Professor Stuntz, In Memoriam: “Amazing Friend”

Harvard Law Professor Bill Stuntz died last week of cancer at age 52. As a tribute, this week we are running personal reflections from people who knew him. An introduction to this series can be found here and the entire series is here. The following reflection, which is cross-posted on Less Than the Least, is by guest contributor Tejinder Singh, a 2008 graduate of Harvard Law School and former Editor-in-Chief of HLPR. He can be reached at singhwcl@gmail.com.

Flying to Boston always feels like hitchhiking on a school bus. The planes are packed with young people sporting school-branded sweatshirts and cramming overstuffed backpacks into the overhead bins. Conversations focus on the basics: “Where do you go?” “What’s your major?” “Oh, yeah, that bar is totally awesome, I got in with my roommate’s fake ID.” Since graduating law school, I have felt like an intruder on these flights. And I can’t help but smile at the fact that at age of twenty-nine, these kids make me feel old. Once I hit the ground, the symbols of New England—the Boston skyline towering over the Charles River, the taxi drivers’ hardcore local accents, the day-glo Dunkin’ Donuts signs, the whiz kids who dress like they’re homeless, constantly pushing mops of hair out of their eyes so that they can read their astrophysics textbooks on the T—all remind me of how different this pocket of New England is from the rest of the country. I like it here.

It’s March 19, 2011, and I am on a bittersweet errand: to celebrate the life and mourn the passing of Professor William John Stuntz, or Bill to his friends. Bill was my best friend on the Harvard Law School faculty, a mentor who I sought out and tricked into liking me. He died on March 15 after a three-year battle with colon cancer. He was only 52 years old.

I deplane, check in to my hotel, and start getting dressed for the service. I miss Bill, but I have to admit that I’m not feeling a devastating sense of loss. With some distance (both spatial and temporal) between me and law school, Bill and I have corresponded only sporadically. I’ve tried on several occasions to come and visit him, but he has fended me off every time, so that I had resigned myself not to see him again barring a miraculous recovery. When we have been in touch, he has focused the conversations on me, or on how, despite his cancer, he feels so lucky to have such a loving family, such gracious friends, and such kind doctors. Reading between the lines, I know that although he never complained about it to me, he was in serious pain. And so although I miss him, and I know that his family must feel an incredible sense of loss, I am relieved that his suffering is over, and I know that if there’s a heaven, and any justice in heaven, he almost certainly has a spot reserved. I came out of a sense of obligation—I believe that I’m here to give some comfort to Bill’s family, and to offer a final goodbye to my friend—but I’m not expecting that I, personally, will get much out of this. In fact, I’m pretty sure that being here will make me feel sad, which is something that I hate to do.

The memorial service is at the Park Street Church, an evangelical church established in 1809 at a prime location at the southeast corner of Boston Common. Bill and his family worshipped there, where they are loved for their faith, fellowship, and intellect. I arrive half an hour early. The room is mostly empty, but the air is warm and heavy. As I sign the guest book and cross the threshold into the sanctuary, I spy two familiar faces: Dean Martha Minow of the law school, and Justice Elena Kagan of the Supreme Court. We’re acquainted, but on an ordinary day, I’m not remotely important enough to talk to these two. But today isn’t ordinary, and there’s time before the service starts, so I tell them how Bill and I became friends.

It’s 2006, and I’m in Professor Stuntz’s office. I’ve completed one semester of law school, and done well in his criminal law class. Before I started law school, my trusted friends who had traveled the path told me that it was important to find a professor to act as a mentor—to help you navigate the school, and to develop your ideas and career ambitions. I wanted Professor Stuntz to be my guy, so I had been attending his office hours. Sometimes we would talk about the cases and rules that we discussed in class; other times I would pick out an essay or article he or somebody else had written; and other times we would just chat. After three or four visits, I liked where the relationship was headed.

But there was a catch. I didn’t know much about evangelical Christians, but I thought it was safe to assume that what made them different from other Christians was the fact that they evangelized. Being quite obviously non-Christian, I was curious whether this would be an issue in our relationship. So I sat across from Professor Stuntz and hesitantly broached the subject: “So . . . you may have noticed . . . that I am not quite Christian. I just wanted to know . . . is that ok?” Professor Stuntz reclined for a minute, steepling his fingers and scrutinizing the ceiling tiles for an answer. I mentally kicked myself for basically daring him to condemn me to Hell (to a law student, having one’s favorite professor damn you eternally is worse than being embarrassed during a classroom Socratic interrogation, but still not as bad as getting a B-minus). Then Professor Stuntz leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “Can I tell you a secret? I’m so glad you’re different from me. If everybody thought the way I did, life would be so damn boring.” I blurted, “You are the lousiest evangelist I’ve ever met! I can’t believe they haven’t fired you yet!” We shared a laugh, and thenceforth he insisted that I call him Bill.

