Stoicism On Fire

An interview with Will Johncock, author of Beyond the Individual: Stoic Philosophy on Community and Connection.

The doctrine that the world is a living being, rational, animate and intelligent, is laid down by Chrysippus in the first book of his treatise On Providence, by Apollodorus in his Physics, and by Posidonius… And it is endowed with soul, as is clear from our several souls being each a fragment of it. (DL 7.142-3)[1] Some people think the idea of a conscious cosmos is an antiquated relic of ancient Stoicism that we must abandon in light of modern science. However, numerous modern scientists and philosophers describe the nature of the cosmos in ways that are compatible with the intuitions of the ancient Stoics. Some now suggest consciousness must be a fundamental aspect of the cosmos and refer to a mind-like background in the universe. A few boldly claim the universe is conscious, just as the Stoic did more than two thousand years ago. Modern thinkers frequently label this idea panpsychism, which entails consciousness as a fundamental aspect of the cosmos. When we consider a concept like a conscious cosmos and relate it to ancient Stoicism, we first must acknowledge that the Greeks did not have a word for conscious. The word first appears in English in the seventeenth century. Next, we must admit that many definitions of consciousness exist today. The ancient Stoics argued the cosmos is a living being (organism) that is rational, animate, and intelligent. I cannot imagine an entity that meets all those criteria we would deny is conscious. Instead of a conscious cosmos, we could say a rational, animate, and intelligent cosmos; however, that will not appease those who believe the universe is mechanistic, reductive to matter, and governed by laws that just happen, accidentally, to be conducive to life as we know it here on Earth. Therefore, the term conscious serves quite well as a substitute for a living being (organism) that is rational, animate, and intelligent. The ancient Stoics considered their unique conception of a conscious, providentially ordered cosmos a necessary element of their holistic philosophical system. They did so for good reasons. Today, Traditional Stoics think this conception of the cosmos is still viable. First, despite the objections offered by those who adhere to the metaphysical assumptions of the current scientific orthodoxy, there is no objective scientific reason to abandon the conscious cosmos of Stoicism. More importantly, Stoic practice relies on the essential relationship between the way the world is (physics) and the way we should act in the world (ethics). Chrysippus, the third head of the Stoa, argued that universal nature is the source of our knowledge of virtue, good and evil, and happiness. Further, according to Plutarch, Chrysippus asserted, “physical theory turns out to be ‘at once before and behind’ ethics.”[2] As I have written before, the conscious and providential cosmos is the soul of the Stoic philosophical system. Speaking of soul, the ancient Stoics believed the cosmos has a soul, and it is God. As Plutarch notes: In his On providence book 1 [Chrysippus] says: ‘When the world is fiery through and through, it is directly both its own soul and commanding-faculty.[3] Unfortunately, many people recoil, almost reflexively, from the concept of a conscious cosmos because it entails some form of intelligence that preexists human consciousness. They mistakenly assume such a concept necessarily invokes a supernatural divinity akin to those of traditional monotheistic religions. Likewise, many people are unaware of the increasing number of scientists and thinkers breaking out of the pre-twentieth-century, mechanistic, materialist, reductionist box and arguing that consciousness is a fundamental aspect of reality. I will highlight a few of those thinkers shortly. Consciousness was ignored by the mainstream hard sciences, including psychology, at the beginning of the twentieth century. Science could not explain consciousness via reductive materialism; therefore, they either ignored or explained it away as an illusion or epiphenomenon. They promoted the simplistic notion that the mind is what the brain does. Behaviorist psychology, a product of Logical Positivism, ignored the person's internal experience (consciousness) and treated the human mind as a black box. Behavior was quantifiable and could be subjected to the scientific method. Consciousness, on the other hand, was a metaphysical mystery. Quantum theory challenged the objective observer model of science at its foundation by discovering that consciousness interacts with the physical world. As a result, during the twentieth century, an ever-increasing number of scientists and thinkers began to give due consideration to the nature and role of consciousness. Many have suggested that consciousness, in some form, must be a fundamental property of reality. Interestingly, some are beginning to describe the essential nature of the cosmos in ways that sound remarkably like the intuitions of ancient thinkers such as Plato and the Stoics. Lothar Schafer, a physical chemist, points out several modern thinkers who think it is reasonable to infer consciousness to the cosmos. Here is an extended quote from his recent book: However you look at the matter, it seems reasonable to think that the human mind isn’t self-contained or self-sustained, but connected with a mindlike wholeness. “We can ‘infer’” Menas Kafatos and Robert Nadeau suggest, “that human consciousness ‘partakes’ or ‘participates in’ the conscious universe. As I have made sure to emphasize, science can’t prove that the universe is conscious. At the same time, the numerous suggestions by serious scientists, including Bohm, Dürr, Eddington, Fischbeck, Jeans, Kafatos, Lipton, Nadeau, and me, that a cosmic spirit exists can’t all be shrugged off as signs of dementia in these authors. It makes more sense to conclude, as psychiatrist Brian Lancaster has done, that “consciousness amounts to a fundamental property, irreducible to other features of the universe such as energy or matter.”[4] Likewise, the renowned American philosopher Thomas Nagel provoked a heated exchange about consciousness in 2012 when he challenged the core of the “neo-Darwinian conception of nature” in his book Mind & Cosmos. In one passage, Nagel speculated about the connection between human nature and the cosmos as a whole. His position is remarkably similar to the Stoic conception of that relationship. He wrote: We ourselves are large-scale, complex instances of something both objectively physical from outside and subjectively mental from inside. Perhaps the basis for this identity pervades the world.[5] The Stoics agree with Nagel. Reason (logos), which permeates the cosmos, is the basis for our identity as humans. The idea that rationality existed in the cosmos before human rationality plays a central role in Stoic theory. As Pierre Hadot notes: all the dogmas of Stoicism derive from this existential choice. It is impossible that the universe could produce human rationality, unless the latter were already in some way present within the former.[6] Arthur Eddington, an astrophysicist, was a little more direct than Thomas Nagel in the 1930s when he wrote: To put the conclusion crudely—the stuff of the world is mind-stuff… The mind-stuff of the world is, of course, something more general than our individual conscious minds; but we may think of its nature as not altogether foreign to the feelings in our consciousness… Consciousness is not sharply defined, but fades into subconsciousness; and beyond that we must postulate something indefinite but yet continuous with our mental nature. This I take to be the world-stuff.[7] Eddington admits, “It is difficult for the matter-of-fact physicist to accept the view that the substratum of everything is of mental character.” Nevertheless, as he points out, “no one can deny that mind is the first and most direct thing in our experience, and all else is remote inference—inference either intuitive or deliberate.”[8] Furthermore, he asserts. We have seen that the cyclic scheme of physics presupposes a background outside the scope of its investigations. In this background we must find, first, our own personality, and then perhaps a greater personality. The idea of a universal Mind or Logos would be, I think, a fairly plausible inference from the present state of scientific theory; at least it is in harmony with it.[9] It is fascinating to see a physicist use a phrase like universal Mind and the word logos. Bernard Haish, another astrophysicist, agrees. He wrote: I am proposing that an equally likely—and perhaps even slightly more likely—explanation is that there is a conscious intelligence behind the universe, and that the purpose of the universe and of our human lives is very intimately involved with that intelligence.[10] These are not the ramblings of crackpot pseudo-scientists. As Paul Davies, another physicist points out: An increasing number of scientists and writers have come to realize that the ability of the physical world to organize itself constitutes a fundamental, and deeply mysterious, property of the universe. The fact that nature has creative power, and is able to produce a progressively richer variety of complex forms and structures, challenges the very foundation of contemporary science.[11] In his book, The Goldilocks Enigma, Davies argues, Intelligent design of the laws does not conflict with science because it accepts that the whole universe runs itself according to physical laws and that everything that happens in the universe has a natural explanation. There are no miracles other than the miracle of nature itself. You don’t even need a miracle to bring the universe into existence in the first place because the big bang may be brought within the scope of physical laws too, either by using quantum cosmology to explain the origin of the universe from nothing or by assuming s

