On a somewhat recent visit to the local Phuoc Hue Buddhist Temple with some of my students, I heard Venerable Thích Quang Trí say something during his lesson that has stuck with me: in essence, if someone says something poorly about you, and it’s false, then it’s just that: it’s their falseopinion of you. You are not responsible to change them. You can’t control them. So, you must let it go lest it controls you. (But if they say something negative that is true, then we need to learn from what is said and adjust.)
As I read Epictetus’ Encheiridion, I came across a similar comment that I want to share. It comes from Section 28 (Long, p. 43). He writes, “If somebody in the street were entrusted with your body, you would be furious, Yet you entrust your mind to anyone around who happens to insult you, and allow it to be troubled and confused. Aren’t you ashamed of that?”
There isn’t much commentary that I want to make; I only want to highlight the important connection. In both the sermon and this ancient text, we are reminded that words have control us. The words of other people, especially. If we let them dictate our thinking, especially when untrue, we’ve abandoned our independence. We’ve submitted ourselves to someone undeserving. We would fight if someone tried to do this to our bodies, so why do we give up the real estate of our minds so easily?
Epictetus has a way of assessing what is valuable about our lives as humans that I find refreshing. In our society (I speak as an American), most people determine your greatness based on wealth and power. (Interestingly, many Americans also think of our society as a “Christian” one…but that’s another discussion altogether.) Rarely do we admire people for their virtues. Maybe we admire wealthy and powerful people who seem to have retain some virtue but our admiration of their virtue is secondary. We’re surprised that they have money, power, and character. But for Epictetus, as I wrote in the last post, there’s nothing about being wealthy that makes someone inherently great. If someone is wealthy, that’s just it: they have a lot of wealth. It tells us little about them as a human. The same is true of power.
Epictetus and Wealth Now Epictetus doesn’t seem to be one who would say that we should “eat the rich”. He wasn’t anti-wealth. Nor is he anti-power. It’s just that he didn’t see these things as the be-all, end-all of human value like we are taught in capitalist societies. Epictetus saw wealth and power as things that someone might have, mostly by means that are beyond their control (e.g. born into a certain family; right place, right time opportunities). He didn’t deny that people who want wealth must pursue it, so there’s definitely some minimal contribution of human agency. But it is very minimal. Every wealthy and powerful person arrives where they do not because of the power of their will but because many things beyond their control went their way.
Here is what Epictetus appears to think of the decision to pursue wealth and power with our limited agency: it’s just an exchange. We’re making the decision to trade certain things for others. The trades aren’t necessarily “good” or “bad” but merely preferential. Let me share some excerpts that will explain what I mean (and remember, I’m using Long’s translation).
Judgments, Motivations, Desires, and Aversions First, Epictetus warns us “if you desire any of the things that are not up to us, you are bound to be unfortunate” (Section 2; Long, p. 9). Epictetus has stated already that the things that are up to us are judgments, motivations, desires, and aversions. In other words, our perspective on the world is our own; how we exist in the world is mostly outside of our control. Wealth and power aren’t judgments, motivations, desires, and aversions but we can judge that we want wealth and power, be motivated to attain it, desire it, and be averse to experiences like poverty and powerlessness. But the only real choice that we’re making that’s in our control is the choice to value what we value. We could choose to value other things, like peace, tranquility, happiness, etc., which are more easily accessible as states of mind.
What We Value Second, we must take responsibility for what we decide to value, knowing it could let us down if we fail to earn the wealth and power of which we dream. Epictetus says (Section 5; pp. 11, 13), “It is not things themselves that trouble people, but their opinion about things.” And “whenever we are frustrated, or troubled, or pained, let us never hold anyone responsible except for ourselves, meaning our own opinions.” With regard to what I’m saying here, if we pursue wealth and power and we fail, we have no one to blame for the fact that we invested so much of our emotion into those externals.
Entitled to Nothing Third, we should see nothing of this sort as owed to us. We are not entitled to wealth or power, no matter who we are. Epictetus reminds us (Section 11, p. 19), “Never say about anything, “I have lost it’; but say, ‘I have returned it’.” If we have wealth and power at one moment, and then we lose it at the next, it was never “ours”. We had it on loan. (More intensely, Epictetus says this about the death of a loved one like a spouse or a child, for even with regard to people that precious to us, he stands by his assertion that we must remember that we can’t control whether they are with us or not. This has been a harder teaching for me to accept but I’m still processing why I’m open to Epictetus’ posture toward wealth and power while much more resistant to his posture toward lost loved ones. That being said, in his era, life-spans were shorter and one was more accustom to experiencing the death of a spouse or a child than we are, so it was something with which a first century CE Roman had to learn to cope.)
Distrust Yourself Fourth, as I’ve discussed in another post (see “‘If people think you amount to something, distrust yourself'”), even if we pursue wealth and power, we should never allow ourselves to buy into our own hype. Epictetus writes in Section 13 (p. 21), “Even if some people think you are somebody, distrust yourself.” Oh that many of the world’s most wealthy, influential, and powerful people had an ounce of this self-awareness. Maybe to be a major player on the world stage like a Putin, or a Jinping, or a Trump, you have to have a level of narcissism that drives you to bulldoze forward no matter what but I don’t know that our world is better with such men in power. What if such men paused to have a moment of doubt as to whether they should be where they are, acting toward others as they do. Imagine.
