simplicity that can never be comprehended, only received, and through it we are drawn into the mystery of God’s own self-outpouring, into speechless wonder and ineffable joy.
Therefore, in this world’s night, let us enter more deeply into stillness so we may behold the herald angels. Let us be undistracted even if the sheepdog continues to bark at our side. Let us so plunge into this beholding that its silence and light will radiate even through our own darkness to illumine all the darkness and pain of this world, to announce tidings of great joy for this day and all the days to come.
What can I give Him,
Poor as Ι am?
If I were a shepherd,
I would bring a Lamb.
If I were a wise man,
I would do my part.
Yet what I can I give him,
Give my heart.
Whatever Happened to Discretion?
To write about discretion today seems almost subversive. In an age when we now must legislate behavior that once was recognized as common decency, the constituent adjectives of discretion are seditious: courteous (in Middle English, the word has theological overtones of God’s graciousness), modest, unobtrusive, reticent, patient, humble (that is, seeing things exactly as they are), responsive, supple, patient—all in service of something other than self. Discretion requires unflinching honesty and disinterestedness, both of which require commitment.
Discretion flows from an essential absence, an inviolable space where knowledge arises concerning the appropriateness of action or inaction. Discretion means tο know when to leave things alone to work themselves out; to recognize when situations would be made more complex by our interference. In our noisy world we are often too quick to react. Immediate responses may make us feel more secure, but far too often they compound the problem we are trying to resolve.
To understand why discretion is important and what we have lost, it might help to address some of the history and context of this word.7 We cannot consider discretion without its companion, discernment, for in antiquity they were the same word, discretio, and were considered inseparable. They were two sides of a coin: discernment of the truth, and the ability to act appropriately according to that truth.
Before the eleventh century, students were taught not only how to construct an argument, but also how to discern the difference between what was true and what was false, particularly within themselves, and the discretion to act on that truth or not. It was only then they began to study rhetoric, the art of persuasion by which they learned to convince others of what they themselves had already come to believe to be true.8
However, discernment does not entail discretion. To substitute the word discernment for discretion eliminates the notion that there might be additional factors outside the discernment process that determine wise choice. We may see perfectly well the difference between good, questionable, and bad options (discernment), but because we commonly make choices based on short-term gratification, not to mention the frisson that comes from doing something contrary, we frequently cast discretion to the winds, if indeed we pause tο think at all.
Discretion ponders choice of action—or, more frequently, non-action. It determines how we decide to use or not to use what we have discerned. In Ursula Κ. Le Guin’s The Farthest Shore, Ged the mage says, “It is much easier . . . to act than to refrain from acting. . . . [Dο] nothing because it is righteous or praiseworthy or noble . . . do nothing because it seems good to do so; do only that which you must dο and which you cannot do in any other way.”9
Discretion entails and elaborates discernment. It has two potentially conflicting meanings, according tο the Shorter Oxford Dictionary: “Deciding as one thinks fit,” and—outrageous tο an in-your-face culture—“being discreet, discernment, prudence, judgment.” It defines the word discreet as “judicious, prudent; circumspect in speech or action; unobtrusive.”
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Discretion is a space apart. It has to do with preserving an emptiness where creative, even salvific potential can emerge, which is beyond what we could determine by self-conscious reason alone. Within it is the possibility of harmonious integration of every aspect of our lives, a potential that is brought to bear on every decision to act or refrain from acting. Within this space are silence, stillness, and waiting. Discretion is what Aristotle referred to as the space where virtue is found.10
Jesus gives a perfect example of discretion when he is confronted with the woman taken in the very act of adultery. He is entirely aware of the many agendas that her accusers bring along with her. He knows that he holds someone’s life, perhaps many lives, in his hands. He is silent. He squats and writes in the dust. (Much ink has been spilled speculating on what he wrote, from doodles to the names of the mistresses of the accusers.)
But the accusers—“the devil” is “the accuser”—cannot bear Jesus’s silence. They force the issue and, by doing so, elicit one of the great rejoinders of all time. Jesus stands up. “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” (One hears, perhaps, a quiet, quizzical, ironic voice.) He squats again and resumes his writing. After the men have left, he stands to address the woman. “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you? . . . Neither dο Ι condemn you. Go your way, and from now on do not sin again” (John 8:7, 10–11).
Jesus could have taken sides. He could have thrown the first stone to his political advantage. He could have blasted the scribes and Pharisees for their hypocrisy. He could have allowed himself the short-term, personal gratification of inflaming petty factionalism for his own benefit. He could have ignored the woman after the men went away, which would have been proper protocol in his time. But Jesus’s discretion brings the resolution of the situation to a completely different and far more profound and relevant level. Nο one is condemned but no one can go away unashamed, either. By simply creating a space where all the resonances of the situation can amplify one another, Jesus has chosen to enable the potential for a greater good.
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The previous Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, took office at one of the most difficult periods of history for the Anglican Communion. He set aside his own preferences in order to keep all groups talking and, more importantly, to try to get them truly to listen tο one another. He kept silence, eschewing empty public statements, when many people thought he should have spoken in support of one faction or another.
After the General Convention of the Episcopal Church in the United States elected a woman primate in 200611—while in the same moment the Church of England was still debating whether it would allow women bishops at all, or whether a woman bishop was even possible—the Archbishop deemed the time appropriate tο speak. But rather than promulgating a diktat, which in any event would have been inappropriate to the largely symbolic jurisdiction of his office, he issued some “reflections,” which amounted to neither a judgment nor a proposal, nor a declaration. His words were exactly what he said they were: reflections, no more, no less.
His rationale became evident the following week in his opening address tο the Synod of the Church of England, when he summed up his vision of Anglican unity:
I make no secret of the fact that my commitment and conviction are given to the ideal of the Church Catholic. I know that its embodiment in Anglicanism has always been debated, yet I believe that the vision of Catholic sacramental unity without centralization or coercion is one that we have witnessed to at our best and still need to work at. That is why a concern for unity—for unity (I must repeat this yet again)
