Someone asked me recently why I do what I do? He was wondering if I had a set of underlying core values that drove me. I had to say I didn't know. I'm inexplicably interested in the human condition. In particular, we seem to have this weird and slippery possibility to apply our conscious awareness to bettering our condition. I've spent my life -- with the support of data-driven probability theory -- trying to understand how to get our hands around this possibility.
Why do I care?
Last night, it came to me.
In high school for three years, my English teacher at Malden Catholic was Mr. Carroll. He was one of a few teachers hired from outside the religious order to which nearly all of our teachers had taken vows. I never asked why the order made exceptions. The curriculum was standard college prep of the day designed to prepare us for the SATs.
What made Mr. Carroll's class distinctive was every day, Mr. Carroll began our class with a twelfth-century prayer attributed to Francis from Assisi in the duchy of Spoleto, Italy. In the Gospels of Jesus we had been taught about the rich young man, who went to Jesus saying he had kept the commandments and now wanted to know what he lacked. Jesus told the rich young man to give everything he had to the poor and follow him. We are told then, the rich young man walked away. Francis was a rich young man who did exactly what Jesus asked. He gave away all his possessions and lived a life of poverty and witness to Jesus.
Every day for three years, I entered Mr. Carroll's classroom, took my seat assigned in alphabetical order -- far left near the back -- and waited for Mr. Carroll to begin. Every day for three years, Mr. Carroll recited the English translation of Francis's words.
Every day for three years.
Mr. Carroll wasn't lecturing us. Every day for three years, he reminded himself of the standard to which he would hold himself accountable. To us, every day for three years, he laid out the standard to which we could hold him accountable.
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace:
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, let me pardon;
where there is doubt, let me sow faith;
where there is despair, let me sow hope;
where there is darkness, let me bring light;
where there is sadness, let me sow joy.
O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console,
to be understood as to understand,
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
Mr. Carroll, my mild-mannered English teacher, every day for three years, indelibly left me with the boldest possible challenge:
What if?