The Genius of Ancient Philosophy
In one of his brilliant 1970s stand-up routines, comedian Steve Martin reflects on his college experience and what he calls “the intellectual thing.”1 He observes that people forget most of what they learn while in school. For example, geology doesn’t stick with you, Martin says, because it’s all facts and figures. But philosophy is different. When you study philosophy in college, Martin notes, “you remember just enough to screw you up for the rest of your life.”2
This comment reflects the experience of many of us who took the required Philosophy 101 course at our university. We met Dr. Brown, a shortish sixty-year-old man with disheveled hair, a rumpled, half-untucked shirt, and chalk blurs on his pants. After feverishly filling the board with names of German philosophers and lofty ideas, he challenged the class with questions of a mind-melting nature: “Does this chair exist once we leave this room? How would we know this?” “How do I know that I’m not just deep into an elaborate dream right now?” “Is it right or wrong to steal medicine from a pharmacy to help your wife who is writhing on the floor in pain?” “If you’re stranded on the ocean in a lifeboat with a prostitute, a twelve-year-old boy, a priest, and a surgeon, whose life is the most valuable to save? And how do you decide this?”
For Steve Martin there is more depth to his joke than may at first appear. While developing his comedy career, Martin studied philosophy at UCLA. He is not throwing grenades from afar. He experienced philosophy.3 In his A Wild and Crazy Guy routine, he considers the big ethical and religious questions that philosophy raises. At one point Martin observes, “It’s so hard to believe in anything anymore. You know what I mean? It’s like religion. You can’t really take it seriously because it’s so mythological and it seems so arbitrary. And then on the other hand, science. You know. It’s just pure empiricism and by virtue of its method it excludes metaphysics.”
This unexpectedly complicated statement, delivered in Martin’s mirthful and clever way, reveals a deep reflection. What he was saying was probably lost on his semidrunken audience (as can be heard from the background heckling). But this comment shows Martin’s experience with modern philosophy: It asks big questions, but it doesn’t provide any answers. It leaves a person lost, uncertain, ambivalent. You remember just enough to screw you up for the rest of your life.
However, this is not the whole story. This life-screwing-up is not what philosophy used to do. This common modern experience of philosophy—as irrelevant at best and destructive at worst—is a radical change from how humans have understood and been affected by philosophy over the last three thousand years. Whether coming from Confucius, Buddha, or the Greek tradition of Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, philosophy was not seen as a collection of meaningless speculations about whether chairs exist when we leave the room.
On the contrary, philosophy was the necessary bedrock for individuals and society. Philosophy in the ancient world was the lodestar, the scaffolding, the guide by which humans could experience true happiness; it was the vision for life itself. Philosophy provided the vision for the Good and the goodness of life. This is what education is for, according to Plato—to show people what the Good is so that they can orient their lives to it. This is why the city-state exists, according to Aristotle—to enable people to live a truly Good Life. The effect of philosophy was not to bungle the rest of your life but to provide a way of being in the world that offered true life and flourishing. But philosophy has changed.
In modern society what is the most respected and valued profession? Who gets the highest regard and honor, both financially and in social capital? I think in modern Western society the answer is a medical doctor. Have you ever noticed what I call the “scrub factor”? When you see someone wearing medical scrubs in Starbucks or Kroger, you immediately afford them more respect in your mind than if they were wearing “civilian” clothes. The same is now true in many Middle Eastern cultures. As Kumail Nanjiani jokes in the movie The Big Sick, the hierarchy for a good Pakistani son runs in descending order: doctor, engineer, lawyer, hundreds of jobs, ISIS, and then comedians.
Why? Medical doctors are highly valued today because of the service they provide with amazing skill—relieving pain and preventing death. Doctors have access to some magic that deals with these greatest of human fears. With learning built on a centuries-long edifice of detailed knowledge and technological abilities, medical doctors appear to work miracles, and we are all grateful for their contribution. When your child’s aggressive cancer is finally beaten, knee-buckled gratitude is unavoidable. As a result, human society greatly honors medical doctors with prestige and wealth. This is all fine and good.
