Jim Brinkerhoff: The Best Man I've Ever Known

There are few people I’ve met in my short walk on this earth whom I’d claim to have had any kind of profound impact on me. Remove my parents and grandparents from that list, and the list gets even smaller.

I’ve been heavily involved in the ministries of two churches in two different cities, worked in the fast food industry and at a radio station, traveled to New York, Chicago, St. Louis, and Honduras, and through it all, met thousands of people from almost every walk of life imaginable.

No one I have ever met in my short 22 years of life have ever had a stronger influence on my life than Jim Brinkerhoff.

Jim was the campus minister at the Auburn Christian Student Center (we call it the “ACSC”), the ministry that I was involved in during my four years at Auburn, and the place my parents met when they were in school.

He was the best man I’ve ever known. He loved God, he loved his wife, he loved his kids, he loved Auburn, and he loved his job.

Today marks exactly one year since his passing. I remember everything about the events that transpired over a panicked then eventually numbing seven or eight hours as if it happened yesterday.

I remember being at the campus rec center. I remember getting a phone call from a friend, scared about something she had heard. Something was wrong. It was about Jim.

I remember sprinting all the way back across campus to the ACSC building, as if my running would somehow save him. I remember trying to get in touch with Michael, my friend and the ACSC intern, trying to get answers.

I remember finally getting a hold of him. I remember all of the sounds around me instantaneously disappearing, all I can hear is Michael saying in a shaking voice, “Jim... passed away. He’s gone.”

I remember standing right where I was, speechless. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.

I remember making to the ACSC, walking in the front door to see a few people sitting around, having a nice conversation. They didn’t know yet.

I remember going into the office to find Michael with our friend Scott, both sitting in silence.

“Is it true?” I ask. Both faces, torn between shock and sorrow, look up at me. I remember Michael’s weak answer, “Yes.”

I remember almost falling. I remember having to steady myself, hands on my knees, staring at the ground for who knows how long.

We sat in the office, silent, for what was likely a few minutes but felt like a few days.

I remember having to call my parents and tell them that Jim, their good friend and mentor, had just passed away.

I remember having to call my girlfriend to tell her what had happened. I remember seeing her eyes glistening with tears as she approached me in the parking lot minutes later, as my own tears finally started coming out.

I remember crying. There was a lot of crying.

I remember at least a hundred students in the ministry were at the ACSC that Thursday night, sitting in the devo room, sharing thoughts and memories about our beloved friend and teacher.

I remember feeling empty and lost. I remember feeling as though the world had stopped turning.

And I remember thinking to myself, “What would Jim say to us right now?”

Jim Brinkerhoff would have stood on the foot-high octagon-shaped podium in the center of the devo room, clad in a Beatles T-shirt, jean shorts and moccasins, looked me right in the eye and said fervently, “Don’t give up! This is not an excuse to quit. It’s non-negotiable.”

As I sit here, thinking about this exact day a year ago, I keep coming back to the same thought: I miss Jim Brinkerhoff.

I miss everything about the man. The rapid pace at which he would walk, scurrying around the ACSC like a chicken with its head cut off. His inability to keep up with 90 percent of his things without help from his wife, Mary.

The meticulous and painstaking process with which he would set up chairs for devotionals, with exactly the same amount of space in between each chair, and just enough room for people to walk in between the rows without them being too far back.

His habit of using the phrase, “blip on the radar incorrectly.” He would say, “blimp on the radar.” I feel bad that I had to suppress a grin every time he said it.

The ease with which he spoke to others about his Lord and Savior. Or anything, for that matter.

Jim Brinkerhoff possessed any incredible ability to talk to and relate to anyone. Tell him what you’re interested in, and he could talk to you about it.

Of the ten best conversations I’ve ever had in my life, Jim holds at least five spots. I could talk to him about anything: God, relationships, sports, why the North has way better pizza than the South, even superheroes.

