Sacredness and Dignity

Acts of war, terrorism, environmental destruction, and systemic injustice are still carried out in the name of the sacred, often with fervent conviction. But beneath this tumult lies a contradiction too grave to ignore: the claim to defend what is sacred is often used to justify the desecration of life itself.

This article is not just an argument against violence cloaked in religious language. It is also not simply a plea for tolerance or an ethic of passive non-interference. Rather, it is a case for something deeper and more transformative: an ethic grounded in the inherent dignity of all that exists, and the recognition that sacredness and dignity are not separate ideas but two expressions of the same fundamental moral reality.

It is a logic that insists not merely on abstaining from harm, but on living with deep respect, acceptance, and reverence for all life, human and non-human alike.

The Universal Language of the Sacred

Despite their theological differences, the world’s great religious and philosophical traditions share an astonishing premise: life is sacred. This is not a trivial agreement. It speaks to a shared intuition across cultures and epochs, that life is not merely functional, but valuable in and of itself. That there is something in existence, in being, that calls for reverence.

·       In Christianity, every human being bears the imago Dei, the image of God, a mark of divine worth that no worldly condition can erase.

·       In Islam, the Qur’an affirms that the breath of God animates each person, and that to take one innocent life is as if to destroy all of humanity.

·       In Judaism, the concept of pikuach nefesh, the saving of a life, supersedes almost all other religious obligations.

·       In Hinduism and Jainism an intricate ethic of ahimsa, nonviolence is developed, which extends beyond humans to include all sentient life.

·       In Buddhism ethics begin with the precept not to kill, emphasizing the interdependence of all beings.

·       In countless Indigenous traditions, life is not only sacred it’s also relational. The Earth, animals, rivers, and ancestors are not objects or metaphors; they are kin, living members of a shared cosmology.

This deep reverence for life, for being itself, is not confined to religious belief. Secular moral traditions echo this understanding in different terms. Enlightenment humanism, though sceptical of religious metaphysics, affirms the dignity of the individual as a foundational truth.

In contemporary philosophy, thinkers speak of moral personhood, rights, or autonomy, but always with the underlying conviction that human life possesses an intrinsic, non-negotiable value.

And beyond the human, modern ecological thought, drawing from science, systems theory, and post-humanist ethics, asserts the interdependence and inherent value of all life forms. The biosphere is not a machine, nor a marketplace, it is a complex, living web. In this web, no creature exists in isolation, and none is dispensable without consequence.

Despite their different languages, a convergence emerges. There is a kind of worth that belongs to all living things simply by virtue of their existence, by their being, their role in the web of life, or their uniqueness.

This is the foundation of what we call dignity. And when dignity is extended universally, across borders, species, and systems, it becomes indistinguishable from the sacred.

Dignity as the Ethical Expression of the Sacred

If sacredness speaks to the idea that something has value simply because it exists, that it is inviolable, that its worth is not contingent on use, status, or function, then dignity is the ethical language we use to name and protect that value.

Dignity says: this being, this creature, this person, matters. Not because they are productive. Not because they are powerful. But because they exist. They are worthy of respect, of recognition, simply by virtue of their being. This is a radical concept.

To speak of dignity is to make a claim not only about what something is, but about how we must relate to it. Dignity implies responsibility. It draws boundaries around what we may and may not do, even if we are able.

In this sense, dignity is not earned. It is inherent. It is not a reward for good behaviour, nor a prize of legal citizenship. It is not limited to humans with full mental capacity, nor to those born in certain lands. It is not withdrawn in moments of vulnerability, poverty, illness, or cultural difference.

And this idea need not depend on religious doctrine. A secular person can affirm the dignity of a child, a river, a culture, or an animal without invoking divine law.

The concept of dignity becomes especially potent, and deeply rooted, when linked to sacredness. Dignity is the ethical expression of the sacred. It is how sacredness is lived, protected, and recognized in the everyday.

