Mere Stoicism

Yes, the title to this post borrows from the title of C.S. Lewis' collection of broadcasts made by him in his capacity as chief Christian apologist after the death of G.K. Chesterton (or so I think).  Unlike Chesterton, Lewis was more smug than clever, a characteristic of apologists throughout history, but one which Chesterton managed to control.  Chesterton also managed to defend Christianity without creating an elaborate fantasy world, which strikes me as a more effective approach if one is inclined to defend a religion or belief system which clearly must be defended, or else there would be no apologists.  A religion which produces apologists must be questionable by nature, but appears especially questionable if its apologists must defend it by resort to fantasies.

I don't think Stoicism requires apologists, and don't intend to be one.  That's not what this post is about.  It's meant to explore the limits of Stoicism or what it must be to have no limits, if that's possible.

The limits I refer to relate to its effectiveness in achieving tranquility, and in avoiding sadness or despair.  I sometimes am inclined to think there are limits and that they're unavoidable, particularly with respect to what has taken place.  In other words, I wonder whether the maxims of Stoicism, which are so sensible and seemingly effective in relating to the here and now and anticipating the future, suffice to provide solace regarding the unending, irrevocable past.

The past would seem to be necessarily a matter beyond our control, and therefore nothing to be disturbed by according to Stoicism, and particularly according to Epictetus.  To the extent what took place in the past has consequences now, Stoicism serves to address those consequences, and thought and conduct may serve to diminish their effects.  One might remedy what took place in the past in that manner and in that sense, and one may, with effort, not allow the effects of past actions in the present to be unduly disturbing.  

That's to consider past actions.  What, though, about past omissions, and specifically those omissions which result in one having missed an opportunity, being unable to do what one desperately wants to do or have a life which one longs for now?  The disturbance and despair one feels in that case, especially in highly personal and subjective human matters such as love and happiness, can be painful in the extreme.  It can find expression in our dreams or in sudden encounters with things or persons we know from the past and are unavoidable.  You don't see them coming.

Regret is futile, of course.  There's nothing more futile.  As a result, it should be avoidable.  But how do we avoid what cannot be avoided because it can't be altered, and when what could have been cannot be?  There's nothing to fix.  Nothing can be made better.  Mistakes can't be "made good."

Perhaps the power of regret lies in the fact that nobody else is responsible for what took place, and what didn't take place.  It's easier to ignore or discount things beyond your control when you didn't cause them to be.  It's difficult to be indifferent to yourself, to your own acts, failure to act, or your own thoughts and feelings.

The Pathos of the Apologist

I read yesterday a book, apparently a classic of Christian Apologetics, entitled Your God is too Small:  A Guide for Believers and Skeptics, by J.B. Phillips.  It is an easy read.  It leads me to ponder the pathos of the apologist.  It seems to me that apologists, especially those who defend religion or, more generally, the belief in God, always disappoint when sincere.

It's better to disappoint than induce contempt or, at best, amusement.  Dr. Strangelove was delightfully amusing in his defense of his plan to use mines to protect the rich and powerful from the Doomsday Machine and repopulate the world, or at least the American part of it.  The religious apologist in defense of religion is never, never amusing.  In my experience, though, the religious apologist is sad.

A lawyer is familiar enough with special pleading.  In a sense, it is what lawyers do.  So, I think I know it when I see it.  I see it in Phillips' book, alas, and have seen it in the books of others like C.S. Lewis and Chesterton.  I moves me to wonder why such books are written.

Phillips, in what I think is a fairly perfunctory fashion, first describes and criticizes views of God which he feels are "too small" and therefore out of place in the modern world (the book was written in 1952).  He does so by the way of acknowledging, also I think in a perfunctory fashion, the problems with views held by certain, and it seems too many, Christians.   God viewed as "resident policeman" for example.  God as a revered, but very old and therefore old fashioned, gentleman.  These and other views he claims very naturally lead modern men and women to think Christianity to be out of touch with modern reality, and especially the discoveries of modern science.