Yes, I really had a conversation with him about superheroes. It mostly had to do with the way modern superheroes are being made much less clean cut, a lot darker and grittier.

And then in the same conversation, he gave me the single most important advice I’ve ever heard from another person about my faith.

He said that faith isn’t easy, it takes hard work to develop. You have to “put in the sweat equity.”

If there was one thing Jim Brinkerhoff always worked his hardest at, it was his faith. He never settled for where he was; he always strove to be a better man of God than he was the day before.

And as he continually grew in his faith, he made it his mission in life to speak to others about Jesus. His passion was in his ministry, a place in which he flourished and touched countless lives.

Jim Brinkerhoff was my superhero. Over a span of nearly 30 years, he personally taught, ministered to, comforted, befriended, and influenced hundreds of believers who are now in various corners of the globe, doing the Lord’s work.

Never have I met a person with such a wide-reaching net of personal interaction.

Of course I know he would remind me of who empowers him to speak the good news and be a light to those around him, and that it is in He who does the empowering that I should truly look up to. And he would be absolutely right.

That’s what made him so incredible, as a man, a minister, and a friend.

On December 5, 2013, I lost my campus minister. I lost my friend. Some people lost the same man, others lost the man who performed their weddings, and those rare few who were ACSC interns lost their boss.

Three kids lost their father. One woman lost her husband.

But no matter what his relationship was to anyone, you can guarantee that he had an influence on them.

Jim’s goal in life was to share the good news of Jesus Christ with the world, and he did so in a manner so profound that I know the Father is proud.

I can say with more confidence than I’ve said anything in my entire life that Jim Brinkerhoff is in Heaven, and has heard these words from his Father: “Well done, good and faithful servant!”

The last substantial face-to-face conversations I had with Jim wasn’t about faith, the life of Jesus, superheroes, or pizza.

It was about Auburn football, of all things.

The week before the 2013 Iron Bowl, I strolled into Jim’s office as I usually did, blissfully unaware of whether he was working on anything important or not, and sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“Hey, Jim!”

He turned and smiled. “Hey there, Bobby! How are you?”

“I’m good, I’d be better if Auburn had hung on to a 20-point lead in the fourth quarter.”

“Yeah, that was quite a game,” he replied as he leaned back in his chair and swung his foot up onto his desk. This was the position he’d take when he was about to be talking for a while. He knew me so well. “One of the most remarkable finishes I’ve ever seen.”

“Definitely. Do you think we have a chance against Alabama?”

“Not playing like that we won’t,” he laughed. “But this team is special. There’s always a chance.”

These are simple words that he probably wouldn’t even remember saying to me, but they’ve stuck with me in the year since he spoke them.

There really wasn’t any kind of deeper meaning behind that conversation, it was simply about football. But his attitude about Auburn’s chances against Alabama were the same as his outlook on life.

He was ever the optimist, ever full of hope. No one was too far gone to be brought back to God, no one was too damaged beyond repair.

There’s always a chance.

It’s why he did what he did, and for almost 30 years. Jim Brinkerhoff believed in and loved God, and he believed in and loved people.

It wasn’t his powerful speaking, vast knowledge of most subjects, or ability to interact with people that made him the great man we all knew him to be.

It was his faith. It was his love for God.

All of those wonderful qualities and quirks we remember him for were all byproducts of God’s work in his life.

On December 5, 2013, the world lost a great man. A man who devoted his life to following God and passionately urging those around him to do the same.

He has had a more profound impact on my life than anyone I’ve ever known.

I hate that I don’t get to lead singing for him again. I hate that I don’t get to hear him say, “Bobby, Bobby!” when I walk into a room. I hate that I can’t ask him just one of the thousands of questions I still need an answer for.

I hate that I wish he was still here; it’s quite selfish of me. He’s exactly where he belongs, and has always wanted to be.

He is rejoicing with His Father, basking in the infinite glory and joy that the rest of us have yet to fully understand.

I miss you, Jim. Keep those chairs straight in Heaven until I get there, okay?