Appearances Can Be Deceptive Fifth, Epictetus reminds us that people who have wealth and power may not be as satisfied as they appear. He writes in Section 19 (p. 29):
“When you see someone honored ahead of you or holding great power or being highly esteemed in another way, be careful never to be carried away by the impression and judge the person to be happy. For if the essence of goodness consists in things that are up to us, there is room for neither envy nor jealousy, and you yourself will not want to be a praetor or a senator of a consul, but to be free. The only way to achieve this is by despising the things that are not up to us.”
A modern example that stands out to me is Elon Musk. The man spends hours on “X/Twitter”. There are days he tweets over a hundred times.He’s reported to have a burner account to fight online with his enemies. His cult of personality leads some to worship him thinking that “he’s playing chess while everyone else is player checkers” but what’s his goal. He’s the wealthiest man in the world and clearly, that doesn’t satisfy. He has to ear of powerful politicians, but that doesn’t satisfy. I’m skeptical that he’s a man who can be satisfied and by this I mean that he’s a man who could embrace happiness, peace, and tranquility. He needs drama. He needs a fight. Clearly, he needs to be constantly distracted. The billions aren’t enough. Epictetus would remind us that we should be very careful when we become jealous of such people. Do we want their lives, really? If your happy, at all, then you may want a piece of his financial security but I guarantee that if a genie offered you the chance to swap places with him, you’d turn down the offer.
Satisfaction Starts Inside Sixth, this is because Epictetus believes that if you aren’t satisfied with yourself, there’s nothing wealth and power can provide you. In Section 23 (p. 33), he writes, “If you ever find yourself looking for outside approval in order to curry favor, you can be sure that you have lost your way.” And in Section 24, he says that we should not worry about living a life “without honor” in fear that we’ll be “a nobody everywhere”. Instead, we should embrace the reality that we “need to be somebody only in the things that are up to you, and in them you can be a top person” (p. 35). Personally, this means trying to be a good husband, father, and teacher. I don’t need to be somebody to many; I need to be much to a few.
Pursue Wealth, If You Can Preserve Honor, Integrity, and Moral Principles Seventh, Epictetus addressed whether we should seek wealth (and we can add power) so that we can support others, like our friends. His response (in Section 24; pp. 35, 37)?
“If I can get it and preserve my honor and integrity and moral principles, show me the way, and I will get it. But if you are asking me to lose the good things that are mine just for your to acquire things that are not good, you can see how unfair you are and how ungenerous. Would you rather have money or a trustworthy and honorable friend?”
Similarly, Epictetus sees this commitment to honor, integrity, and moral principles as a patriotic act that benefits one’s nation: “And if you were to supply your country with another trustworthy and honorable citizen, would you not being doing it a benefit?” If we sacrifice our values, Epictetus warns (p. 39), “…if you lose this character in wanting to benefit your country, and you end up dishonorable and untrustworthy, what benefit would you be?”
Weigh the Costs Finally, back to the most important point: all pursuits are exchanges. Epictetus advises (Section 29; p. 45):
“In every undertaking, examine its antecedents and their consequences, and only then proceed to the act itself. If you don’t do that, you will start enthusiastically, because you have not thought about any of the next stages; then, when difficulties appear, you will give up and be put to shame.”
He uses the example of somehow who wants to glory of being an Olympian. He doesn’t tell them that they can’t pursue this goal, but that they must count the cost of the exchange (p. 45):
“You must train, keep a strict diet, stay off pastries, submit to a regular regimen each day, summer or winter, drink no cold water and no wine except at appropriate times; in other words, you have to surrender yourself to the trainer just as you would the doctor. Then in the actual contest you have to dig in alongside the other contestants, and perhaps dislocate your hand or twist your ankle, swallow a lot sand, get flogged, and with all of this lose the fight”
Even if one is to commit to be a philosopher in the Stoic way, they must be prepared to lose some things in order to gain others; they must be prepared for certain hardships the lead to certain rewards. Life is about making decisions; it’s about exchanging this for that. “Think about all this then see whether you want to exchange it for calm, freedom, and tranquility” (p. 49).
In my next post, I’ll share some of Epictetus’ words about reputation and worrying about how others view us.
Last week I read A.A. Long’s translation of Epictetus’ Encheiridion and excerpts from his Discourses, titled How to be Free: An Ancient Guide to the Stoic Life. I know Stoicism is en vogue right now but there’s much of the philosophy that I find attractive, whether trendy or not. A while ago, I read a bunch of Seneca’s Letters from a Stoic. The principles were agreeable to me. Likewise with Epictetus’ philosophy.
Epictetus (55-135 CE) was a Roman philosopher who had been a slave. His context is important because it’s different from those of us who have some way to participate in a democracy (though maybe not so different from people living in more authoritarian countries around the world, which could include the United States some day). As Long notes about Epictetus (p. xv), “The Roman world of his lifetime was an absolute autocracy, headed by the emperor or Caesar.” Epictetus didn’t have much hope for changing his world through campaigning, voting, or activism. As hard as it is to bring change about in our world, it was even harder in his. For this reason, the next best move was to turn inward to find freedom. According to Long (p. x), Stoics like Epictetus understood freedom to be “neither legal status nor opportunity to move around at liberty. It is a mental orientation of persons who are impervious to frustration or disappointment because their wants and decisions depend on themselves and involve nothing that they cannot deliver to themselves.” While many of us may have a more expansive experience of freedom (we can campaign, vote, participate in activism, start a business, etc.), the truth of the matter is that as individuals most of us are quite limited in our impact and our influence on the world, so the “inward turn” remains valuable because this is where our “locus of control” lies.
