“We’re all raised by many fathers in our lives,” wrote novelist Brad Meltzer.

One such man in my life was Dr. Harold B. Kuhn.

Professionally, he was a seminary instructor, a writer and an editor.  Personally, he was a example of Christian compassion.

On the faculty of a conservative seminary, he was the only teacher I’ve ever had anywhere quote from the current issue of Rolling Stone — and this was back when that was considered a wildly controversial and alternative media source.

He was a Quaker who taught United Methodists.  Dr. Kuhn was a founding editor of what’s still a thriving evangelical and scholarly magazine and online presence.  He encouraged students constantly, both in and out of class, by “fanning the flame that is within,” as 2nd Timothy 1:6 says.

He was a Chaplain for our military, and loved to tell about “dropping in to preach in some jungle, and our helicopter was held together with baling wire and bubble gum.  Which meant it was holding together better than some of the men we’d be with out there.”  He loved horribly painful puns, and as I’d be groaning from one he’d use it to make a teaching point about The Good News.  He was lovingly subversive in many ways.

He and his wife, Anna, worked as missionaries for decades in Europe in the summers.  They’d begun at the end of WWII, when as a recent Harvard Ph.D. he was placed in charge of textbooks during the rebuidling efforts.  Together, they worked in several countries on both sides of The Iron Curtain, both officially and unofficially.  Ther faith had muscle…muscles which I suspect were often tired.

She was my college German instructor,with whom I did several Directed Studies and Tutorials.  Twice I was able to go with them to what was then East and West Germany.  Three things stand out from those trips: their subtle and effective teaching methods, their ability to connect with impoverished street people, and the two of them holding hands.

Together, they were a powerful force for God’s goodness.  He died in 1991, she died only a very few years ago.

The last time she and I talked was when I called her late one Sunday evening.  I was in northern Illinois, she was in Kentucky.   After our initial greeting, I asked how she was doing.  “Oh…Herr Joseph…I’m…well, truth be told, I’m sitting here in the dark missing Harold.”

I miss them both.