I didn't have a teacher like Sister Mary Ignatius.

Christopher Durang, playwright of satire and seeker of truth, once remarked: “I didn’t have a teacher like Sister Mary Ignatius.” To the casual ear, these words may sound like a simple biographical statement, but beneath them lies a deep reflection on the power of teachers, both real and imagined. For Sister Mary Ignatius, a character born of Durang’s own creation in his play Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All for You, represents the rigid, unyielding face of dogma. To say he did not have such a teacher is to draw a line between the living guides who shaped his youth and the symbolic figure he later brought to life as a mirror of religious authority.

O listener, see how a teacher is not only one who imparts knowledge, but one who shapes souls, who leaves imprints that last long after the lessons are forgotten. In Durang’s imagined Sister Mary Ignatius, we see the shadow of fearsome authority, a figure who wields faith like a weapon, silencing rather than nurturing, commanding rather than inspiring. Yet when Durang speaks of his own life, he distinguishes it from this creation. He says, in essence, “I did not live under such a hand; my own teachers were different.” Thus, the origin of his words is found in the tension between memory and art, between the real past and the satirical truth he placed upon the stage.

History, too, shows us the power of such contrasts. Recall Galileo, who grew under the influence of mentors who encouraged his questions, who nurtured his vision of the stars. But had he been raised only under the stern hand of authority that sought to silence inquiry, he might have buried his telescope forever. The teacher who crushes the question stifles the future; the teacher who nurtures it gives rise to revolutions of thought. Durang’s Sister Mary Ignatius is the embodiment of the former, but his life gave him enough freedom to create art that mocked and exposed such tyranny.

In this, Durang’s words remind us of the dual nature of teaching: it can liberate or it can enslave. The imagined Sister Mary Ignatius enslaves with rules and fear; the real teachers who guided Durang gave him space to wrestle with ideas, to laugh at the absurd, to challenge the sacred. This is the heart of his statement. He acknowledges that he was spared the crushing weight of such authority, even while acknowledging its presence in the world.

The lesson for us, then, is to reflect upon the teachers who shape us, whether in classrooms, in pulpits, or in daily life. Have they been like Sister Mary Ignatius, demanding obedience above all else, or have they been guides who encouraged discovery, compassion, and truth? Every one of us carries in our memory the voices of past guides, and it is our duty to discern which voices to cherish and which to let go.

Consider also that Durang did not waste the figure of Sister Mary Ignatius. Though he did not have such a teacher, he gave her form on the stage, that others might recognize her likeness in their own lives. Many who saw his play no doubt recalled their own stern, dogmatic guides, and in laughter found both release and understanding. Here is wisdom: even the teacher we did not have can still teach us, through story, through art, through warning.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, take heed. Be grateful for the teachers who lifted you up, and wary of those who stifled you. If you are called to guide others, be the kind of teacher who frees, not the kind who binds. And remember Durang’s truth: sometimes the teacher who exists only in fiction can reveal truths more piercing than any real one, if only we have the courage to learn from the reflection.

For in the end, the greatest lesson of Durang’s words is this: not all teachers are worth following, and not all authority is sacred. Choose your guides with care, and if you must confront a Sister Mary Ignatius in your life, let it be with courage, with humor, and with the wisdom to seek a better way.