Earlier this year, the United States dropped to its lowest position in the rankings of the annual World Happiness Report. This downward trend is driven by people under the age of 30, who have high rates of anxiety, depression, and suicidal ideation, are worried about declining financial prospects, and express distrust in once-honored institutions. Unfortunately, religion, which earlier generations of Americans turned to in times of crisis, is one of those discredited institutions. Where, then, will young Americans turn to find some sense of stability and fulfillment in these times of disconnection and atomization? Marcus Aurelius.
Though for many that name conjures up images of Joaquin Phoenix’s character Commodus murdering the elder Roman emperor in the 2000 blockbuster “Gladiator,” the stoic philosopher’s “Meditations,” as well as the writings of other Stoics such as Zeno, Epictetus and Seneca, have enjoyed a recent renaissance. America is flooded with new popular books celebrating what the New York Times has labeled a “mega-industry” of stoicism, while prominent business leaders such as former Twitter CEO Jack Dorsey encourage its ascetic practices. Yet few are familiar with the last of the stoics, Sevenius Boethius, a sixth-century statesman who was tortured and executed for denouncing corruption in the Ostrogothic court that replaced the late Roman empire. In his latest book, After Stoicism: Last Words of the Last Roman Philosopher, Baylor professor of philosophy Thomas M. Ward aims to renew interest in Boethius for a new generation.
Zeno, the ancient Greek founder of Stoicism, was once a merchant who lost a precious cargo of purple cloth in a Mediterranean shipwreck. Though a financial catastrophe, the experience helped Zeno become detached from the things of this world, so much so that he (remarkably) declared: “I now find that I made a prosperous voyage when I was wrecked.” Or, as Lady Philosophy tells Boethius, “There is no situation miserable unless you think it so.”
At the center of Stoic philosophy is the idea that if human happiness depends on anything outside of us, we are bound to be miserable, because everything outside of us is transient — we either will lose it or can lose it by our own bad decisions, misfortune, or eventual death. Whatever is responsible for our unhappiness must not be related to bad fortune, but something else: namely, us.
Instead of striving after ephemeral goods incapable of giving us lasting happiness, the Stoics urge us to focus on how we react to the things that happen to us. Thus the Stoic is one who exerts self-mastery over himself and his emotions, who exercises restraint in regards to material, temporal goods, and who is thus free to reason clearly and calmly in even the most trying circumstances. When shipwrecks come, the stoic keeps his nerves.
If anyone had reason to wallow in misery over his misfortune, it was Boethius. A prominent, wealthy, and brilliant figure from a noble family, the man’s successful political career abruptly ended after he came to the defense of an innocent man, upsetting the king. While languishing in prison awaiting his death, Boethius authored his Consolation of Philosophy, a text little-read now, but which was one of the most influential and important texts of the medieval era. In this book, the discouraged and bitter Boethius is confronted by a character named Lady Philosophy, who begins by exhorting him in the language of stoic philosophy. He should remember who he is, declares Lady Philosophy, and that his inner intellectual life serves as a refuge that his tormentors cannot access, a place from which he can draw the strength to accept his fate.
Much of the Consolation of Philosophy reads like a Stoic text. We read that “yet riches have often hurt those that possessed them.” There is nothing truly to be desired of fortune, for in it there is “nothing of intrinsic excellence,” for fortune fails to “make good men of those to whom she is united.” Men who once possessed high renown in their own times are “lost in oblivion for want of a record!” Nothing in this world, Boethius’s little book asserts, can bring true happiness.
Yet the further we read of Boethius, the clearer it becomes he is diverging from his Stoic predecessors. Rather than only foster detachment, he recognizes that developing strong, intimate relationships with family and friends is both natural and good, and part of what makes us most human. He also recognizes that material goods are, well, good. Yes, money, prestige, and health can’t give us ultimate happiness, but they can make for a far more happy and enjoyable life. They are, in effect, imperfect instruments to greater goods. The problem is our tendency as prideful, avaricious, and short-sighted creatures to make them out to be the most important things, when in reality they are all intended to be used for something far greater.
And what is that something far greater? This is where we see Boethius transcend the Stoics. For, unlike the ancient Greek and Roman thinkers, he recognizes that God is the source of all those goods, and that it is God Himself who is ultimate happiness. Thus to worship God, to commune with Him, to, in a sense, possess Him, is to approach and ultimately acquire the true happiness for which we all long. And, unlike money, fortune, or sensual comforts, God is eternal. “God and true happiness are one and the same,” declares Boethius. Stoicism can help man begin the journey away from trying (and failing) to find ultimate comfort in the world, but its vision of the good life is incomplete, its perspective on human flourishing too narrow. Man needs not just virtue, but God, because he originates from God and is intended to return to Him.
Unlike many supposed Christians who make superficial claims that faith will make you wealthy or comfortable, Boethius does not leave us there. He knows the existence of evil presents a problem to those willing to contemplate God as the true source of our happiness — if the eternal God is all powerful and omniscient, why does He not prevent terrible things from happening to people, especially good people doing the right thing, such as Boethius himself? Yet if God disallowed evil in the world, God would have to intervene in man’s free will. Ward gives the example of trying to prevent a man from beating an animal — at what point should God intervene, before he strikes, before he raises the stick, or before the man even intends to do it? “To prevent evil, God might have simply prevented the man from existing at all,” writes Ward.
What people of faith can trust is that even when terrible things happen, God is in control and can make good out of that evil. And, because God is just, we know that He will right all the wrongs we experience. “God, who foreknoweth all things, still looks down from above, and the ever-present eternity of His vision concurs with the future character of all our acts, and dispenseth to the good rewards, to the bad punishments,” writes Boethius. Thankfully God is also merciful, which means, at least for the present, there’s still a chance for the sinners and scoundrels of this world – that includes all of us – to repent, make amends, and find real happiness.
Casey Chalk is a senior contributor at The Federalist and an editor and columnist at The New Oxford Review. He has a bachelor’s in history and master’s in teaching from the University of Virginia and a master’s in theology from Christendom College. He is the author of The Persecuted: True Stories of Courageous Christians Living Their Faith in Muslim Lands.
Jesus Christ is King
Comments are closed.