Sacredness, without dignity, becomes an abstract or ornamental idea, confined to temples and texts, invoked on holidays, ignored in daily action. Dignity, without sacredness, risks becoming procedural or transactional, another checkbox on a rights-based form. Together, they offer something more: a living ethic of reverence-in-action.

When we say that all that exists has inherent worth, by virtue of its being, its role in the web of life, or its uniqueness, we are saying that dignity and sacredness are inextricably linked. One cannot truly exist without the other.

This also means that to violate the dignity of another, human or non-human, is to perform a kind of moral desecration. It is not simply unkind. It is not merely unjust. It is a failure to recognize the sacred in another being. And that failure has consequences, not just for the victim, but for the world we build and the people we become.

Religious Violence as Sacred Betrayal

It is here, at the intersection of sacredness and power, that one of the greatest moral contradictions of our age is revealed.

Throughout history and into our present moment, acts of violence have been justified in the name of religion. From holy wars and inquisitions to modern terrorism and religious nationalism, the sacred has been weaponized, turned into a banner for conquest, punishment, and the domination of others.

But this inversion, using the sacred to justify the desecration of life, is more than a tragic misuse of spiritual language. It is a profound moral betrayal. To kill in the name of the sacred is to desecrate the sacred. To violate another’s dignity in the name of God is to betray the image of God in them.

Religious violence often claims to protect truth, uphold holiness, or defend a divine order. But if we take seriously the idea that sacredness resides in life itself, in the dignity of every person and in the vitality of the Earth, then no act of violence can ever be justified by appealing to the sacred.

Even within religious traditions that have developed just war theories or arguments for divine justice, such recourse to violence is framed as a last resort, bound by strict moral criteria and undertaken with grief, not pride. But religious fundamentalism, in its modern forms, bypasses those conditions altogether. It sanctifies violence, rendering cruelty into obedience and domination into divine duty.

This is not an expression of deep faith. It is its distortion. It is not reverence, it is idolatry. The idol in question is not God, but power, cloaked in sacred language.

Religious violence violates both the victims it targets and the traditions it claims to defend. It desecrates the core teaching found across spiritual lineages: that love, compassion, mercy, and justice, not fear or hatred, are the true expressions of sacred life.

What we confront here is not simply extremism. It is a failure to understand what sacredness demands. And it reveals why our moral discourse must return to this central insight:

If the sacred is real, it cannot be protected through desecration. If dignity is universal, then violence in the name of religion is always a lie.

Beyond “Do No Harm”: Toward Acceptance and Reverence

Faced with the horrors committed in the name of religion, many people retreat to a modest moral stance: do no harm. Live and let live. Tolerate difference. Respect privacy. This minimalist ethic has done much good. It has restrained violence, protected legal rights, and enabled coexistence in plural societies.

But tolerance alone is not enough. It creates space, but not relationship. It draws lines between people, but does not draw them together. Tolerance keeps the peace, but it does not make peace. It refrains from harm, but it rarely inspires love, solidarity, or reverence.

Sacredness and dignity together ask more of us than tolerance.

They call us not just to “do no harm,” but to live with deep recognition, respect, and care: Not just non-violence, but reverence. Not just tolerance, but acceptance. Not just abstention, but engagement.

To live as if life is sacred is to move through the world with awe, humility, and attentiveness. It means seeing others, human or non-human, not as resources or rivals, but as participants in a shared story of being. It means recognizing that every person carries a mystery, a vulnerability, a value that surpasses our understanding.

This sacred lens must extend beyond the human. A river has dignity, not merely because it provides water for human use, but because it has a life, a path, a role in the web of Earth. A forest has sacredness, not because it can be monetized, but because it breathes, shelters, remembers. The Earth is not a backdrop to human action, it is a sacred community of beings, each with its own integrity.

This logic is consistent: If we cannot kill in the name of the sacred, then we cannot exploit in the name of progress. We cannot desecrate in the name of economics. We cannot dominate in the name of civilization.