For Epictetus, there are aspects of our world that are “up to us” like our motivations, desires, and aversions: “in short, everything that is our own doing” (p. 3). Most things are “not up to us” like our “body and property, our reputation, and our official positions—in short, everything that is not our doing.” This can be a liberating insight, even now. We can’t control the body that we were born into, or the wealth with which we started, or how people think of us, or whether we get the job we want. Biology, and societies, and economies, and other systems control much of who we are and what we have. Even those who become billionaires need things to break a certain way and they need to do business in a certain system that is rewarding certain innovations at the right time. Jeff Bezos, for example, doesn’t happen in just any context, so the idea that he’s self-made ignores pretty much everything about reality. This is a freeing insight. Those of us raised with the myth of “the American Dream” were told that anybody can become anything if they work hard enough for long enough. It’s a cute myth but merely a myth. Like all myths, it inspires certain people who “make it” but they’re the exception that proves the rule: the American Dream is a lottery. There are plenty of people who worked hard enough for long enough for very little reward.
I’m going to write a handful of posts sharing nuggets of wisdom from the Encheiridion. For this post, let me end with this one, since I’ve been talking about being a “have” or a “have not”. In Section 44 (p. 79 in Long), Epictetus shares two “inferences” that are “invalid”:
“I am richer than you, therefore I am better than you.”
“I am more eloquent that you, therefore I am better than you.”
Epictetus reminds us that as humans, we are “neither property nor diction”. We have property/wealth. We have rhetorical skill. But those things aren’t what we are. Instead, if someone is richer than others, rather than seeing themselves as better because of this accident (I used this in both the philosophical and colloquial sense of the word), they should accept what it means: to be wealthier than someone else doesn’t mean that I am better than them; it means that my wealth is greater. That’s it. I have more wealth than they do and for most of us, someone has more wealth than we do.
We judge ourselves by accidents of reality. We determine our worth by things that we don’t determine, no matter how much we’d like to believe that our hard work and ingenuity is the sole cause of our wealth, success, health, etc. This isn’t to say that we don’t contribute anything. I mean, Bezos did have a great idea at the perfect time…but he easily could’ve made a mistake here or a mistake there and there’s no Amazon as we know it. Nothing about the lives of people that we deem “successful” is inherit and inevitable; the same is true of those who are deemed failures or even just middle of the road.
A while back I was listening to The Herd featuring “American sports media personality” Colin Cowherd. Usually, he sticks to sports, providing his hot takes. But there was one day when he said something about American culture that struck me. I can’t remember the precise wording, or the context, but he praised the United States for being a place where if one “makes it” (in a capitalist sense), then one really makes it. We’re a high-risk, high-reward society. That means for the many who don’t make it, it’s natural to feel like a loser because our society exists as a competition that we welcome. America is held together in the same way that many professional sports organizations are: not so that all will succeed but so that the game itself can exist. Many poorer Americans perceive themselves as losers but rightfully so, admiring those who “succeed” (think of the adoration of Trump and Musk that we’ve seen from some circles), and sometimes hoping that they’ll get another shot to redeem themselves like we see in so many “rags-to-riches” Hollywood flicks. As many have said about Americans: we tend to think of ourselves as one big break from being millionaires when in reality most of us are one bad break from bankruptcy, especially if your health fails you. Most of us are far closer to being the person begging on the street corner than we are to being the next Jeff Bezos but our myths sustain us, so we ignore reality.
I think when many Americans despair the word “socialism” it’s because they agree with Cowherd: America’s greatness is—in the words of the Alicia Keys and Jay-Z song “Empire State of Mind”—the place where “if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere“. Americans see themselves as playing on the biggest stage. Sure, the “World Happiness Report” ranked us 15th overall with nations like Finland, Denmark, and Iceland ranking at the top but I imagine it’s a small portion of Americans who would trade for the secure happiness provided by those countries’ social safety nets and the other perks that come with being a more collectivist society.
No Pleasure without Pain In Friedrich Nietzsche’s The Joyous Science, Book 1, Section 12 (Hill translation), the philosopher provides a perspective that aligns with Cowherd’s and that of many Americans who see our country as “the greatest in the world” in spite of where we rank in measures like happiness, health, safety, etc. Nietzsche writes, “…suppose that pleasure and pain are so intertwined that whoever wants as much as possible of one must also have as much as possible of the other (p. 45). In other words, to experience the highest highs, one must risk experiencing the lowest lows. When we think of celebrities in our country, they have fame like no humans before them but often their lives are very complicated: addictions, failed marriages, or in the case of our athletes, the physical toll.
Nietzsche understood Stoicism, which is having a revival in our time, as a philosophy that encouraged seeking “little pleasure” because this would lead to less pain. Likewise, he understood “socialists and party politicians” as opting for a life where risks are minimized in exchange for offering a lower ceiling of pleasure. He writes, “…should you want to mitigate and assuage human suffering…you must also moderate and diminish the human capacity for joy.”
Nietzsche v. Epictetus This stands contrary to some of the Buddhist, Christian, and Stoic ideas that I’ve come to value, which emphasize human joy being found in minimizing suffering and being content with what one has. For example, this week I read Epictetus’ Encheiridion, and the emphasis from that ancient Roman philosopher (55-135 CE), who has once been a slave, is that true freedom is found in accepting what we might now call your “locus of control”. In Section 29, Epictetus tells his students that if they want to pursue the type of greatness that comes with say being an Olympian, then they should be aware of the cost. He doesn’t say that one shouldn’t pursue such goals; neither does he lionize doing so. Instead, one must be prepared to “exchange it for calm, freedom, and tranquility” (the “it” being the potential glories of achieving lofty goals). There’s something perplexing about human nature, especially as filtered through “the American Dream”: we know the path to peace but it bores us. Meaningfulness matters more than happiness. The philosophy of many Americans seems to be that they’d rather live somewhere where they can dream of greatness than somewhere they can be secure and at peace.