The crowd files into the sanctuary. Maybe 200 people have come, including a large contingent of what I can only imagine are Bill’s recent students, who sit in the wings. I sit surrounded by members of the law faculty. Six rows in front of me, I see the back of a man’s head that bears a shocking resemblance to Bill’s. I later learn that he’s David Stuntz, one of Bill’s older brothers. From time to time, my mind will trick itself into thinking that Bill is here, watching the show.

Reverend Dr. Gordon P. Hugenberger, senior minister at the church and a friend of the Stuntz family, conducts the service. Standing on the dais, he’s tall and authoritative, and in a welcoming, soothing tone, he calls us to worship, asks us to sing a hymn, and recites with us the Lord’s prayer. My instinct is not to utter prayers in which I don’t believe,  but I can see an argument the other way, so I decide to apply Bill’s wisdom to the situation.  Bill instructed us that whenever we were contemplating embracing a position, we should earnestly discover the best counter-argument, and be able cogently to explain why we aren’t swayed by it. That’s a rule not just for law, but for life—one of my strongest take-home lessons from school. So I stage a brief mental debate where I ask Bill whether he would want me to ignore my misgivings and join the crowd in the spirit of the event. The Bill in my mind responds: “I’m actually kind of busy right now. Can you really not figure this one out on your own?” Real-Bill would never have said anything like that. He was extraordinarily generous with his time and his resources. And so it always fell on his friends to self-censor our requests to avoid overstretching him. Unable to resolve how I feel about the matter, I go through the motions of standing and sitting with the crowd, but I don’t say all of the words. My nerd-mind starts spinning its wheels. I’m distracted, and that ain’t good.

My ears perk up. Rev. Hugenberger is trying to establish the purpose of this gathering. He offers a spot-on description of Bill—a brilliant man with a “winsome humility” that enchanted interlocutors and endeared him to students. Rev. Hugenberger goes on to candidly acknowledge that some will have a hard time with the religious nature of this gathering, but he points out that the service must be religious, because Bill was deeply religious, and he congratulates us nonbelievers for exhibiting the same open-mindedness that made Bill a great scholar. Then I swear that Rev. Hugenberger starts talking to me: he explains all the ways that funerals can be useless—offering nothing more than platitudes about how life goes on, and other mere words that utterly fail to accomplish the overwhelming task of grappling with mortality and loss. He speculates that some will feel this loss deeply, and for the rest of their lives, while others are here merely to pay their respects. I’m somewhere between these two poles—my grief is already gone, but the affection I had for Bill makes my presence here more than a professional courtesy. But nevertheless, I feel like I have just been called out for being a cynic. And then, just as my guilt starts to build, Rev. Hugenberger offers me hope: he says that he believes that God has brought us together for a purpose today, and he knows that we all will leave the church changed for the better. And I want to believe him.

At this moment, some jaded synapse in my brain stops firing, and I find myself focused and present in the room. I sincerely doubt that I’ll become a true believer in the next couple of hours, but I begin to suspect that I’m about to learn something. I’m excited in the same way that I would get excited about talking to Bill. Because the thing about Bill was that he had a remarkable talent for showing you something new. Bill could look at an argument in which one side said that the answer was “Yes,” and the other side said it was “No,” and he could suggest, very politely, that perhaps the answer was actually “Forty-two,” and get the protagonists on both sides to at least seriously think about it. He routinely offered fresh perspectives on settled debates, which earned him a reputation as an independent thinker free from the strictures of conventional wisdom and ideology.

The service continues with readings. The Old Testament reading is from the Book of Job. Job, for those unfamiliar with the story, was a pious man, but Satan thought that Job was that way only because his life had been so good. So God gives Satan permission to test Job’s faith, and Satan responds by inflicting terrible pain on Job. Having suffered his ordeal, Job talks to God about what will happen when he dies. He says “You will call and I will answer; You will long for the creature Your hands have made. Surely then You will count my steps but not remember my sin.” I remember that Bill cited these verses in a speech that he had given at the church, which he then posted on his blog. Bill said, “I love those verses. I’ve longed for the Triune God all my life, though I didn’t always know it. Only recently have I come to understand just how much, and just how amazingly, He longs for me.” Given all the pain that Bill faced in his life, I can’t help but think that Job is a tragically appropriate selection for this ceremony.