Reverence is not weakness. Acceptance is not passivity. These are not soft virtues, they are civilizational imperatives, rooted in the recognition that all life has inherent value and must be met not with control, but with care. And so we are called to a higher ethic than mere noninterference. We are called to one of active respect, of responsibility, of living as if the world is worthy of reverence because it is.

Where This Becomes Real

It is one thing to speak in moral abstractions: dignity, sacredness, reverence. But these words mean little unless they illuminate the world we actually live in, the choices we make, the politics we defend, the lives we touch or ignore.

So let us be clear about where this argument matters most. Let us name where the desecration of dignity and the betrayal of the sacred are unfolding daily, often quietly, sometimes triumphantly, and far too often with the blessing of religious rhetoric.

We live in a time when extreme economic inequality is tolerated, celebrated, even, as a sign of merit or divine favour. While a handful of people accumulate vast wealth, millions go without shelter, healthcare, or clean water. This is not only unjust. It is a violation of dignity. A refusal to recognize the sacred worth of every person, regardless of income. It is a silent, systemic violence dressed in the language of economics.

We live in a time when immigrants and refugees are not only marginalized, but dehumanized. People fleeing war, climate collapse, poverty, or persecution are met not with compassion, but with suspicion, barbed wire, and bureaucratic cruelty. They are treated as threats, burdens, or tools in political theatre. But if we take seriously the idea that sacredness is not conferred by passport or birthplace, then this treatment is a moral obscenity.

We live in a time when populist and authoritarian movements have found fertile ground by preaching division, fear, and grievance. Around the world, and acutely in the United States, leaders and movements claim religious legitimacy while violating the most basic principles of the sacred: humility, compassion, truth, and care for the vulnerable.

In particular, white Christian nationalism has emerged as a potent and dangerous force. It wraps itself in scripture and flag, but its gospel is not one of love, it is one of power. It seeks to preserve cultural dominance under the guise of faith. It elevates scapegoating and resentment over reconciliation. It champions cruelty toward the poor, the migrant, the queer, the non-Christian, while insisting it acts in God’s name.

Let us be clear: a theology that blesses hatred is not sacred, it is sacrilege. A politics that thrives on blame is not righteous, it is desecration. This is not simply a political crisis, it is a moral and theological crisis.

When religious institutions sanction the violation of dignity, when pulpits echo the language of supremacy and fear, when sacred texts are weaponized instead of revered, the result is not the defence of tradition. It is the corruption of what is most holy.

And here, the language of dignity and sacredness is not sentimental, it is diagnostic. It allows us to name clearly what is otherwise obscured: A society that desecrates the dignity of the poor, the refugee, the outsider, or the earth itself cannot be called righteous, no matter how loudly it prays.

This is where the argument becomes real. Not in theory, but in the daily habits of politics, economics, ecology, and belief. The sacred is not preserved by words, it is revealed in deeds.

A Declaration

To say that “all that exists has inherent worth, by virtue of its being, its uniqueness, or its role in the web of life” is not a sentimental statement. It is not a poetic flourish or spiritual nicety. It is a moral foundation, and a political one. It is a call to reconsider everything we justify, defend, or ignore. This simple idea contains radical implications:

·       Violence in the name of the sacred is a moral impossibility.

·       Dignity is not the privilege of the few, but the birthright of all.

·       Reverence is not optional, it is the appropriate, necessary response to existence itself.

·       If something has inherent worth, because it exists, because it is unique, because it belongs, then no power, no religion, no nation, no ideology can authorize its desecration.

These principle applies to people, but also to rivers, to animals, to ancestral lands, to future generations. It applies to the forests being razed and to the cultures being erased. It applies to the sacred within us and the sacred beyond us. It compels us to build societies that reflect not just justice, but reverence. Economies that serve life, not the other way around. Cultures that do not reduce beings to data, tools, or threats. And spiritualities that do not serve as armour for cruelty, but as doorways to humility.