Let your every action, word, and thought be those of one who could depart from life at any moment. (Meditations 2.11) I cannot find a more fitting passage to describe the last few months of Dirk Mahling's life. Dirk departed from this life last Friday after a hard-fought battle with cancer. He was the President of New Stoa, a tutor, and mentor to many students at the College of Stoic Philosophers since 2016. Additionally, Dirk is one of several people who worked hard to keep the College alive when the founding Scholarch retired last year. He was bright, humorous, courageous, and a dedicated Stoic who was full of life to the end. Dirk was a friend, a colleague, and, more than anyone I know personally, an example of what it means to face death as a Stoic. Dirk told me about his terminal cancer diagnosis last August when I returned to the College of Stoic Philosophers after a long sabbatical. At that time, he thought he might have as many as two years left. He told me his challenge was figuring out how to live the rest of his life in that time. He didn’t appear sick in August; he looked like the Dirk I had known since 2015 when I mentored him through the Stoic Essential Studies course. I mentored many students at the college, but only a handful stand out in my memory. Dirk was undoubtedly one of those. When I returned to the College last year to discover he was the President of New Stoa, I teased him about being one of my most challenging students. He was bright and questioned everything. I enjoyed the challenge, and we had a great time together in the course. Dirk’s sense of humor was unbounded. His essay responses to lessons almost always included comics, memes, and humorous comments. In the Ethics lesson, he included a photo of Oikos yogurt with his essay response about the Stoic doctrine of oikeiosis. His answer to the question, “How do we become cosmopolitan?” was, “by reading Cosmo…” and he inserted a picture of a Cosmopolitan magazine cover. Yes, he also provided a correct answer. That was Dirk’s way of keeping Stoic philosophy fun and lite. He also included a comic with particular meaning as we consider Dirk’s life and death as a Stoic. The comic depicts two men in togas standing next to a grave. The headstone reads, “R.I.P. Zeno the philosopher—dead, but so what? The quote from one of the two characters underneath the comic reads, “He was a Stoic’s Stoic.” Dirk knew his end was near, but I certainly did not predict it was so close based on his behavior. He remained active at the College until the end and recently volunteered to mentor two students through the next term of the Marcus Aurelius Program beginning April 1st. He even joined the College faculty on our monthly Zoom conference call five days before he passed. Dirk was on oxygen during the meeting and told us he needed it because he gets short of breath when he talks. Dirk dedicated himself to the College’s mission of teaching students about Stoicism, and he remained at his post until the Captain called. To me, it appeared Dirk was living the practice of memento mori. Like Marcus Aurelius, Dirk did not fear death. Marcus wrote: In human life, the time of our existence is a point, our substance a flux, our senses dull, the fabric of our entire body subject to corruption, our soul ever restless, our destiny beyond divining, and our fame precarious. In a word, all that belongs to the body is a stream in flow, all that belongs to the soul, mere dream and delusion, and our life is a war, a brief stay in a foreign land, and our fame thereafter, oblivion. So what can serve as our escort and guide? One thing and one alone, philosophy; and that consists in keeping the guardian-spirit within us inviolate and free from harm, and ever superior to pleasure and pain, and ensuring that it does nothing at random and nothing with false intent or pretence, and that it is not dependent on another’s doing or not doing some particular thing, and furthermore that it welcomes whatever happens to it and is allotted to it, as issuing from the source from which it too took its origin, and above all, that it awaits death with a cheerful mind as being nothing other than the releasing of the elements from which every living creature is compounded. Now if for the elements themselves it is nothing terrible to be constantly changing from one to another, why should we fear the change and dissolution of them all? For this is in accordance with nature: and nothing can be bad that accords with nature. (Meditations 2.17) Dirk was still in his late prime and could have been bitter about his circumstances. He could have complained that his life was not long enough. He did not. As Seneca wrote: Most of mankind, Paulinus, complains about nature’s meanness, because our allotted span of life is so short, and because this stretch of time that is given to us runs its course so quickly, so rapidly—so much so that, with very few exceptions, life leaves the rest of us in the lurch just when we’re getting ready to live. And it’s not just the masses and the unthinking crowd that complain at what they perceive as this universal evil; the same feeling draws complaints even from men of distinction. (On the Shortness of Life 1.1) One paragraph later, Seneca wrote: It’s not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste much of it. Life is long enough, and it’s been given to us in generous measure for accomplishing the greatest things, if the whole of it is well invested. But when life is squandered through soft and careless living, and when it’s spent on no worthwhile pursuit, death finally presses and we realize that the life which we didn’t notice passing has passed away. (On the Shortness of Life 1.3). From what I know of Dirk’s life, he did not squander it. He lived life to the fullest until the very end. Pierre Hadot wrote, In the apprenticeship of death, the Stoic discovers the apprenticeship of freedom.[1] I believe Dirk found that freedom as he faced the end of his life. His example proved it to me. I am grateful to Dirk for all he contributed to the College of Stoic Philosophers. His presence will be greatly missed there. However, I am far more thankful for the example he provided for me. He gave me the opportunity to see how a Stoic should face death. Yes, I’ve read all the passages in the Stoic texts related to death, and they are powerful and convincing. However, nothing in those texts was as compelling and poignant as watching a friend and fellow Stoic courageously face death as Dirk did. The manner with which he faced death is a gift to anyone who witnessed it. Yesterday, I wrote a note to Erik Wiegardt, the founding Scholarch of the College of Stoic Philosophers, to let him know Dirk had passed away. He responded in his typically thoughtful and profound manner. He wrote: Now Dirk knows the answer to that greatest of philosophical questions. He’s right. Dirk learned what we the living cannot know: what happens when we die. Marcus spent a lot of time contemplating death. He wrote: Indeed, the very life of every one of us is like an exhalation from our blood or inhalation from the atmosphere; for such as it is to draw a breath of air into your lungs and then surrender it, so it is to surrender your power of respiration as a whole, which you acquired but yesterday or the day before at the time of your birth, and are now surrendering to the source from which you first drew it. (Meditations 6.15) I think Marcus’ answer here and in Meditations 4.23 provides Stoics with all we can and need to know about death—we return to our source. Since our soul is a fragment of the logos that permeates the cosmos, it will return to its source. In what form or capacity? No one knows. However, we will all discover the answer in the end. In the meantime, life goes on for us and provides us with the opportunity to contribute a verse, as Walt Whitman famously wrote.[2] Dirk certainly did contribute a verse—to his family, the College, the lives of students he touched there, and those of us who had the privilege of knowing him. Regardless of what happens to us at death, I believe Dirk’s parting message to us would be similar to that of Epictetus: You must wait for God, my friends. When he gives the signal and sets you free from your service here, then you may depart to him. But for the present, you must resign yourselves to remaining in this post in which he has stationed you. (Discourses 1.9.16) I believe that is what Dirk would say to us because that is how he lived until the end. He courageously remained at his post until the Captain called, and it was time for him to depart. By doing so, he gave us a wonderful example of a Stoic life lived well. I can confidently say that Dirk Mahling lived life and faced death as a prokopton whose practice of Stoicism was genuinely on Fire. Dirk, your legacy lives on in the lives you touched. Farewell, my friend. ENDNOTES: [1] Pierre Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life: Spiritual Exercises from Socrates to Foucault, ed. Arnold Ira Davidson (New York: Blackwell, 1995), p. 96 [2] Whitman, W. (1892) Oh me! Oh Life! in Leaves of Grass

Whenever a raven croaks ominously, don’t let the impression carry you away, but straightaway discriminate within yourself, and say: “None of this is a warning to me; it only concerns my feeble body or my tiny estate or my paltry reputation or my children or my wife. But to myself all predictions are favorable if I wish them to be, since it is up to me to benefit from the outcome, whatever it may be.” (Ench 18) In ancient Greece and Rome, a raven was thought to be a messenger of the God Apollo, and the croaking of a raven was typically considered a sign of future bad luck. We moderns are likely to dismiss this kind of divination without further consideration. However, the Stoic’s conception of the cosmos inspired them to give serious consideration to the connection between signs and events. As professor Dorothea Frede wrote in The Cambridge Companion to the Stoics: The uniform nature of the active and passive powers within the cosmic order also explains why there is, in contradistinction to Plato and Aristotle, no separation in Stoicism of the super- and the sub-lunary world. The heavenly motions are ruled by the same principles that operate on earth: All of nature is administered by the supreme divine reason, and hence there is a global teleological determinism that the Stoics identified with fate. The omnipotence of the active principle explains the Stoic conception of an overall sumpatheia within nature, an inner connection between seemingly quite disparate events. Divination, the study of divine signs and portents, is therefore treated as a science in Stoicism rather than as superstition. Careful observation leads to the discovery of certain signs of those interconnections, even if human knowledge does not fully comprehend the rationale behind the observable order of all things. This explains why the Stoics not only supported the traditional practices of divination, but also helped establish astrology as a respectable science in the Greek and Roman world.