On a number of times I have commented on the differences and similarities between Stoicism and Buddhism (insofar I understand the latter, I’m certainly no expert). But there are some interesting parallels between Stoicism and Christianity as well, parallels that were famously highlighted by Justus Lipsius, the founder of Neo-Stoicism, in the 16th century. The occasion to revisit the topic is being afforded by the fact that I’ve been reading with much interest a recent book by C. Kavin Rowe entitled One True Life: the Stoics and Early Christians as Rival Traditions.
Rowe is professor of New Testament at Duke University Divinity School, and the author of Early Narrative Christology: The Lord in the Gospel of Luke and World Upside Down: Reading Acts in the Graeco-Roman Age. I will use Rowe’s book as the basis for a multi-part discussion on how Christians see Stoics, and vice versa, helped in this by the fact that I grew up Catholic, and I’m therefore much more familiar with Rowe’s perspective than with the Buddhist one.
Rowe proceeds in this manner: the first part of the book devotes one chapter each to what the author sees as the major themes found in the three great Roman Stoics, Seneca, Epictetus and Marcus. The second part examines the main themes of three great Christian thinkers who were contemporary of the Stoics: Paul, Luke, and Justin Martyr. The third part, finally, discusses whether and in what sense the two traditions may be compared. Spoiler alert: Rowe develops an argument in part III according to which the Stoic and Christian traditions are incommensurable and therefore mutually exclusive. I will comment on that, and attempt to reject the very idea of incommensurability among traditions (which finds ample, though certainly not universal, usage also in my own scholarly field, philosophy of science). I will conclude that the idea of a Christian Stoic is not an oxymoron.
So, beginning from the top, let’s talk about what Rowe sees as the main themes in Seneca’s work. Seneca, of course, is a much controversial figure even among modern Stoics, but Rowe characterizes his writings, and particularly his Letters to Lucilius, on which he focuses, as “outstanding exemplars of a Stoic philosopher and real human being at work.”
The first Senecian theme treated by Rowe is that of death: “his focus upon death is born not solely of a consciousness of the dying around him but of a sense of what the human being actually is. Our lot is to die.” Rowe reminds us that Seneca thinks that for most people death is a major cause of unhappiness, originating from the fact that our judgment about it is incorrect. Seneca’s remedy is that we have to practice how to die: “cotidie morimur, ‘daily we die.'” We die every day just in the same way as the water clock is emptied of water every moment that passes, not just by the very last drop.
“Each day, therefore, can be seen as a kind of schooling in death, a foretaste of the last day. And well might it be, says Seneca, for we never know which drop is the last to empty the clock.” Moreover, we don’t actually know how many drops are stored in our own water clock, so the next one may very well be the last one.
Seneca on death sounds at times very modern: “You will not die,” he tells Lucilius in a startling turn of phrase, “because you are ill, but because you are alive.” So “despise death! Indeed, such scorning is not only the proper cure of your disease, Lucilius, it is the remedy for ‘the whole of your life.'”
Rowe highlights four points that Seneca makes about death: i) It is unpredictable, so why worry about the future, if you could die today simply by ingesting a nut? ii) Contemplation of death will teach us that we have nothing to fear after we die, because we will be in the same state as we were before we were born. iii) Death treats everyone equally, rich or poor, powerful or powerless. iv) Meditating on death allows us to appreciate that what matters is not how long we live, but the quality of the life we have.
For Seneca, moreover, death is the source of our freedom, as we can walk through what Epictetus later called “the open door” if things are truly unbearable: “a wise man should live as long as he ought, not as long as he can.”
The second major Senecian theme is Fortuna: “Fortuna, for Seneca, is not personal, does not operate according to intention or plan, has no mind of its own. It is, quite simply, the name for the world in all its excess.”
Seneca says that human beings are constantly at war with Fortuna, and that she “conquers us unless we conquer her.” Fortuna wages her battle at two levels: that of the occasional major catastrophe that affect human existence (earthquakes, floods, and the like), as well as whenever ordinary life takes something from us that we value (as in the loss of a loved one, or when we contract an illness).
But Fortuna also attempts to conquer us by bribing us with gifts: “‘Picture now to yourself that Fortuna is holding a festival and is showering down honors, riches, and influence among a group of mortals.’ What happens? Fortuna’s gifts are ‘torn to pieces in the hands of those who try to snatch them.'” Seneca’s warning, says Rowe, is that “gifts draw us in and accustom us to their presence, thus creating a set of dependencies that fundamentally determine us away from the happy life.”
