time with bit roles in TV commercials and writing a feature-length screenplay. George had managed to use his University of Michigan film degree and penchant for dressing well to begin working in Bollywood, the Mumbai film industry. He got one assistant directing job after chatting up an Indian model—her sister was starring in an upcoming action movie—and after a couple of cups of coffee, and a discussion of Dogme 95 filmmaking, George was on the set.

Our friend Steve Wallace had flown into India a week earlier. He was teaching business at a major university in Taiwan, while getting a Ph.D. I had first met him when my academy witnessing team visited his academy. We both fancied ourselves as budding public speakers and so there was a bit of testimonial rivalry, which diffused when we marked out our religious territory: colporteuring for me and preaching for him. We hadn’t seen each other in years. Steve and George knew each other as childhood buddies in Berrien Springs—and so, on sabbatical, Steve had decided to visit us en route to Sri Lanka and Thailand.

Now we were heading out to Spicer. What was our compulsion? We each had vague memories of Spicer from mission stories or Spotlights or people who had attended, and I think we missed a "Sevie" enclave—there is something about seeing the Adventist metaphors, reappearing around the world.

All over exist the efficient and sharp-lined end-time architecture of compounds and church headquarters, covered on the inside with cold concrete or marble or faded linoleum. Visiting the Philippines, I remember waking up in a conference office: spanning an entire wall was a huge chalkboard that listed all the churches, with each week’s baptism numbers displayed as well as the name of the baptizing pastor. I recall the sun-soaked green grasses and wide leaves and tropical flowers of mission gardens in the Caribbean. And around the world second coming murals or pictures of pioneers appear in conference atriums and boardrooms, and always the dog-eared Reviews and Signs lie on not-yet-used-for coffee tables.

Once, traveling around Europe, a girlfriend and I arrived in Rome on an early Sabbath morning and decided to go to church. We tried reading the phonebook but failed. Then we tried a Web search—"Adventist church in Rome" can pull up some very interesting results. Arriving at the address, we found the church and ADRA compound closed. A woman walking by informed us that all the Adventist churches in Rome were meeting at a Waldensian church a few blocks away. The entire service was a mix of Italian and Romanian, we stared out the ancient stained-glass windows and enjoyed the weird confluence of prophesy, history, and convenience—the Waldensian church was the only one around that would handle all seven of the Adventist congregations in Rome.

Back at Spicer in the administrative office, the secretary offered the three of us yearbooks to peruse while we waited for the president. The mostly male senior BBA students stared back with grainy black and white grins, ready for success to smile back at them. Tired of sitting, especially after our rickety ride, we wandered around the grounds—mostly covered in light red dust and crabgrass—and checked out the student body. Friday afternoons seem interchangeable on institutional campuses around Sevie-dom. With official business over, preparations are universally underway. At Spicer there was a lot of wet hair on the people we saw, and brightly colored saris, lungis, and shirts hung out of student hostels, like festival banners.

Back in the president’s office, we played the "who you know" game. Several faculty members paraded in and out and we made connections to relatives, friends of friends, and shared alma maters.

Lead to the guesthouse, we unpacked and waited around for evening vespers. I thought about all the Adventists who might have stayed in this room—conference officials, Maranatha volunteers, donors, visiting teachers—and their stories. Once, while I was staying at the Bangladesh Union Mission compound in Dhaka, a big Adventist philanthropist arrived for a quick visit before he flew by helicopter to survey the school he was funding. He told a story about how some beneficiaries had given him a huge woven wall hanging of a Bengal tiger as a thank you present. When he looked at the balance sheets he saw that they had charged him for it. He said no more gifts.

Evening vespers at Spicer turned out to be the penultimate sermon for the week of prayer. Boys and girls were separated in the chapel, and after the song service an American conference president proceeded to preach and then give the customary Friday night hand-raising call. Later that evening we chatted with the speaker and again played the "who you know" game. Again, we made connections; he turned out to have known Steve’s formerly folk-singing father pretty well.

The next morning we dressed in our church-going best. Choosing to sit closer to the girls—the mix of Adventism and Indian allure did compel—we sang the hymns, stood, kneeled, and listened to the sermon, just like we had been taught. The service concluded with the final call forward, and then the universal standing/closing-prayer call. We stood with everyone else.

That afternoon it was hot. After potluck, we packed up and walked out the compound gate. Many students were heading out as well, preparing to give Bible studies to the Muslim and Hindu poor surrounding the college compound. We could have stayed, everyone was very hospitable; but without even discussing it, we were ready to go. I guess we got whatever we came for. Like visiting relatives—knowing what words will be spoken, what food offered, what stories retold—feeling the same rituals performed; there exists a sense of rapprochement, of reconnection to a familiar molding force.

Sure, at General Conference sessions everybody parades the international nature of Adventism. But out in the "other" institutions there exists something better than the huge numbers and oh-so-colorful clothing. Here and there in a fragmented world—on common grounds, it’s something like at-one-ment.

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