[1] I’m not going to spend much time on divination in this episode because that is not the point of this lesson. Nevertheless, it’s important to understand the role it played in the founding of Stoicism. In the opening chapter of their book Being Better: Stoicism for a World Worth Living In, Kai Whiting and Leonidas Konstantakos do a wonderful job telling the story of Zeno’s calling to the life of a philosopher. They note that after being shipwrecked, Zeno was destitute and wondered what would become of his life. They continue: so he set off on a two-hundred-mile round trip to seek guidance from the Oracle of Delphi — the priestess of the Greek god Apollo — who was respected and revered all over Greece for her divinations. Even kings would travel for days to seek her counsel, and while today it might seem ridiculous to heed the utterings of a young woman in a trancelike state, a trip to Delphi was taken very seriously indeed. Every meeting was an involved process that had more in common with South American ayahuasca rituals than, say, visiting a clairvoyant. The Oracle required visitors to prepare in both body and mind, and as with ayahuasca ceremonies, those seeking answers at the Temple at Delphi had to adhere to strict rules in order to approach the ritual with reverence, respect, and sincerity. You couldn’t just rock up to the Oracle, hand over some coins, and demand that she saw you. Nobody could sit in the Oracle’s presence until they had properly considered the dangers of misinterpreting her advice and also understood and pledged to abide by the three maxims of self-discovery: “know yourself,” “nothing to excess,” and “surety brings ruin.” Wisdom seekers were told to listen carefully to what she said in relation to their strengths, weaknesses, personal quirks, and the specific roles they played in the wider world (as, say, a daughter, mother, Spartan queen). Zeno kept all this in mind as he told the Oracle the story of his shipwreck, and she advised him to “take on the pallor of the dead.” On his return journey home, Zeno weighed her cryptic words carefully because it was imperative that he interpret them well. What could they possibly mean? As Zeno approached Athens’ city gate, it occurred to him that, above all, he must commit to pursuing the ancient wisdom that had been passed down by venerated, and now long-dead, philosophers. He promised himself that he would reexamine the kinds of philosophical texts his own father had read to him while still a boy. In particular, he was determined to get hold of the ones that spoke about the “good life”; that is to say, a life worth living, not just one that is (or will ever be) easy, comfortable, or pleasant. In line with the Oracle’s prophecy, at the precise moment when Zeno was reading about Socrates, who Greek philosophers considered the wisest man to have ever lived, another well-known philosopher, Crates of Thebes, happened to stroll by. The two struck up a conversation, Crates agreed to mentor Zeno, and so began Zeno’s journey toward eudaimonia.[2] Within this story, we see Zeno turn the tragedy of a shipwreck and financial poverty into a new life by seeking the wisdom of the cosmos and then paying attention to the signs Nature provided. What happened for Zeno in that bookseller’s store was a synchronicity—it was more than coincidence, and Zeno knew it. That is why he paid attention to the sign and followed Crates. By following Nature, he changed his life and the lives of many others since who have chosen to follow the Stoic path he blazed. In Encheiridion 18, Epictetus tells his students why signs, no matter their source, cannot negatively affect them. Whether they appear good or bad, all signs concern externals that have no bearing on our moral character and well-being. Imagine being told to take on the pallor of the dead. Zeno certainly could have interpreted that as a foreboding message from the Oracle. Instead, he considered it thoroughly and waited until the cosmos made its meaning clear to him. No Oracle has not been present at Delphi for more than fifteen hundred years, and no one listening to this podcast is likely to be disturbed by the croaking of a raven. However, what about the croaking of a modern weatherperson, financial analyst, news anchor, or political talk show host? If Epictetus were delivering this lesson today, he might dissuade us from being concerned about: The croaks of the weatherperson about the coming hurricane or blizzard. The croaks of the financial analyst about the coming stock market crash The croaks of the political candidate about the foreboding social and economic implications of their opponent winning the election. The croaks of the news anchor about riots in the streets or the war abroad The croaks of the talk show host who tells us to fear those who disagree with us politically. The raven takes a different form for us today, but the result is the same if we allow the croaks of these modern messengers to convince us something bad is coming. If we allow the croaks of messengers to inspire inappropriate action or to discourage us from appropriate action, we harm ourselves. Does that mean we should ignore the predictions of the weatherperson, financial analyst, news anchor, etc.? No! It does mean we must remember those predictions, whether they be optimistic or ominous, apply to externals—indifferents that cannot touch our soul. Epictetus discouraged his students from misusing divination in Discourses 2.7: Because we resort to divination on the wrong occasions, many of us fail to carry out many appropriate actions, for what is a diviner able to see that extends beyond death, danger, or illness, or, in general, things of that kind? If one should be obliged, then, to run a risk on behalf of a friend, or if it is appropriate for me even to die for him, what occasion is left for me to resort to divination? Don’t I have a diviner within me who has taught me the true nature of good and bad, and can interpret the signs that indicate the one and the other? So what further need do I have of entrails or birds? And if a diviner says to me, ‘That is what will be of benefit to you,’ will I put up with it? Why, does he know what is beneficial? Does he know what is good? In learning to read the signs in the entrails, has he also learned the signs that are indicative of good and bad? For if he has knowledge of those, he also knows those that indicate what is right or wrong, and what is just or unjust. Man, it is your part to tell me whether the signs point to life or death, riches or penury; but to know whether these would be beneficial or harmful, is it really you whom I should be consulting? Why is it that you don’t speak out on points of grammar? And yet you do speak out on those matters on which all of us go astray and can never reach agreement? It was thus an excellent reply that the woman made when she wanted to send a boatload of provisions to the exiled Gratilla; for when someone said to her, ‘Domitian will merely confiscate them,’ she replied, ‘Better that he should take them away than that I should fail to send them.’ (Discourses 2.7.1-8) What is the lesson here? Appropriate actions are not guaranteed to succeed. The intention to act is the measure of appropriateness because the success of the action is not up to us. In his commentary, Simplicius offers a breakdown of Epictetus’ formula, and Keith Seddon makes it even more approachable.[3] The argument goes like this: (1) It is in your power never to desire or seek to avoid external things; (2) If you neither desire nor seek to avoid external things, you cannot be defeated (hêttaomai); (3) If you are not defeated, you cannot be in a bad situation; (4) If you are not in a bad situation, then nothing is a sign of something bad for you; (5) Therefore it is in your power to bring it about that nothing is a sign of something bad for you. This five-step argument,...

The Missing Evidence is Evidence I recently decided to start covering Modern Stoic Fallacies periodically. I have been combatting some of these fallacies for years on Facebook, in my blog, and on my podcast. However, I typically only mention them briefly and haven’t provided much analysis. All of these fallacies have the same goal: to justify removing Stoic physics from the holistic system the ancient Stoics created to make Stoicism compatible with agnosticism and atheism. Before I go any further, I will repeat what I have stated numerous times before. I support the development of a modern, agnostic version of Stoicism? However, there is a condition. A modern, agnostic version of Stoicism must not be built on a foundation of fallacies that distort, misrepresent, and discredit the traditional theory and practice as the ancient Stoics created it. I fully support Modern Stoics, like the late Lawrence Becker, who openly stated he intended to abandon Stoic physics to create a “new” synthesis of Stoicism. I do not support those who claim their new synthesis is essentially the same as that produced by the ancient Stoics or what it would have become if the Stoa remained active into modern times. Those assertions are wishful thinking at best. Some of my listeners might wonder why I am spending time refuting Modern Stoic fallacies. That is a fair question. I believe these Modern Stoic fallacies must be refuted for three reasons. First, those entirely new to Stoicism may wrongly assume these fallacies are supported by historical facts, scholarship, or logical thinking. They are not. Second, Traditional Stoics need to understand these Modern Stoic fallacies do not discredit or refute the deeply spiritual form of Stoicism they know and appreciate from reading the Stoic texts and recognized Stoic scholarship. Finally, these fallacies unintentionally opened the door to other newly minted adaptations of Stoicism that bring disgrace to the tradition of the ancient Stoa. Some of these fallacies are repeated so frequently on social media platforms they become memes. One pervasive example most anyone who has been on Stoic social media platforms has seen is, “Stoicism is not a religion.” While that statement is factually accurate, it is used to infer something false about Stoicism. I will covert that in a future episode. The first fallacy I will tackle is what I call The Missing Evidence is Evidence Fallacy. This fallacy proposes the possibility some of the ancient Stoics were agnostics. Curiously, rather than offering evidence supporting this possibility, the author speculates that the evidence might exist in Stoic texts no longer available to us. In other words, he wants to leave open the possibility that missing Stoic texts might lend credence to his hope that some of the ancient Stoics were agnostic about the providential nature of the cosmos. Again, I call this The Missing Evidence is Evidence Fallacy. This Modern Stoic fallacy is not repeated as often as others on social media. I hope that is because many people see the errant reasoning used in this fallacy and understand the unintended consequences of its use. Nevertheless, like most Modern Stoic fallacies, this one serves a specific purpose—it attempts to justify removing Stoic physics, which includes the concept of a divine and providential cosmos, from Stoicism. Here is the source of this Modern Stoic Fallacy: Only about 1% of the ancient Stoic writings survive today, at a rough estimate. We have substantial texts from only three authors: Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius. They were all late Roman Stoics and we have only fragments from the early Greek Stoics, including the founders of the school. (Also some important ancient secondary sources, especially in the writings of the Platonist Cicero.) None of these Stoics appear to have been agnostics themselves but others may have been.