Fortuna’ great ally, and our own enemy, is time: “Nothing, whether public or private, is stable. … Amid the greatest tranquility terror arises, and though no external agencies stir up commotion, evils nevertheless burst forth from sources where they were least expected … Do not trust her seeming calm; in a moment the sea is moved to its depths.”
Seneca tells Lucilius that there are two defenses available against Fortuna. The first one is an inward turn: “We must thus defend ourselves from behind the only wall that cannot be breached — the internal wall of a soul shaped by virtue. … because Fortuna cannot take away what she did not give.”
The second defensive strategy is to focus ourselves on the present, hic et nunc (here and now). Both the past and the future cause dread, the past because we remember our mistakes or misfortunes, the future because we expect more mistakes and misfortunes. But in the present, we are here, and we can live fully.
Seneca also advises his friend to engage in a practice self-deprivation: “Set aside a certain number of days during which you shall be content with the scantiest and cheapest fare, with coarse and rough dress, saying to yourself ‘Is this the condition that I feared?’ … Let the pallet be a real one, and the cloak coarse; let the bread be hard and grimy … so that it may be a test of yourself instead of a mere hobby; [thus will we become] intimate with poverty, so that Fortune may not catch us off our guard.”
The third theme Rowe identifies in Seneca is that of God and Nature. On this topic Rowe talks about three components of Seneca’s view. First off, it is clear that Seneca, just like Cicero before him, did not believe in the Olympian gods, regarding them as superstition. Neither man would have wanted to abolish the traditional religion, but that doesn’t mean they bought into it. Rather, the divine permeates the cosmos, and human reason is literally part of the divine.
Second, Seneca sometimes speak of God in very much a personal manner: “[philosophy] will encourage us to obey God cheerfully but Fortune defiantly; she will teach us to follow God and endure chance.”
And yet, third, at other times he uses a rather impersonal approach, congruent with the general Stoic pantheism: “there is no room for a categorical difference between the referent of the words god and world. … Seneca’s word for the ultimate ordering principle of the cosmos is Natura.” If the reader doesn’t take talk of Fortuna as anything more than metaphorical, as a stand-in for whatever the universe throws at us, then there is no reason to take talk of God any differently either.
But, the objection is always heard (even from some in the modern Stoic camp), what about invocations of God that seem very personal, almost Christian, and what of talk of praying? Rowe doesn’t buy it: “Pray, invoke, and so on, is all mythical language, a way to speak piously about the need to train the rational soul — the divine within us — to be in accord with Nature. … Neither God nor Fortuna is personal in any kind of significant sense. They are, rather, textures of the cosmos, reasonable and wild, respectively.”
The fourth theme that Rowe picks up in Seneca is that of the passions. Seneca was no Chrysippus, who allegedly believed that we can completely control our emotions. Indeed, Seneca is very comfortable with a lot of the so-called preferred indifferents: “for Seneca, as long as we refrain from overindulgence, it is only natural that hunger should be relieved, thirst quenched, cold kept away with clothes, and bad weather fought with good shelter.”
Rowe takes the Stoics to be serious about their materialism, “and if emotions are corporeal, so are the diseases of the spirit — such as greed, cruelty, and all the faults that harden our souls.”
In differentiating himself from the Peripatetics, who maintain that emotions like anger are a good thing, in moderation, Seneca says: “Would you call a man well who has a light fever?”
“‘It is easier to stop [the passions] in the beginning than to control them when they gather force.’ … Why must we fear their growth? Quite simple, Seneca says: ‘Reason is no match for them.'”
But in response to those who accuse the Stoics of pushing an inhuman philosophy devoid of emotional responses Seneca is pretty clear: “[Do you think] that I am advising you to be hard-hearted … not allowing your soul even to feel the pinch of pain? By no means! That would display inhumanity, not virtue.”
And more of the same, about grief: “‘Let us allow [the tears] to fall. … Let us weep according to the emotion that floods our eyes.” But not as much as we want; indeed, only as such tears are “wrung from us by the necessity of Nature.’ There is a crucial difference, Seneca chides, between tears that fall by ‘their own force’ or ‘against our will’ and tears that we ‘allow to escape.'”
Rowe mentions the dichotomy of control, a basic Stoic doctrine that Seneca followed, and quotes one of my favorite phrases by the Roman statesman: “Life is neither a good nor an evil; it is only the locus of good and evil.”