But there’s another kind of doctor too. Indeed, before there were “medical doctors” and before MDs were the most respected people in society, another kind of doctor was regarded as the most learned and most valuable kind of person. These are the people who earned the title PhD, short for doctor of philosophy. The “doctor” part refers to the highest level of learning and the ability to teach others. The “philosophy” refers to the most important thing to learn: wisdom (sophia). So PhDs are lovers of wisdom, lovers of the most comprehensive understanding of the world, summed up with the word “philosophy.”
We still have PhDs today, but a lot has changed. Now people can earn a PhD in countless fields of knowledge through minutely studying very specific topics: genetic pathology in sunflowers, the cultural influences on Hegel’s philosophy, depressive psychology in elephants, the theme of the Latin idea of furor in Virgil’s Aeneid—you name it. The PhD is a high honor, showing significant knowledge in an area. But we can understand why medical doctors seem more valuable now. Today’s philosophers don’t do operations. But even more disappointing, they don’t even offer help with how to live daily life.
Ancient philosophers, however, did just that. Anything less than a whole-life vision for flourishing was considered a mere skill, a craft—including medicine. Olive pressing or battle-ax talent or body healing is valuable in its own limited sphere. But what we really need is wisdom for how to truly live and die well, and ancient people knew this. Philosophers alone can put all things together—knowledge of the universe, practical skills, and reflections on wisdom in relationships—into a comprehensive way of seeing and being in the world so that people could learn to thrive. This is why philosophers matter.
So what happened to get us from this central role of philosophy in life and society to philosophers’ minimal role in civilization today? And what in the world does this have to do with Jesus and Christianity?
To answer these questions, we must take a journey backward. We must rediscover the work and wisdom, the content and the contour of the ancient philosophers. In so doing we will learn that ancient philosophy was something very different than what it became in the modern period. And we will discover that, maybe surprisingly to us as modern readers, the Bible shares this understanding of philosophy as a way of life promising flourishing. To help us understand the Bible in this way, it is beneficial to spend a little time in Greece and Rome.
As we have already noted, philosophy in the ancient world—and our focus will be on Western civilization, rooted in the Mediterranean basin4—was not where smart people just played around with esoteric speculations for sport. Ancient philosophers didn’t lie around at dinner parties on couches, with servants dropping grapes into their mouths, and ponder whether when a tree falls in the woods and no one hears it, it still makes a sound. Some of this did occasionally happen, I imagine, but this is not how the weighty philosophers like Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, or Seneca lived their lives.
No, philosophy in the ancient Greek and Roman world was not primarily theory and certainly not a mere focus on irrelevant speculations. Rather, it was a way of life, a way of being in the world. This way of being was rooted in a way of seeing or understanding how the world really is. So philosophers did ponder mysterious and big thoughts. They thought about the nature of matter and time and how the visible and invisible worlds relate. But this exploration and speculation about the nature of horses and humans and heavenly objects were always for the purpose of helping people live a certain way—in accord with the nature of reality—so that they might know the happiness that comes from wise living.
It would not be possible here to give a survey of the history of philosophy, or even of just the Greek philosophical tradition. There are plenty of great books available for this purpose, and such survey is standard fare for philosophy courses in college or on YouTube. Nor would it be beneficial to survey all the disagreements between various important philosophers.
We want to ask a bigger question, not just, What happened in the history of philosophy? but rather, What is ancient philosophy?5 My desire is not to present a potted history of philosophy but to get at the heart of what ancient philosophy was all about. Why was it so important to people? To make the complex world of ancient philosophy accessible and memorable, we can describe ancient philosophy’s goal with two Greek words—philosophein (to love wisdom) and philokalein (to love the good).
The first of our two words is where we get our word “philosophy.” Philosophein means to love wisdom. The earliest Greek thinkers, such as Thales of Miletus, were, in modern parlance, brilliant mathematicians, biologists, astronomers, physicists, economists, urban planners, medical doctors, and statesmen. Those skilled in these areas were said to have sophia—wisdom.
But with Socrates and Plato and all those to follow, “philosophy” takes on a new depth. It includes these areas of study but goes beyond them to the pursuit of a comprehensive understanding of all of the world. Philosophy focuses on character traits and habits that, if practiced, will result in a flourishing life and society. To sophia (a deep knowledge of how the world works) was added the crucial idea of the art of living well.6 It is the combination of these two—understanding and living—that becomes the focus of the great tradition of philosophy.