This is not a new ethic. It echoes through the teachings of prophets, poets, mystics, sages. It lives in the ceremonies of Indigenous elders and the whispers of the Earth. It pulses through the Declaration of Human Rights and through ecosystems that thrive on mutual nourishment. But it is time, now, to name it clearly, to claim it publicly, and to live by it daily.

All that exists has dignity. What has dignity is sacred. And what is sacred must never be violated. This is not doctrine. It is a compass.

Recovering the Sacred

In a world that has grown cynical of the sacred, and weary of the ways religion has been misused, perhaps it seems naïve, even dangerous, to speak of sacredness again. But the problem has never been reverence. The problem has been forgetting what reverence requires.

To speak of the sacred is not to return to superstition or to impose a single truth. It is to remember that the world is not ours to own, but to be in relationship with. That each being, human and non-human, carries a depth and value beyond measure. That life is not a resource, but a gift.

To reclaim the sacred is not to police belief, but to transform how we see and live: to see the face of the sacred in a stranger. To hear the voice of dignity in the cry of the Earth. To honour the mystery that dwells in the ordinary. The sacred, rightly understood, is not a call to arms. It is not a weapon of purity or conquest. It is a call to humility, to responsibility, to wonder.

In this call lies our hope. Not a naive optimism, but a grounded faith that we can, still, reorient ourselves. That we can live in ways that honour the worth of all beings, not merely in word, but in structure, in system, in soul. Let that be the faith we defend, not the faith of dominance or division, but the faith that sacredness and dignity belong to all. And from that faith, let us build a world worthy of the sacred and divine.

Paul Barnett welcomes your responses to this article.

Contact him on paul@enlightenedenterprise.ac

Articles represent the views of individual Affiliates and are not necessarily the views of the Foundation.

In the field of learning, there is so much we want students to do. We want them to focus and engage, to produce and perform academically, to collaborate and contribute their gifts, to connect and respect each other. What supports optimal results from all this doing? What best enables students to connect to their innate gifts, nurture their potential and work together?  What empowers them to act from common human values?

The foundation for all that we need to do in education is our state of being.  It is our mental, emotional and physical state that allows us to show up as our best selves. How do we do that? At the Self-leadership Collaborative, we have been inspired by the Internal Family Systems (IFS), a unique psychotherapeutic model for living developed by Dr. Richard Schwartz. (Click here to listen to Dr. Neil Hawkes talking with Dr. Schwartz.) IFS offers a lens to understand the continuous ebb and flow of emotions and behaviors that play out in our learning communities.  IFS also offers core skills that can shift how we perceive the world around us - changing how we are being amidst all we are doing.

What aspects of the IFS paradigm best serve us in school? First, IFS provides a unique explanation for the self-protective responses that arise when we don’t feel safe, socially, emotionally or physically – for example, when we are defensive, blaming, or reactive.  IFS recognises that all of these responses arise from Parts of us that have developed over time as our best strategy to get our needs met when we are stressed.  Here are some of our common parts and their strategy: Act smart so people are pleased with you. Don’t even try so you won’t fail or disappoint. Be cute and funny to get attention. Be loud and disruptive so others focus on you. When we begin to understand the positive intent of these parts, it’s a game changer. Both within ourselves and with colleagues and students, when we start to recoginize our protective responses as well intended, we become more curious, patient even compassionate as we work towards solutions together.

The second powerful concept from IFS is a recognition that we all possess an alternative physiology to our self-protective stress response. When we are not under stress, our whole system - body, mind and heart - can function optimally, and we are available to effectively engage, learn and teach. As this state of being is actually wired in our nervous systems, we all possess the potential to recognize moments when we are “ourselves “and, with practice, we can learn to access and lead from this state of being. When we are in a state of greater connection to our core selves, “Self-leadership”, we naturally exhibit qualities, such as calm, compassion, courage, and confidence. In this state of being we are more attuned to and concerned with the impact of our choices and actions on the greater good. Our activity arises from shared human values that are recognized across the globe, regardless of culture, country, language, or religion.