Again on grief, “Seneca argues that when grief is appropriately in accord with Nature, memory is the proper way to honor the time we have had with a friend or a son,” instead of wallowing in one’s grief.
The fifth Senecian theme is that of philosophy herself. For Seneca philosophy is first and foremost practice, and indeed he sees no division between morales and intellectus. As Rowe puts it, “philosophy is nothing short of the lex vitae, the ‘law of life,’ that according to which we must live if we are to live well in this world, and the ars vitae, the ‘art of life,’ the actual manner by which we live the law of life.”
Indeed, in several of the Letters to Lucilius Seneca openly mocks the sort of logic chopping that passes for philosophy in the modern academy, referring to it as “childish nonsense.”
“If philosophy is the practice of a wise life, its truth cannot be learned apart from its embodiment. … ‘Cleanthes could not have been the express image of Zeno, if he had merely heard his lectures,’ Seneca tells his pupil. That is why ‘he shared in Zeno’s life, saw into his hidden purposes, and watched him to see whether he lived according to his own rules.’ … ‘I hold that no man has treated humanity worse than he who has studied philosophy as if it were some marketable trade, who lives in a different manner from that which he advises.'”
And how do we learn good philosophy as a way of life? From good role models, of course: “Go ahead, Lucilius, ‘and choose a Cato; or, if Cato seems too severe a model, choose some Laelius, a gentler spirit.’ The main thing is ‘to choose a master whose life, conversation, and soul-expressing face have satisfied you; picture him always to yourself as your protector or your pattern (exemplum).'”
Seneca tells Lucilius about a series of spiritual exercises, both mental and physical: “Self-observation, Seneca advises, comes by way of imagining oneself from the perspective of another: ‘Act in whatever you do as you would act if anyone at all were looking on’ … Lucilius should spend a predetermined number of days ‘content with the scantiest and cheapest fare, [and] with coarse and rough dress.'”
Here is a passage where we see Seneca giving advice, talking about his own practice, and yet admitting to fallibility: “‘I have forsaken oysters and mushrooms forever since they are not really food but are relishes to bully the sated stomach into further eating. … I have also throughout my life avoided perfumes. … My stomach is unacquainted with wine … and I have shunned the bath.’ Now, truth be told, Lucilius, ‘other resolutions have been broken. But all in such a way that in cases where I ceased to practice abstinence, I have observed a limit which is indeed next door to abstinence.'”
As Rowe points out, the Stoics were socially and politically active, and even in retirement they sought to be useful. Seneca says to Lucilius: “I am working for later generations, writing down some ideas that may be of use to them. There are certain wholesome counsels, which may be compared to prescriptions of useful drugs; these I am putting into writing; for I have found them helpful in ministering to my own sores, which, if not wholly cured, have at least ceased to spread.”
Overall, summarizes Rowe, “Philosophy … is the wise way of life that enables us to die daily, to build and fortify the inward fortress against Fortuna, to become aligned with God and Nature, and to control the passions.”
To continue the exploration of how we understand faith.
I, as a Christian, recognise four kinds of faith:
1) Explanatory faith of the gaps.
This I explained at length in my penultimate comment. This kind of faith is that gaps in knowledge/understanding can/will be filled and therefore these gaps do not disqualify our beliefs for as long as our beliefs are well grounded. We all exhibit this kind of faith in our everyday behaviour. Indeed we must do so.
2) Probabilistic faith.
This is the belief in outcomes that we cannot know with certainty. Thus I have faith in the safety of my car. I have seen many collisions caused by vehicular failure but on probabilistic grounds I still have faith in my car. Note to Americans, car == auto.
3) Authority faith.
This is faith in the the knowledge or competence of authoritative figures. Thus I have faith in climate scientists and therefore believe in their predictions of climate change. I have faith in the competence of my surgeon and therefore submitted myself to his scalpel.
3) Behavioural faith.
This is the belief that someone will behave in a desired or predictable way. I have faith that my friend will not betray our friendship. I have faith in the integrity of my attorney.
In discussions like these, faith is frequently characterised in a crude way as belief in the unknowable without reasonable grounds, often as a way of beating Christians about the head. That is false. Faith has more nuanced meanings that depend on the context. When analysing the context faith is seen to be one of explanatory faith, probabilistic faith, authority faith or behavioural faith.
We should be using the word ‘faith’ in these more subtle, nuanced ways and not the crude unthinking way usually attributed to Christians.
