Sitting at my terminal wondering what I might offer as the basis question for yet more of your sparkling prose and penetrating wit, momentarily I seemed to have run out of new ground.

So I looked through what I've assigned to you to read, and what I've already asked you to write, and thought I might stick to the medieval universities and those who frequented them. Looking through Roots of Western Civilization, I of course noticed that I'd asked you to become acquainted with Peter Abelard (1079-1142), on pp. 106­110 of Roots, and that these little excerpts included some of the questions this famous and popular faculty member put before his own students nine hundred years ago. So I began to consider a little creative plagiarism, reasoning that because Abelard himself has been dead for a long time, I would never get caught at it. I could not have been more wrong! Letters and then words began to appear on my screen, even though my fingers were nowhere near the keyboard. It was something like an online "chat." I'd had experiences like this before, of course, years ago on Compuserve and more recently on the Internet ­ but never before had it happened without the assistance of my trusty modem. So I stared at the screen in wonderment, but not before keying in a quick Alt­C command to capture the text as it appeared before me, slowly as first, and then line after line. And here is what it said (edited only slightly)....

I could not help noticing that you appear to have "...run out of new ground." Perhaps I may be of some assistance?

My name is Abelard ­ Peter Abelard. Centuries have passed since my body graced the earth, during the years your chroniclers would call 1079 (more or less) until after Spring blossomed in my beloved French homeland, on April 21, 1142 when (as you might say), I "...breathed my last," having been born and dying too in Brittany. Hence my own corporeal shackle and temporality are very much things of the past.

My spirit, however, has never died. It roams to this day, as you can see, and this remains a matter of concern and chagrin to those who even in the waning years of your century continue to support the odd notion that all Truth has been revealed, and that it requires unquestioned acceptance. About that I have always been doubtful, and in my view my interest in rationalism (NOT cynicism, as some would have it) has hampered any terrestrial recognition of my own canonization. Little do they know, your contemporaries who believe that the fields of Immortality are peopled solely by the "dogma donors," as I and others call them even now ­ pest that I am.

Some of their predecessors are here too, of course. They tend to keep to themselves, look away when they see me, and still mutter endlessly about what they view as the excessive sense of toleration exhibited by the Father and His aides when they admitted me here. You should see their utter surprise when I make a point of greeting the newcomers just inside the gates, sporting my largest ID tag. Peter (the other famous Peter) has asked me several times that I permit them some time to adjust to their new surroundings, but (good soul that he remains) just smiles and shakes his head every time I show up to wave energetically to the recent arrivals, making sure they all see the name on the tag. "PETER ABELARD" it reads, just like that in large clear caps. Humility has never been one of my strong suits. (Even in heaven perfection is very hard to find, except of course in obvious places.) Very recently one of the newbies noted my presence, and actually remarked to Peter that somehow he "...had expected a classier place." What an insufferable snob! I'd provide his name, but our committee of canon attorneys (yes, there are some of them here too) counselled against it, stressing as always the need for discretion. Even here. But I digress.

During my earthly years, I achieved fame ­ notoriety some would say ­ at the University of Paris, known as the Sorbonne even then. In those days, the art of rhetoric and dialectics was flourishing, and for us the recent rediscovery of the one we came to call THE Philosopher ­ Aristotle ­ created a good deal of excitement and concern. As you know, Aristotle lived centuries before the birth of our Saviour and so quite obviously was "a pagan," a word I see still used here in your own day. Generally speaking, there was little tolerance of "pagans" in my time. A quick conversion or a quick "fry" were the usual possibilities (although enslavement also had its enthusiasts if the apprehended "pagan" in question looked like a decent worker).

Aristotle was long gone, of course, so for him the "fry" was not a possibility. That being the case, some thought his grave needed finding so the bones could be dug and then burned up. Trouble was that no one had any idea where the grave and the bones might be. So there was no person, no body, and no bones ­ nothing at all to burn ­ except for his newly rediscovered writings. Basically, the argument was that these writings needed burning because their author was quite obviously brilliant, and a devotee of rationalism, and a pagan too. Worse, he actually advocated constant questioning as the best way to seek the Truth, whatever that might have been in his day. His own teacher Plato had written about what difficulty that attitude had brought upon Socrates, but it seems not to have phased Aristotle at all.

In any event, there was some burning here and there, but it was too late. Too many copies had been made, and made very quickly. I had one myself. To say that I was impressed with what I read would be gross understatement, and I began to wonder if rationalism could ever serve any creed or Faith. Over and over again, in his philosophy Aristotle had stressed the importance of logic. He "converted" me, and what I sought to become was a logician, a philosopher, and a theologian ­ all at the same time. As you might imagine, there was hostility. A lot of folks agreed with Bernard of Clairvaux who thought it was unwise to reason too closely about matters of faith, that the application of logic to the creed would lead to heresy. Bernard and I argued that point then, and we still do. He never tires of pointing out to all who will listen that he is now recognized as St. Bernard, while I remain Peter ­ just Peter (even though I'm here) ­ as if that means anything at all. I respond that though everyone knows that some of Bernard's scribblings survive, very few bother to read them at all. And if they do, they'll see them for the antiques they are. I, on the other hand, wrote what could be called a "best seller" ­ even without your Book­of­the­Month Club. I have no idea how many editions it has seen. [Note by DWC: during his lifetime St. Bernard called Abelard "an infernal dragon and the precursor of the Anti-Christ." He was even accused of heresy, his books were burned, and the famous love letters - see below - to and from his beloved Heloise were banned from the USA until 1930.]