[1] To be fair, this is not the whole argument presented by this Modern Stoic to support his conclusion that “Marcus Aurelius and perhaps also Epictetus believed that agnosticism or even atheism may have been consistent with the Stoic way of life.”[2] In fact, this particular piece includes several pages of supporting circumstantial evidence and contains several Modern Stoic Fallacies I will address in future episodes. Nevertheless, it is clear from this passage alone the author is appealing to missing textual evidence to support his final claim. Let’s begin by placing this fallacy into the structure of an informal logical argument to analyze it. Premise #1: Only about 1% of the Stoic texts survive today. Premise #2: Most of what we do know about Stoicism comes from a small sample of sources, and most of that is from the Roman Stoics (Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius). Fragments from the founders and secondary writing are notably helpful) Premise #3: None of these Stoics appear to have been agnostics. Conclusion: However, other Stoics may have been agnostics. In this format, we quickly see this is a classic example of a non sequitur, which means “does not follow” in Latin. In other words, the conclusion that “some other ancient Stoics may have been agnostics” does not logically follow from the fact that only a tiny percentage of the ancient Stoic texts are available to us today. Before I tackle the conclusion drawn from this Modern Stoic fallacy, I also want to address a word in Premise #3 that is critical to assessing it. The word is “appear,” and it’s used in the final sentence of the passage that originated this fallacy. Again, that reads: None of these Stoics appear to have been agnostics... [bold emphasis added] The word “appear” is a guarding term in this sentence. People use guarding terms to protect an assertion from attack by reducing its claim and leaving open the possibility it may be wrong. Guarding terms serve a legitimate purpose in philosophical dialogue because many philosophical assertions are not provable in any objectively testable way. Therefore, honesty often necessitates guarding terms to point out a degree of uncertainty or limit the scope of an assertion. Nevertheless, guarding terms can also be deployed to gently persuade a reader or listener to accept an otherwise questionable assertion as true. That is why guarding terms are used so frequently by lawyers in the courtroom to sway a jury toward a conclusion of innocence or guilt based on evidence that can be ambiguous. In philosophy, guarding terms can deliver insinuations and inferences the facts or logical arguments do not fully support. This type of argumentation is called sophistry. A sophistry is a clever but fallacious argument intended to establish a point through trickery.[3] In this Modern Stoic fallacy, the guarding term “appear” is used to subtly call into question the beliefs of Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius. Again, the author asserts that none of these Stoics appear to be agnostics. However, this guarding term implicitly leaves open the possibility they may have been agnostic. It would have been easy for the author of this fallacy to write: None of these Stoics were agnostics themselves... However, the author chose to write it differently. Again, he wrote: None of these Stoics appear to have been agnostics themselves... [bold emphasis added] The word “appear” helps guard the conclusion, which reads: …but others may have been. [emphasis added] Within this conclusion, we see another guarding term. In this instance, it’s the phrase “may have been.” The combination of these guarding terms encourages the reader to assent to the possibility some of the ancient Stoics may have been agnostics while simultaneously guarding the author’s conclusion from refutation. The use of these guarding terms allows the author to suggest a possibility—that some ancient Stoics may have been agnostics—without making a factual claim that can be directly challenged with evidence. If the author made an unambiguous assertion that one or more of the ancient Stoics were agnostics, he would be left unprotected from the question: “Which ones?” Nevertheless, this fallacy only works for those who have not read the Stoic texts and scholarship or those willing to ignore the facts about Stoicism. This assertion may work in a court of public opinion, where fellow agnostics and atheists populate the jury. However, it does not stand up to the historical evidence. Such an assertion would never withstand the scrutiny of peer-review by credible scholars of Stoicism. While it is certainly true Stoic theology, as expressed in the surviving texts, varied slightly between individual Stoics and over time. There is no evidence any ancient Stoic was agnostic as that word is commonly understood today. They were all deeply committed to belief in the existence of God in the form of a providentially ordered cosmos. I am not aware of a single credible scholar who has argued otherwise. Trust me when I say I have looked. I have also asked the author of this article, publicly and repeatedly, to reference any scholar who supports his assertion. To date, I have received none. This highlights one common feature of Modern Stoic fallacies: they never reference credible scholars to back their assertions. Why? In this case, no credible scholar would suggest Seneca, Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius, or any other ancient Stoic was agnostic about the existence of God. Let’s get back to the Modern Stoic Fallacy I’m addressing in this episode. Again, I call this The Missing Evidence is Evidence Fallacy. It opens with an accurate assessment of the current state of Stoic texts. Only a tiny percentage of the known Stoic texts survived and are available today. Archeologists may discover more in the future from archeological sites like Herculaneum;[4] however, we cannot rely on that being the case. Neither is it reasonable to assume a future discovery will support an argument or doctrine clearl

Keep in mind that you should always behave as you would do at a banquet. Something comes around to you; stretch out your hand and politely take a portion. It passes on; don’t try to stop it. It has not come yet; don’t let your appetite run ahead, but wait till the portion reaches you. If you act like this toward your children, your wife, your public positions, and your wealth, you will be worthy one day to dine with the gods. And if you don’t even take things, when they are put before you, but pass them by, you will not only dine with the gods but also share their rule. It was by acting like that that Diogenes and Heracles and others like them were deservedly divine and called so. (Ench. 15) Epictetus uses a banquet as a metaphor in this lesson. However, this banquet appears different from anything we moderns would attend. The Greek word Epictetus used is συμποσίῳ. The title of Plato’s famous Symposium is derived from that same Greek word, and it provides a model for this metaphor. To make his point in this lesson, Epictetus asks us to imagine we are guests at such a banquet. However, to apply this lesson in our life, we must first understand the metaphor. A Greek banquet or symposium during the time of Plato was slightly different from those of Roman times. Epictetus’s students would have been familiar with the latter. However, those distinctions don’t affect the metaphor or the lesson. Let’s set the scene for such a banquet to help us understand this lesson. The host, a person you know, has invited you to a banquet. When you arrive, you’re led to a room filled with pillow-covered sofas. Participants are reclined on those sofas eating food, drinking wine, talking about important topics, and possibly delivering speeches. The room has a predetermined seating arrangement, so you recline on your assigned sofa and engage in conversation with others you know at the banquet. Occasionally, someone might deliver a speech, read a poem, or bring up a topic of political concern for discussion. While this is going on, servers enter the room with platters of food and pitchers of wine. The servers approach each reclined guest in a predetermined order and offer them a portion of what they are serving. You know the proper etiquette for a banquet, and that means you must wait for each server to come to you to take your portion. The preceding lessons in the Encheiridion focus on the distinction between what is up to us and not up to us. As a banquet guest, many things are not within your power—they are not up to us. So, let’s begin by determining what is and is not in our power in this banquet metaphor. Guests don’t choose the date or time of the banquet. Guests don’t choose who is invited. Guests don’t choose their seating location. Guests don’t choose what, if any, entertainment is provided. Guests don’t choose what food and wine are served. Guests don’t choose the portions of the dishes being served. Guests don’t choose the order in which the dishes and drinks are served, Guests don’t choose the order in which they will be served. The host makes all of those decisions. Therefore, Epictetus is reminding us of the only thing within our power. As guests at the banquet of life, the only thing up to us is the choice to reach out and take a portion of each item as it is offered. Interestingly, even though the items served at a banquet are indifferents, Epictetus encourages us to reach out and take a portion of those items offered to us. We are beginning to see why Epictetus chose an ancient banquet as a metaphor for this lesson—many of the circumstances and events in life are not in our power. Moreover, one of the essential aspects of Epictetus’ training program is understanding what is in our power and choosing only those things which are up to us. Nevertheless, there is an interesting change in Epictetus’ training program in Encheiridion 15. Chapters one through fourteen directed our attention away from externals and toward that which is exclusively within our power—what is up to us. Now, Epictetus is providing us with a lesson about dealing with externals—what is not up to us. He encourages us to stretch out our hand and politely take a portion of preferred indifferents when they are offered to us. Epictetus said: Something comes around to you; stretch out your hand and politely take a portion. Epictetus is telling us it’s okay to reach out and take a portion of good health, wealth, a prestigious title, a high-paying job, a desirable mate, a big house, sports car, diamond jewelry, etc., when the cosmos offers them to us. This highlights an important aspect of Stoicism. Stoics were not complete ascetics like the Cynics—they did not renounce all externals. Stoic practice does not entail rejecting