My Embarassing Moment

It’s always fun to hear about other people’s embarrassing moments. Well, I have one of my own to share from my time here so far…

Myself and the four American volunteers with whom I was traveling were attending a conference on our first full day in Hungary. At the close of the conference, the delegates—ten pastors from Hungary and ten from Sweden, as well as bishops from both countries—were offered a tour of a nearby church. It was an architecturally unique building, designed in the last thirty years and rich in symbolism. Even the materials used in its construction were painstakingly selected and obtained to convey a special meaning.

The local pastor who gave us a tour seemed particularly excited about the wooden pipe organ, which took up a good part of one wall. He told us that he had asked an organist play for us, so that we could hear this splendid organ in use, but the organist had backed out at last minute. The musician’s absence was no problem, though, because, as the bishop related, “we have two here among us that are able to play for us. Bishop ___ [bishop of the Swedish diocese in attendance], I believe you play, and also one of our American visitors.” In a jetlagged stupor, I wondered which of my new friends he was referring to, as none of the five of us, to my knowledge, played the organ.

The Swedish bishop found his place behind the organ. Clearly very experienced, he began making various adjustments on the instrument, poking buttons and pulling levers as though he were preparing to land an airplane. To my chagrin, I heard one of our hosts—who, I suddenly remembered, knew from my application that I play the piano—whisper in my ear, “you’ll play for us Kristy, won’t you?” My heart began to pound faster. There were a number of problems with this plan. First, and most important, I don’t play the organ, let alone a fancy pipe organ. Both instruments may have a keyboard, but the piano and the organ are not the same thing at all. Not only do I not know how to use the numerous settings and controls on an organ, but there is an entire row of foot pedals that are supposed to be played at the same time as the keyboard. I’m really not that coordinated. What’s more, I have played the piano only very rarely and casually in the past four years. And one final strike against me, I had no music, and no songs memorized. As the bishop played a grand and triumphant piece, full of bold chords, I quietly explained to my host that I really didn’t play the organ. He seemed to accept my answer.

When the Swedish bishop had finished at the organ, the Hungarian bishop thanked him. He then turned to address my friends and I, asking whichever of us played up to the organ to entertain the group. I began again to explain my musical limitations, politely but firmly protesting that I really couldn’t accept his invitation to play. Though becoming increasingly desperate, my pleas went unheeded. “Just play a song like you would on the piano, just to try it out,” he said, apparently unaware of my discomfort.

I was out of ways to politely decline, and flatly refusing the request of the bishop of the Hungarian Lutheran church wasn’t something I was about to do in my second day in his country. So I got out of my pew and, with dread, approached the organ. As I slid timidly onto the bench, trying to keep my feet as far away as possible from the frightening array of foot pedals, I realized that even my physical presence was far less impressive than that of the bishop. I cringed at the very thought of how mediocre my musical presentation was about to be by comparison.

I tentatively plucked out the notes of the only song that I could remember, Fur Elise. The sound was lost in the huge church, and the simple melody, void of the impressive chords of traditional pipe organ music, sounded childish. I missed a note or two, and forgot even parts that I knew well. It sounded horrible. My only consolation as I found my way back to my seat, was the thought that, “Well, at least now they know that I wasn’t joking about my musical abilities.”

My audience was very gracious. They applauded. The Swedish bishop nodded at me approvingly and said, “Fur Elise,” as I passed him, my face flushed with embarrassment. A few delegates told me afterwards that they didn’t envy my position. The highlight of the experience was what the story that my roommate later related to me. There were two female pastors sitting beside her in the pew whispering back and forth to each other as I went up to play. “I feel so bad for her,” one said. “Ja, we should encourage her,” said the other, before offering in heavily accented Swedish, “You go girl!”

When you leave your home behind, there are bound to be moments you feel awkward, uncomfortable, or even downright humiliated. I am certain that there will be many more “embarrassing moments” as I struggle to learn the Hungarian language and understand this new culture. Even if it involves a great deal of blushing and stammering of explanations and apologies, I think something good can come of humiliation. Making mistakes and showing weakness is what makes you human. As with so many other human emotions, it’s something that crosses cultural barriers. Others can sense when we feel embarrassed, and like the Swedish pastors cheering me ahead with “you go girl,” maybe humiliation is something that can unite us. So as I enter my year of service in Hungary, I’m trying to learn to embrace my more humbling experiences as opportunities to build relationships connect with others. And as you can imagine, I’ll also be avoiding pipe organs like the plague.