A couple of important ideas develop from this turn in philosophy. First, there is a recognition of the organic relationship between physics and metaphysics. “Physics” refers to the nature of reality, how the cosmos is constructed and functions—questions about water, fire, air, and so on—and the mathematical relationships between matter and space. Important stuff. We still use the English word “physics” roughly this way today.
“Metaphysics,” on the other hand, refers to the deepest principles of existence—being, knowing, cause, time, and space. This is the top-level “physics” that ties all the other “physics” together—hence, “metaphysics.” Heady ideas.
The point is that, even though physics and metaphysics are separated in the modern world, the situation in ancient philosophy was intentionally different. Physics and metaphysics were organically related and immensely practical. Understanding how the world is constructed and functions (physics) teaches us who we are, what the nature of truth and time and being are (metaphysics), and this enables us to live well. When we try to live without knowledge of physics and metaphysics—how the world is and works—then we are foolish, not wise, living randomly, haphazardly, without direction or hope for security, happiness, or peace. Sounds like a lot of people today.
In such a nonmetaphysical understanding of the world, there is no reason to be anything other than a mere hedonist, living for immediate pleasure. But sooner or later, thanks to pleasure’s law of diminishing returns, hedonism doesn’t really satisfy or provide a vision for individual or societal flourishing. We find that the unexamined life isn’t worth living. The tragic reality of suicide, which is on the rise, affects the rich, famous, and beautiful just like it does others.7 This is despite life being better than any time in human history by nearly every measurable metric.8 Without a metaphysic, many find it difficult to want to keep living, even if on the outside their lives seem good.
Today in our universities the study of physics and the exploration of big life topics such as ethics are completely separate, but they were not for the ancient philosophers. All things are connected. The philosophers taught their hearers to study astronomy, music, and politics, because “the contemplation of harmony that reveals itself in the world of the senses . . . serves as an exercise in reaching inner harmony.”9 Moreover, the study of all aspects of knowledge became a spiritual exercise, an itinerary for spiritual growth upward that corresponded to the different parts of philosophy. Ethics clarifies the soul; physics reveals that the world has a transcendent cause; metaphysics or theology enables the contemplation of ultimate truths.10
The second idea that comes from this ancient view of philosophy is that to learn the physics, metaphysics, and wise habits necessary for flourishing, we need models in community. To learn how the world works and how to live well requires teachers—people who have the capacity, training, and years of life experience, combined with virtue and integrity, who can serve as instructors and models. This is what a philosopher is.
Philosophers like Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle gathered disciples around them who wanted to learn their wisdom—knowledge of both what the world is and how to live practically in it. Soon this gathering of learners became formalized in schools where young men and women gathered in cities (especially Athens) to live with the philosopher and other disciples. They intentionally exercised the body and the mind, shaping habits and the heart. From the time of Plato on, it was understood that philosophy “could be carried out only by means of a community of life and dialogue between masters and disciples, within the framework of a school.”11
It is possible to become a military pilot through a long process of enlisting and working one’s way up. Far better and far more likely is doing what my brother-in-law did—go to the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. There, he was discipled in all manner of things Air Force. His body, mind, habits, and vision were shaped by teachers and a very particular communal life that prepared him for his life as a fighter pilot. So too with the philosophical schools.
Figure 3. The School of Athens (1511) by Raphael [Public Domain / Wikimedia Commons]
The ancient philosophical school is the origin of the model of education that becomes the bedrock of Western civilization. Intentional education of the whole person—body, mind, spirit—is what the Greeks called paideia. This is why we all had to endure gym class in junior high: education is about more than books. It is only through guided practice in all areas that one can achieve the fullness of what it means to be human, to become what they would call a teleios anēr (a whole/mature person). The only hope for individual and societal flourishing, the Greeks and Romans understood, was the formation of young people to see the Good by learning from teachers and models who live well. This included both knowledge and skills (the physics of the world), always situated in a metaphysic of the Good.