Rev. Hugenberger is at the podium. He’s talking about seeing a silver lining, and about how God works tragedy for the good. I’m one of those people who thinks that the existence of mass, undeserved suffering in the world is conclusive evidence that God either doesn’t exist, or is cruel, and in either case not worth worshipping. I prepare an epic eye-roll, because in my view, there is no possible silver lining to this. And I’m surprised again. Rev. Hugenberger reads from something Bill wrote, and Bill tells me that since he was diagnosed, he has loved more fully, and experienced more and deeper friendship, than in his entire life prior. And he has turned his heart back toward his wife, and experienced the sweetest time in his marriage. I’m not totally sold—this all explains why maybe getting cancer wasn’t all bad, but none of it explains why the last round of chemo and radiation had to fail. But I’m comforted. Not in God, who is still an imaginary thug, but in knowing that amidst the pain, Bill found a measure of joy in these last few years. I’m also drawn to Rev. Hugenberger, who is one of the smartest ministers I’ve ever seen. He knows exactly how hard to push. Any softer and his views wouldn’t carry. Any harder, and people would get defensive. Instead, he just lofts these ideas up, and counts on the good will of his audience to give them a fair hearing. It’s beautiful to watch, and I can see why Bill would have loved spending time with him.

Bill’s friend Professor David Skeel gives a great tribute to Bill, describing his generosity and brilliance. Then Bill’s brother David describes Bill’s childhood. Everybody is amused to hear about how Bill dreamed of being a major league baseball player. When he was a kid, he used to jot down lists of season batting averages and other statistics. And every now and again, he would add his own name to the leaderboards, usually, perhaps owing to his humility, finishing in second place to such greats as Ted Williams . . . but not always. Then Bill’s daughter Sarah brings down the house with her good humor and lovely memories of her father. The best story she tells is that Bill would often come home and lament, “I didn’t perform well in class today.” Sarah said that she felt bad for Bill, because it must be hard to be so very terrible at one’s job. But then Bill won the Sacks-Freund teaching award, awarded to the best teacher at Harvard Law School based on a student poll, but he kept on complaining about bad classes, so Sarah realized that maybe his complaints had little to do with his teaching prowess.

As a matter of fact, Bill was a fantastic teacher, with a clever “signature move.” He would ask a question, and then he would repeat the student’s answer, but in a slightly smarter way. The student would look and feel smart in front of the class, and would learn to refine his thoughts in the process. For those of us lucky enough to have one-on-one conversations with Bill, this would happen 7 or 8 times in a fifteen-minute talk. If we weren’t self-aware, we wouldn’t even realize that we were learning—we would just feel like geniuses. And Bill would go on feeding us knowledge under the table, all the while giving us credit for developing insights and making connections that, in fact, he had made for us. Being his student was fun.

We’re in the home stretch, and it’s time to sing hymns and recite psalms. This time, I join in with everybody else. I don’t know why I did it—but at the time I was overwhelmed by a desire to be connected to the people around me, and to participate fully in the ceremony that Bill had prepared for himself. When it’s done, I feel like I just got off a two hour roller-coaster. I’m exhausted, and I have to think carefully about simple acts like walking down the stairs.

I seek out Bill’s family at a reception downstairs. I just remembered that Bill had confided in me that one of his favorite memories was that when his parents weren’t around, he and his brothers would go out and catch crabs, steam them and eat them with beers. Bill loved those days, and although he wasn’t ready to say this to his kids, he really hoped that when he and Ruth were out of the house, they would all get drunk together behind his back. I deliver Bill’s message to his kids, and spend some time with each of them, as well as Bill’s wife Ruth, and his brothers, David and Rick, who are all fantastic. They tell me funny stories about Bill, and I share a few of my own. Everybody is smiling, and their eyes are shining, like they know that Bill is on to a better place. I realize that perhaps for the first time in my life, I really want kids of my own, with whom I can share love the way Bill shared it with his family. I also realize that even though I feel overwhelmed by everything I’ve just seen and heard, I am not sad. Rev. Hugenberger was right—being here has changed my life in ways that I never expected.

I step into the crisp evening air, alone with my thoughts for the night. My mind travels to 2010. I’m in my office in Baltimore, beginning a clerkship for a wonderful federal judge. My co-clerks and I are tasked with hiring our replacements. As we access the application system, we discover that our own applications, including letters of recommendation, are still there. I know it was mildly naughty, but I peeked.  Bill’s letter blew me away with its kindness. He concluded it by writing, “I’ve never taught a student whose presence I will miss so much.” The feeling is mutual, as I’ve never missed a teacher so much.

I head to Cambridge and take a walk around Harvard Square, retracing the routes I walked so often as a student. All the while, I binge on a cocktail of gratitude and obligation, overjoyed that I shared my life with such an amazing friend, and determined to live up to his image of me. I smile as I write this because although Bill is gone, he’s still inspiring his students to become the best people they can be. Talk about teaching skills.