Opening the NY Review of Books this week I found myself peering into the thoughtful gaze of Reinhold Niebuhr, in a photo from 1963, just a year after I had met him. My life has been oddly Zelig-like, both because of my choosing, and simply serendipity. I knew I needed to capture our encounter, so here it is.

I had been invited to apply to Harvard in spite of my miserable grades. They were looking for a few odd ducks who had shown achievement in other than strictly academic areas, and I seemed to fit the bill. I was in Cambridge for my interviews. Since at the moment I aspired to be a composer, my first interview of the day was with the head of the composition department. We chatted for a bit about musical tastes, and then he played a phrase on the piano for me to identify. It only took four or five notes. “Stravinsky, Rite of Spring. The opening. Solo bassoon playing in its highest register.”  Too easy. I was feeling a little suspicious.

Lunch was going to be with my older cousin Peter, and his roommate Mark. We met in the Lowell House dining hall, a fine old barrel vaulted room lit by two great chandeliers and fine arched windows. All morning I had been overwhelmed with the possibility that I would actually be able to come to college here. I was in a dream. As we brought our trays to the table, an older gentleman asked if he could join us. I had failed to catch his name, but he was treated with considerable respect. My assumption was that he was a retired dean of some kind who served as a kind of housemaster to the ‘boys’.

The gentleman seemed quite interested in me — why I wanted to attend Harvard, and what my interests were. Before long he led me into a discussion of what was on his mind, the Eichmann trial then reaching its conclusion in Israel. I remember that the issue turned to whether or not Israel, which had banned capital punishment, should suspend the ban and hang Eichmann. I was deeply opposed to the death penalty in general, and felt that this was the best possible opportunity for Israel to demonstrate its moral leadership to the world by simply putting Eichmann in a cell and forgetting about him. I remember Niebuhr gently taking the role of devil’s advocate, probing my arguments for logical flaws. Maybe the world really needed to have some kind of revenge? But I felt that the danger of wanting revenge was simply another reason why we can’t have capital punishment. The cycle of murder and revenge would simply continue. I wasn’t sure I believed in God, but I did believe in the ultimate sanctity of human life and that no one, nor any collective group acting as the state, should take life. These ideas were freshly thought through with me then, and I spoke with passion.

Lunch flew past, and I was aware but unable to control the fact that this kindly gentleman and I had dominated the conversation. Wow, I thought to myself, even the retired deans hanging around the dining halls are intellectuals. What a place!

We stood up and Mark said to Niebuhr, “Well Dr. Niebuhr. It has been a great honor to have you join us for lunch.”

Slowly, the blood drained from my head. Niebuhr. I knew that name! Oh my God, I’ve made an ass of myself.

But Dr. Niebuhr had the last word. He turned to me, shook my hand and patted me on the shoulder at the same time. ”I like what you had to say. And I admire your enthusiasm.”

Yes, I was accepted by Harvard, but that was to be my only day on campus. So far.