In such ancient philosophical schools, education happened in a community—a group of friends who loved each other and who together were building a society. The virtuous example of the philosophers/teachers who led the school was central to the entire enterprise. As Seneca would later summarize, “The living word and life in common will benefit you more than written discourse. It is to current reality that you must go, first because men believe their eyes more than their ears, and because the path of precepts is long, but that of examples is short and infallible. . . . It was not Epicurus’ school which made great men of Metrodorus, Hermarchus, and Polyaenus, but his companionship.”12
Long before Wicked became a Broadway hit, Stephen Schwartz had already made his musical career and fortune with Godspell, followed by film scores for Pocahontas, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and The Prince of Egypt. But the popularity of Wicked is so great now that it will likely be the musical Schwartz is most remembered for. And rightly so. Wicked has been running on Broadway continually since 2003 and is regularly staged in sold-out theaters all over the world.
What is Wicked about? In short, it is a prequel to the famous story The Wizard of Oz. But it is also subversive. It is a retelling of the origin story of the Wicked Witch of the West, revealing that things are not always as they seem. The “witch” was once a girl with a name, Elphaba, who experienced various traumas that shaped her. And it turns out that she was wrongly labeled “wicked” by unscrupulous leaders.
Wicked is truly a genius piece of musical storytelling. But at the very core of the whole musical is one driving idea—What are goodness and happiness? You won’t necessarily pick this up at the first viewing or even on the fiftieth listening to the delightful soundtrack. But with powerful subtlety, Schwartz has woven the philosophical question of goodness and happiness throughout the story from beginning to end.
The title Wicked is the first clue, especially once you realize that the whole story is seeking to challenge our blind following of leaders who spin goodness and evil in deceptive ways. The first word of the whole story is “good,” sung in a song espousing the “good news” that the wicked witch is now dead. The question of true goodness continues throughout and appears explicitly in the dialogue, and especially in the songs “Thank Goodness,” “No Good Deed,” and the poignant final duet, “For Good.” A search through the lyrics for “happiness” shows this as the other side of the same philosophical coin that is deposited in the musical.
Schwartz is a profoundly thoughtful and creative person, and he is inviting people to see the beauty and happiness in finding the Good. He also challenges us to not be hoodwinked into thinking we can access such goodness in popularity, superficial romance, or merely trying to “dance through life” without facing reality. Schwartz’s Wicked is a powerful piece of musical philosophy.
Thinking about ancient Greek education and Schwartz’s modern-day musical on the Good leads us to the second of our verbal hooks on which we will hang our understanding of ancient philosophy—philokalein, to love the good and beautiful. In the earliest, most famous (and in many people’s opinion still the best) book on ethics, Aristotle starts with this sentence: “Every art and every inquiry, and similarly every action and pursuit, is thought to aim at some good; and for this reason the Good has rightly been declared to be that at which all things aim.”13
Aristotle goes into a lengthy and nuanced exploration of what the Good is, how to pursue it, and how to live accordingly, all so that his son might find a truly happy life. This is ethics: discerning, pursuing, and experiencing the fruits of what is good and beautiful. This is more than theoretical exploration; it’s also intensely practical. It is right at the heart of the whole philosophical enterprise.
This approach to ethics focuses on developing the character of the person to know and love the Good. This is called virtue (from virtus, human/man), because it is only through the development of one’s habits and character in accordance with the Good that one can enter into the fullness of human potential and flourishing, to become fully human. Education is being released from the cave of darkness into the true light of the knowledge of the Good so that one can live fully and teach others to do the same.14 Many centuries later, Dante Alighieri summed up this vision with the famous words, “Consider your origin: You were not formed to live like brutes, but to follow virtue and knowledge.”15
Under this umbrella idea of the Good and with the Good as the foundation and the goal, ancient philosophy explored many topics. The map of philokalein (loving the Good) was investigated on four main compass points:
- Metaphysics—What is the true nature of the universe, and how does the world work?
- Epistemology—How do we know things?
- Ethics—What is right, and how do we live it out?
- Politics—How do we structure society and institutions in the best and wisest ways?
These four compass points provide a map for the land of the Good, with the goal of creating human flourishing or “the Good Life.” Philosophers questioned and explored each of these realms in increasing detail, with the result being ever-longer books. Then later writers wrote books about these books. This is all good, and we still study what Socrates had to say about knowing and what Aristotle had to say about ethics and what Plato had to say about the nature of ideas and how to structure society. But the focus on the details of what these philosophers said has tended to obscure what they actually cared the most about—why they explored these issues. Their philosophies were for the purpose of knowing and living in accord with the Good.
