As we make our way through life, we learn a multitude of lessons. Some of them are formally taught; most of them are passed on informally.
We sit in classrooms and learn the basics of reading and writing and arithmetic, and then we head out into the playground and learn the lessons of how to be a social person. Our parents take the time to teach us how to ride a bike, but your sister will teach you how to pop a wheelie or ride with “no hands.”
Hopefully we all have had teachers who passed on wisdom both formally and informally. There are those teachers who do more than teach the lesson; they give lessons for life.
They are the ones you remember the most. I remember all of my teachers and, from time to time, one of them will visit through my memory and I will be grateful for what they taught beyond the books.
I may think of Mrs. Nelson, who not only taught me to read, but also to appreciate the art of reading. I think of Mr. Adams when I am reading or watching Shakespeare. He taught me that Shakespeare’s words, although they are dressed in Elizabethan finery, are common enough to make me laugh, or cry, or even blush.
And I think of Mr. Kelly. Tom Kelly was my drama teacher and play director throughout high school. I did not think much about acting until my friend Roger talked me into trying out for the fall play when I was a sophomore. It was “Antigone,” a lovely little Greek tragedy.
I was cast as Haemon, the son of King Creon. Quite unexpectedly, I had lines. Even more unexpectedly, I had to kiss Antigone, onstage, in front of everyone. Not a small matter for a shy sophomore (mostly because Antigone was played by a senior, I don’t think she was impressed).
Thus began my three-year love affair with the stage. Because I was tall and, as I thought at the time, stately, I was somewhat typecast. Of the six plays in which I performed, I was a cook or butler in half. In fact, I can still remember my lines as Franz the butler in “The Sound of Music.” They were, “Presents,” “They’re here,” and “Heil Hitler.”
Regardless of the size of the role, Mr. Kelly taught me the formal art of drama, such as blocking, the difference between stage-right and stage-left, how to speak and, he tried at least, how to gesture.
But it was the informal lessons that mattered the most. He began to challenge me to greater self-confidence, he shared with me the subtle art of speaking to a crowd, of trusting what was inside enough to let it out and to share it with that vast, wonderful gathering in the dark. He taught me the emotion inside mattered and that was what brought the audience to connect with the people onstage.
He also gave me the chance to experience the addictive qualities of performing, not in an arrogant sense, but in that indescribable way in which a crowd can give themselves over to a performer. It is difficult to describe, but glorious to experience.
At the time, I really did not think it mattered that much. Sometimes that is the way it is. But now, I use those lessons on a daily basis, and I am grateful that such a charming, talented man taught them to me.
It was with great sadness that I heard a few weeks ago of Mr. Kelly’s death. As I sat at my desk and read the e-mail from my mother giving me the news, I pictured him in my mind, running red faced from the fourth row, down the side aisle and up the steps to the stage in Aberdeen Central’s theater to correct some mistake. “Michael, the word is pronounced ‘for,’ not ‘fur.’”
I thought about how nervous he was before every performance. We never saw him at the performances but we knew he was out there somewhere, probably in the lobby, pacing and listening and being proud of us all.
The lessons taught have naturally become a part of my life, but it would be the height of arrogance, and a lie, to think what I do as a preacher and presider is born of talent alone. It was molded and formed, coaxed out me and affirmed by Mr. Kelly and many others. I am grateful, I really am.
The other day, as I stood in the back of the church on a Sunday morning, I let my eyes glance over the crowd before whom I would soon stand and I thought of the words of the funeral liturgy. “Blessed are they who die in the Lord, for their good works go with them.”
Well, I’m glad not all of Mr. Kelly’s good works went with him; I am still using some of them.