You have known me for years, and you know I welcome frank discussions and a variety of perspectives. I’m sorry my use of the word “annoyed” well, annoyed you, but I would encourage you to take a look at your own (and Daniel’s comments) and try to see how sometimes grating they are, especially to someone who doesn’t share your axions about reality.
Also, let’s please stick to Stoicism. This is not a forum for the broader exploration of the relationship between science and religion, or reason and faith. Thanks.
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I am with you and I won’t quibble over the details. The sun has sunk below the yardarm so I raise a glass of fine red wine and toast your good health, cheers.
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I’ll await a few hours to raise my own glass of wine, or I would be taken for an alcoholic here, given the time. But the sentiment is appreciated.
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I’ll be brief, since we’re now far afield from Stoicism!
I’m not sure what moved you to re-center the conversation on ‘faith,” but I had to chuckle, because not only are we on the same page regarding the definition of faith, but, by a funny coincidence, I actually spent this morning refining my version of the same argument in my personal notes.
You can often find me in the Stoic groups on Facebook linking my fellow atheists to the SEP article on “Faith” (https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/faith/) and exhorting them to give up on facile syllogisms like “religions use faith, and faith is incompatible with reason; stoicism uses reason, therefore stoicism is not a religion.”
To show you just how aligned we are, let me share two sentences from my journal:
“As Mark Twain famously chimed, ‘faith is believing what you know ain’t so.’ The truth, of course, is that believers have modeled the idea of ‘faith’ in a wide variety of ways, ranging on a continuum from the simple sort of irrational fideism that Twain has in mind all the way up to versions of faith that in fact rely so heavily on evidence and justification that they are nearly indistinguishable from the inductive leaps that lie at the foundation of all scientific activity.”
Personally, even if it only captures a tiny slice of what people use the word “faith” to mean, my favorite definition of faith is “a reasoned choice made under moderate uncertainty.”
All this said, I do think Massimo is correct to point out that there are limits to the analogy between faith and scientific induction—especially if we take things like dark matter or particle physics as our exemplars.
I don’t find the analogy “annoying” in the context of this conversation, because I think your basic point is sound and well-intentioned. But there is a common trope in which believers push the “everybody’s epistemology involves doxastic leaps of some kind” argument too far, to the point that they try to insist that everything is a “religion,” and therefore that nobody’s opinions are any better justified than anybody else’s. I don’t think this is the direction you were going, but it is an understandably sensitive topic nonetheless.
And with that, we should cease and desist! Much as I would enjoy moving on to discuss anthropic coincidences, the anthropic principle, and the relative plausibility of “cranes verses skyhooks,” I fear I will force Massimo to start using his moderator powers!
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“I’m not sure what moved you to re-center the conversation on ‘faith,” ”
Because we can contrast Stoicism with Christianity by pointing out that Modern Stoic belief does not contain gaps requiring explanatory faith while Christianity does. Thus Stoicism will have more appeal to sceptics.
However I wanted to complete that observation by pointing out that explanatory faith, probabilistic faith, authority faith and behavioural faith are all pervasive. There is nothing unreasonable about practising these kinds of faith. We all practice it, sceptic or not, religious or not. And even science practises it (pace Massimo).
Finally I want to return to an earlier point. Another important difference between Stoicism and Christianity are our beliefs in the origin of the True, the Good and the Beautiful. The Stoic believes that it is the highest and noblest, natural end point of human behaviour. The Christian believes that the True, the Good and the Beautiful are the characteristics of God, therefore we possess the potential for these characteristics,and like the Stoic, they are the highest and noblest end point of human behaviour.
We both believe in the True, the Good and the Beautiful, though for different reasons. We both believe that the True, the Good and the Beautiful complete our nature and therefore we should pursue it. Though we pursue these goals in different ways we should celebrate our commonality. This is something wonderful. We not attack each other for our differences. Because when we attack each other we are betraying the True, the Good and the Beautiful.
“Though we pursue these goals in different ways we should celebrate our commonality.”
True, and I would add that stoicism has provided a welcome corrective of the “Me generation.”
“Modern Stoic belief does not contain gaps requiring explanatory faith while Christianity does.”
Both groups have to answer the “why bother” question. The Christian, however, wants to provoke the Stoic to consider why he should even practice virtue if virtue is just a matter of subjectivism or moral relativism.