Are Ashramas the Answer? I find that as I’ve aged, I’m attracted to Buddhist and Stoic ideas but I recognize that when I was younger, I would’ve aligned more with Nietzsche’s perspective. (I’ve found Christianity to be easily molded to fit both perspectives, depending on the emphasis place on different parts of that tradition.) There was a stage in my life where I was obsessed with completing a Ph.D. Once that stage was over, I lost my taste for living in a state of constant ambition. I think I was burned out. I wanted to take life much slower, catch my breath. It seemed like one stage of life required certain things to be satisfied while the next stage has required other things.
In Indian philosophy, there’s the concept of “ashramas” or life-stages. One begins with a preparatory stage where they develop discipline and become educated (“Brahmacharya”); then move to the family and wealth building stage (“Grihastha”); then they transition more toward voluntary service and spirituality (“Vanaprashta”); finally one ends with a preparation for death and hopefully deliverance from the cycle of rebirth (moksha from samsara) during the last stage of life (“Sannyasa”). Maybe this is a middle way? Maybe we need our days seeking glory and our days seeking respite and calm?
Now Cowherd, Trump, Musk, Keys, and Jay-Z aren’t examples of this path. They seem to be pursuing Grihastha to the day they die. But ashramas might serve as a way to reconcile some of the truths that seem to resonate in the contradictory words of Nietzsche and Epictetus, acknowledging, of course, that this presentation is structured upon a metaphysics that many outside of India don’t embrace. Maybe Nietzsche is right for young people: take those risks; pursue great pleasure. Maybe Epictetus, the Buddha, Jesus, and others are better voices for when one comes to realize that all that glitters is not gold, and that once one achieves, the satisfaction fades quickly. In the later, wiser years—for those who find it—peace, calm, freedom, tranquility, etc., should be the goal. It could be argued that one can’t really value the reward of a peaceful, calm, free, tranquil life without having first tried to find satisfaction in the pursuit of greatness. Personally, I needed to see if I had the ability to earn a doctorate. Others have an itch to start a business, earn a million dollars, travel around the world, etc. Sometimes we achieve what we want and it’s a Pyrrhic victory. We’re left wondering if all the effort was worth it. But the fact of the matter is that for many people, they’d be left with the same cloud hanging over them if they never tried to “reach their full potential”. I don’t know what this says about people in the late stages of life who need more money, more property, more power, more, more, more. My suggestion here doesn’t reflect well on them but hey, maybe Nietzsche’s right and our one short life is best lived with our foot on the pedal and the pedal to the metal until the day we close our eyes for the last time.
Now that the holidays are upon us, and for the first time I’m a parent, I’ve been thinking about a dilemma. How do I approach the topic of Santa Claus with my son? I can think of three possibilities with pros and cons.
Option #1: embrace the Santa Claus mythology until he’s older and then inform him that it’s just a story that we have to outgrow
Pros: He gets to experience the joy of modern Christmas mythology. This will make the season a lot of fun. It’ll prevent him from being the strange kid who “doesn’t believe in Santa”. Hence, it has a function for social bonding. Like all mythologies, it’s one he’ll outgrow and this process helps young minds realize that there’s a difference between the stories we tell and facts about the world. There’s a time for this but childhood doesn’t seem to be it. For example, it seems like a parent would be a killjoy if they made a point to tell their kid that every Disney character they see in the movies “isn’t real”. It seems like bad parenting to say, “Now, I know you’re enjoying Frozen but I need you to understand that Anna and Elsa aren’t real!”
Cons: It feels like you’re lying to your kid when you tell them that Santa is real. And eventually, you have to break it to them that you’ve been misleading them. I’ve heard that when I was a child I was quite upset by this revelation at first until my mother told me that it wouldn’t change the number of gifts I received. Apparently, Santa became irrelevant, quickly!
AI generated image via Canva using the prompt “Santa confused about whether he exists”
Option #2: embrace the Santa Claus mythology until he’s older and then invite him to join us in “being Santa” for others
Pros: Some friends of mine had a slightly different approach. When their kids grew older, they told them that “Santa” is basically a collective. (Kind of like my theory of “Banksy”.) And that their parents and grandparents were part of this collective. And now that the kid is old enough, they are welcomed into this secret society of doing good for others around the holiday and giving gifts as “Santa”. Currently, I’m leaning this direction.
Cons: It has the same cons as the previous option. I think it makes a softer break between mythology and fact though. In some sense, it shows mythology can be true if we live it.
Option #3: reject the Santa Claus mythology because it could be understood as lying to my kid
Pros: We don’t lie to our kid. We don’t have to have that conversation some day about how Santa isn’t real. We emphasize logical and scientific thinking instead of the mythological and superstitious thinking that some people take with them even into adulthood (e.g. immature expressions of religion).
Cons: Our son becomes “that kid” who tells other kids that Santa isn’t real. It will change the meaning of the season for our kid. It will prevent them from enjoying a shared mythology. It introduces them very early to the sad reality that many of us experience when we grow up: the world isn’t as enchanting as it seemed. It pushes them toward “scientism” which rarely is emotionally or socially satisfying unless you’re reactionary or Neil DeGrasse Tyson.
My son isn’t old enough for this to matter for a couple of years. But that doesn’t mean that my wife and I shouldn’t be thinking ahead. What did readers of this blog who were parents do? Would you do anything different in retrospect? Is there an option that I’m not considering.
