Seldom is heard a discouraging word from the mouth of Dr. John C. Stevens

A profile of Dr. John C. Stevens, originally published in the Fall 1997 issue of ACU Today magazine and reprinted in 2006 in The ACU Century centennial book.

By David Ramsey

John Stevens spends his days searching for special moments from Abilene Christian's past.

He labors in the archive room of Brown Library as he crafts a history of a school he knows well. Stevens works diligently as he completes the story, start to finish, of ACU's rise.

A little advice, John. You know, from one writer to another. Pay close attention to this key moment from yesterday. It's a critical moment in Abilene Christian's history. It's a critical moment in the life of Dr. John C. Stevens.

In the summer of 1948, Stevens picked up the phone at his mother's home in Arkansas. He was 30 years old and had recently completed work on his master's degree in history from the University of Arkansas. He had earned a fellowship to study for a doctorate in history at the University of Colorado. He had this vision, a sweet one, of studying the past as he enjoyed a grand view of the Rocky Mountains.

Then he picked up the phone.

Dr. Don H. Morris ('24), president of Abilene Christian, was on the line. The president had been wooing Stevens to teach history at ACU. Dean Walter H. Adams ('25) mailed Stevens a contract. Stevens mailed it back, unsigned. "I think it was for $279.75 per month or something like that," Stevens says, laughing at the memory. "I remember that 75 cents being in there." Morris was accustomed to grabbing what he pursued. He wanted Stevens to join his faculty.

"John," Morris said over the phone, "I don't want any trouble with you now. I'm sending back that contract, and you're going to sign it."

The president's tone was kind yet firm. "It was his best salesmanship approach," Stevens says. "He was a master." There was a long pause as Stevens considered his future. His vision of studying in the foothills of Colorado died at that moment. Another vision was born. Stevens said "yes" to Morris.

And began a great work at Abilene Christian.

He taught history for two years and then moved to administration, working as dean of men, dean of students and, from 1956-69, side-by-side with Morris as assistant president. In 1969, he succeeded Morris as president. He became chancellor in 1981.

He performed these duties with distinctive joy. For nearly five decades, he has served as a laughing, smiling, encouraging representative of his alma mater. Judge Jack Pope ('34) once called Stevens "The Happy President." Stevens chuckles as he recalls the description. "I figured if he had arrived at that observation, I might as well plead guilty to it."

Yet Stevens harbors undeniable depth. He offers a rare combination. He is a realist who has maneuvered his way through the harsh rapids of life and emerged a confirmed optimist.

"Really, that's my natural bent," Stevens says. "I don't spend much time in a state of depression. It may be a natural thing. It may be because I'm a superficial sort of guy. I have never had much time to worry about being pessimistic because there's just an an awful lot to be optimistic about."

John Christopher Stevens was born July 15, 1918, in Richland, Texas, a small oil field town a few miles south of Corsicana. His father, J.C., worked as a doctor and in his spare time raised cotton on the family farm. John spent his youth playing baseball and basketball with his brother, Clark, and a group of friends. He enjoyed a simple life with his father, mother, sister and brother.

Then tragedy intruded. When John was 10, his father tumbled into the grip of alcohol. J.C. spent the next two years drinking heavily. He lost control of his life. He died in 1930. He was 45. John was 12.

"My Dad was generally the kind of man who was president of the school board and a leading citizen," John says in a clear, firm voice. "Drinking destroyed him. When he died, that's when I decided the best thing to do is not ever take a drink. I've been very, very opposed to alcohol throughout my life. It's the most dangerous of drugs. To every young person, I would advise a life of total abstinence. You may be the one who can't handle it."

This might seem the prelude to a sad story. It is not. The Stevens family rallied. John's older sister, Vern, helped support the family with her school teaching job. John's aunt, Lois, known affectionately as Aunt Lo, moved into the home and joined with Ella, John's mother, to form a stern, yet kind, correctional team.

"My mother was a very determined little woman, just 5 feet tall, but she kept a pretty good rein on me. We were awed by Aunt Lo. She was kind of an autocrat, a strong member of the church, and she vigorously disapproved of any misbehavior. We had a great deal of discipline in our house."

The family began to attend the Church of Christ in Corsicana. John was baptized not long after his father's death, and he sat in the front row every Sunday morning listening intently to the sermon. As a teenager, he participated in the adult Bible class. He memorized scripture. He formulated a career goal. He wanted to preach. "I was just carried away with the whole thing," he says. "I guess you could say that I got religion."

He graduated at age 15 from Richland High School along with 10 other seniors. A preacher in Corsicana suggested John consider Abilene Christian. Stevens drove to the campus for a visit in the spring of 1934. The Hill remained scraggly in '34. It was only five years after the campus had moved from North First Street.

"There wasn't much grass," Stevens says, "but I was from a very small town. I was very, very much impressed with the big buildings. I thought the administration building was the most magnificent structure I had ever seen."