indifferents; however, it does require us to abandon our desire for them. The second lesson is a little more complicated. In Encheiridion 15, Epictetus offers a banquet metaphor to teach us how to handle indifferents. However, there’s another critically important part of this lesson. Remember, the host decides almost everything that occurs at a banquet. Therefore, Epictetus reminds us that the only thing within your power—the only thing up to us—is the choice to reach out and take a portion of each item as it is offered. Again, Epictetus said: Something comes around to you; stretch out your hand and politely take a portion. It passes on; don’t try to stop it. It has not come yet; don’t let your appetite run ahead, but wait till the portion reaches you. Here is the critically important part of the lesson: Don’t reach out and attempt to take what is not offered to you by the host. Don’t let your desire for what is being offered to others distract you from the primary goal of the banquet, which is not simply to eat and drink. Implicit in this metaphor is the idea we should not take a portion of any indifferent inconsistent with developing an excellent character. Let’s see if a modern example will help. Imagine you’ve been invited to the wedding of a good friend and the reception afterward. When you arrive at the reception, you see name tags at each table, and you look for the one with your name on it, and you take a seat. You notice the families of the bride and groom are seated in places of honor near the stage. After the bride and groom have entered and been announced, servers begin entering the room with platters of food and trays of champagne. Naturally, they serve the families of the bride and groom first and then work their way back to your table. After the meal, the servers bring in platters with dessert. Each of the four servers has a different desert, and only one of them has chocolate cake. You love chocolate cake, and this chocolate cake looks particularly delicious. Your table is close to the door where the servers enter the room, so you got a really good look at that cake. Your mouth starts to water in anticipation. However, you know you will not be among the first guests served. Your table is the eighth to be served. You could allow the impression of this cake as something “good” to well up and create a desire. Then, that desire might create an impulse to stop the server as he passes and take a piece of cake. However, that would be rude and entirely inappropriate. This is an example of the first warning Epictetus offers in this lesson. The chocolate cake has not been offered to you yet; it is passing on. Epictetus warns us. “don’t try to stop it.” Okay, let’s say you passed that test. Somewhere in the sequence between the impression of the cake as a “good” and acting on the impulse to stop the server, you stopped the impression, accepted chocolate cake is just a preferred indifferent, and you remembered why you are at the wedding—to honor your friend on their wedding day. You turn your attention back to the groom on the stage, telling everyone the story about how he met his bride. Occasionally, your attention is diverted from the groom’s story to the server with the chocolate cake. You just want to make sure some of that delicious-looking chocolate remains. It does, so your focus on the groom’s story again. Then, you hear a guest at the table next to yours say, “This cake is otherworldly.” You turn your head in time to see him take a big bite of cake, and you watch as his body melts into his chair as the flavor overwhelms his senses with satisfaction. You look at the platter and realize there are only two pieces of cake left, and four people are seated between you and that cake. The impression of the cake as “good” suddenly resurfaces, and a desire for a slice wells up inside you. You don’t even hear the words of the groom any longer. Your attention is now focused exclusively on that cake as you hope a piece will be remain when the server arrives at your seat. In Epictetus's words, you just made the mistake of letting your appetite run ahead. Obviously, Epictetus was not giving his students a lesson on banquet etiquette. Instead, knowing his students were already familiar with banquet etiquette, he used it as a metaphor to teach them how to behave appropriately toward preferred indifferents. So, what would be appropriate in our chocolate cake scenario? Epictetus would say: keep your attention on the groom’s speech because the purpose of this banquet is to honor him on his wedding day. In other words, you are there for fellowship, not chocolate cake. If your attention remains on the purpose of the event and the platter of chocolate cake is offered to you, reach out and take a slice. However, don’t let the impression of that chocolate cake distract you from the event or create an impulse to act inappropriately. Someone might ask: “Does this lesson mean I should abandon all ambition, accept my lot in life, and just wait for everything to be brought to me?” No, it doesn’t mean you should be passive or take a quietist approach to life....

If you want to make progress, don’t mind appearing foolish and silly where outward things are concerned, and don’t wish to appear an expert. Even if some people think you are somebody, distrust yourself. It is not easy, you can be sure, to keep your own will in harmony with nature and simultaneously secure outward things. If you care about the one, you are completely bound to neglect the other. (Ench 13) After a short break from the Encheiridion, I start again with chapter 13. I will continue to work through the Encheiridion, chapter by chapter. However, I will take breaks from it occasionally to cover other topics or conduct interviews as I did recently with the authors of two new Stoic books. Epictetus opens Encheiridion 13 with a familiar refrain, “If you want to make progress,” and then lists what a prokopton must do to progress along the Stoic path. So, what is Epictetus prescribing for us to make progress? He lists two things in this lesson: First, don’t mind appearing foolish and silly where outward things are concerned. Why? Because it’s difficult to keep our will (prohairesis)—that which is within our power and up to us—in harmony with Nature while simultaneously desiring and seeking externals—those things not within our power and therefore not up to us. Second, don’t wish to appear as an expert. Why? Again, if we desire to appear as an expert, we seek something not up to us. Before we consider these two specific things Epictetus lists in this passage, let’s look at the overarching message. Some things are up to us, and others are not up to us. We learned that in Encheiridion 1. As a refresher, the things that are not up to us are external to us, like our health, financial status, other people’s opinion of us, etc. Obviously, our behavior can influence these externals; nevertheless, they are not entirely within our power. We can live a healthy lifestyle and still get cancer; we can work hard and save money and still end up broke and destitute during a widespread economic crisis; we can be kind, helpful, and act appropriately, and some people will still have a low opinion of us. On the other hand, our reasoning faculty (prohairesis) is entirely within our power; it is up to us. So much so, as Epictetus teaches in Discourses 3.3, not even Zeus can override this power granted to us by Nature. Therefore, once again, Epictetus confronts us with the distinction between what is up to us and not up to us. We will continue to see this theme in the Encheiridion because it is central to Epictetus’ teaching and critically important for developing our moral excellence and progress toward well-being. Now, let’s look at these two things not up to us Epictetus chose to highlight in this lesson. I will tackle the second item first because this episode will focus on the first. Epictetus warns us not to wish to appear an expert. If some people have that opinion of us, that’s fine, but it’s not up to us. Because it’s not up to us, desiring that others think of us as an expert is not in accordance with the nature of things. As Keith Seddon points out in his commentary, this passage could have two different meanings. When Epictetus warns against not wishing to appear knowledgeable about anything, he may mean this in a wholly general way – to have knowledge is one thing, but to have a desire to show it off and be regarded as a knowledgeable person is altogether something else, and is inappropriate for the Stoic prokoptôn – for placing one’s well-being (to however small a degree) on the satisfaction of this desire is to rely on something that is not in one’s power, something external and indifferent, and risks undermining one’s ‘good flow’ (euroia). But I suspect Epictetus means ‘knowledgeable’ to refer only to knowledge of good and bad, moral excellence, the indifferent and external things, and of Stoic ethics as a whole. However advanced our progress, it is unlikely ever to be complete, and to impose our views on others is not fitting, for however severe their faults may be, even if our faults are less, our efforts should be applied to diminish our own faults, not theirs.[1] Epictetus is focusing the attention of his students inward. If we desire to appear knowledgeable or more advanced in our progress toward virtue, we are making our well-being dependent on others who are external to us. We learned where that path leads in Encheiridion 1: …you will be frustrated, pained, and troubled, and you will find fault with gods and men. I want Epictetus’ message to be clear here. He is not instructing us to avoid seeking knowledge. The path of the prokopton entails the acquisition of knowledge. Virtue is a form of knowledge—the knowledge of good and bad. Likewise, we are not doing anything wrong if others happen to think we are knowledgeable. Again, that is not up to us. The danger to our well-being lies in our wish (desire) to appear knowledgeable to others. Social media makes this a more present danger in modern times. It’s pretty easy to fall into the social media approval trap where we measure our value by the number of people who “Like” our posts and comments. Now, we come to the second topic, the first item on Epictetus’ list in this passage. He said: If you want to make progress, don’t mind appearing foolish and silly where outward things are concerned. Why? Well, Epictetus tells us. Because it’s difficult to keep our will (prohairesis)—that which is within our power and up to us—in harmony with Nature while simultaneously desiring and seeking externals—those things not within our power and therefore not up to us. So, what could Epictetus possibly mean by appearing foolish and silly where outward things are concerned? With Stoic teachings in mind, I think it’s easy to imagine several ways a Stoic prokopton might appear foolish and silly to