According to the Pew Research Center, in 2016, American dads spent about “triple the time” taking care of their children than they did fifty years ago (see “8 facts about American dads”): “Dads are much more involved in child care than they were 50 years ago. In 2016, fathers reported spending an average of eight hours a week on child care – about triple the time they provided in 1965.” In my view, this is moral progress. Fatherhood should be taken seriously. Fathers should invest heavily in their children. And I’m going to say something that sounds like a politically conservative talking-point but give me a chance to explain this assertion: once you become a father, it’s the most important vocation you can undertake. I think this is true of becoming a parent, in general. So yes, motherhood is the most important vocation you can undertake, once you become a mother.
Notice, unlike the Elon Musk’s of the world, I’m not advocating for having as many children as possible. Nor am I suggesting that becoming a parent is more important than, for example, choosing to pursue a demanding career or a religious vocation. Nor do I think there are absolutely concrete and universal ways to take parenting seriously. A single parent has particular demands that must be understood within that context. The same can be said of a parent struggling financially (which is why we should have strong safety nets for parents, if we’re the advanced and/or moral society we claim to be) or parents with particular health concerns (which is why we should have a robust health care system that doesn’t threaten people with unbearable financial burdens if they get sick—this includes “brain” or “mental” health). We might find it difficult to spend a lot of time with our children if these challenges face us.
But “all things being equal”, if you choose to become a parent, and you have the ability to spend time investing in your child’s health and well-being, then you must do this. It must be a priority. Here’s why I say this, and why my point isn’t the same as the one commonly heard on say Fox News. It comes down to consent. A child can’t consent to their coming into existence. As philosophers like David Benatar warn, when you have a child you put them as risk of the almost endless forms of suffering that could await them, from cancer to severe depression, to chronic pain or disabilities that aren’t accommodated by our society. Benatar takes this point so seriously, he argues that it’s immoral to have children, period. I disagree. When you have a child, you offer them all that is potentially good about existence. The moral thing to do is to try to build a world where all children have a better chance at experiencing all that is beautiful about being, from falling in love to eating tasty food to enjoying all forms of art to feeling a sense of accomplishment when we do something difficult. That said, I take Benatar’s argument seriously: you make the decisionfor them to exist. The gift of existence can become a curse, easily.
While I believe that all people are responsible for and obligated to other humans, I think the parent-child responsibility/obligation is the most demanding for this reason. I’m responsible for my students in a particular context but it’s not the same responsibility as that held by their parents. The responsibility of parenthood is the responsibility of direct causation. The responsibility of being an educator is the responsibility of interconnection or as some Buddhists call it, interbeing. As a parent, I impart existence itself where there might not have been existence. As an educator, I exist within a web of being wherein I have a particular connection to my students which comes with certain responsibilities and obligations, some which are immutable because I’m a sentient being living in a world with other sentient beings and my actions toward them impact all of us as a whole whereas other responsibilities are role-specific, like imparting knowledge and mentoring. If I quit teaching, or if they move on from being my student, then that latter responsibilities change. But if I see them in a store, or communicate with them via social media after they graduate, I remain responsible toward them as human to human, noting that I’m a human who was once their teacher. But I didn’t cause them.
My son that was born a couple of weeks ago, I caused his existence (in part) and therefore carry the burden of what kind of existence he might experience. This is immutable in the aforementioned sense of being a sentient being living in relation to him as a sentient being. If I cause him joy, then I have infused joy into our collective existence; if I cause him suffering, then I have infused suffering into our collective existence. More importantly, it’s immutable in the sense of my responsibility of consenting to his existence for him. This is analogous to being someone’s primary medical contact that makes decisions for them if they’re incapacitated without an advanced directive, except that it’s multitudes more demanding because as a parent you’re one of the primary agents in consenting on behalf of someone to the one thing that determines everything—their actual being in reality.
Now, as I said, I don’t know that we can lay down concrete, objective, universal examples of what it means to be a parent. There will be difficult decisions. Do I honor my decision to bring a child into the world by taking on that more demanding career that will drain my time and attention but provides me with the financial means to guarantee their health and well-being? Or do I honor my decision by doing my best to not live to work but to work to live, choosing a career that may pay less but provides me with more time for the emotional nourishing of my child? These are difficult decisions. The moral demand is for those decisions to be made with seriousness, recognizing the weightiness, and being willing to own those choices by saying, in honesty toward ourself, that we are doing what seems best for the person whose existence you determined for them.
This morning, I saw a post on Threads from user @matt_dean94 that said, “Anti-intellectualism is so ingrained in western culture that we have expressions like ‘know-it-all’, ‘smarty pants’, ‘geek’, ‘nerd’ etc. to insult the clever kids at school”. It reminded me of something I’ve heard in my classroom the past couple of years. Students have been using the insult “tryhard” to dismiss kids who put in effort. “Tryhard” is a pejorative that suggests that someone puts in too much effort or cares too much. Yes, it can be used for someone who is a “poser” (though I think there’s another discussion to be had as to whether being a poser is a bad thing) but often I’ve heard it used against students who just want to do well.
What’s the alternative to being a “tryhard”? A few weeks ago, I addressed the use of “tryhard” when I heard it. I asked this question: What’s the alternative? Even if you’re “naturally” intelligent—whatever that may mean—to call another kid a “tryhard” is to admit that you intentionally underperform. What would be the rational for that other than fear of failing? It seems unlikely that there is one. When we don’t try on purpose, it’s so that when we do fail we can tell ourselves, “Well, of course I failed, because I didn’t try.” To try and to fail can be devastating to our pride. In other words, to be something other than a “tryhard” is a defence mechanism used by someone who is afraid to take a risk; to put themselves out there; to fail.
