Does time throw up walls?

A decision is made, an act occurs, and the resulting condition ensues. At first the effects may be turbulent and upset established rhythms. But time funnels the results further and further into the past. The event continually recedes, and eventually it disappears in the ocean of history. The ripples gradually soften, lapping up against the shore. The surface is placid again.

At first the past is retained by memory, or the embodiment of our action in physical forms, but these too pass away. Details fade, nations perish. Whatever we enjoy, build, or love, is gone. What has become of the original event? Has it perished? Does time throw up walls; does history bury the past?

Imagine a heroic act of sacrifice which occurred a thousand years ago: a baby, fallen into a torrent, was saved, but the stranger who dived in for the rescue was lost. And imagine an act of horrifying violence: a baby intentionally and maliciously tossed into the sea.

All memory of these events was forgotten long ago. The hero and the villain lived in another age. The suffering of the parents continued throughout their lives, and was imparted in various ways to everyone they came into contact with. But new generations soon closed in, mending the gap, re-creating the whole. Nothing survives to document the tragedy: no newspapers or memory cards. No trace remains. The trauma is obliterated.

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Is it really eliminated? If so, the wicked man can have a certain kind of peace. Looking toward the future, he can see that ultimately time will wear away the calamity which he produced. Similarly, the good man will know that his sacrifice had a temporary and limited effect.

But this is not so.

The effects of the magnanimous and the villainous act are relegated to history, but there is an additional quality which does not consist in the harm done, and which is not governed by time-laws: the moral act itself. This is a separate, intrinsic, and enduring reality. The moral quality subsists in the original decision and in the actual doing.

The heroism and the crime do not have temporary significance only. They are burning just as bright and strong now as they were during the terrible day when the mother learned about her child. But how and where does this quality of meaning continue?

There is something imperishable about any moral act. No solvent can dissolve it. If it were beautiful or terrible, it still is. If it were majestic or degraded, it still is.

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Moral facts endure.

I lift my hand, and take a step, inscribing into the fabric of space-time an indelible mark. Even to sit still and daydream or meditate is a definite and irreversible act. However unsure we may be, our acts are invested with certainty. At every juncture we apply all we have learned and know. Regardless of our competence, we are compelled to act, and we are responsible for that choice.

Anything that has a moral quality leaves an indelible footprint: it is burned into space-time. All choices are significant, but some, through their impact on inner life, are irrevocable.

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