others. First, most people in ancient and modern times would consider it foolish to focus one’s full attention inward to experience well-being. Consider this imaginary scenario. You’re standing around with a group of your close friends one day when you suddenly feel compelled to tell them you’re embarking on a new philosophical way of life. “Cool,” one of them responds, “what is it?” It’s called Stoicism. Another of your friends chimes in, “I’ve heard of that. I guess you’ll be developing a stiff upper lip, ol’ chap.” You politely inform him that’s a mischaracterization of Stoicism. “What is Stoicism about then?” He asks. You tell them it entails paying attention only to those things that are up to me, like my judgment of impressions, desires, aversions, and intentions to act, rather than things like financial success, good health, promotions, fame, etc. Suddenly you realize the room went quiet, and everyone is staring at you curiously. Oh, but wait, you insist, there’s more to it than that! You tell your friends you don’t need those things because you’ve discovered something infinitely more valuable. Now they're interested. “What is more valuable?” Bill asks as he leans forward with anticipation of hearing about a great stock tip, Bitcoin cache location, or a cure for Covid. All their attention is now focused on you as your words pierce the deafening silence. Well, I’ve discovered that developing courage, temperance, justice, and wisdom is the only path to true well-being. John spits out his coffee; Tammy just stares at you disbelievingly. Your best friend Bill walks over, slaps you on the back, and says, “That was a good one; you had us all going there for a minute.” Seriously, you insist. I’ve learned not to ask for events to happen as I would like them to. Instead, I now wish for events to happen just as they do? “Really?” John asks incredulously. “Even if that means the loss of your job, your home, your legs, your child, or your spouse?” Yes, you reply as the laughter increases in volume. Your best friend Bill asks, “How can you possibly believe something like that?” As if the situation wasn’t bad enough, now you must reveal the truth about how it is you can hold such foolish and silly beliefs about tragic events. I believe the cosmos is providentially ordered. You say a little hesitantly. “What?” Tammy shouts! I must not have heard you correctly. What did you just say?” I said I believe the cosmos is providentially ordered. Things happen for a good reason. “Alright, now you’ve gone too far,” Tammy insists. “Don’t you know science has proved the universe and humans evolved from nothing?” Then, she tells you to sit down while she explains how the powerful double punch from Hume and Darwin made belief in things like providence “untenable” in modern times. “It’s all the result of chance,” she exclaims. “With enough time, anything can happen. That providence crap is pure nonsense,” she insists. “Worse, it’s nonsense of stilts. You need to stop reading those foolish and silly Stoics and start reading some of the ancient Sceptics.” The rest of your friends stopped laughing a while ago. They are simply staring at you with their hands over their mouths and a genuine look of concern in their eyes. Are you feeling foolish and silly yet? Many moderns will applaud the tongue-lashing Tammy delivered in the name of science in this imaginary scene. Why? Because they agree that a concept like a providential cosmos is nonsense. They think it’s foolish and silly. Meanwhile, they somehow overlook how foolish and silly the rest of Stoicism is to the average modern person. Here’s a challenge: go out to a busy street corner in any large city and try convincing those passing by that virtue is the only true good and it’s the only thing they need for well-being. I suspect you will get a response similar to the guy on the opposite corner telling people to repent because the return of God is at hand. Most people will consider you foolish and silly. Yet, some of these same moderns believe the Stoic axiom that virtue is the only good, almost unquestioningly,...

This interview of Kai Whiting and Leonidas Konstantakos covers their 2021 book titled, Being Better: Stoicism for a World Worth Living In. Their book provides a short (136 pages, excluding notes) yet highly informative introduction to Stoicism as a way of life. Being Better was written for a general audience, and it is the best book I've read for two types of people. First, for those new to Stoicism, Being Better provides an excellent introduction. It includes just enough philosophical theory and history to acquaint the reader with Stoicism. The second audience is the person considering Stoicism but is unsure it's right for them. After reading Being Better, readers will know if Stoicism is a philosophical way of life worth pursuing further. Finally, I cannot think of a better book for those who want to give a short, easy-to-read, informative, and interesting book to a friend or family member who is curious about Stoicism. A video version of this interview is available on YouTube

The wise person is still not harmed by the storms of life—poverty, pain, and the rest. For not all his works are hindered but only those that pertain to others. He is himself, always, in his actions, and in the doing of them he is greatest when opposed by fortune. For it is then that he does the business of wisdom itself, which as we just said is his own good as well as that of others. (Letters 85.37) Fortuna, for Seneca, is not an anthropomorphized divinity with malicious intentions. Instead, Fortuna (fortune) is a metaphor for those events in life which appear to hinder or help us achieve our desires and intentions. Fortuna is the slow driver in front of us, making us late for work or school, the overbearing boss, the unexpected bill, the life-threatening medical diagnosis, the termination letter from an employer, the breakup of a relationship, etc. Alternatively, as Seneca points out, Fortuna may masquerade as an apparent good, tempting us to succumb to desires and aversions outside of our control. The appearance of good fortune may include lottery winnings, promotion, fifteen minutes of fame, a new lover, etc. As we can see, Fortuna can present herself as either an apparent good or an apparent evil when, in fact, she is neither. Fortuna is a metaphor for the externals outside our control and serves as grist for our character's mill. As such, those external circumstances, which Seneca labels Fortuna, are indifferents that have no inherent ability to affect our moral character (virtue). Nevertheless, they are the very things and events that challenge us and allow us to develop our moral character toward excellence. Without the challenges offered by Fortuna, we lack the means to develop our excellence of character fully. As Seneca points out: In fair weather anyone can be a helmsman. (Letters 85.34) Our character is not challenged and developed when the seas of life are smooth and the winds are calm and steady, blowing in the direction of our wishes. Instead, our character is tested and can thereby develop most rapidly, at those times when the sea becomes turbulent and blustering winds threaten to shred our sail. Therefore, the storms of life that threaten to drive the bow of our ship under the waves are the events that serve to test and strengthen our character. In Seneca’s words: To fashion a man [or woman] who can genuinely be called a [Stoic], a stronger fate is needed. For him, the way will not be flat: he must go up and down, he must be tossed by waves, and must guide his vessel on a stormy sea. He must hold his course against fortune. Many things will happen that are hard and rough—but things he can soften and smooth out himself. Fire proves gold; misery, brave men [and women]. (On Providence 5.9) When Fortuna stirs up a storm in your life and appears intent on driving your ship onto the rocks or into the depths, keep this truth from the Stoics in mind: Fortuna is not your enemy; she is your teacher. You can choose to welcome her into your life and learn the lessons she offers, or you can ignore the lessons of Fortuna, resist fate, and suffer the psychological consequences. We learn that Fortuna is not an existential threat by trusting the benevolence of a providential cosmos and focusing our attention on what is up to us. Our struggle with Fortuna is not a fight against external circumstances. Instead, it is a struggle with our desire for circumstances to be other than they are. As we learned from Encheiridion 8, the goal of Stoicism training is learning to wish for things to happen as they do. Again, this does not mean we wish for dispreferred outcomes in advance; that’s not what the Stoics taught. However, when those events occur, we need to use them to develop our character. Stoicism teaches us to look for the lesson in the storms of life. Fortuna may use a storm to redirect our ship toward a destination we did not originally intend. Alternatively, the squall we face today may prepare us for a more significant, unforeseen storm just over the horizon. Remember, it takes fire to prove gold, and Fortuna is the metaphorical fuel that feeds the flames of the refinery. Therefore, if we keep our attention (prosoche) on developing our character, we can view events in Nature, whether they appear good or bad, as indiffernets and act appropriately to develop our moral character. Stop it – When Fortuna confronts us with an impression of circumstance that appears either good or bad initially, we must remind ourselves to say “Stop it!” to that impression. When we mentally say, “Stop it!” to the impression, we create the mental gap we need to prevent the impression from carrying us away psychologically. The impression may be of a cancer diagnosis; it may be an offer for a “dream job” with a large salary. It doesn’t matter whether the circumstance appears good or bad; we must Stop it because we know as Stoics it is neither. Strip it bare – Next, we need to set aside that immediate value judgment that this is either good or bad. We must Strip it bare to see it for what it is—just an event occurring in Nature. Remember, it is not the event that disturbs or elates us; it is our judgment of that event. See it from the cosmic perspective – Finally, we need to view these circumstances from a cosmic perspective. Yes, this cancer may kill me, but death is not bad. Death cannot harm my character, but my thoughts about death can disturb my mind and inspire intentions to act in inappropriate ways, which will damage my character. Yes, that is a dream job with a large salary, but it came from a company known to engage in unethical practices. If I take that job, I will indirectly contribute to the harm this company does to others. As I have said before, as Stoic prokoptons, we will occasionally encounter circumstances that overwhelm us. To bear and forbear may be the best we do under those circumstances depending on our level of Stoic training. However, we must move beyond bear and forbear toward willing engagement with Fortuna to develop our character. Following the events of Nature closely is an active rather than a passive approach to life. Character development requires constant attention (prosoche), discernment of what is ‘up to us’ and what is not, and a willingness to follow where fate leads with an attitude of gratitude toward a providential cosmos. Our intentions and actions must be in accord with the way things happen in Nature rather than in opposition to them. When we learn to live in agreement with Nature, we can look directly at the storm clouds forming on the horizon or the promise of riches that await on a distant shore without being overwhelmed by the passions either of those impressions typically invoke. We can welcome Fortuna into our lives as our teacher and proclaim, as Marcus did: Everything suits me that suits your designs, O my universe. Nothing is too early or too late for me that is in yourown good time. (Meditations 4.23)

