When it came my turn, I knelt down in the midst of the group of some dozens of other Jesuit novices, all of them dressed in full-length black cassocks. Then the Master called on several of these other young men to tell me my faults.

This weekly monastic practice was called “chapter of faults,” and was considered a standard way of helping reform our behavior. It went back to the medieval era, if not earlier, thus qualifying as a time-honored tool of asceticism.

In theory, my fellow critics were supposed to focus only on externals─looking grim instead of cheerful, for instance─but in practice some people would say things, not because they would help the brother under criticism, but so as to relieve their own feelings about his irritating habits. At least, that’s what I found myself doing sometimes.

This critique of external conduct was supposed to help us correct our interior dispositions. Whether hearing a recital of my faults helped improve my character remains dubious. Even from the vantage point of five decades plus, such change is difficult to gauge.

Placing oneself at the mercy of peers was also humiliating. That, too, was seen as one of its advantages by the spiritual masters who presided over it. Striking a blow against pride was an important way of helping novices like me advance toward perfection.

I felt the sting of being subjected to comments on my behavior. Even those colleagues who were tactful and well disposed toward me could wound my psyche. It hurt to listen to peers whose sole duty, for the moment, was to point out publicly how I failed in my approach to the religious life.

However, the ritual did reveal to me my own rigidity, a trait that then loomed large in my personality. Many noticed how unbending I was in observing the rules and, especially, in judging my peers. “Brother often shows disapproval of others,” they would say, or something close to it.

I hope that they would no longer say this. I have long since changed my attitude toward rules, and I find that one of the great blessings of later life is the capacity to rejoice in my own imperfections.

In my twenties and thirties, however, I stood convinced that this was the authentic way to go. I considered myself as called to embark on the way of perfection as understood by the spiritual tradition in which I had grown up. At its deepest, I saw this summons as the will of God for me.

Though I retain respect for much of the ascetical tradition of my church and my former religious order, I came long ago to consider many aspects of it as inappropriate, even harmful, for me. It has a great intellectual and spiritual pedigree based in the New Testament, but this does not mean that all of its practices were good for me or for others.

I would add that my religious community, like many others, has long since reappraised these ascetic practices and abolished many of them. Today’s novices have probably never heard of the chapter of faults.

Rituals such as the chapter of faults rested on false assumptions. They simplified human psychology and presupposed a view of life very different from what most of our contemporaries share, thanks in large part to the discoveries of modern science. At this remove it is difficult for me to understand why I ever accepted procedures like this one without mounting serious objections.

Of course, I favor self-discipline and regret that it is so often misunderstood in our society. There is nothing wrong with bringing reason to bear on our emotional drives. I do not regret having learned how to lead a life in which the rational part of me would set limits on the instinctual.

However, the drive for perfection prevented vital parts of my personality from emerging. Instead of leading us to integrate the emotional with the intellectual, the novice master used to tell us to “beat it down,” meaning to subject our feelings to unyielding control. His regimen had the effect of emphasizing the worst parts of my character rather than the best.

Later life has led me to an easing of this pressure. Instead of pushing myself toward some ideal of moral perfection, I now feel content to live with myself as I am. That means accepting those impulses formerly labeled faults without worrying about their influence on me.

Of course, I feel concern about the effects of my actions on other people. It’s important for me not to offend them unnecessarily. Nor do I refuse opportunities to reach out to them with help, ideally with respect and affection.

But it seems better now to let the rhythm of life carry me along rather than to push myself according to some prefabricated agenda. This time offers the chance to look at life as a free-flowing stream that carries me along, not a construction site with me as architect.

Richard Griffin