At the Self-Leadership Collaborative, we are convinced that we can purposefully practice accessing and taking action from the state of Self-leadership. This simple shift in our way of being is the fundamental and transformative change we need at this time, not only in the field of education but at a societal and global level as well.  To learn more about the work of the Self-Leadership Collaborative you are welcome to visit our website at: www.selfleadershipcollaborative.com

"Additionally stay tuned for Joanna's book, which will be published in late 2025 with pre-sales starting soon: The Self-Led Educator: An IFS-inspired Guide to Create Calm, Compassionate, & Confident Learning Communities. "

I spent most of my working life as a teacher and in school leadership in Australia.  Early on I had a sense that values were important to my work.  I probably couldn’t have clearly articulated it at the time, but I had an innate and emerging sense that integrity was something I valued.  This caused me to reflect regularly. I wanted my words and actions to align.

I regularly found my work overwhelming.  Reflecting, looking back contemplatively, often helped me see and understand what I was immersed in.  I realised that my own experiences, were no less important, or more important, than anyone else’s but my experiences did provide direction and guidance where generalisations often failed[i].   This phenomenon is known as a meta-truth.  It is why a good biography is capable of teaching something worthwhile , rather than just telling a story.

Reflecting on my experiences often revealed lessons I had to learn.  Now, retirement has afforded me the perspective of the longer and wider view.  I continue to reflect on the work of my life.   This keeps me thinking and learning as I discover threads, or connecting moments, that were not so obvious at the time.  As my young grandson has reminded me several times, “Papa, you never stop learning”.

Early in my career, I encountered, “I Asked for Wonder” by Abraham Heschel[ii].  This was a good recommendation for a newly minted teacher, with a young family at home, overwhelmed by all that had to be done, and all that had to be mastered at “the chalk-face”.  It was full of bite-sized pieces of wisdom that challenged me to think and reflect and not be constantly distracted by all the things that had to be done.

About halfway through the book three thoughts from the following piece grabbed me.  I have returned to reflect on these words very frequently:

“Everything depends on the person who stands in front of the classroom.  The teacher is not an automatic fountain from which intellectual beverages may be obtained.  A teacher is either a witness or a stranger.  To guide a pupil to the promised land a teacher must have been there personally.  Do I stand for what I teach? Do I believe what I say? I must be able to answer in the affirmative.  What we need more than anything is not textbooks but text-people. It is the teacher which is the text that the pupils read; the text they will never forget”[iii]

The three thoughts that grabbed me were: 

1.        Everything depends on the person who stands in front of the classroom,

2.        A teacher is either a witness or a stranger,

3.        It is the teacher which is the text that the pupils read; the text they will never forget.

I remain convinced that these three things are crucial for values to be credible, viable and enticing.  In schools, I have often seen magnificent value laden Mission Statements and Vision Statements beautifully framed and hung on walls in prominent positions, but it always comes down to what the students “read” as the adults, like me, go about their ordinary daily work.  Some have the charisma and eloquence to impress, but to leave and genuine impression, I remain sure that we need to constantly strive for authenticity and integrity.   Our daily interactions and actions witness to our values, in the community in which we work.  

As a young teacher, I might have said that I valued, hard work, reliability, fairness and optimism.  I thought that these things were important, and I made a conscious effort to make these values my hallmarks.  I remain hopeful that anyone watching would have seen evidence for these things.

Later in my career, I realised that what I valued was the students, themselves.  The more that I mastered the science, art and craft of teaching, the more I found that I was inclined to encounter the individuals, not just the “students”, in my classroom.  I didn’t really become aware of this until one year when a small group of students came into my office with a gift for me, as they were about to graduate.