Seneca’s writings reveal a committed Stoic, a pious soul, and an inspirational moral philosopher. Nevertheless, some of his actions and financial dealings have generated doubt about his genuineness. Seneca is a mixed bag if the historical record can be trusted. However, it is crucial to keep in mind that Seneca engaged in politics at the highest levels of the Roman Empire, which was the dominant world power of his time. Thus, he had powerful enemies, not the least of which was the infamous Emperor Nero. When I imagine a man like Seneca in our modern political game of character assassination, I can easily find room to believe much of his negative press was politically motivated. I’m not going to dive into the morass of conflicting scholarship about Seneca; However, I offer the following quote as a balanced opinion, Naturally, we can have no more certainty that Seneca actually followed his own moral teaching than we can have about any person from antiquity. At best, the sources allow us to extract certain implications for a prominent individual like Seneca. But common opinion about his person seems very much affected, first, by the bare fact that he was a wealthy man, as if that alone would have made him selfish and hypocritical by definition, and, second, by a peculiar fusion of the tutor and counselor Seneca with the student and Emperor Nero, who is best remembered for his bad morality. Here it seems to matter little that our sources suggest that the emperors ‘good period’ was in fact precisely when he was under Seneca's influence. The stereotyped image of Seneca as a pretentious hypocrite is amazingly widespread, often simply found ‘as a stock assertion dragged from one second-hand work to another’.[1] As Stoics, I think we should take Seneca's writings at face value. They inspired multitudes in the past, and they do the same today. Many of the early Christian Church Fathers thought highly of Seneca and considered him a moral exemplar. Tertullian, a second-century Christian apologist, even referred to him as “our Seneca.” Regardless of the ambiguous historical record, Seneca’s writings reveal his deep philosophical thought and reverence for divine Nature. Letters to Lucilius Throughout his writings, Seneca refers to the relationship between the gods and us. In Letters 1.5, he calls this relationship a “kinship” and claims it is “sealed by virtue.” Later, in Letters 31, titled Our mind’s godlike potential,[2] he suggests a committed devotion to philosophy, as a way of life, raises us above our human nature toward our godlike potential. How? Through virtue, which he defines as: [T]he evenness and steadiness of a life that is in harmony with itself through all events, which cannot come about unless one has knowledge and the skill of discerning things human and divine. (Letters 31.8) Again, in Letters 53, Seneca argues that a mind committed to philosophy will be near to the gods and can experience the “tranquility of God.” He points out the tremendous power of philosophy to “beat back all the assaults of chance” and claims, No weapon lodges in its flesh; its defenses cannot be penetrated. When fortune’s darts come in, it either ducks and lets them pass by, or stands its ground and lets them bounce back against the assailant. (Letters53.11-12) In Letters 41, titled God dwells within us, Seneca covers the topics of Stoic physics and theology in some detail. First, he makes a clear distinction between the practices of personal religion and those of conventional religions. As I discussed in previous episodes, Stoicism was never a religion in the traditional sense, with altars, temples, and priests. Nevertheless, the Stoics were deeply spiritual and reverential toward God, which they conceived as an immanent and creative force that permeates and providentially guides the cosmos and humankind. Seneca begins Letters 41 by asserting, You need not raise your hands to heaven; you need not beg the temple keeper for privileged access, as if a near approach to the cult image would give us a better hearing. The god is near you—with you—inside you. I mean it, Lucilius. A sacred spirit dwells within us, and is the observer and guardian of all our goods and ills. However we treat that spirit, so does the spirit treat us. In truth, no one is a good man without God. Or is there anyone who can rise superior to fortune without God’s aid? It is God who supplies us with noble thoughts, with upright counsels. In each and every good man resides a god: which god, remains unknown. (Letters 41.1-2) Scholars suggest this reference to God as unknown comes from Virgil’s Aeneid, where King Evander leads Aeneas to a grove and says, …this hill with its crown of leaves is a god’s home, whatever god he is. (Aeneid 8.352) As an educated Roman, Lucilius would have been familiar with Virgil’s epic poem about the foundations of Roman civilization. However, this reference begs the question. Why would Seneca quote a passage referring to an unknown god in a letter about the God that dwells within us? I think this is illustrative of the Stoic conception of God. Cleanthes, the second Scholarch of the Stoa, referred to the divinity as the God of many names in his deeply spiritual Hymn to Zeus. For the Stoic, God is immanent in all of creation. Therefore, whether God, Nature, Zeus, universal Reason, etc., the name we choose does not matter. They all point to the same concept—divine rationality that permeates the cosmos and is the source of its ongoing existence. Next, Seneca discusses the religious awe many people experience while in the majestic presence of Nature. If you happen to be in a wood dense with ancient trees of unusual height, where interlocking branches exclude the light of day, the loftiness and seclusion of that forest spot, the wonder of finding above ground such a deep, unbroken shade, will convince you that divinity is there. If you behold some deeply eroded cavern, some vast chamber not made with hands but hollowed out by natural causes at the very roots of the mountain, it will impress upon your mind an intimation of religious awe. We venerate the sources of great rivers; we situate an altar wherever a rushing stream bursts suddenly from hiding; thermal springs are the site of ritual observance; and more than one lake has been held sacred for its darkness or its measureless depth. (Letters 41.3) Next, Seneca makes an interesting comparison. He compares this experience of the divine in Nature to the experience of encountering a sage-like person—a person who lives up to their godlike potential. He wrote: So if you see a person undismayed by peril and untouched by desire, one cheerful in adversity and calm in the face of storms, someone who rises above all humankind and meets the gods at their own level, will you not be overcome with reverence before him? That eminent and disciplined mind, passing through everything as lesser than itself, laughing at all our fears and all our longings, is driven by some celestial force. Such magnitude cannot stand upright without divinity to hold it up. In large part, then, its existence is in that place from which it has come down. (Letters 41.4-5) So, what is the source of this divinity which holds up the “eminent and disciplined mind” of this person? Seneca writes: Even as the sun’s rays touch the earth and yet have their existence at their point of origin, so that great and sacred mind, that mind sent down to bring us nearer knowledge of the divine, dwells indeed with us and yet inheres within its source. Its reliance is there, and there are its aim and its objective: though it mingles in our affairs, it does so as our better. (Letters 41.4-5) In other words, the god-like mind we see in this sage-like person has its source in “that great and sacred mind” that permeates the cosmos. As Pierre Hadot notes in his marvelous book The Inner Citadel, the Stoics thought: It is impossible that the universe could produce human rationality, unless the latter were already in some way present within the former.[3] Many moderns gloss over passages like this because they consider them religious nonsense. However, Seneca and the other Stoics thought this conception of the cosmos the most reasonable inference from their observations of nature. Seneca is arguing for the existence of an inherent intelligence in the cosmos, and many modern scientists agree. In response to an inquiry from a young girl, Einstein wrote: …everyone who is seriously involved in the pursuit of science becomes convinced that some spirit is manifest in the laws of the universe, one that is vastly superior to that of man. In this way the pursuit of science leads to a religious feeling of a special sort, which is surely quite different from the religiosity of someone more naive.[4] Einstein did not believe in a personal God, and he was not an advocate of organized religion; nevertheless, he asserted that “individuals of exceptional endowments” could rise to a “third stage of religious experience” he called “cosmic religion” where, The individual feels the futility of human desires and aims and the sublimity and marvelous order which reveal themselves both in nature and in the world of thought. Individual existence impresses him as a sort of prison and he wants to experience the universe as a single significant whole.[5] Einstein’s definition of cosmic religion is consistent with the theology and religious sentiment of the Stoics, who called this intelligence within the cosmos logos and considered it divine. For the Stoics, a fragment of the same logos (rationality) which permeates and rationally orders the cosmos also serves as our guiding principle or hegemonikon—our rational mind. Thus, when we live according to Nature, as the Stoics prescribed, our rational faculty is in coherence with the divine, rational mind (logos) permeating the cosmos. ...