If you answer, “It is good for me and society,” you would be answering contrary to your worldview. By assuming that there is an objective “good” brings you away from moral relativism. At this point, you move closer to us, since we are Servants of the Good.
If instead, you maintain that the “good” is merely something we create for our own benefit, then you are practicing virtue for your OWN good, an inherent contradiction.
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“The Christian, however, wants to provoke the Stoic to consider why he should even practice virtue if virtue is just a matter of subjectivism or moral relativism.”
But Stoics are not moral relativists. In line with the natural law tradition (which remains fundamental to Catholic moral theology to this day, I might add), they believe that when we make immoral choices, it does objective harm to themselves. Your argument is a non sequitur.
It’s true that Christians often believe that, if God did not exist, there would be no solid foundation is possible for ethics. But that is a Christian belief, and you should be careful about projecting it onto others.
“You maintain that the ‘good’ is merely something we create for our own benefit, then you are practicing virtue for your OWN good, an inherent contradiction.”
It is not a contradiction, actually, because the Stoics rejected the distinction between selfishness and selflessness. They would tell you, actually, that anybody who tries to benefit themselves without being virtuous is delusional.
See Discourses 2.22, where Epictetus explains this at length.
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E.O.Scott, “But Stoics are not moral relativists. In line with the natural law tradition (which remains fundamental to Catholic moral theology to this day, I might add), they believe that when we make immoral choices, it does objective harm to themselves.”
I am glad to hear that you believe in “natural law” (How prevalent is this belief among Stoics? I thought that many believe that their morality evolves along with society?) and that to violate it brings “objective harm.” And you are correct that Christians believe this way.
However, when you disconnect natural law from the law-Giver, you encounter several problems that seem to be insurmountable:
• You must account for the existence of natural law.
• You must also account for the fact that it must remain normative. We can defy laws of gravity by getting on a plane or perhaps developing an anti-gravity device. Why should we not similarly defy moral laws? Perhaps we can develop a pill to calm our conscience? In other words, “Why even bother with it?”
• You must also recognize that the practice of virtue may cause you and yours harm. There are also times when the performance of virtue will be the cause of objective harm. For example, when we are a whistle-blower.
“I am glad to hear that you believe in “natural law” (How prevalent is this belief among Stoics?”
The ancient Stoics invented the concept of natural law, and most modern Stoics carry on the ancient tradition of appealing to nature as the foundation of ethics. So I’d say its pretty popular (though of course everything depends on how one defines the concept).
“I thought that many believe that their morality evolves along with society?)”
This statement is too vague for me to affirm or deny. But I can say that very few people believe that morality is merely a convention. The ancient Stoics, in fact, were extremely critical of the idea that morality is mere convention. Most moderns are also very critical of that idea.
We don’t typically say, for instance, that slavery and misogyny were “okay” for the ancients even though they are “not okay” for us. We typically say, rather, that slavery and misogyny were always wrong, and that society has advanced in its ability to correctly identify and censure such things.
“You must account for the existence of natural law.”
Why? All I need to know is what fulfills my excellence and flourishing as a human being. I am certainly curious about the origins of reality—but in Stoicism, ultimately the only that matters is the practice of virtue. Anything else is secondary.
The Stoics often argued that the natural law of ethics should be compelling to everyone, regardless of their world view. Even Epicureans, they said, have the capacity to recognize that virtue is the only good.
“You must also account for the fact that it must remain normative…. In other words, “Why even bother with it?””
Because, in Greek ethics, normative ethics are ultimately defined by human phenomenology, not by origins stories or by external scientific facts. All animals, by their nature, are endowed at birth with certain natural concerns to preserve their own wellness and wholeness. To ignore that natural, objective wholeness is irrational, harmful, and unnatural. Cf. the Stoic doctrine of development (oikeosis).
This is a tricky topic to discuss for many reasons. Suffice to say, however, that the ancient Greeks did not recognize the is-ought distinction as a problem—and, if I were to turn tables on you, I would argue that Christianity itself lacks a basis for explaining why God’s law should be followed in the first place. The only way to put Christian ethics on a solid foundation, IMO, is to begin with a humanistic source of ethics much like the ancient Greeks used, and work up toward God from there (but I’m repeating myself—I’ve already said this above).
“You must also recognize that the practice of virtue may cause you and yours harm. There are also times when the performance of virtue will be the cause of objective harm. For example, when we are a whistle-blower.”
I think you are betraying an ignorance of basic Stoic beliefs here, Daniel.
