Regis and Me

Regis Francis Xavier Philbin was a really good guy. I was at a Notre Dame football scrimmage, the springtime Blue and Gold Game, when an older coach came up to my row in the stands and yelled out, "Professor! I want you to come and meet one of my good friends! Can you come down for a minute?" "Sure, Coach." I made my way across the seats to Coach George Kelly and down the aisle as he tugged on my sleeve and said, "I've been wanting you to meet an old friend of mine. We go way back."

We got down closer to the field, only a few rows up, and the coach led me across a row of seats. "Regis, Regis, I want you to meet my favorite professor, Tom Morris." George Kelly patted me on the back. "Tom, this is my old friend Regis Philbin." I got a big smile from the television icon. His show, Live with Regis and Kathie Lee was at the peak of its popularity on ABC. "Professor, come sit down and visit!" I did, and he said, "What do you teach?" I said, "Philosophy." He said, "Wait a minute. You're my daughter's favorite professor." What? "She's in your big freshman class." "Really?" And we talked on and on for a long time. Regis had no sense of self importance or celebrity. He was just a nice funny guy. The man wanted to know all about me and what I did and at some point asked me if I was thinking about writing a book for general audience. I said, "I just did and it's out next year." "What's it about?" "True Success for everybody. The wisdom of the great thinkers." He lit up even more. "Let me know when it's published and we'll have you on the show to talk about it!" Wow. Ok. "I'll do it!"

Regis was the ideal conversationalist. Nothing was about him. Everything was about me and whomever was around. He was engaging, and really funny. In fact, I was so taken up in the moment I forgot to tell him that a few years before, when Notre Dame had won the National Championship, I had written, recorded, and released a rock and roll fight song called "The Fightin' Irish Are Back!" And Champion T Shirts made up a special shirt for it featuring the Irish Leprechaun playing my Fender Stratocaster electric guitar, with my initials added to the headstock: TVM. Regis had played the song on his national show and danced to it. And it didn't even occur to me to mention that to him.

A little more than a year later, I was on the famous sofa with him and Kathie Lee, in front of the live audience in late August of 1994, if I recall, talking about kids having success going back to school, and listening to him pitch my book to his national viewers. He'd come backstage to the Green Room to talk to me and make sure I felt his personal welcome and enthusiasm for the book True Success before the show. But of course I was in the Men's Room. But he met me in the hall and we had the best chat. He was a real motivator. After that little hallway talk, I could have suited up and played with the team. Even at my age. After the broadcast, he grabbed me and pulled me around all the cameras to the audience and held up my book and said, "Everybody go get this book right away! You'll love it!" And they did. And then I saw him at a few parties in South Bend on game weekends, and he was always kind, generous, happy, funny, and just a joy to be around.

His daughter and my philosophy student JJ has created her own show Single Parent, and her husband is the creator of The Good Place. Good people. Good work. Regis will be missed by all. Gone too soon. A good, good man who did great things for other people, like me. And that's true success.

A Good, Virtuous Character

The New York Times Book Review recently asked two writers, Thomas Mallon and Alice Gregory, a question about characters in novels that's often been discussed before. It was posed like this: Can a Virtuous Character Be Interesting? The most common, received opinion is that a scoundrel, scalawag, deviant, or miscreant is much more interesting to read about than a normal garden-variety good guy. The argument usually given for such a view is simple. Imagine this story: A guy is born into a great and psychologically healthy family, he grows up around good friends, attends a fine school, is very nice himself, graduates from an ideal college, meets the perfect life partner, and lives happily ever after. It would not be the typical page turner. "Wait. I have to finish this chapter. Somebody just nicely asked our hero to pass the salt and I've got to see what form of graciousness he displays to comply!" 

We're often drawn to flawed characters. For one thing, we may see in them, on full parade, various traits that we've felt in ourselves and rightly suppressed. It's instructive and sometimes even fascinating to witness them fully developed and on display. In a related way, truly despicable characters in fiction make us look not so bad, after all, by contrast - which is surely one of the reasons reality television shows are so popular. And then, in another way, we may enjoy the insight that such portrayals can give us into the souls of people we actually have to deal with now and then outside the realms of novels.

Most good writers can provide long lists of baddies who have been more interesting to read about in the history of literature than almost any of the goodies. But should writers aspire more, and work harder, to depict goodness rather than focusing on so many types of evil?

Alice Gregory has something worthwhile to say about it all. She writes:

A truly radical 21st-century novelist wouldn’t ask us to see ourselves in made-up villains, and then, hopefully, revise our opinions of the real ones in our own lives. Rather, they would ask us to see the arduous and often acrobatic effort that goes into living a life of common decency. They would coerce us into believing that virtue is interesting and fun to think about and far more dazzling to encounter than malevolence.