One of the students spoke first saying,

“…it was obvious that you cared about us.  We all knew that, but when I came into your office one day, to speak to you, you put down your pen.  I could see that you were busy with something, but you put down your pen.  I thought, ‘he put down his pen, I’m really being listened to’. I felt like I was seen.  I felt valued”

This affirmation moved me.  I knew that I liked my students.  I was happy to hear that they thought I cared, but I hadn’t been fully cognisant that I valued them.   I had previously decided to deliberately stop what I was doing if someone came to speak to me.  I wanted them to feel heard.  I was always busy and usually had too much to do.  If someone came to speak to me, I may, or may not, have the capacity to be of assistance.  Over time, I had learnt that, if people felt heard, it often made the difference.  

Reflecting on this, I wondered what else I might be doing that revealed that I valued the individuals with whom I worked. Despite the general chaos, that masquerades as a normal school day, I tried over coming days to be more aware and mindful of what I was broadcasting as I went around my school and into my classroom.

Firstly, I noticed that as I moved around the school, the lunch area and the playground, that I was generally greeted in a friendly manner and usually with a smile.  I would smile in response.  Sometimes I smiled first and got a smile in return.  

Secondly, I noticed that these little walkabouts always made me feel good.  I would get to my class, or return to my office, feeling positive and uplifted.  

As I pondered the significance of smiling, I was drawn back to my third year of teaching.  I had an upper-school class who were lively and spirited.  They were challenging and kept me on my toes, but I had grown fond of them.  One day there was a buzz in the staffroom that a number of these students were being expelled.  They had been caught with an illicit substance.  I went into my principal’s office and pleaded for them, saying that these students were in need of our guidance and support.  My principal listened to me but was firm.  They had to go.

I was heartbroken.  I was sure we were letting the students down and the consequences of this would be terrible for them and their families.  I went to my Year 8 Science class dispirited and disillusioned. “Why bother?”, I thought as I put my books on the teacher’s desk.  

I looked up as the commencement bell sounded and a student directly in front of me smiled.  They had no idea what was going on inside me.  

I could not have anticipated how that one smile would affect me.  It was a smile that said, “I’m glad to see you”.  I felt valued.  At that moment, I was conscious that my thinking changed.  I thought, “I’m here with “you” now and you need “me” to do my best for you”.  I was still upset but I was back on track.

I have shared this story, several times, with colleagues and said that it was one of the most important and significant smiles I ever got. Years later, I understood why.  Mark Newberg’s writing explained how a smile can change the electromagnetic activity of a person’s brain[iv].  That smile changed the way I was thinking on that day.  His work also introduced me to the significance of mirror neurons which explains why we feel good when we smile and why seeing someone smile at us also makes us feel good[v].  Significantly he explains why these mirror neurons are crucial for governing our ability to empathise and cooperate with others[vi].  

I made a note to myself, “If I am serious about being a teacher, I need to smile more”.  Having been told during my teacher training, and again by my first deputy principal, not to smile at all in the first semester and rarely smile in the second semester, I learnt something.  Smiling is worth the risk.  If we smile, we at least have a chance of feeling good about our work.  The science was explaining that if we smile, it might actually help us cooperate and work better together.

This is significant because sometimes, adolescents can be uncooperative.  (This is no surprise to any parent of an adolescent.)  

I have also found that occasionally some adolescents can be quite uncooperative.  I remember one lively, often unruly, class that were very challenging.  There was a group of three amongst this class who were particularly challenging.  I really found it hard work trying to get through to them.  They had mastered the surly attitude, sneering look and disdainful eyeroll that could leave any teacher feeling demoralised. 

Determined that I was not going to let them dictate how I was going to act, I resolved to be as pleasant as I possibly could be in all my dealings with them.  I strove to greet them by name and smile, every time I encountered them.  

Three quarters of the way through the year, nothing had improved.  Part of me was impressed by how tough they were.  I had begun to wonder if I would make any progress with this trio.  Then one day, when I was walking past the school library, one of them came onto the same path apparently lost in thought.  