To call someone else a “tryhard” is to brag that whatever success one has as a non-tryhard is handed to them by parents, teachers, their school, their college counselors, etc. It’s to admit that we’re willing to be carried by others and then take credit for it later. It’s to say that we got lucky enough to be part of systems—familial, educational, etc.—that can guarantee our success. It would appear to me that while being called a “tryhard” is supposed to a criticism, to be a non-tryhard can’t be anything other than criticism. It’s like bragging about nepotism. (And yes, sadly, I recognize that we do live in a world where people brag about benefitting from nepotism.)
Gary Plummer, or someone If my memory serves me correctly, when I was about 12 years old, I was watching the 49ers on TV and there was a player being interviewed. I think the player Gary Plummer whose last game was 1994. Again, I can’t claim that this is what I heard with precision but it’s an impression that’s stuck with me for decades that I’ve long attributed to Plummer. The player said something like, “Thank you to all the players who had so much more talent than I did but who didn’t put in the work.” In essence, the player was saying that he wasn’t the most naturally talented but that he was willing to outwork his peers. That willingness to put in the effort paid off and gave him opportunities he wouldn’t have had otherwise. That stuck with me and my mind has recalled it many times over the years. Plummer, or the player who I’m associating with Plummer, was a “tryhard” and it gave him a full NFL career.
Now, I don’t want to be heard as promoting “hustle culture” or being a work-a-holic. I don’t advocate for those mindsets. But there’s nothing wrong with wanting to do well. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to give one’s best. There’s nothing wrong with knowing you gave your all, put in full effort, and gave yourself a chance to fully experience something. For this reason, being a “tryhard” is a compliment, not a criticism.
Trying hard doesn’t guarantee success…but that’s not the point Being a “tryhard” doesn’t guarantee success. Our world is full of ignorant and incompetent people who are in positions of authority or have become wealthy. (This is why Plato warned that if wise people don’t govern, they’re guaranteed to be ruled over by fools!) Life is too complicated for all the good things to go to those who put in the effort. This is why meritocracy can be such a misleading ideology that lets people down. (A great book on that topic is Michael J. Sandel’s The Tyranny of Merit.) But something I want my students to understand, and something I’ll teach my son (who was born about almost two weeks ago and is doing great!), is that all you can control is your integrity. All you can control is knowing that you gave your best and stayed true to your values; that you lived fully in every context and gave yourself the opportunity to discover what you may enjoy in life. Yes, it’s true that you may hate Algebra no matter how hard you try…but you could end up loving Algebra and you’ll miss every single one of these potential experiences when you preemptively decide to save face by refusing to become vulnerable enough to find out what you truly enjoy in life. Youth is when you have this opportunity. It fades with adulthood. So, be a “tryhard” while you can. You never know what a little effort will help you discover about yourself and the world.
A week ago, I wrote about Svend Brinkmann’s distinction between the “problem-solving” and the “meaning generation” forms of thinking (“Two forms of thinking: problem-solving and meaning generating”). In Hannah Arendt‘s Life of the Mind,she presents a similar framing of “two…different mental activities” (p. 14). Prompted by Immanuel Kant’s “scandal of reason” “that is, the fact that our mind is not capable of certain and verifiable knowledge regarding matters and questions that it nevertheless can’t help thinking about”, i.e. “‘ultimate questions’ of God, freedom, and immortality”, Arendt argues that we have “the distinguishing of two faculties”. She calls them “reason and intellect” that she says “coincides with…thinking and knowing” which she frames as “mental activities”. These “mental activities” align with “two altogether different concerns, meaning…and cognition” (p. 14).
Kant’s “scandal of reason” can be addressed when we recognize the differences between:
Our “faculty” of “reason”, that is experienced through the “mental activity” of “thinking” which aligns with the “concern” of “meaning”.
Our “faculty” of “intellect”, that is experienced through the “mental activity” of “knowing” which aligns with the “concern” of “cognition”.
These two framings align with Brinkmann’s (1) “meaning generating” and (2) “problem-solving”. If we combine Brinkmann’s categories with Arendt’s, here’s what we get. Arendt uses the word “reason” to refer to the type of thinking (“mental activity” which she calls “thinking”) that is concerned with “meaning” or Brinkmann’s “meaning generating”. I might use my faculty of “reason” to “think” about the “meaning” of a concept like “God” or “freedom”. In response to Kant, yes, our mind is unable to ultimately arrive at sure “knowledge” of whether there’s a God, or what it means for us to be free, or if we’re immortal in some sense, but that doesn’t prevent us from pondering these questions seriously. Brinkmann’s “meaning generation” can be “instrumental” but more often than not, it’s “intrinsic”. We want meaning because meaning gives us the basis for living as humans rather than as robots. But as humans, we don’t exist only to “solve” problems. As humans, we benefit from reflecting on what we think “love” is or should look like (for example), even if there’s never an objective answer to be found to our questions.
Arendt uses the word “intellect” to refer to the type of thinking (“mental activity”) which she calls “knowing” that is concerned with “cognition” or Brinkmann’s “problem-solving”. I might use my faculty of “intellect” to “know” through “cognition” the answer to a mathematical question, or a question of logic, or through the empiricism of science. Brinkmann’s “problem-solving” can be “intrinsic” but more often than not, it’s “instrumental”. We want to solve problems because they help us live better in our world. As humans, if we focused on meaning alone, we’d starve to death. We’d live far less enjoyable lives with less time for leisurely thinking and other activities. As humans, we benefit from creating new technologies, trying to cure cancer, etc.