In her 1947 book “Gravity and Grace,” Simone Weil wrote: “Imaginary evil is romantic and varied; real evil is gloomy, monotonous, barren, boring. Imaginary good is boring; real good is always new, marvelous, intoxicating.”

I think that's well said, both by Gregory and Weil.

I've just finished the most unexpected adventure in writing, over the course of my entire life, A movie started playing in my head one morning about four and a half years ago, and I immediately rushed to write down everything I was seeing and hearing. It was the most amazing process of writing I've ever experienced, and quite different from the rational and heavily planned creation of a nonfiction book of philosophy. The movie kept playing, and an entrancing prologue book, recounting a trip across the desert in Egypt in 1934, quickly came into being, and has been followed by seven subsequent much longer novels, so far. The prologue, The Oasis Within, is a short book just shy of 200 pages, and is going to be announced here soon, as it will be published within the month.

The Oasis Within, and its novel series that follows, are all my favorite books I've ever written. And the main characters are all very good guys. They display everyday virtue in dazzling ways. They do confront evil, and great danger, many times, and in wildly varied forms, but they are themselves great people I'd love to know. And they're the opposite of boring. In fact, they may be the most fascinating characters I've ever been introduced to, in any story. But maybe that's just me. And they confirm richly Alice Gregory's point.

I'll announce it here when the first of the eight books laying out their story is available. It will be very soon. A twenty-first century novelist is about to do something very different. 

The Goodness Guarantee

There are very few guarantees in the world. One of the rare ones is that if, from a perspective of basically true belief, you try to do good or try to do evil, you're guaranteed to succeed. Let me make it clear what this means.

The single condition for this guarantee is that you have mostly, and at least roughly, true beliefs about what's good, and what's evil. You don't have to be a master of ethical insight, but have generally accurate and non delusional views of what's right and wrong, at a simple and basic level. Then, the guarantee kicks in. If you're trying to do good for the world, beyond your own narrow interests, in your pursuit of a goal or in your treatment of another person, then, whether you succeed in accomplishing exactly what you're attempting or not, your effort to do good is itself a form of good. In even trying to do good, you've brought a dose of good into the world.

Likewise, and conversely, if you're trying to do evil in the world, of any kind, in your pursuit of a goal or in your treatment of another person, then, whether you succeed in accomplishing exactly what you're attempting or not, your effort itself is a form of evil. It is evil to try to accomplish evil. 

To sum up, armed with a basically correct grasp of good and evil, then you get a rare guarantee. When you try to do good, you actually do good. When you try to do evil, you really do evil. And this is true regardless of circumstances. Because of that truth, something important follows.

There's aren't many such guarantees in life. When you try to make a lot of money, there's no guarantee that you'll succeed financially. If you try to get famous, there's also no guarantee that your intent will be realized in any form. Likewise for the pursuit of power, or status, or any other external thing distinct from good or evil.

So, therefore what should we make of this realization? Our conclusion is crucially important, and potentially even life changing.

Consider this. One way not to waste your time and energy in this life is to seek first and foremost a goal that's guaranteed. That leaves two options. Whatever we do, we should either seek to do good, or to do evil. But seeking evil, as Socrates long ago pointed out, is in itself wrong and, in addition, will just make your world a worse place for you. We should not seek evil. Therefore, the opposite conclusion follows quickly: We should always intentionally seek to do good, whatever the particulars might be. 

This conclusion then comes with a cosmic promise. Your effort to make a positive addition to the world will itself be one. And then, everything else is gravy. Or icing on the cake - depending on whether you prefer the savory or the sweet, each of which is available to the seeker of good.

First, seek to know what is good and what isn't. Strip off false beliefs, and escape illusion. Then, the job is clear. Determine, whatever you do, to do good, and good will follow. Even if you're somewhat mistaken in your understanding of what the good requires, a sincere and humble pursuit of the good is more open than any other mindset to correction about what it truly entails. That way, in seeking to do good, you position yourself to both do good and become better. And I have just one question: As a fundamental starting point, what could be better than that?

Preparing For the Big Next

We have no clear idea what's next. I mean, after this life. Really.

We speak of heaven, and "the next adventure" but we have for this inevitable end that each of us will meet the most extreme dearth of detail regarding any important thing imaginable. That's why life after death books sell so well, and it's why psychics and clairvoyants stay in business. 

One thing seems likely to me, having studied this for decades. It will matter then what we do now. We should treat each other in this life as well as we possibly can. For theists, it's an obligation. For atheists and agnostics, it's a bold dramatic gesture. For all, it's an exercise of radical freedom, achieved with difficulty - not to react slavishly and reciprocally to what others do to us, but to set new standards for what those others need to have done for them. Each of us is called to be a pioneer of elevating action. Each of us is called to heroic grace.