He also maintains, however, that those who think of the God of the immense universe as necessarily detached from we humans and our concerns also view God as "too small."   According to Phillips, that's because we think God incapable of having a personal interest in us, something we shouldn't do of the Supreme Being.  He claims those who think God impersonal think of God merely as a great and powerful human, a kind of "managing director" too busy with other matters to pay attention to us as he naturally does by virtue of what he really is, a Father.

Well, I don't think that works.  I think it fairly evident that those who think God impersonal, at least in comparison with the exceedingly personal God of Christianity don't feel God is incapable of loving us in the manner we humans understand love because God is too busy.  Instead, I think that they do so because such a God isn't human.
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Be that as it may, having decried various views of God, even some Christian views, as "too small" Phillips then proceeds to tell us why only Christianity provides the means by which we escape the view of God as "too small."

He does so in a way I find interesting.  To a certain extent, he uses C.S. Lewis' idea that Jesus must have been God because he said he was God.  The argument is something like this:  Jesus was not a lunatic; only a lunatic would say he was God if he wasn't God; Jesus said he was God; therefore, Jesus was God.

The logic of it aside, a problem with this view is that the only evidence Jesus said he was God appears in a Gospel written decades after his death, while the other Gospel's do not claim he said he was God.  It's extremely likely that if he said he was God, this would be mentioned in the other Gospels.  The fact it isn't makes one wonder if he ever said what the Gospel of John claims.  In any case, one can't simply assume he ever said such a thing.  It's not a very solid foundation for an argument.

In writing this Phillips is merely repeating the argument of Lewis, though.  Most striking is his argument that (and now I paraphrase) if you really believe Jesus is God, you'll accept that he is God; you'll even know he's God in the sense that it will make perfect sense to you that he's God, and, well, that's as good as it gets when it comes to showing God exists.

There's other stuff in the book as well.  That the God of the universe had to become human in order to show us the way, etc., and this reconciles the impersonal God with the personal God.  Where do we get our conceptions of Beauty, Truth, Goodness than from God (well, I would say more than likely from interacting with the rest of the world and others than from somewhere or some being existing outside of time and space--whatever than means).  I confess I grew impatient.

Again, why bother?  I can understand that a believer would grow frustrated and angry at the assaults of the angry non-believers.  I suppose it's natural to defend what you believe in.  But I very much doubt that apologists convince anyone, and think that apologetics is simply "preaching to the choir."  If the arguments I've seen are representative, they aren't persuasive.  So, to believers and non-believers I say--believe, or don't believe, and be content, but most of all be silent.  That's my guide to believers and skeptics.

Apocalypse None

The Gospel of Mark is thought to be the oldest of the four Gospels which have been accepted by the Church and, it seems, Protestant churches as well.  As we know, there are other gospels which were unaccepted, if not purged, by the early Church and thus excluded from the canon.  The reasons for their exclusion makes an interesting study.

The Gospel of Mark is interesting in itself though.  In its original form, it didn't include what is included in other Gospels, particularly when it comes to appearances of Jesus after the Redemption.  It also includes statements it states were made by Jesus regarding what's generally described as the Second Coming and the commencement of the Kingdom of God which are considered troubling to many Christians.  Those statements are to the effect that it will occur during the lives of those to whom he spoke, or within a generation (e.g. Mark 9:1).

Early Roman critics of Christianity, such as Celsus, noted this and other peculiarities and inconsistencies  in the Gospels.  They also noted that at the time they wrote, those who heard Jesus speak these words and their generation had long since passed away, and the world continued on nonetheless just as it had for centuries.  They reasonably inferred from this that Jesus must have been a false prophet if not something worse.

No less a zealous apologist for Christianity than C.S. Lewis felt that this is most "embarrassing" passage in the Bible.  Earlier apologists were also well aware that the Gospel ascribed to Mark was a problem in various respects.  Origen wrote a book to refute Celsus, though it's thought he didn't do a very good job.

Christians and Christianity have struggled over the long years to account for the Gospel of Mark.  It was maintained at one time that this Gospel was a mere summary of the Gospel of Matthew, and less important.  Naturally, it couldn't be maintained that the Gospel of Mark was wrong, or inaccurate in any sense, if it was thought to be the Word of God.  But the fact that the available evidence indicates it was written before the other Gospels makes this explanation unhelpful.