As I said in the aforementioned previous post, I don’t see these two approaches to thinking as opposites. But our society has begun to create an imbalance. We value intellect/knowing/cognition, or “problem-solving” but we’ve begun to devalue reason/thinking/meaning. In the United States, we’ve been playing with the health of our democracy. I know that education alone won’t save us. In fact, I don’t think “meaning generation” alone will save us. But I don’t think democracies can survive without “meaning generation”.
More than a decade ago, I admitted something out loud in a conversation that I knew to be true to how I felt but that I was embarrassed to articulate. I was in my early-30s and I was disillusioned with much of my life. Things weren’t going as I had imagined they’d go. And I said, “I thought I would live the type of life that someone would write a biography about.” As I said the words, I knew they sounded foolish. They sounded narcissistic. It’s likely that they were narcissistic and foolish. But these delusions of grandeur had come from a sincere place. While I can’t unpack all that went into this misguided vision, I can summarize things this way: I had embraced a bad theology that led me to think that if I dedicated my life to certain higher spiritual ideals (“seek first the kingdom of God”) and forsook debased, “worldly”, selfish pursuits (“and his righteousness”), I would be rewarded with a life that was full of significance and meaning (“and all of these things shall be added unto you”). When I say “significance and meaning” I mean divinely given significance and meaning (see the Gospel of Matthew 6:3). The kind of significance and meaning that you “know” comes “from above” because other people recognize it.
There’s a little prosperity Gospel in there. There’s a lot of problematic theology around “calling” as well. (In religious circles, this is sometimes referred to as “discernment” where other people who have been called “confirm” that you have been called as well.) But at the time, I couldn’t get my head around why I was just another face in the crowd. I thought I had made a covenant (as in Matthew 19:27: “Look, we have left everything and followed you.”). Why had I committed myself to the path that I was walking if it led me obscurity? But not just obscurity, since this wasn’t about fame. Purposelessness. Meaninglessness. I felt unneeded. I wasn’t contributing to anything. Why didn’t I focus on a career path that would’ve let me pursue my own “selfish” goals, like wealth?! The exchange (as I imagined it) was for a life that would make an impact on the world. I wasn’t making an impact.
Thankfully, I got therapy. My therapist suggested, gently, that there may be a lot of meaning and significance in the world but that it wasn’t to be “found” or (divinely) “gifted”. She had me read Viktor E. Frankl’s book Man’s Search for Meaning. I remember coming away with a new sense that significance and meaning could be created. The universe wasn’t meaningless. It was full of meaning. But that meaning isn’t necessarily inherit or objective. You don’t have to go on a quest to find it. You don’t have to pray, fast, and wait for it to be announced to you by an angel from heaven. You have to create it.
This places a lot of responsibility on the individual. As John Paul Sarte said in “Existentialism Is a Humanism”: “…man is condemned to be free.” But theologies that tell you that there’s a (single) divine will for your life that you must find is a greater condemnation. You’re responsible but powerless. It’s almost like you have to get lucky. You have to follow the divine calling the “right way” without knowing what that way is! The existential thinking of Frankl and Sarte is freeing in that while you’re responsible, there’s no “wrong” life for you to create. The condemnation is that there are many possibilities. But I’ve come to embrace “possibilities” as superior to the idea of a single, divine plan for one’s life. (If this needs theological rescuing for some readers, then consider this: we may be “creators” with a small “c” created by our “Creator” with a big “C” for a purpose of co-creating. I don’t know if that’s good theology but if theology is needed, then it’s better theology than the alternative!)
In my formative years, I heard preachers talk about “the good, acceptable, and perfect will of God” (Romans 12:2, KJV). These were framed as “three types” of divine will. Your life would fulfill it’s purpose only if you happened to discover the “perfect will of God” which is superior to the “good…will of God” or the “acceptable…will of God”. In retrospect, I don’t know how this exegesis worked but it stuck in my brain, tormenting me for years, even when I was shown that this isn’t the meaning of the quoted passage from the Bible’s Epistle to the Romans.
Eventually, I got a job teaching high school. I found it meaningful. It took me a little while longer to come to terms with the reality that my life could have meaning, significance, and purpose without approval by institutions ecclesial or academic. (Honestly, I think I may be arriving at that realization in its fullness only this year.) It took time to accept that I might be “only a high school teacher” and not a scholar, or a frequently published author, or a “thought leader”, or whatever else the previous generations’ equivalent to an “influencer” is! It’s unlikely that I’ll make a great contribution to theology, philosophy, or history. Instead, I’ll do my best to contribute to the formation of young people, some who will bluntly tell you things like “your class doesn’t matter” or “no one takes this [subject] seriously”. You smile and remind yourself that you said a lot of mean things as a teenager too!
I think the fear of my 20s and most of my 30s was that I would live an insignificant life. In a vast universe, there seemed to be nothing more horrifying than being just another person, a statistic, a name that future generations would forget. To be forgotten seemed like a form of eternal damnation. In my religious circles, I was told that I needed to create a “legacy”. In broader American Evangelical circles, people speak of a “purpose-driven life”. It was preached that God put us on this earth “for a reason” and to “make a difference”. It was as if living a normal, peaceful life would be a disappointment to God. That terrified me.
In my mid-30s, as I was deconstructing and recovering from this theology, a colleague shared a concept created by the author of The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. He called the concept “sonder”. Here’s his definition:
n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.