We both looked up at the same time and their first reaction was to smile.  I smiled back.  As soon as I smiled, they realised what had happened, stopped smiling and quickly scurried off.   I had a wonderful sense of delight wash over me.  “I’ve broken through”, I thought.  It turned out to be the beginning of cooperation in our classroom.  They taught me that while our mirror neurons might be crucial for empathy and cooperation, sometimes they take their own time.  Patience is essential.  To my delight, about fifteen years later, one of this trio got in touch through a colleague.  I sensed fondness for me as they told me how they had become a teacher.  Things were going well for them.  This really made me smile.

The more I pondered this, a pattern began to emerge.  I recalled an experience from a few years earlier.  A new student had come to my school during the first semester.  I was Assistant Principal.  I had no direct encounter with them, but I had heard from their teachers that while this one was not combative, they were hard to work with.  The student’s pastoral coordinator was experienced, so there was no reason for me to take a particular interest until one day another student’s parent asked to speak to me.

This parent wanted to make sure I knew how sad, and unfortunate were the circumstances of the new student.  As a parent, as well as a teacher, I was touched.  I thanked them for the information and resolved to discreetly keep “a fatherly eye ‘on this student. 

I identified the individual and noticed that they got the bus in front of the school of an afternoon.  As it happened, I had myself on bus duty every afternoon.  It was a pleasant diversion from my office routine.  I got to know students I didn’t teach, and I often became aware of emerging issues which I could address and avoid them becoming problems.  I began to notice that I actually enjoyed my afternoons at the bus stop.

I had made a habit of daily checking in with students in the queue for the bus, so it was not remarkable to greet this student along with others waiting in bus line.  For a year and a half my only response was a steely cold stare.  I checked in with the student’s teachers from time to time and while they were patient and kind, they barely noticed the slightest progress.

One day without warning after saying “Good afternoon”, his response was “and good afternoon to you”, accompanied by a warm smile.  I was deeply touched. I had to hold back a tear.  I don’t know what had changed or why.  It did not matter.  The student’s teachers also observed an increasing effort to cooperate.  The student who graduated a couple of years later, was a very different person to the one who originally joined our community.  Looking back, I wonder if the smiles from myself and the other teachers were experienced as the empathy necessary to help liberate this person to grow.

As I moved into the twilight of my career, I found it increasingly harder to remember the names of students I did not already know.  I would get there eventually, and know each person’s name, but it took me longer each year.  The days of knowing all their names in the first two weeks, were definitely behind me.  My solution was to stand at the door and mark the roll, calling them in alphabetically.  I did not rush this process.  Trying to aid my memory, I would look directly at each person and smile as they entered the classroom.  

I found that this ritual, got us off to a positive start each lesson.  I then noticed that as they would gather at the classroom door, they would be smiling before I began to call the roll.  I would also notice if there was something not quite right with a student and look for an opportunity to check-in with them.  Fortuitously, this is when I came across the writing of Andrew Newberg, and other neuroscientists.  

Sharing these insights with colleagues, I found that other experienced teachers also knew of the power of the smile to lighten the mood in the classroom, but now we had the scientific logic which could explain how mirror neurones, endorphins and brain electromagnetic activity made a difference to brain function, cooperation and the ability to empathise with each other.

While everything, does indeed, “depend on the person who stands in front of the classroom”, cognitive neuroscience explains how the humanity of a smile, makes all the difference.  This is important because the teacher, students and subject matter are all in relationship with each other[vii].  This is how learning happens.

Reflecting on, and articulating, our values is necessary if we are to incarnate our values as “witnesses”.  It is what is required to work with authority and integrity.  This is important because in the end, the teacher will always teach who they are[viii].  Sometimes the lessons are learnt in the classroom.  Sometimes the lessons take years to reveal what is learnt, and sometimes it is the teacher who learns the most significant lessons.  

