Fill 'Er With the Unleaded

From Akron and Columbus and Fort Wayne they come, heading down the West Virginia Turnpike to Myrtle Beach and the sun, driving all hours of the day and night. In Beckley, they get regular and unleaded at one of those big service stations that dot the interstates. And for the past two summers, Klingensmith has passed up internships and fellowships and the high-paying jobs held down by his peers, and instead squeegeed windshields and checked oil by the side of the freeway. "Every summer when I go home I make a point of getting an ordinary job." Working the nightshift--11 p.m. to 7 a.m.--with a crew of locals, Klingensmith has his "chance to keep in touch with the area," and with its people. In this case, "its people" means the filling station crew of 20, of whom one other has a high school diploma. "Basically, they thought it was a bit funny I went to Harvard. A fair number of them had never heard of the place, didn't know what it was, which suited me just fine." The others wondered why he was studying religion and Asian history, not law or business. "The good friends I had at the gas station didn't really try to understand. They accepted the fact I went to Harvard, and laughed at it, and moved on." One ex-con shared the Saturday night chores with him. "It was very slow, so he brought a chess board with him...He'd learned to play chess in prison, and he was superb. I'm a lousy chess player, and he would best me every time. But we'd play for hours, chewing tobacco, which he'd supply one week and I the next."

Dealing with "the same idiot customers" and working for the same boss helped bridge the gulfs between Klingensmith and his fellow pump jockeys. "Our topics of discussion were cars--certainly not my Honda, but the other guys' souped up Nova--and woman, especially the female customers. There was always a fight to see who was going to get the most attractive woman...We sort of lived from one attractive customer to the next."

When he left the station to return to Harvard, Klingensmith made one "solemn pact" with his friends: he would tell anyone, whenever the subject came up, that they "ought to tip their gas station attendants...Generally, only very kind people--ministers and the like--tip. Even if it's only the change on a dollar, that's fine... If they're very saucy, then there's no reason to. But otherwise, they should be tipped, and tipped generally for their work in the rain and sun.

Calvin and Kirkland House

Having followed his father to Harvard, Klingensmith decided to follow him once again, moving to Kirkland House as a sophomore. "It was the only house I wanted to come to. I liked everything about it. It wasn't ostentatious, with a huge tower like Eliot or Lowell." His freshmen roommates preferred Quincy House so Klingensmith ("I wanted Georgian; I didn't want video games") floated into Kirkland. "My Kirkland House experience has been indescribably pleasant. I wouldn't live anywhere else."

Klingensmith discovered another passion sophomore year. After convincing the History Department to give him credit, he began trekking to the Divinity School for a course on Calvin. "I thought I knew something about Calvinism, and it seemed pretty abhorrent--beliefs in predestination, election, sovereignty." Despite extensive reading, Klingensmith ended the semester still convinced it was "rot. But I also realized that if it was rot, it was also very hard to answer, very well thought out. Over the summer I began to think on it, and realized it represented a very coherent and scripturally "accurate approach to religion," not the only approach, certainly, but one that is "satisfying to me."

The sovereignty of God is at the center of his Calvinism, Klingensmith says. "God chooses what he wants to do and does it, chooses who he wants to save and saves him. It is a sovereignty of grace, a sovereignty very much tempered by love, unconditional love." Calvinism, as practiced by its originator in Geneva, was the "preeminent social religion, and I've become more socially conscious from my reading of Calvin," he insists. "Pure social action is useful, and it gets a lot done. But without religion, speaking in eternal or ultimate terms, it will prove fruitless. Because the world is at last God's."

A College-sponsored survey uncovered this year showed Kirkland House swollen with varsity athletes, and with fewer top-notch students than any House in the school. At first glance one would not expect Klingensmith--tweedy, bespectacled, soft-spoken--to fit in. But he insists the House is a home, and a happy one. "Every one I met I liked; everyone--jocks, politicos, the rest--were really friendly." Klingensmith's willingness to defy some ministerial stereotypes made the four years easier. "I think its kind of funny that people think I'm straitlaced. If they see me with a beer in my hand, they say 'Aren't you going to be a minister?' And I say 'Yes.' I don't explain anymore. Martin Luther loved his beer." And so Klingensmith travels to Wellesley with some frequency ("I'm chaste as far as it goes. But I drink a lot. I suppose it's a remedy for fornication.") and even confesses: "I've slept in puke before."

One memorable Saturday night sums up the two sides of his personality. Driving back from a Wellesley sorority with three Kirkland House buddies, Klingensmith passed out in the back seat of the car. "These guys were hungry, so they drove down to Chinatown, and parked in the Combat Zone at 4 a.m. I was too drunk to move, so I spent an hour in the back seat of the car. I remember being taken home, and helped up the E-entry steps. Miraculously, I woke up at 10, took a shower, and went to church. I was still drunk. It wasn't until the middle of the sermon that I sobered up...I was able to control myself; I wasn't wobbling. It's just like the buzz any priest would have if he chugged a glass of communion wine."

Charles (not Chuck or Charlie) Klingensmith will enter Harvard Divinity School in the fall.