What defined a Stoic above all else was the choice of a life in which every thought, every desire, and every action would be guided by no other law than that of universal Reason. ~ Pierre Hadot[i] The Stoics placed a rational, divine, and providentially ordered cosmos at the center of their philosophical system and relied on it to guide their every thought, desire, and action. For the Stoic, Nature is the measure of all things. Therefore, the Stoics argued to experience well-being (eudaimonia), we must live in agreement with Nature. [i] Hadot, P., & Chase, M. (1998). The Inner Citadel: The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, p. 308 FULL TRANSCRIPT COMING SOON

Never say about anything, “I have lost it”; but say, “I have returned it.” Has your little child died? “It has been returned.” Has your wife died? “She has been returned.” “I have been robbed of my land.” No, that has been returned as well. “But it was a bad person who stole it.” Why are you bothered about the individual the donor used to demand its return? As long as these things are given to you, take care of them as things that are not your own, just as travelers treat their lodging. (Ench 11) SHOW TRANSCRIPT COMING SOON

Sickness is an impediment to the body, but not to the will unless the will wants to be impeded. Lameness is an impediment to the leg, but not to the will. If you tell yourself this at every occurrence, you will find the impediment is to something else but not to yourself. (Ench 9) Epictetus uses two dispreferred indifferents in this lesson, and both are related to our body: sickness and lameness. Then, he points out that each of these impairments presents a hindrance to our body but not to our will. The Greek word translated as “will” in this passage is prohairesis, and it has deep meaning in Stoicism. I discussed prohairesis briefly in Episode 34; however, I think a more detailed look at this concept will be helpful. However, before we cover prohairesis, let’s look at the concept of body in Stoic physics. This concept applies equally to all bodies, whether rocks, plants, animals, or humans, so it will shed some light on Encheiridion 9. In Stoicism, only bodies exist; therefore, everything that exists is a body. All bodies are a mixture of two principles—the passive principle (primary matter) and the active principle (logos or pneuma). The Stoic definition of a body is that which can act or be acted upon. Understanding this concept in Stoicism is essential because some people confuse it with modern reductive materialism. Some scholars even label the Stoics materialists, but they do not mean materialists in the modern sense where everything is reduced to matter. As Jacques Brunschwig points out in his chapter on Stoic Metaphysics in The Cambridge Companion to the Stoics, the Stoic version of ‘materialism’ is “vitalist-teleological” in contrast to the “mechanistic-antiteleological” version of the Epicureans.[1] The Epicureans were the reductive materialists in Hellenistic times. That is why it’s essential to understand when scholars refer to Stoics as materialists, they do not mean like the Epicureans or modern materialists. A.A. Long argues: It is misleading to describe the Stoics as ‘materialists’. Bodies, in the Stoic system, are compounds of ‘matter’ and ‘mind’ (God or logos). Mind is not something other than body but a necessary constituent of it, the ‘reason’ in matter. The Stoics are better described as vitalists.⁠[2] Here we see the basis of Stoic physics. Everything that exists is a body composed of matter and mind (God, logos, or pneuma). Therefore, humans are composed of matter and mind. I have more to say about this in a minute. First, let’s cover this concept of prohairesis in Stoicism. Scholars have used different English words to translate the Greek word prohairesis; here are some of them. Translations of prohairesis: will (A.A. Long; George Long) A.A. Long - WILL A favorite term in Epictetus (Greek prohairesis ) for a human being’s power of self-determination and mental disposition. The word is sometimes translated by choice, purpose, volition, or decision, but in my opinion “will” is the most natural English expression for what Epictetus seeks to convey with it.[3] choice (Robin Hard, John Sellars) Sellers - choice (prohairesis) Epictetus' name for the conscious decision-making part of the commanding faculty; what might now be called the "will" or "I".[4] moral purpose (W.A. Oldfather) moral character (Keith Seddon) prohairesis ‘moral character’; the capacity that rational beings have for making choices and intending the outcomes of their actions, sometimes translated as will, volition, intention, choice, moral choice, moral purpose. This faculty is understood by Stoics to be essentially rational. It is the faculty we use to ‘attend to impressions’ and to give (or withhold) assent to impressions. Those things which are outside the scope of one’s prohairesis are the aprohaireta, which are aprohairetos and ‘external’ (ektos), and ‘not in our power’ (ouk eph’ hêmin); Discourses30.3, 2.16.1, 3.3.14, 3.8.1–3.[5] faculty of choice (Nicholas White) mind (Robert Dobbin) decision or choice (Christopher Gill) In his introduction to the Robin Hard translation of the Discourses of Epictetus, Christopher Gill, a recognized scholar of Stoicism, notes the following: The interface between ethics and physics provides a number of important Stoic ideas, centring on the idea that the natural universe provides an informing framework for ethical life. The universe, or its shaping, or ‘divine’’, element, does so either as a paradigm of order, structure, and rationality or as a source of providential care for the component parts of the universe, especially human beings, who share its ‘divine’ rationality. A related idea is that for human beings to exercise their capacity for rational agency is to act in line with the rational (divine) direction of the universe as well as with one’s own inner, rational ‘guardian spirit’ (daimōn). This complex of ideas has a prominent place in the Discourses, as also in some other writings on Stoic practical ethics, notably, Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations. Epictetus stresses especially the last idea, accentuating the idea of God as director of the universe and as the source of the divine rationality in us. Another theme stressed is that the capacity to exercise rational agency in developing towards virtue (expressed as our prohairesis) is a fundamental, or inalienable, human capacity, which is built into the natural, divinely shaped universe.[6] Now that I’ve covered both body and mind as conceived by the Stoics, it’s important to note the Stoics were not dualists. The mind is not something separated from matter in Nature. Remember that mixture of the passive and active principles. According to the Stoics, everything that exists—all the way down—is composed of both principles. Additionally, according to the Stoics, the mind is not a product of the brain. This contradicts the modern materialist theories of consciousness as an illusion or an epiphenomenon. Instead, for the Stoics, mind is there at the ground level, and its source is the same rationality (logos) that permeates the cosmos. As I pointed out in Episode 35, Pierre Hadot makes note of this in The Inner Citadel. He wrote: In fact, all the dogmas of Stoicism derive from this existential choice. It is impossible that the universe could produce human rationality, unless the latter were already in some way present within the former.⁠[7] This is consistent with a theory that is currently gaining substantial traction in the scientific and academic community. The theory is called panpsychism, and it claims consciousness is a fundamental property of the universe. Modern panpsychism shares many similarities with the physics of the ancient Stoics. Were the Stoics panpsychists? That depends on how one defines panpsychism. David Skrbina, a senior lecturer in the department of philosophy at the University of Michigan, and author of a definitive book on the topic titled, Panpsychism in the West, certainly thinks they were. He wrote The Stoics were thus thoroughly panpsychist in their outlook on the world, and they developed a theory of the cosmos that was perfectly compatible with that outlook.[8] Whether or not the Stoics should be classified as panpsychists, the idea that consciousness is a fundamental property of the universe certainly provides some support for Stoic physics. Interestingly, an ever-increasing number of scientists, philosophers, and consciousness researchers are abandoning reductive materialism for panpsychism. Today, numerous prominent thinkers from various fields are ditching materialism and turning to panpsychism because it offers a coherent explanation for human consciousness. Do a little research, and you will find panpsychism is not a fringe idea anymore. Those moderns who remain committed to reductive materialism and claim Stoic physics is outdated and must be abandoned may soon be the ones left clinging to an obsolete theory. I hear Modern Stoics want to update Stoic physics based on the best available facts; in that case, we should replace the conception of a mechanical universe with the entangled cosmos discovered by quantum physics more than a century ago. Likewise, it’s time to discard the century-old promissory note from reductive materialism to solve the puzzle of human consciousness and consider the possibility an innate intelligence or rationality permeates the cosmos at every level, as panpsychism suggests. Modern Stoics who demand we “follow the facts” are relying on a rapidly waning worldview to make that demand. If we’re going to update Stoic physics, let’s do it right, with the best available facts and theories from the twenty-first century. Back to Encheiridion 9. Sickness and lameness are impediments to our body; however, they do not impede our will, purpose, volition, moral character, faculty of choice, or whatever English word we choose for prohairesis. Our ability to choose between what is up to us and what is not up to us is not impeded by impediments to our body. Obviously, we can create a list of diseases that affect the brain and inhibit or destroy our rational faculties. Epictetus is not talking about extreme cases like that. The list of sicknesses that can debilitate the body and leave the mind intact is substantially longer. If we want an extreme example of this, the brilliant scientist Stephen Hawking provides one. The point is this: the overwhelming majority of physical ailments or disabilities we can experience leave our prohairesis intact. Therefore, they do not affect our moral character unless we choose to allow them to do so. In his book Greek Models of Mind and Self, A.A. Long wrote: Most literally eudaimonia means a divinely favored dispensation. The daimon constituent of the word combines a generic sense of divinity with the notion of fate or fortune. By prefixing to daimon the adverb eu, which qualifies an activity or condition as excellent, the Greek language had a composite term for express