Ancient philosophy can be described then, surprisingly to us, as “spiritual exercises,” practices in life that are informed by reflections, with the focus on learned practical wisdom for the inner person.16 We might even describe ancient philosophy as therapy for the soul, providing practical guidance for both the individual and society. All of this is possible because of the commitment to pursue the Good. This is what we mean when we talk about “the Good Life” (like in the subtitle of this book). The Good Life is not referring to the lives of the rich and famous as revealed in a tabloid or exposé show. The Good Life refers to the habits of practiced wisdom that produce in the human soul deep and lasting flourishing.
This all sounds wonderful and helpful. And this is why Greek and then Roman society was in many ways so advanced. This is why we are still reading the books written by the ancient thinkers, while most of the books written today will be forgotten within a few years at best. This is why the founders of modern nations, including the United States, got their inspiration and ideas from ancient philosophers. Thomas Jefferson had a copy of Seneca on his nightstand when he died. This kind of philosophy matters.
So what in the world happened such that philosophers went from being the sculptors of society to being the esoteric teachers in dwindling university departments? Why does every parent dread hearing at Christmas break that their college son or daughter has decided to major in philosophy? What happened to philosophy?
We began the chapter with Steve Martin’s quip about philosophy screwing us up for the rest of our lives. Some philosophers today have recognized the problem with modern philosophy. Arguably the most influential modern philosopher, Immanuel Kant, highlights the problem with his field: “The ancient Greek philosophers, such as Epicurus, Zeno, and Socrates, remained more faithful to the Idea of the philosopher than their modern counterparts have done. ‘When will you finally begin to live virtuously?’ said Plato to an old man who told him he was attending classes on virtue. The point is not always to speculate, but also ultimately to think about applying our knowledge. Today, however, he who lives in conformity with what he teaches is taken for a dreamer.”17
Or more succinctly, Henry David Thoreau opines that “there are nowdays professors of philosophy, but not philosophers.” That is, philosophers today tell us about philosophy but have little desire to teach a comprehensive vision of happiness nor serve as models themselves. The stories of ethics professors coming to a miserable end by hooking up with graduate students thirty years their junior are a sadly common reality. Thoreau continues with his emphasis that a real philosopher lives as a philosopher: “To be a philosopher is not merely to have subtle thoughts, nor even to found a school, but so to love wisdom as to live according to its dictates, a life of simplicity, independence, magnanimity.”18
So what happened? Why is our experience and understanding of philosophy so different today than it was in the ancient world? The full answer to this would be as long and thick and complicated as the story of the history of Western thought, politics, education, and religion over the last two thousand years—a Herculean task that goes far beyond our goal here. But we can briefly trace the journey from a satellite view.
In one sense, ancient philosophy never went away. But it continued in a place that unfortunately got separated from the rest of culture, including the rest of Christianity—the monasteries. The ancient philosophical schools of people living together and dedicated to a life of virtuous learning is where the patristic and medieval monastic traditions come from.
In broader society, cracks in the ancient philosophical approach began to appear especially during the Enlightenment of the 1700s. The rise of the modern “scientific” university that followed sealed the deal for separating philosophers from a life of practiced virtue.
Today, key aspects of ancient philosophical reflection on the whole world are peeled away and shipped off to other intellectual departments—cosmology goes to physics, ethics to religion or as a blip in a practical field (“business ethics” in an MBA), language to linguistics, and human habits become the purview of neuroscience and psychology. Modern philosophy comprises mostly professors talking about the history of philosophy.
There are a few original philosophers who wrestle with big ideas such as epistemology and language, but typically this is done without a clear and comprehensive metaphysic. The idea that such philosophical reflections are connected to a committed way of life (“spiritual exercises”) is nonsensical in the modern world. While a doctor of philosophy degree in any field still garners some unquantifiable respect, these “doctors” (complete with scare quotes) aren’t the kind “that really help anybody,” compared to the medical doctor. Those of us with children and a PhD have had to painfully explain to our kids at some point that we’re not “real” doctors.