The core claim of Stoic ethics is that our virtue is infinitely more important for human wholeness (or flourishing) than other things—such as physical safety, pleasure, or emotional well-being.
They would say that if I exercise virtue by whistle-blowing, and then a tyrannical governor tortures and executes me, then I have not been ‘objectively harmed,’ no more than a tree is harmed by shedding its leaves in the fall! To the contrary: I have been benefited, because I fulfilled my potential for virtue, which is the single most good and beautiful thing a human can do.
That’s the entire point of Stoicism: nothing—nothing at all, whatsoever—matters more to human well-being than the practice of virtue.
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PS: Daniel, you may be interested in this recent post of mine, which offers one interpretation of what natural law meant and means to Stoics: https://ericsiggyscott.wordpress.com/2016/12/04/what-does-it-mean-to-follow-nature/
E.O.Scott: “if I exercise virtue by whistle-blowing, and then a tyrannical governor tortures and executes me, then I have not been ‘objectively harmed,’ no more than a tree is harmed by shedding its leaves in the fall! To the contrary: I have been benefited, because I fulfilled my potential for virtue, which is the single most good and beautiful thing a human can do.”
While I applaud this kind of courage and devotion to virtue, I do not understand how you can say “I have not been ‘objectively harmed,’” even if you are executed. The Christian can say this because the Christian has guarantees of an eternal life in a much better place.
Besides, the Christian has trouble understanding your devotion to a mere impersonal idea or philosophy. In contrast, the Christian follows God for many other reasons:
• Gratitude: Christ has loved and died for me, even though I didn’t deserve anything from Him.
• Service: There is nothing more ennobling than knowing that we are serving our Creator and Redeemer. It is relational and partakes not only of Truth but also of Love. Besides, to serve Him is also to live in concert with the truths He has implanted within us. This means that living for Him is the best way to take care of ourselves, even though He comes first, the very essence of a love relationship.
• Hope: Life can be overwhelming, but I know that my Savior is in complete control, working everything together for my good. He has also assured me that I will be with Him always. This assurance enables me to begin to be other-centered. Without this, stoicism, however much wisdom it might have, is still just another self-help program.
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‘While I applaud this kind of courage and devotion to virtue, I do not understand how you can say “I have not been ‘objectively harmed,’” even if you are executed. The Christian can say this because the Christian has guarantees of an eternal life in a much better place.’
There is indeed a big gulf between the two world view in that regard!
I appreciate your explanation of several of the ideas and motivations that underly the Christian ethics and story. I think you’ve done a good job of articulating it, and it mirrors my experience with Christianity. I’m reminded in particular of Jürgen Motlmann’s famous “Theology of Hope,” in which he argues that Christians ought to strive to make the world a better place now, even when the odds are against them, specifically because of the hope they place in the coming kingdom of Love.
Stoicism approaches these questions quite differently, however. In Stoicism, eternal life is neither good nor bad. They sought to convince us to radically change our value system, so that we believe that how long you live does not matter, but only how well you live. Theirs was a philosophy of heroism and self-sacrifice—the Sage ought to give his life for others in a heartbeat, because she genuinely believes that is what is the best and most beautiful thing She can do for its own sake—without regard to any other reward. They taught us to embrace our mortality, and to realize that no-one can harm us in any way that matters, if only we have virtue.
In practice, this is actually very similar to the Christian’s “hope.” And the ancient Stoics, at least, even backed it up with something like an appeal to Providence: just as God has made so many things in nature well-fitted to their environment, so also He has given humans the faculties of reason and virtue—which makes us well-fitted to anything that circumstances throw our way, no matter how terrible it may seem. Gratitude, then, also plays a very big role in Stoic spiritual practice.
The Stoics offered an answer to Job’s questions: God is good, and the universe is good, because the only thing that is truly “good” is our choice to practice Temperance, Courage, Prudence, and Justice/Benevolence. These are gifts from God, and nothing can take them away from us—not even death. Reflecting on the goodness of God helps reinforce our belief that virtue is the highest good for human beings.
Atheistic Stoics like Massimo and I don’t take this story of Providence and design literally. But, I, at least, have found some value in something like it—when the going gets rough, I try to stare Fortune in the phase and say: “The Universe has made me well-fitted for what is to come, by giving me the capacity for virtue. This challenge, then is an opportunity, then, for me to flourish, and it is good. What an amazing and wonderful Universe we live in that makes this possible!”
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