Listening: In Search of the True Self

Here at the age of 39, I began to be old," says Charles Ryder as his revisit to Brideshead begins. For others, self-awareness arrives sooner or later, more or less. There are young fogies as well as old. Most learn age's lessons only to forget or ignore them. Often indeed we need to remind ourselves of our true selves.

The gatekeeper at Boston's Museum of Fine Arts issues a ticket to a Richmonder and the price includes the senior discount, which the traveler neither requests nor is asked whether the rate applies. The mirror says he does not look a day past 90. Later that evening, during a stroll near Harvard, in an evening turning from sultry to soft, a twentysomething calls out, "Hey, Grandpa." Ours is not to reason why.

The museum's special exhibit features the art of Titian, Tintoretto, and Veronese. The galleries resemble holy spaces. Many of the paintings glorify God and the children He inhabits. The beauty lies not only in execution but in content. In painting Christ, the artists imitate Him, for despite their personal imperfections, their vanities, and their rivalries, they see Him as He is. This is art at its most challenging and satisfying -- art greater than the stuff in museums hoping to generate controversy and publicity, greater than that manufactured in transgressive studios downtown.

Titian appears in Brideshead, too. In the television series of the 1980s, Charles -- accompanied by Sebastian, Cara (Lord Marchmain's mistress), and Cara's little Venetian nobleman -- tours the Church of the Frari and, standing before the "Assumption of the Virgin Mary," muses on what religion had meant in his life (or what it had not meant) and what it someday would mean. Eventually, he comes to accept the supernatural as the real, but there was no such need that summer -- or so he thought. Detours and delays occur often enough.

A SHUCKER in a South End oyster bar opens varieties from Nova Scotia and Rhode Island in one stroke. A server confides that she has, or had, relatives in Victoria and Chester. The eager diner took a different path. Personal whispers conyeving ancient secrets and intransigent claims echo with the accents not of Piedmont and Tidewater but of the rocky inlets and green inlands of Massachusetts Bay. Suspicions, we suspect, are confirmed. In metaphor, all movement heads West. Wise men from the East followed a star.

Jesus Was a Liberal asserts a title of a book that does not leap off the shelf. Different authors claim Him for conservatives, with equal credibility -- which is to say, with none. Things are not that easy. The Creed, the Beatitudes, the Magnificat, the Epistles, the Psalms, and the wisdom books have implications for the day-to-day. Faith has consequences for political and social attitudes and for behavior. But single-payer medicine supplied by a benevolent state or a health system based on market mercies? Look elsewhere. Labels such as liberal and conservative are signpoints toward oblivion. Enact political agendas, by all means, but do not mistake them for the salvation that accompanies the breaking of the bread. And remember that to be a disciple is to be engaged without ceasing. The segmentation of life into spheres -- work, home, church, play -- is an error and a source of our disquiet. Live seamlessly.

Michael Jackson dies at 50, Farrah Fawcett at 62. He passes as a figure of pity; in her twilight weeks she regains a measure of dignity. Grace is bountiful. What has been said before, in "Sunset Boulevard," must be said now, and, with dread certainty, will need to be said again: "A dozen press agents working overtime can do horrible things to the human spirit." The consumers of "news" about the rich and famous share complicity. The purveyors have no excuse. Cannibalism manifests itself in many forms. The bathos overwhelms. Personages rise and fall less because expectations are great than because they are small.

As they walk along the Charles or among the bricks of Harvard Yard, scholars, townspeople, aspiring Bohemians, and youths (so-called) talk into cell phones. No one ever seems to be listening. More frequently they text. Perhaps the texters communicate in the cadences of Keats. At this stage, Alfred E. Newman would do. In the Rule of the Society of Saint John the Evangelist, we read, "Silence is a constant source of restoration. Yet its healing power does not come cheaply. It depends on our willingness to face all that is within us, light and dark, and to heed all the inner voices that make themselves heard in silence." Noise not only emanates from sound but rises from the printed page, or, to be precise, glares from the screen. So much effort is expended, so much goes to waste. Isaiah is altogether a better guide than the Huffington Post, the Song of Solomon than Wonkette. Rediscover discretion, and trust. It is not too late, we hope. To reside within monasticism's liberating walls is simultaneously to be calm and on fire. Call the sensation serene intensity, and be glad.

THE PURCHASE of On Beauty and Being Just by Elaine Scarry summons from the cashier a "You'll love this book. I seldom read philosophy, but this is different. Her The Body in Pain is even better." "The first paragraph seduced me. I usually avoid the difficult and the deep." The conversation proceeds, and fulfills. Edward Hopper depicts the dilemma well. In "Excursion Into Philosophy" a half-dressed body lies atop a bed, a man sits on the edge staring ahead, an open book at his side. Barbara Brown Taylor's When God Is Silent is over the weekend read. Christians, the priest-professor notes, implore God to hear their prayers. Jews pray, "Hear, O Israel."

In Mount Auburn Cemetery, notables and the unknown rest so they may rise. Loveliness falls upon the eyes. Originally a garden graveyard in the countryside, Mount Auburn's hills and dales, its paths, monuments, plantings, and stones commemorate existence itself. Those honored here lived and in love live still. Dust returns to dust, without forfeiting its mystery. This island of repose seems a place of joy, the bustle outside seems merely sad.

The coffee bar at the Harvard Coop "proudly serves" a popular brand. The brothers at the monastery humbly serve the Blessed Sacrament. Here, before an icon of John resting his head on his shepherd's breast, at the age of 59 a stranger knows what it means to be beloved. A Daily Office is a daily blessing. Thanksgiving properly is offered at all hours. Confession is a must. It is within our power to transcend the limits we place on ourselves. Listen. Hear. Abide.

Todd Culbertson is the editor of the Editorial Pages. Contact him at (804) 649-6686 or .