In the earliest rites of Dionysus, unless earlier were worse yet, the priest slit a bull's throat, and was then stoned to death by the crowd, in jubilant celebration. "Tragedy is the splitting of the ethical substance," per Hegel. Wholeness in Parker Palmer, Jung, and so many positive psychologies is a peaceful seeming circle. But tragedy finds integrity in an arc, the slash of the knife. In American history, Lincoln, soon to be assassinated, invoked the better angels of our nature; Sherman earlier having burned Atlanta. The women were made to dance barefoot in the ashes, while Union troops exulted. Sacred violence, Rene Girard called it, the corpse bleeding into the ritual chalice. "Eat of my body, drink of my blood." From such barbaric rituals, individuals, mobs, and communities are born again.
Who among us, then, what familiar stranger, what insider/outsider, will be the scapegoat to heal our body politic? I would rather be the priest than the goat, but I fear the roles are one. Tutor is far better qualified, Dear Lord! Let his be the suffering and the expiation of our sins. He is the best there ever was, an Ancient, unblemished by time. I am a latecomer, interloper, a moral fraud. Wise and Virtuous Counselor to Fools and Knaves. I may be The Moral Tutor to America's Wealthiest Families, but he is Dungeon Master to the Stars in Wealth Bondage. He taught me everything I know about our Noble Trade. I am just his apprentice, one of many, he has taught and discarded along the way. I am not worthy to touch the hem of his garment. I am not saying my mentor, The Happy Tutor, should bleed for our sins. He is a better man than I. Burn him!, if you must burn someone. He is not here right now, but I have his new address.