Life lessons from my anonymous neighbor and her famous pupils
When I was growing up in Pennsylvania, a little-known fact in our small college town was that across the street from our house lived a retired theater professor named Alvina Krause.
When I knew her, she had already been retired for several years from Northwestern University, where she had taught theater and performance studies for 33 years. What many local residents never knew was that a number of her rather famous former students used to come and stay with Alvina — sometimes for a friendly visit, sometimes for tutoring in an upcoming part, whether on film, TV or stage.
Needless to say, it was pretty interesting to live across the street from these goings-on. It was a quiet, dead-end neighborhood; our houses were sandwiched between the local college campus and Dillon’s Hollow, a deep wooded ravine where I spend a good part of my childhood days.
Tucked away in that quiet setting, Alvina would entertain the likes of Richard Benjamin and Paula Prentice, who had come to show off their new baby to their favorite teacher; Tony Roberts, who often collaborated with Woody Allen; or Richard Chamberlain, who spent two weeks with Alvina, studying for a Shakespearian role. One day I came out the door to hear a remarkably deep woman’s voice across the street. It was Patricia Neal. No one has ever had a voice quite like hers.
After living rather anonymously in Bloomsburg for a number of years, Alvina Krause gave a gift to the community she had come to love. She founded the Bloomsburg Theater Ensemble, raising the money to purchase and renovate a movie theater that had been closed for some time. Young actors trying to break into the field and make a living came to town, working as waiters in restaurants while playing parts in Alvina’s productions. Not many fledgling actors have been lucky enough to work with the likes of Alvina, and the townspeople loved the youth and creativity they brought.
One evening I attended the theater ensemble’s production of Chekhof’s “Three Sisters,” directed by Alvina. After witnessing the struggles of Olga, Masha and Irina, whose dreams of happiness fade and who are forced to seek some semblance of it for themselves, the curtain went down and the applause began. Leaving the theater, I saw Alvina, who was still sitting in the back row. I told her, “Mrs. Krause, that was a wonderful production.”
I will never forget what she did. Taking both my hands in hers and peering deeply into my eyes, she said, “But did it move you?”
As a preacher who thinks sermons ought to have just a little drama, I have always remembered Alvina’s question: “Did it move you?” Because isn’t that what the Word is supposed to do?
Oh, I do appreciate it when someone passes by after worship and says, “Good sermon, pastor.” It’s so nice when someone stops long enough to say, “Thank you for your message.” But someday, thinking of Alvina, I’m going to get up the courage to take their hands in mine, look deeply into their eyes, and answer, “But did it move you?”
After all, isn’t that the test of any sermon: to move us far enough that we’re not in the same place after worship as we were before?