We should treat others exceedingly well, despite what they sometimes do to us, not just because of what they are created to be, but because of what we ourselves are created to be. The fact is that we deserve the effects of such actions as those we ought to perform. Many great thinkers, such as Plato and Shakespeare's Hamlet, have understood this. We all need to, as well.

The relationship between the now and the hereafter is simple. The now is limited. We know that. And it will affect whatever hereafter there is - even from an atheistic perspective, for what is now created and done will never cease to have been, forever into the future. Every act is eternal. The full story of reality is vastly and everlastingly different, depending on what we do now, day-to-day. There's always the possibility of demeaning behavior or elevating action - it's left to be our choice. What then will we do?

Redemption

I'd never read Truman Capote. It's hard to have grown up in the twentieth century and not have come across and read anything by him. But just the other day I picked up the Modern Classics book, A Christmas Memory, One Christmas, and The Thanksgiving Visitor, largely because I noticed it on a shelf in my house. He was an amazing writer.

In the story about Thanksgiving, the narrator is an eight year old boy who has been relentlessly and cruelly bulled by a twelve year old boy in his class, a young man who has failed grades, and comes from a background of failure. Our narrator, Buddy, lives with some older relatives, several sisters and a brother, in Alabama, and is closest with a lady in her sixties, Miss Sook, he calls her, who is in many ways like a child. Her simplicity causes her to favor the company of young children. But it also helps her to see deep truths that normal people would miss. This comes across in all three stories, and struck me deeply as I read.

Because of an act of kindness she does for Buddy's tormentor, the sort of favor he's never received from anyone, apparently, he changes. He becomes a better person, in contradiction to all his previous behavior. The story reminds us that almost anyone can be redeemed, or transformed. But it rarely happens apart from an act of love and kindness.

We tend to think in the opposite way, that bad people deserve bad consequences. But sometimes, a small act of acceptance, and respect, and care, can change a heart. The author Truman Capote suffered much in his life. And because of that, he has some lessons to pass on to the rest of us. Redemption is possible. Change can happen. But if it's radical enough, it has to be helped along by acts of love, which themselves are radical enough to make it happen.

Our lesson is simple. It's important to be able to rise above things, and even act in love toward someone who seems not to deserve it. That way, you just might help make something radically good happen.

Burn Bright While You're Here

In our informal Methodist church at the beach yesterday, the head minister told us at the start of the service that the oldest member of our ministerial staff had just suffered a major stroke and was now with hospice for what would most likely be his final hours. This man, The Reverend P. D. Midget, though in his nineties, had always seemed to have a timeless youth and vigor about him. Today, I realized that I had always assumed he'd be with us for a lot longer, despite his advanced age. He was a great harmonica player, and could do a fine job as well on the mandolin or banjo. He had recently had a smaller stroke, and in rehab had written and performed an upbeat song about it all that amazed everyone at the hospital. A graduate of Duke Divinity School, long ago, he was a keen reader and thinker, and could reenact episodes from the lives of historical figures in a dramatic way that was unexpectedly moving. He was an unusually kind and loving man, and always had a quick smile and a word of encouragement for anyone who crossed his path. I really enjoyed every conversation I had ever had with him, and now wish there had been a lot more of them.

In giving the announcement concerning this unexpected turn of events, our minister mentioned that he had already overseen the funerals of eight people in the past eleven days. And for a church of our size, that's pretty unusual. This two facts together were a powerful reminder of the fleeting nature of our time in this world, which is something that we usually keep out of mind. But it can be greatly useful to remember. As Woody Allen's character, in one of his movies long ago, said to a friend: "Don't you realize what a thread we're all hanging by?"

Consider an interesting passage from Ernest Hemingway's book, The Sun Also Rises. 

Just eleven pages into it, you'll come across this brief conversation that starts with Robert Cohn, Princeton graduate and amateur boxer, speaking to his old friend Jake, the narrator, in a bar - where it seems, interestingly, that philosophizing about life often takes place:

"Listen, Jake," he leaned forward on the bar.  "Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it?  Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?"

"Yes, every once in a while."

"Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we'll be dead?"

"What the hell, Robert,' I said, "What the hell?"

"I'm serious."

"It's one thing I don't worry about," I said.

"You ought to."

As we all know, but mostly, like Jake, tend not to think about very much, life is a limited-time offer. This is an interesting point of reflection for all of us who are already in mid-life or beyond. But it's an important fact for any of us, however young or old. Are we making the most of our time on earth? Are we using our talents in the best ways, and taking advantage of the opportunities that come to us each day? Are we enjoying the adventure? Are we touching the lives of others in positive ways? Or are we letting ourselves be held back and worn down by our own inner reactions to things that are sometimes outside our control?

There's a lesson we can glean from Woody Allen, and Hemingway's characters, and my old friend. Burn bright while you're here. It won't be forever. Remember this, and make your best difference while you can.