And so rather than accepting that it's possible the words of the Gospel of Mark should be taken to mean what they clearly say, which would be to acknowledge that Jesus was wrong and so could not be God, those words have been the subject of interpretation.  For example, it's been claimed that what Jesus spoke of according to Mark was something different from the real Second Coming, but a spiritual one resulting from his death on the cross or his Resurrection, or was somehow intended to refer to the destruction of the Jewish Temple by the Romans in 70 C.E.

The Romans certainly destroyed the Temple.  I've now seen "with my own eyes" the Arch of Titus and the relief on it showing men of the legions marching in triumph holding the riches of the Temple. But it isn't clear to me why Jesus wouldn't simply have said that was what he was referring to, nor do I see how the Kingdom of God came to be established due to the sacking of Jerusalem.

Ancient writings, such as those of the obliging pet of the Flavian emperors, Josephus, tell us that the  Roman world and especially Palestine were host to a number of men who worked miracles and taught that the end of the world was coming.  Jesus thus was not unique in that respect.  It appears such men are not unique in our history, as there have always been those who proclaim the end of the world is nigh for one reason or another.  There are such men today, in fact, and like their successors they've found that they have admirers enough to keep them happy, and even wealthy though not wise.

I don't know enough of religions besides Christianity to say whether this ecstatic belief that the world will end and only certain of us will be saved is characteristic of religious belief everywhere, or limited to the various kinds of Christians.  Christians, though, have too often believed someone to be a prophet and have anxiously awaited the end of others, but not themselves.  Periodically they venture to some place or other, gathering at the appropriate time to witness the Second Coming, only to be disappointed.  Their prophet generally explains thereafter that he was wrong in his count, or misinterpreted signs given, and comes up with another date which in turn is found not to be the day the world ends or Jesus comes again.

This isn't all that surprising.  But what is surprising is that the people disappointed in their expectation of annihilation blithely accept explanations offered and believe that the end will come at whatever new date is selected by their erring leaders.

This kind of faith, if it may be so called, is difficult to explain.  The faith in an apocalypse must be very stubborn to survive continuing disappointment and the relentless survival of the world and its sinning inhabitants.  Mere stupidity can't provide the only explanation.  The hope for an end of the world must be extreme.

The world is a difficult place to live, but it's probably now a less cruel place than it was for the poor and disaffected of the Roman Empire nearly 2,000 years ago.  What is it in some of us that provokes such an enormous discontent, such a fervent dissatisfaction with the world and with other people, that we hope and pray that the world will be destroyed and most of us swept away by an angry god?t

The Gospel of Mark makes me wonder about how the early Church grew and Christianity became the state religion of the Roman Empire.  As those who expected the Kingdom of God to commence while they were still alive noticed that it had not arrived, did they come to question whether Jesus was God?  There are statements in Paul's letters which indicate he was aware of this possibility and spoke against it, even as he spoke against those followers of Christ who were too Jewish to accept that he was the (self-proclaimed) apostle appointed by God.  Is the Christianity we know that of Paul and not that of Jesus?  That isn't a new notion by any means.

 

Would Christianity have spread if Jesus was portrayed only as he is in the Gospel of Mark, in its original form?  In other words, would it have come to dominate the Western World without the later Gospels, the Acts, and the writings and travels of Paul, who never knew him while he was alive?  Or would it remain what pagans thought it was initially, a Jewish sect?

Regardless, we can see in this expectation of and hope for the end of the world, the thirst for martyrdom, and the reverence for the relics of saints which began very early, why educated Romans (like Marcus Aurelius) thought the Christians to be irrational and irresponsible, and even insane,  and why the Emperor Julian and others thought Christianity to be a death cult.

The Mind of an Apologist

Now and then I take up and read, without the urging of a divine voice as far as I know, a work devoted to a defense of religion or belief in God.  I think I do so in the hope that I will find one which is convincing or at least worthy of respect.  I have not yet encountered such a work, alas. 

