A Legacy and a Destiny

A few years ago, when I returned to the small city in which I had spent my childhood, I was both thrilled and dismayed. Houses encrusted the suburban hills in which we used to run, and the dead-end streets that had been our playgrounds were now ruthlessly cut through to handle the activities of new and sophisticated industry.

I was comforted by the thought that the current inhabitants of my hometown enjoyed opportunities we had not dreamed of a generation earlier, but the small boy in me, who loved the open fields now thick with buildings, and who remembered the intimacy of shared poverty, was not wholly satisfied with what he now saw and felt. For if the town had paid for economic development with loss of sensitivity to individual problems, the cost was really too high. Apparent prosperity may mask a degrading lumping together of human beings. If the lovely, natural environment—now totally modified—had been more defaced than enhanced by what had taken place in the name of progress, the town had suffered irreparable loss. Yet, as I looked about me, I realized that some things that had not changed were depressingly drab—and I knew they always had been. What I was really remembering was a youngster’s belief in change for the better. At a time when one’s heart is disorderly with hope all facts are opportunities, no accounts are really out of balance.

Middle-aged eyes have a tendency to audit that which they see. Only now do some of you parents marvel at how few students were here when you were undergraduates. At the time, there were enough—and when we have enough, numbers do not matter. If youthful judgment is often charitable, however, memory’s glasses are usually tinted. Those returning today to a totally different campus and to thousands of students (where before there were only hundreds) must surely wonder what has remained of that which was so dear.

Those of us who are involved in BYU’s administration are anxious to acknowledge the legacy by which we live and the destiny to which we contribute. The establishment of BYU was a pioneering endeavor, appropriately brought about by those who were truly seeking new opportunities. To many, including some eminent historians who are not part of a pioneering tradition, the Mormons who drove their wagons across the plains or struck out to colonize an isolated valley were the epitome of independence. The briefest check of any pioneer diary, however, reveals just the opposite. Mountain men may have been independent, but they could survive only under conditions they could do little to control or modify. Pioneers, on the other hand, were intent on changing the environment of which they were becoming a part. They could never have done so individually. The true hallmark of the pioneers was their ability to cooperate, to bring the concerted strength of the group to bear upon problems. Surely BYU was established as a cooperative endeavor. Trustees, teachers, and students were all determined to work in such harmony that the school would not only survive but prosper.

I have been associated with several other universities besides BYU, and I cannot think of a single one in which cooperation within a department is a fact that can be taken for granted. On the contrary, most academicians are fiercely individualistic and even jealous of one another. Institutional loyalty is practically unheard of; and if some characteristic identifies academic disciplines, it is the rapport of people constantly scouting the opposition. BYU, in contrast, is refreshingly different. Let me cite a specific and heartening example.

Not long ago, one of the members of our faculty was selected to give the annual honors lecture. He was a man of national renown within his field, and his lecture was an outstanding success. From the outset, however, we in the audience recognized that the slides he was using to illustrate his talk were contributing markedly to our understanding of a highly technical specialty in microbiology. Near the end of his lecture, he paused for a moment to acknowledge that a colleague had supplied the slides for him. How appropriate, but in academic circles, how rare. I suddenly remembered that the man supplying the slides was internationally known for his skill in preparing them; but, for a moment at least, he was willing to be a footnote to his friend’s success.

Students are equally willing to subordinate themselves to opportunities offering little individual recognition. Perhaps this willingness is most dramatically seen in BYU’s ward and stake organizations. For the past month, thousands of young men and women have been interviewed by their bishops and stake presidencies. Many young men who have been mission leaders are now asked to be assistant ward clerks. Qualified in every way to be bishop’s counselors, they accept sincerely and gratefully, acknowledging that the Lord’s work might prosper with their help. In my stake, we have a young man serving as an assistant clerk—and if any job is not only behind the scenes but off the stage, it is assistant stake clerk—who is completing a brilliant academic career at BYU. How thrilling it is to see such a magnificent young mind brought fully to bear upon monthly reports.

A second pioneering characteristic closely aligned to cooperation is sacrifice. I never fail to be moved by stories of Karl G. Maeser and early teachers at BYU, who occasionally had to accept commodities in lieu of salary, but I am equally impressed by the information that gradually filters into my office concerning the monetary sacrifice many teachers make to remain at BYU. During the last two weeks alone, several grateful deans have called to tell me that faculty members in their colleges have turned down lucrative offers elsewhere. Others remain at BYU with teaching loads that are double those they have been offered elsewhere. For young families who have struggled through graduate school, high salaries and low teaching loads must be particularly attractive. But faculty attitudes can best be summed up by the statement of a young man who had just turned down a vice-presidency to remain with us. He said simply that he wanted the Lord to know he was serious when he said he would devote his time and talents to serving the Church.

Just yesterday, I had lunch with a representative of the Carnegie Foundation, and she could not get over the fact that our students seemed so alive and yet so well behaved. In trying to be fair, we disclaimed any major credit for their attitudes, pointing out that almost a third of our students are returned missionaries and that most of them had been raised in homes in which good behavior was expected and promoted by example. She readily acknowledged this but added, “Don’t underestimate the availability of your faculty and administration. I know most of the major universities in the country rather well, and I don’t know one in which the faculty takes such an interest in students.” May I add my personal testimony to this. Faculty members must often forego research that would guarantee academic recognition to listen patiently and tenderly to a distraught student whose problems are less academic than personal, but whose distress is very real. Time spent in this manner does not show up on a faculty load report, but its cost to the faculty is a continuing and heavy one. Students are not turned away from faculty and administrative offices at BYU, and they never will be. Yet few students—and even fewer parents—realize how much time faculty members are asked to give that is not directly connected with their teaching. Suffice it to say that faculty usually give their time graciously, in a spirit of sacrifice worthy of a Latter-day Saint.

At first glance, one might think students here have little opportunity for sacrifice given the marvelous facilities provided for them and the dedicated teachers who serve them. May I say that in the determination of administration, faculty, and students to get full value from every tithing dollar spent, opportunity abounds for each to make a contribution. Classes are often larger than students like; long lines become a part of many activities; and schedules are difficult to work out—even when one begins at 7:00 in the morning and continues until 10:00 at night. We rarely speak of these complications, however, because of the third attribute that distinguishes BYU. That attribute is appreciation.

Lest my recital of cooperation and sacrifice suggest that faculty members remain at Brigham Young University reluctantly, let me state emphatically that most of us are here because we think this university provides the greatest opportunity in the world to unite professional training and religious commitment. We deeply appreciate the sensitive concern of our Board of Trustees, and we want them to know that we serve gladly. We feel a thrill that never fades as we serve with superbly competent colleagues in a transcendent calling. We deeply appreciate the students you parents send us. They are without equal in the world. Their intelligence stimulates us, and their commitment inspires us. In teaching them, we can echo Carlyle’s assertion: “Blessed is he that has found his work; let him ask no other blessedness.”¹