The lessons learnt can be far more profound and significant we expect at the time.  I began articulating that my values were noble things like Truth and Justice, then  looked back much later to know that what I truly value are the people I have encountered, and how we were, in our brief time together.

I began with a sense that my values were important to the authenticity of my work.  It took some time to build my professional practice around the intentional, and effortful, discipline to make the time and space, to regularly reflect on my work. This was essential in making my values manifest in my work.

At times, I have been lucky to encounter colleagues who were interested in sharing in this process together.  At other times, this process has been solitary.  For the last twenty years, I have found a virtual community from across the world with whom I can share, explore and ponder these things. I feel privileged to listen to their stories and feel lucky to have someone listen to my stories.  Regardless of how we engage our values within the work of our life, what is essential is that we do so.  To do so, or not to do so, makes and impression. 

I value the time I spent working in schools.  Most of all, in my retirement, I value the random contacts from people I taught years ago, and many years ago.  I love to hear of their journeys and their growth.  A little while ago, I was contacted by someone who graduated over 25 years ago.  We got together for an afternoon, shared some wine and remembered stories of our time together.  When they left, they said, “Thank-you.  This was like the old days”.  This gave me a sense that my work has been of value.  I felt valued.  We reap what we sow.

[i] I first became aware of Parker J Palmer with his book, “To Know as We Are Known, Education as a Spiritual Journey”, (1983) Harper San Francisco. I was so enamoured with his grounded wisdom that I contacted him through his publisher, and we began an email exchange. From one side of the world to another.  I had never known anyone to speak so eloquently holding noble ideals and values while simultaneously articulating of the messiness and heartbreaking realities in teachers’ daily work. On occasions I have been blessed to spend time with him at his home for some very long and influential conversations. I first encountered the idea above in one such conversation.  He expresses it more articulately than I do, in his book, “Let Your Life Speak” (2000), John Wiley & Sons, p.19

[ii] Abraham Joshua Heschel, “I Asked for Wonder” (1983) Crossroad, NY.  This anthology of Heschel’s writing is a collection of short pieces of his thinking and wisdom.  Even on the busiest of days, it was possible to find five minutes to read one of his brief reflections.  I was surprised at how often one of his bite-sized pieces of wisdom were quite pertinent to what unfolded for me that day.  At other times, these treasured morsels were like seeds that germinated when I was ready.

[iii]Ibid. p:62-6

[iv] Mark Newberg, “Words Can Change Your Brain” (2013) Plume, NY, p.98.  Newberg’s erudite insights introduced me to paradigm shifting understandings of brain function, mirror neurons, endorphins, and their practical implications for my work in schools.  This in turn, introduced me to other guides such as Iain McGilchrist’s “The Master and His Emissary” (2009), Yale University Press, New Haven and London; Antonio Damasio, “The Strange Order of Things”  (2018), Pantheon, NY;  Mark Williams’ “The Connected Species” (2023), Rowman & Littlefield, Lanham, Maryland.  I found the practical application of the insights and understandings of these experts, informing, enabling, empowering and transformative.  This influenced my teaching, and since my retirement, my grandparenting.

[v] Mark Newberg, “Principles of Neurotheology” (2016), Routledge, NY, p.90

[vi] Mark Newberg, “Words Can Change Your Brain”, Op Cit, p.45

[vii] Parker Palmer, “The Courage to Teach”, (1998), Josey Bass, San Francisco, p.11

[viii] Ibid, Identity and Integrity are crucial for the authenticity of one’s work.  Parker returns to the “Self” who teaches constantly, with profound wisdom beginning with, “As I teach, I project the condition of my soul onto my students, my subject and our way of being together” (p.2).  He explains that my ability to connect with students and connect them to the subject, “depends less on the methods I use than on the degree to which I know and trust my selfhood” (p.10).  This brings us full circle. As Heschel put it, “the teacher is the text that the students read; the text they will never forget”.