So, in fall 1934, Stevens packed his belongings, placed them in his family's Model A Ford, and drove with his sister and mother to Abilene. He sat in the rumble seat, looking back on the bare terrain. The Stevens family drove through Mineral Wells, Breckenridge and Albany before arriving in Abilene.

John adored his four years on the Hill. The cafeteria served "the greatest food I had ever eaten, and I could eat all I wanted." He studied Bible and the baffling, thrilling Greek language. He preached Sundays at a congregation in Brownwood, a task that helped pay his tuition. He played pick-up basketball, his favorite sport, at Bennett Gymnasium. He was elected president of the student body. He worked as the business manager for The Optimist, the campus newspaper.

He could not afford a car. Few students on the Abilene Christian campus could in those days. So he hitchhiked back and forth from Abilene to Richland. He also hitchhiked from Abilene to Brownwood for his Sunday preaching duties.

He talks of these rides in a nonchalant voice. Oh, sure, he says, these journeys sometimes transformed into adventures. He caught a ride from an innocent-looking man and woman. When John climbed into the back seat and made himself comfortable, the man started the car engine and announced he was leaving his wife. Then the man's wife came into view. She was running down the street with a pistol in her hand. "Everybody duck!" the man shouted as he hit the gas pedal. Somehow, John survived.

On a hitchhiking trip to Brownwood, Stevens discovered too late that the driver was gulping whiskey. The bottle leaked on the seat and soaked John's suit. When he walked into the Brownwood church building to meet with the brethren, he loudly announced, "It's not in me, it's on me."

After graduating cum laude in 1938, Stevens moved to Jasper, Texas, to work as a preacher. He stayed four years. He offered a message from the Bible almost every night in or around the small East Texas town. He pitched a 50-foot round tent, hung a few lanterns and waited for listeners to arrive. He went to the courthouse square in Jasper each Saturday afternoon. "Everybody in Jasper County was in the courthouse square," he says. He shook hands, asked women and men to attend services at the Church of Christ. In his free time, he hunted foxes and squirrels or went for long strolls in the country.

By this time, it was 1943, and Stevens heard the call of the American war effort. "I had always loved history," Stevens says, "and I'll just have to be honest with you, I thought to myself, ‘I can't afford to let a great war go by and not be in it.' I was seeing all these other guys going. I thought I needed to do the same thing."

He enlisted as a chaplain. He left the calm and safety of Texas for the battlefields of Europe. He was a member of the 109th infantry regiment of the 28th infantry division. He worked with men from Brooklyn, Chicago and Scranton, Pa. The soldiers called Stevens "Tex" and teased him about his deep drawl. "I'll tell you," Stevens says, "Their accents weren't so hot either. Some of those old boys from Brooklyn, they spoke a different language."

He roamed through the mess hall, sitting with as many soldiers as he could. He told the men he would be available any time they wanted to talk. Some scoffed, said they had no need for God or His Word. Stevens would merely smile and move on. Later, he often sat and talked about the Lord with these skeptics. When faced with the most horrid of adversities, they sought out a chaplain known as Tex.

The terrors of war, Stevens discovered, change men. It changed him. He saw dozens of his comrades killed. During battle, Stevens stayed with the medics. When an injured man was brought to the impromptu medical ward, Stevens would offer encouragement and a prayer. He sat with one man, Charles Potter, who had lost his legs. Potter suddenly announced, "Anybody need a good right shoe? Mine's out there. It's got my foot in it." Potter later became a U.S. Congressman from Michigan and one of Stevens' close friends.

There were good times. Stevens was able to explore the mystifying ruins at Stonehenge and listen to debates of the House of Commons at London's Westminster Abbey. He visited castles in Wales and Germany. He marched into Paris with the liberation forces on Aug. 29, 1944. He was discharged in 1946 with the rank of major after being awarded the Bronze Star Medal and two Oak Leaf Clusters.

His time in Europe profoundly deepened his interest in history. He now had a new career goal.

He wanted to teach history. He enrolled at the University of Arkansas. Then, two years later, the call came from Morris. He returned to Abilene to teach history. He was 30 years old. He remained single.

He went to the first faculty meeting and saw 23-year-old Ruth Rambo, a teacher in the business administration department. He had met Rambo when she was 16 years old. That seemed a long time ago when he looked down the table at her in 1948. "I had thought she was a nuisance," Stevens says in an enthusiastic voice, "but seven years later she had grown up powerfully."

He had been away from Abilene for nearly a decade. He asked her if she would take him on a tour to see new church buildings in the city. She said yes. They drove around town admiring godly architecture. Then they went to the Chicken Shack, a fine restaurant on South First Street. Then they went to the Paramount Theatre in downtown Abilene to watch Tony Curtis in "Trapeze."

