The Harrisville Incident

Have you ever made a mistake so grievous that you were certain you messed up your life forever? These kinds of mistakes can gauge our resolve in continuing along the path we feel called to follow.

It was one of those mornings. We had moved to St. Paul, Minnesota so that I could begin my seminary studies. The first course was a summer-long class to learn ancient Greek. I had made it through two-thirds of the course but was struggling with this last part. On this particular day I overslept and awoke with just enough time to throw on some sweats and a baseball cap and hurriedly walk to campus to get to class on time.

When I got to class the professor returned the quizzes we had taken the previous day. I looked at my score and thought to myself, “This is why I took the class pass/fail.” I had no trouble learning vocabulary but the syntax and grammar of the language stymied me. I was frustrated at my inability to do better no matter how hard I studied.

At the conclusion of class I debated over whether I should go home or attend the daily chapel service. I could return to my apartment, shower, dress and be back in time for my next class (a second helping of Greek) but the idea of going to chapel appealed to me too. Maybe I would find some peace there. Maybe God would speak to me through the music or the sermon so I wouldn’t feel like I was messing up my chance to be a pastor. The lure of holiness triumphed over cleanliness and I followed my classmates towards the chapel.

Sitting in the softly lit chapel I close my eyes and listen as the organist dances his fingers and toes across pedals and keys, piping out a new arrangement of a old hymn. I feel the stress of Greek class begin wash off of me and I’m glad that I came. It was the right choice.

A harsh voice from somewhere near me interrupts my meditation. I open my eyes to see an old, unfamiliar man one row ahead of me staring at me as if I had just insulted his wife. Two women in their mid-twenties stand  next to him.

“Excuse me?” I ask, not sure that I heard what I thought I heard..

“I said, ‘Take off that hat.’ Don’t you know where you are?”

I’m suddenly aware of the baseball hat that I threw on before leaving the apartment. I completely forgot that I was wearing it. Personally, I never understood why it was okay for women to wear hats in church but it was disrespectful for men to do so. The practice has more to do with cultural expectations than with spiritual guidelines. But I don’t want to cause anyone to be upset.

“Oh, thanks,” I say. “I’ll be sure to take it off before the service starts.”

He leans over the pew in front of me putting his hands on the back of the polished wood seat. “Take it off now or I’ll take it off for you.” His eyes began to bulge behind his wire rim glasses. His face was getting redder by the second.

“Who is this old man is and what he’s doing in chapel?” I wonder to myself.  I imagine he lives in the neighborhood and doesn’t have anything else to do on a summer day in August except come to the seminary and grouch at the state of pastors-in-training.

“Jeez. Don’t get you underwear in a bunch,” I tell him. I look him in the eye as slowly reach up to take off my hat and then place it carefully next to me on the pew. “I’ll take it off just for you. Have a seat and relax.”

I can honestly say that I’ve never seen anyone so apoplectic in all my life. He can barely contain himself. I look at the women standing next to him. I watch as their expressions change from fearful disbelief to insulted dignity. Who are these people and why are they bothering me? They sit down in front of me and I can tell they are fuming. I spend the duration of chapel looking at the backs of their heads, annoyed that they ruined whatever chance I had at finding some peace.

Following chapel I pick up a cup of coffee in the cafeteria and find a table where some of my classmates have gathered. I sit down and tell them about the crazy old man and this threats. I tell them what I said. When I see that he is sitting at a table across the cafeteria with the two women, I point him out.

“That’s Professor Harrisville,” someone at the table whispers. Now everyone at the table has that look of fearful disbelief that the women had in the chapel. “You said that to Harrisville?”

Professor Harrisville had a reputation of being one of the toughest professors at the seminary. It was then, and only then, that my Greek-fried brain connected the dots between an “old, white guy at a Lutheran seminary” and “Professor.” How could I have missed it? Now I understood the looks on the women’s faces. I was an idiot who had just shortened his career at the seminary by four years. It was over before it even began.

I wish I could finish this story by telling you that I faced my mistake and went to ask forgiveness. But I didn’t do that. I was certain that this incident would be the topic of discussion in the faculty lounge and that every professor would have their eyes on me. A phone call to my dad convinced me to stick it out for a year and see how things went. I spent that year, and the next, fastidiously avoiding Professor Harrisville. My third year I was away from campus on internship. By the time I returned for my senior year he had either forgotten the incident or didn’t realize that I was the impudent student who suggested that his crankiness was caused by wedged undergarments.

My unedited remarks to a stranger on a bad day made following the call to ordained ministry more difficult. Even though it felt like a monumental mistake at the time, it turned out to be mostly just an inconvenience. Finding the means to go forward, even in a cowardly fashion, was better than giving up.