I suppose that all words have a history. In dialoguing with students in philosophy classes at St. John’s University I have found that words such as “subjective,” “objective,” “experience,” “faith,” and some others, I almost always have to either ask the students what they mean by those terms or explain what I mean when I use those terms.

Who can guess why some ideas that we previously did not pay much attention to begin to take a predominant place in our consciousness? 

Anyone who has read the recent columns I have written knows that I am deeply interested in the view of grace presented by Bernard Cooke in his book “Sacraments & Sacramentality” (Mystic, Conn., Twenty-Third Publications, revised edition, 241, pp. $14.95). I find Cooke’s insights very exciting and provocative.

Often in this weekly column I have referred to this truth: If you become a teacher, by your students you will be taught. I believe that, and it has been confirmed to me time and time again in the many years that I have been teaching philosophy. 

I have a vivid memory of myself as a young priest in the early 1960s standing in the pulpit preparing the congregation to move from the Latin Mass to having the liturgy in English. 

In the May 20 edition of The Tablet there was a brief obituary for Msgr. George Deas. Though brief, it called to my mind some of the most wonderful memories I have of Father George Deas. For the past 50 years, George had been my regular confessor and spiritual director. For whatever good there is right now in my relationship with God, I owe George my gratitude. 

Within the past year, two of my closest friends died. This has moved me to appreciate the enormous blessing that friends can be in our lives. I imagine that they are more influential than we can ever appreciate. As I have aged, I have come to see what a unique role close friends have played and continue to play in my life. 

When I started this series on culture and religious faith, my intention was to share with readers of this weekly column some of the ideas that I emphasize in philosophy classes at St. John’s University, especially ideas that I emphasize in courses on film and philosophy and on the Catholic novel. 

In an earlier column in this series I reflected on how many artists who might be characterized as secular humanists have influenced my view of the human person. As examples, I mentioned playwright Eugene O’Neill and film directors Ingmar Bergman and Woody Allen. I think I have admired these three artists because of their extraordinary talent. 

Rereading Flannery O’Connor’s wonderful book, “Mystery & Manners: Occasional Prose,” selected and edited by Sally and Robert Fitzgerald (New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1957, 237 pp.) has helped me to appreciate anew the gift that talented novelists are to us. I have difficulty understanding some of O’Connor’s short stories but I accept the judgment of others who know more about literature than I do.