Dorothy Sayers, known for her detective fiction and the character she created, Lord Peter Wimsey, wrote such a work or two regarding Christianity, though it's not clear that she felt she did.  One of them is called The Mind of the Maker, which I'm currently reading.

When I say it's not clear she felt she was writing as an apologist I refer to the somewhat irritated preface of that book, in which she complains that another work she wrote was taken to be in the apologetic line when it was not; it was, she maintains, simply an effort to explicate Christian doctrine, and so could not be taken as a defense of it let alone as an expression of personal beliefs.  One might infer, then, that The Mind of the Maker was similarly written as an explanation, not justification, but thus far that's an inference I find difficult to make.  I can't help but wonder if she was hedging her bets, in the hope that she could respond to any criticism of her claims by stating that they're not hers, but that of the Christian faith.

She was a friend of another apologist, C.S. Lewis.  I've read him as well, and also G.K. Chesterton.  I've been disappointed by both Lewis and Chesterton, but perhaps they didn't think they were apologists either.  Lewis struck me as illogical and gullible (in his acceptance of Christian assertions), and Chesterton struck me as someone who did not think or argue so much as relentlessly manufacture mots.

Sayers' book addresses the doctrine of the Trinity, and naturally enough references St. Augustine's De Trinitate.  It seems she feels as he felt that the concept of the Trinity is something which we can understand by analogy with similar aspects of nature, i.e. the universe, and our interaction with it.  She evidently thinks that God as creator can be understood through contemplation of the creative process engaged in by artists, including writers of fiction like herself, because artists in creation engage in a process which itself involves a trinity--Energy, Idea and Power, which come into play not necessarily in that order.  And, since this creative process involves a trinity....etc.  It's perhaps unsurprising that she associates herself with God in this fashion (although I for the life of me cannot think of God as a lawyer).

I'm not that far into the book, but already I feel myself anticipating another disappointment.  St. Augustine indulged in this sort of thing as well, finding triads of all kind in all sorts of things (for example the act of seeing) which are in or take place in nature.  Indeed, C.S. Peirce was big on triads.  The number 3 has long been considered by some to be magical or mystical.  Perhaps this means something.

However, it seems to me this imposition of categories of three on the universe is facile and artificial.  Why not categories of four or five, or more?  We can do that sort of thing with relative ease.  Impulse, Energy, Idea and Power--how's that?  Interaction, Impulse, Energy, Idea and Power.  Why not?

She responds to critics who maintain that God should not be compared to humans and ascribed human characterises by claiming that we're always anthropomorphizing.  I suppose we do, or at least do so quite often.  It doesn't follow from this, though, that God should be ascribed human characteristics, nor does it follow from this that God shouldn't be thought of as having certain human characteristics in particular.

She maintains that biblical claims that God punishes not only sinners but their innocent descendants doesn't really mean that God does anything of the sort.  It is rather a metaphor reflecting the fact that certain conduct results in adverse consequences which continue over time.  Metaphor and analogy abound in Christianity, of necessity as we cannot truly understand the divine.

Well, at this time I sigh and go on reading.  But it seems to me that the efforts of these apologists consist in ignoring that which they purport to defend, or interpreting it in manner which requires they disregard it "as is."  That's been going on for some time.  In my reading so far, apologists for established religions have invariably expounded on claims and constructed arguments which, if they are valid, don't require the acceptance of aspects of those religions which render them unique and which are seemingly essential to them in the sense they make them different from other religions.

Thomas Aquinas repeated arguments for the existence of God made long before by pagan philosophers and claimed they established the existence of the Christian God, which one would think would of necessity have been different from the god of the pagan philosophers.  If the Christian God was not different, well and good, but Thomas presumably would have been loathe to make that claim.  If the Christian God is different, has the existence of a different god been proved by the philosophers? 

An apologist for a religion whose apology does not address that which distinguishes the religion does not defend or justify that religion.  Instead, the apologist establishes that he/she is unable to defend or justify its distinctive features.  The apologist unwittingly thereby puts the veracity of the religion in doubt. 

For which, no doubt, the apologist should apologize.