The past has a bad habit of rearing its head in the present at the most unexpected moments. When the present ignores these reminders, the chances of repeating past mistakes increase.
In the summer of 2026, actor Jason Alexander, best known for his role in Seinfeld, was confronted with an episode from his past that hadn’t become any easier to justify in the nearly 15 years since it happened. In 2012, Alexander took part in filming a comedy sketch with Courtney Stodden, who was just 17 at the time. The actor’s sexually suggestive jokes and gestures, presented at the time as part of a comedy show, were brought back into the public eye by Stodden, who spoke of the discomfort and humiliation she had felt at the time.
Alexander has publicly apologised, acknowledging that the sketch was inappropriate and expressing regret for the distress caused. The response, however, was somewhat less conventional than we have come to expect from contemporary controversies. Stodden accepted Alexander’s apology but suggested that he could demonstrate its true value by supporting an organisation that campaigns against child marriage. This is a cause that Stodden herself has become involved in following her own experience of marriage at the age of 16. The actor subsequently made a donation to the organisation, and Stodden publicly thanked him for turning words into action.
We do not know what inner transformations Alexander has undergone over these years, nor whether this can be considered sufficient reparation. Nevertheless, this episode is remarkable in the contrast it offers to how we are accustomed to seeing past mistakes judged in public. Beyond the seemingly inevitable alternatives of condemnation and acquittal, Stodden and Alexander glimpsed the possibility of a gesture that could change something about what was to follow, without altering what had happened. Indeed, apologies that build relationships involve more than simply expressing regret; they also entail taking responsibility for the consequences of our actions.
How can we come to terms with a past we regret?
If we cannot change the past, to what extent can we change its consequences? How much of who we once were must continue to define us when we now look back on that person with regret?
Dissociating ourselves from who we were in the past is a profoundly human experience with which many of us can identify. Few people can honestly say that they have no regrets whatsoever, or that if they could start their lives over again, they would relive everything exactly as it was without changing a thing about their behaviour.
What do you do when you can’t say you have no regrets? What if your past contains actions (or even thoughts, for the more sensitive among us) that you’re ashamed of today, making it difficult to understand yourself and the person you used to be? Is it safe to cast everything that has taken place into the proverbial “sea of forgetfulness” and rush towards the future, confident that you won’t repeat your mistakes? Or, is it wiser to constantly remind yourself of the things you were capable of in order to protect yourself from repeating them?
The first option bears too much resemblance to ignorance, while the second borders on self-torture, so neither is effective. Yet, this dilemma bears such a striking resemblance to one from a completely different field that it is worth juxtaposing the two in order to draw a conclusion that might help us in similar situations.
The past we cannot erase
For several decades, the city of Bolzano in northern Italy was home to a large bas-relief depicting Benito Mussolini on horseback in a triumphant pose above the slogan “Credere, Obbedire, Combattere” (Believe, Obey, Fight). In an editorial in The Guardian, Carlo Invernizzi-Accetti, a professor of political science, recounted how the monument had stood for years, unaffected by the Italian state’s official condemnation of fascism. That was until, in 2011, the authorities reached an agreement that made it possible to reconsider the monument’s presence in public.
Should it be demolished? Or should it be kept? If they were to tear it down, would that not be tantamount to claiming that they had wiped history clean, or as if they were denying that history had ever taken place? If they were to keep it, would that not validate the ideology behind fascism or provide a platform for it to silently promote itself through its mere presence in society?
Faced with this seemingly intractable dilemma, the authorities found a third option which proved to be the saving grace. They launched an open competition for ideas, inviting artists, architects, historians, and others interested in the cultural sphere to submit proposals for contextualising the monument so that its presence in a public space would no longer be a tribute to fascism but rather an invitation to reflect deeply on history. This was the solution to the conflict between erasing the past from public consciousness and keeping the memory and ideology alive.
Of the 486 proposals submitted to the competition, the idea put forward by artists Arnold Holzknecht and Michele Bernardi was selected and implemented in 2017. As simple as it was meaningful and impactful, it was the clear winner. The bas-relief was to remain intact, but an illuminated inscription bearing the words of the German Jewish philosopher Hannah Arendt was to be installed in front of it: “No one has the right to obey.” The quote was rendered in three locally spoken languages: Italian, German, and Ladin.
The beauty of the idea, which the author offered as a model for addressing other issues on another continent, lies beyond the power of Arendt’s words, which convey the idea that no one can excuse their actions by invoking blind obedience to an authority. It also lies in the symbolic power of the contrast between the monument’s grandeur and the stark minimalism of the alteration. This gesture has profound implications on many levels, which are worth highlighting even if they belong to an entirely different sphere.
Addressing a problematic past without denying or glorifying it but rather acknowledging it while encouraging progress, is just one of these facets. However, the action also serves as a point of reference for other difficulties where we feel we are faced with a choice between two solutions, both of which offer unfavourable or even negative prospects. The proposed approach is to check whether the dilemma is in fact false, and whether we are stuck on the path between two solutions when, in reality, there are other related paths we could take.
The third option: God’s perspective on change
This way of opening up new and counterintuitive paths is reflected in many of Christ’s responses to difficult questions posed by those who approached Him, either to see Him confronted with limitations or to reinforce their own assumptions using His knowledge.
The woman caught in adultery, the man born blind, and the questions concerning the Roman tax are all clear examples of Christ opening the eyes of His interlocutors to their own limitations. Those who saw only the option of stoning the adulterous woman to death or condoning her behaviour by forgiving her; those who believed that a child born blind could be the result of nothing other than a punishment for his own or his parents’ sin; those who could not see how they could honour their nation and their God while being subject to the Romans realised just how limited their horizons were.
They saw how the options they were capable of envisaging were like walls separating them from viable solutions. Through His counter-intuitive answers, Christ showed His listeners that God’s perspective cannot be understood by the limited reasoning of humans. God sees beyond the farthest point the human eye can reach.
In this way, Christ offered us a model not only for minor dilemmas, but also for faith. He taught people to be open-minded, to consider a third option in any dilemma, and to believe that, when faced with options A and B, neither of which is good, God certainly has a dimension C, which is “very good”.
What should we do with a past that causes us shame? Should we distract ourselves until we feel able to forget it, at the risk of repeating it? Or should we constantly remind ourselves of it and allow it to poison us? Neither one nor the other. Perhaps forgiveness enables us to make a fresh start without denying what has happened.
The past will always be part of who we are today, perhaps even more so if we forget it than if we do not. However, today’s shame or regret could be the first sign of progress compared to who we were yesterday. On the other hand, the person I am today must not become entangled in the past, as if it were the ultimate reality, the only valid point of reference, but must move forward, focusing on a future goal, establishing new points of reference, and thus building a new, better person, of whom I need not be ashamed.