This word captured my fear but simultaneously empowered me with a realization. Even the most well-known people in the world whose lives seem more significant than the rest of ours have moments when they are background characters to other people’s stories. They may be a wealthy CEO but merely an insignificant person in their own child’s life. They could be a powerful politician who eventually becomes a rambling, tired old face on television. The fact of the matter is that no matter how “objectively” “significant” you try to be, the most important person in everyone’s life is themselves. We’re the “main character” in our own minds and even wealthy and powerful people are merely background characters in the lives of others.
For a few years now, off and on, I’ve pondered this word “sonder” and what it represents. And I’ve thought about how meaningful it is that we get to be mere “extras” that create the elaborate tapestry of someone else’s life. Think of this. In our individual insignificance (“an extra sipping coffee in the background”) we contribute to the greater, collective significance of what it means to be alive and to share in this life in this world. Even as the person who does nothing but turn on our kitchen light creating texture for someone walking through the neighborhood, we add to the lives of others. We’re significant in our insignificance. I think the Buddhists would call this “interdependence”. “Sonder” has the potential to infuse our own lives with meaning, significance, and purpose but in a way that is counterintuitive. It is an antidote to narcissism. It can prevent us from obsessing over how much we do and accomplish. It allows us to live lives that we enjoy knowing that in some small sense, even if we’re not “great”, even if we don’t “change the world”, no one can remove us from being part of the world as long as we’re alive.
A couple of weeks ago, I finished Svend Brinkmann‘s brilliant little book, Think: In Defence of a Thoughtful Life. In the first chapter (“What do you think?”) he argues that there are two forms of thinking: (1) problem-solving and (2) meaning generating (p. 18). I found this helpful as someone who teaches religion and philosophy in a society that continues to devalue the humanities in favor of STEM. STEM focused on Brinkmann’s “problem-solving” form of thinking. He describes it as “instrumental and intrinsic thinking” that “can either be a tool in service to something else, or an end in itself with (intrinsic) value per se.” He gives examples of the “instrumental” and “intrinsic” form of “problem-solving” style thinking (p. 19). For “instrumental” he says, “For example, choosing the right recruit after a job interview”. For intrinsic, he says, “For example, doing a crossword”.
The “instrumental” approach to “problem-solving” thinking solves a problem in service to something else. This style of thinking is done in order to choose the right person for the job for the benefit of the company that’s doing the hiring. On the other hand, the “intrinsic” approach would include, as with the example, doing a crossword or another puzzle. I have a colleague who plays the New York Times’ game “Wordle” almost religiously. He is solving a problem for the pure enjoyment of solving the problem. There’s no other end.
My colleagues who teach math, science, and for the most part, Innovation and Design, are helping students learn to value instrumental thinking. This is a valuable skill. And it’s a skill our society values. But it’s not the only style of thinking nor is it the only style of thinking that’s valuable.
Brinkmann’s second style is “meaning generation”. He uses the example of when we “think back” on a situation that was formative in our lives in order to better understand it. This approach to thinking “is related to daydreaming and reverie” (p. 18). This means it can be “proactive” as much as “retroactive” thinking.
Brinkmann writes (p. 18):
“Thinking as meaning generation doesn’t need to be about our life, but can be about more general existential or cosmological questions: Is there a God? Is the universe infinite? Is there life after death? What would the ideal society look like? From where does the experience of beauty stem? Do we have a duty to forgive? What is love?”
When we think on these things, “the point is not to ‘solve the problem’ and move on, but to let our minds wander and mull them over.” The examples Brinkmann gives for “meaning generation” style thinking include “instrumental” and “intrinsic” examples as well (p. 19). For “instrumental” he says, “For example, writing an exam essay about your future”. For “intrinsic” he says, “For example, reflecting freely on the meaning of life”. We may write the essay in order to help us think clearly about what we want to do to shape the life we want to live. But we may reflect on the meaning of life for the sole purpose that we want to consider what all of this means. Meaning is inherently valuable just like the joy of solving problems can be.
Brinkmann argues that “children tend to learn—and master—problem-solving before meaning generation”. His claim is that meaning generation “requires maturity and depth beyond the reach of children” and that “Philosophical thoughtfulness calls for a more mature intellect” (p. 20). I want to say “yes” and “no” to this because I do think children can begin participating in meaning generation though I get what he’s saying.
While both styles are important, it makes me wonder: what does it say about our society that we’ve placed such heavy emphasis only on one style. The humanities are dying. Fewer college students are majoring in humanities related fields. I’m convinced that this is good for capitalism but detrimental to democracy. We need a society that can invent and make and fix. We need a society that can solve problems like climate change and cancer. But for our own mental health, collective well-being, and the common good, we need people to think about why we do what we do, why we want what we want, where we want to go and what we want to become. If a society can do things but they can’t explain why any of it is meaningful outside of capitalist terms such as wealth and employment, I fear we’re headed for ruin. I get it: before someone commits to student loans and majoring in a field of study for four to six years, they want to know that there will be a paycheck on the other side. This is practical and wise. But our lives can’t be just about our work. It can’t be just about our careers. Honestly, that benefits only those at the highest point of our economic class system. The rest of us better learn to ask what it is that gives meaning to our lives outside the 9-5.
I worry that there’s reason why cultural forces want us to participate in only one form of thinking as a society; why our government, universities, wealthy elite, and others tell us that we need to do something “practical” that’s a “real job” and my hunch is that they don’t want us to stop and ask ourselves “why” we are doing what we’re doing; why we’re pouring our energies into “problem-solving” while ignoring “meaning generation”. I think that if more of us stopped to participate in “meaning generation” it may lead us to reevaluate how we spend the several short decades of our life on this planet.
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