To this day, I remain amazed that my reputation rests not on any of my serious scholarship ­ which took years ­ but instead is based upon a little teaching tool which I dashed off in no time. My hope was to prompt a little thinking by my students. Too often I had watched them taking their "notes" on what I had to say, then asking when their quizzes might occur, and wondering out loud what they were expected to "cover." I got fed up with it, and concluded that the Greek idea about constant questioning might be worth a try. That's how I began to jot down notes for Sic et Non. All it means is "Yes and No." I had considered lengthier titles but concluded that a curious brevity has advantages if the rate of sale is any consideration at all.

Even casual readers know that a whole wealth of commentators on Scripture have had different and sometimes contradictory things to say. I thought it might be useful to point that out to my students, and ask them how best to explain it. Needless to add, not once did I advocate any questioning of the sacred word of God itself (as found in both parts of the Bible). Instead, I concentrated on what folks had told us it all means. So far as I was concerned, the commentators and "scholars" were fair game. Some of these commentators were and are respected Fathers of the Church, and in my view others were morons who were not even funny. Let me quote some of what I wrote those many years ago.

I sometimes actually read this aloud in my classes, and generally it attracted the attention of all but the dullest of laggards ­ may our Lord have mercy upon them, for they know no better. As the typical classroom fidgeting slowed, the silence grew, and they would gaze at me: they could feel (all but the aforesaid dimwits ­ for whom we all should pray) that assignments were on the way.

By this time, the room generally fell silent, and a sense of dread set in among some.

And then I would list for them some questions, easy to ask, less easy to answer. Here are a few, which I will number for you:

I and others are hopeful that here you may see the beginning of the "new ground" you seek. Too, I am of course curious to see what these American students of yours might produce in response to the few simple questions I have suggested for them. Regardless of what some of your contemporary zealots may say or even write, a healthy curiousity is not sinful. Would we have been provided with it for no reason at all? But neither is willing acceptance with no questioning at all in any way sinful. The Creator acts in ways which may forever remain mysterious to some.

Trust me....

And the screen went blank, followed by a reboot of the computer not initiated by me. The first thing I did when I saw the familiar C:\> prompt was to fire up one of my editors to see if the captured text had remained on disk. It had, and I've transcribed it for you here.

Ever since I was an undergraduate myself, I had been intrigued by the story of Abelard and Heloise, (to read about these tragic lovers, just click their names; to read one of her letters to him, click here) and by his own scholarship, wit, and grace. I had also read Abelard's own account of that affair in his History of My Misfortunes. Their love led to a pregnancy for Heloise, and she bore him a son whom they named Astrolabe, which of course is not a Christian name at all. Another site at Fordham also has the History of My Misfortunes, with a good introductory preface on the life of Abelard.

But never did I think I would actually meet him. And never ever again will I even consider plagiarism of any sort, because one can never tell who might be watching....

So there you have it. Abelard himself has put in an appearance at your college. His language may seem a bit antique, but his reasoning remains as clear as crystal.

I suggest that in this instance you might want to address your responses to Peter Abelard himself. While I know that you will find this hard to believe, he has actually established an Internet account, and all I know he might reappear to read your efforts. Since he seems amused by the calendar entry we call "Election Day," it would be appropriate if your answers appear before then.

Finally, it may interest you to know that Abelard and Heloise are together, buried in Paris at the Pere Lachaise cemetery, where countless others - some of them lovers - have chosen to be buried around them (including rock star Jim Morrison (at least for now, though the remains may be moved) of The Doors, and 20th century husband and wife actor/actress Yves Montand and Simone Signoret). The story of Abelard and Heloise still prompts students - regardless of their major areas - of study (even from tiny colleges) along with their instructors to write about them, some online. Here is their tomb, to the right.

And here (just below) they are as imagined in life by the French artist Jean Vignaud, in his painting "Abelard and Heloise," being caught doing more than studying together by Abbot Fulbert. Abelard (1079-1142), one of the leading and most controversial thinkers of his day, was Heloise's tutor. When their passionate love for each other was discovered by Heloise's uncle, the Abbot Fulbert, the two married but secretly, to protect Abelard's standing. The Abbot, however, betrayed the secret, and in order to salvage his reputation, Abelard sent Heloise to the Convent of Saint Mary at Argenteuil. Believing Abelard was casting off his niece, the Abbot took revenge on him by having him castrated. The pair's subsequent correspondence attests that, through adversities and tragedy, their devotion to each other never faltered. Heloise eventually took vows and became a respected Abbess, while Abelard was prominent in a number of religious and political disputes, which culminated in his famous controversy with Bernard of Clairvaux.