What Socrates might Say

 The Socratic insight, “I am better off because he knows nothing and thinks he does, and I don’t know and don’t think that I do,” unveils the peril of false certainty and the virtue of intellectual humility. Socrates further observed that those exceptional in a craft—artisans who shape flawless vessels or poets who weave transcendent verses—often fall into the trap of believing their mastery extends to all realms of wisdom. This illusion of universal knowledge blinds them to their limits, while the humble, aware of their ignorance, stand poised for true understanding.

Imagine a potter, his hands deftly molding clay into perfect forms, revered for his skill. Emboldened by his craft, he proclaims insight into matters of justice, governance, or the soul, unaware that his expertise does not translate. Similarly, a poet, gifted with divine inspiration, might assume her verses grant her authority on all truths. Socrates saw this hubris as a barrier to wisdom, for those who think they know cease to question. In contrast, the one who admits, “I don’t know,” as Socrates advocates, embraces the vastness of the unknown, inviting growth.

In the Covenant of Christ, we find echoes of this humility. Christ’s teachings often subverted worldly notions of expertise and pride. Consider the Pharisees, who, masterful in the law, believed their knowledge of scripture made them arbiters of all divine truth. Yet, Christ rebuked their arrogance, praising instead the childlike heart—open, unassuming, and aware of its need for guidance. When He called fishermen, not scholars, to be His disciples, He chose those unburdened by the illusion of all-encompassing wisdom, men who could say, “I don’t know,” and follow with faith.

The artisan’s error, as Socrates saw, mirrors the spiritual peril Christ addressed: mistaking excellence in one domain for universal insight. The covenant invites us to lay down such pride, to approach truth with the humility of a learner. As Socrates found wisdom in questioning, so Christ’s followers find grace in surrendering the need to know all. In both, the path to truth begins with the courage to admit our limits, trusting that in humility, we draw nearer to the divine.

Signed

John The-Not-So-Beloved

Chess for Dummies

If you and I sit down to play chess but can’t agree on how a bishop moves—diagonally for me, perhaps any direction for you—the game collapses before it begins. No shared rules, no match. The board becomes a battlefield of confusion, not strategy. Similarly, in society, words are our pieces. If “justice” means retribution to one and rehabilitation to another, or “freedom” is my right to act but your obligation to conform, our discourse fractures. Without a shared lexicon, we’re shouting past each other, not building together. Spiritually, it’s deeper still. If “love” is sacrifice to me but self-fulfillment to you, or “truth” is divine revelation for one and personal perception for another, our paths diverge. We can’t walk united without some consensus on what lights the way.

Agreement doesn’t mean uniformity—it means enough overlap to move forward. One side might teach, persuade, or compromise, or at least agree not to sabotage the game. Without this, society stalls, and souls drift apart. And if God’s playing chess—seeing moves and mysteries beyond our grasp—while we’re stuck playing checkers, thinking it’s all simple jumps and captures, we’re doomed to lose. Not because we’re unworthy, but because we’re playing the wrong game entirely.

David’s job here? Teach us to play chess.

Our job? Learn it. 

Signed 

John The-Not-So-Beloved