Three months after their first date, Dec. 16, 1948, John and Ruth were married with Dean Walter H. Adams presiding over the ceremony. "When a fellow is 30 years old," Stevens says, "it doesn't take him long to make up his mind." Ruth laughs when asked about the rapid courtship. "Well, he was always a lot of fun and a great speaker and had a real good sense of humor. He was a real catch, to tell you the truth."

He would have been happy to teach history full time for the rest of his life, but said yes when asked to become dean of men, then dean of students and finally assistant president to Dr. Don H. Morris. He spent hundreds of hours touring the country with Morris. They drove across Texas together, trading jokes and sharing their vision for the university. They flew to destinations, often with Stevens working as pilot in the cockpit.

"Don H. Morris," Stevens says. "An amazing person." Working for Morris carried many demands. Morris worked constantly, took almost no vacation time and expected the same from Stevens. Morris dreamed big dreams for the university. He formulated a plan to build a new coliseum, library and campus center, an audacious plot to transform the campus.

The first phase of the development would cost $10,365,000. Stevens was stunned. "I didn't think we could come up with that." The two men, and dozens of others, went to work. They raised $10,865,000. Stevens learned much about optimism from Morris.

He succeeded Morris in 1969 and oversaw a rapidly expanding university. When Stevens accepted his degree in 1938, he was one of 1,046 students to have graduated from Abilene Christian. In his 12 years as president, he watched nearly 9,000 grads gleefully cross the stage at Moody Coliseum.

As president, his personality defined life on campus.

Stevens believes deeply in tolerance. Disagreement, he says, is an inevitable and essential part of life, but disagreement should be civil. "I do not associate myself with those who have a tendency to attach unfriendly labels to those whose political or economic views do not conform with their own," Stevens said in a Chapel talk in 1969. Stevens did not merely talk about peaceful relations. You will search a long time to find a woman or man who has seen him lose his temper.

Betty Whiteside worked as secretary for Stevens and saw many angry visitors arrive in the office. Professors were upset. School supporters were upset. Students were upset.

These upset women and men would sit in the office of a man who would listen to them, consider their points and sometimes kindly but firmly disagree. "I never saw him mad," Whiteside says, "and he often had occasion to be. There were some very unpleasant situations, but he was always very relaxed. He gave everyone credit for having their opinion about something. He was just very generous in letting you believe what you wanted to believe, right or wrong. His control, I think, it's just an inner strength, the kind of strength a man of God has."

Stevens chuckles when asked about his self-control. "I'm inclined to not have maybe as much temper as I ought to have," he says. "I don't find it hard to resist anger. I guess I was just born not mad."

His life is less stressful now. He has left the demands of the president's office but remains active. He rises most mornings at 4, though at times he may sleep in until 5. He eats a bowl of shredded wheat, garnished with a bit of raisin bran, and drinks instant coffee. He first reads the Abilene Reporter-News and then reads history books. He recently has finished biographies of Andrew Jackson, Abraham Lincoln and Woodrow Wilson.

Then he goes to the library to work on his own history book. Stevens hopes to soon complete the history of Abilene Christian. He often arrives at the Brown Library at 6 a.m., uses his own key to enter and goes to the archives room. He reads minutes of board meetings. He reads old articles from The Optimist, the campus newspaper. He looks at pictures in the Prickly Pear, the campus yearbook. He has completed his research through 1969.

He next will tackle the reign of a man who grew up in Richland, a man who survived the loss of his father, a man who hitchhiked back and forth to school at Abilene Christian, a man who marched with the liberating forces in World War II, a man who could not say no to Don H. Morris when asked to return to his alma mater, a man who seldom lost his temper, a man who helped a college become a university, a man named John Christopher Stevens.

"I'm not going to write a great deal about myself," Stevens says.

One more tip, John. You know, writer to writer. Give that character Stevens his just due.

A final story:

In the autumn of 1978, Stevens and his wife, Ruth, traveled to Nebraska to speak at York College, which at that time offered a two-year program for students.

Stevens talked about the challenges a Christian faces in the workplace. He offered a realistic picture. Yes, he said, bosses may ask you to be dishonest. Yes, he said, your convictions may be mocked. Yes, he said, it will not always be easy for the person who strives to walk through life as Christ did.

Then Stevens injected his firm sense of optimism. The solution to these challenges, he said, comes through diligent, honest, tireless labor. Give your best effort every day. Show up on time. Respect your bosses, befriend fellow workers, remember Christ's example of godly tolerance.

When the speech ended, a young man who attended York approached Stevens. Fine speech, the student said. "I'm thinking about attending Abilene Christian next year,” he said. Stevens immediately acted as if the student's arrival at ACU was a sure thing. He slapped the young man on the back. He called Ruth to his side. "When you come to ACU,” she said to the student, "you must stop by the house to eat a piece of pie with John and me.”

The student was overwhelmed, dazzled. This Stevens was quite the speech maker, quite the ambassador. His school must be a wonderful place.

I enrolled the next year.