Today’s philosophers have little interest in weighing into such politically charged issues that make universal claims about society. Those who do, like Roger Scruton, get shot at with multiple guns. And even if a thinker today provides some insight into an aspect of life—such as finances, relationships, or physical health—this is a limited sphere. Philosophers today rarely operate with a metaphysic comprehensive enough to offer a whole vision for life. That’s only for “religious” people, whose role in society is intentionally circumscribed.
Well, almost no philosophers attempt to do so. Today there are a very few exceptions—exceptions that prove the rule. We can think of one or two public thinkers who are offering something closer to a whole-life philosophy than we encounter in society today. As of this writing, we are a few years in to what I call the JPP—the Jordan Peterson Phenomenon. Jordan Peterson, a professor of psychology at the University of Toronto, has written an international bestseller entitled 12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos, and he has well over two million subscribers to his YouTube channel that is loaded with videos of him exploring psychology, feminism, economic systems, societal structure, virtue and goodness, religion and the Bible, and so on.
As one measure of Peterson’s widespread influence in society, in April 2019 he had a formal debate with another public thinker, Slavoj Žižek. Not only did people go, but tickets were sold as if to a sporting event or rock concert. Tickets were so in demand that on the day of the event they were being scalped at prices higher than the National Hockey League playoff game between the Maple Leafs and Bruins that same night! Peterson is controversial, to say the least, and often derided for overstepping his expertise and for strongly challenging many aspects of the modern status quo. Some of these critiques are fair, some are not.
But Peterson’s popularity and comprehensiveness—he suggests twelve rules for living the Good Life—is the remarkable exception in today’s philosophical world. Peterson is precisely what every philosopher longs for in terms of impact (or at least the financial benefits of his book sales). He is so well known largely because no one else has had the audacity to offer such a comprehensive vision for living well. In the ancient world this is what all philosophers did. The fact that we know Peterson so well is partly because of how rare it is to meet someone today who is offering a comprehensive philosophy. The television philosopher Oprah might be the most comparable persona, though without the educational clout of Peterson.
Why does this matter? It matters because this shift away from philosophers having a sculpting effect on people with a focus on the Good is a loss—a loss to individuals and thereby to culture itself. Yet we continue to try to live and build societies without a clear metaphysic, without a clear structure of virtue and character formation.
One of the most interesting and comedically profound television shows in recent years is The Good Place, starring Ted Danson and Kristen Bell. The basic premise of the show is that the main characters all die and arrive in this wonderful town, “The Good Place,” because they are being rewarded according to how well they lived and how much good they did, based on a points system. These characters all have enough points to enter this wonderful afterlife.
The deep theme going on throughout the whole show, reflected in the title, is the question of what it means to be good. According to the writers, originally the show was planned to be an exploration of how different religions defined what was good. The religious question only comes up in the first episode. When Eleanor Shellstrop (Kristen Bell’s character) arrives in this utopian town, she meets the guy in charge, Michael, and she just has to ask which religion on earth was right. In a very funny scene, Michael points to a cheesy-looking painting behind his desk of a normal-looking dude and tells Eleanor, “Hindus are a little bit right, Muslims a little bit. Jews, Christians, Buddhists, every religion guessed about 5 percent, except for Doug Forcett. Doug was a stoner kid who lived in Calgary during the 1970s. One night, he got really high on mushrooms, and his best friend, Randy, said, ‘Hey, what do you think happens after we die?’ And Doug just launched into this long monologue where he got like 92 percent correct.”19
As the writers developed the show, they decided instead to approach the question of the Good from a philosophical perspective rather than a religious one. And so, instead of using religions, in each episode they have a hearty discussion of real philosophers and philosophies. One of the characters was in life a philosophy professor—who turns out to struggle greatly to live his own beliefs—and he gives lectures on how different philosophies wrestle with what it means to be and do good. Sounds boring, I realize, but it’s so well done, so funny, and with such beloved characters that it works.
The Good Place seamlessly weds philosophical (ethics, epistemology, metaphysics) and religious ideas (the afterlife and what it means to be righteous) because these two worlds never used to be separate, nor should they be. Religion in the ancient world was not primarily a set of beliefs to be cognitively acknowledged but an allegiance to a certain God or gods that showed you how to see the world and how to be in the world so that you might find life and flourishing. So too was ancient philosophy. Philosophy was an allegiance to a certain way of seeing and being in the world, learned and lived in community for the purpose of finding the Good Life.