Stoicism On Fire

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

If you want your children and your wife and friends to survive no matter what, you are silly; for you are wanting things to be up to you that are not up to you, and things to be your own that are not your own. You are just as foolish if you want your slave to make no mistakes; for you are wanting inferiority not to be a flaw but something else. But if your wish is not to be frustrated in your desires, this is in your power. Train yourself, then, in this power that you do have. Our master is anyone who has the power to implement or prevent the things that we want or don’t want. Whoever wants to be free, therefore, should wish for nothing or avoid nothing that is up to other people. Failing that, one is bound to be a slave. (Ench 14) There's nothing new in this chapter of the Encheiridion for those following the Exploring Encheiridion series. That is the nature of the Encheiridion, which Arrian created as a handbook a Stoic prokopton could keep readily available as a primer for Stoic doctrines. Therefore, many of the lessons are repeated in different forms. Nevertheless, as I was preparing for this podcast episode, I was struck by a question that inspired me to take this episode in another direction. The question is this: Why would anyone with a conscious or unconscious allegiance to the modern secular worldview consider Stoicism a viable way of life. Consider some other passages we’ve already covered in this Exploring Encheiridion series: When you kiss your little child or your wife, say that you are kissing a human being. Then, if one of them dies, you will not be troubled. (Encheiridion 3) Don’t ask for things to happen as you would like them to, but wish them to happen as they actually do, and you will be all right. (Encheiridion 8) Never say about anything, “I have lost it”; but say, “I have returned it.” Has your little child died? “It has been returned.” Has your wife died? “She has been returned.” “I have been robbed of my land.” No, that has been returned as well. (Encheiridion 11) These statements by Epictetus contradict what all moderns, those raised in the West at least, are taught from childhood. When a person views these statements from the perspective of modernity, they will likely ask: How can anyone past or present assent to ideas like this? What kind of worldview could possibly support such apparently odd and counterintuitive ideas? Therein lies the conundrum moderns face when moderns encounter the Stoic texts. We are confronted with words like God, logos, and providence from the ancient Stoic worldview and likely lack the necessary knowledge to understand the meaning of these words within the context of Hellenistic Greek culture and the holistic philosophical system known as Stoicism. If moderns have any familiarity with words like God, logos, and providence, it likely comes from religious training or college professors who mocked these ideas. Therefore, secular-minded, enlightened, educated moderns might feel justified in rejecting those ideas. In fact, moderns may feel compelled to reject them as antiquated, pre-Enlightenment ideas. Unfortunately, that judgment of Stoicism is based on a modern worldview with some underlying assumptions and consequences moderns may have never considered. I know that was true for me. As I’ve previously said on this podcast, I was a hardcore atheist when I started studying Stoicism. It took me almost a year to overcome the misconceptions and cognitive biases of my modern worldview. Worldviews are essential because they guide our beliefs and actions in ways that may evade our conscious awareness and circumspection. Jean-Baptiste Gourinat wrote about this in a paper titled Stoicism Today in 2009. He discussed the connection between Stoicism and Cognitive Behavioral Therapy—CBT—which is partly derived from Stoic principles. He wrote: Cognitive therapy is based on three hypotheses: (1) one’s behaviour springs from one’s view of oneself and the world, and our psychological difficulties and disturbances derive from these views and from our (misconceived) perception of external events; (2) this point of view may be modified; (3) this modification of our thoughts and opinions may have positive effects on our behaviour and emotions since the latter are dependent on the former.[1] The “view of oneself and the world” he refers to is one’s worldview. It’s a combination of a model of the world—the way the world is—and a model for the world—the way one should act in the world to survive and achieve their conception of happiness. Jeremy Lent provided some insight into the concept of a worldview in his 2017 book titled The Patterning Instinct. He wrote: Each of us conducts our lives according to a set of assumptions about how things work: how our society functions, its relationship with the natural world, what's valuable, and what's possible. This is our worldview, which often remains unquestioned and unstated but is deeply felt and underlies many of the choices we make in our lives. We form our worldview implicitly as we grow up, from our family, friends, and culture, and, once it's set, we're barely aware of it unless we're presented with a different worldview for comparison. The unconscious origin of our worldview makes it quite inflexible. That's fine when it's working for us. But suppose our worldview is causing us to act collectively in ways that could undermine humanity's future? Then it would be valuable to become more conscious of it.[2] Then, Lent opens his 2021 book, titled The Web of Meaning, with a story the “the speech” we are all likely to hear during our youth from some well-meaning adult who wishes the pass on their wisdom about the way the world is and how one must operate in it to survive and prosper. He points out this type of conversation is ubiquitous because they channel the “themes we hear every day from those in a position of authority,” including the talking heads on TV, successful business people, teachers, and school textbooks. He notes, “Even when the Speech is not given explicitly, its ideas seep into our daily thoughts” and can be distilled to some basic “building blocks.” He writes: These basic elements, give or take a few, form the foundation of the predominant worldview. They infuse much of what is accepted as indisputably true in most conversations that take place about world affairs. They are so pervasive that most of us never question them. We feel they must be based on solid facts – why else would all those people in positions of authority rely on them? That’s the characteristic that makes a worldview so powerful. Like fish that don’t realize they’re swimming in water because it’s all they know, we tend to assume that our worldview simply describes the world the way it is, rather than recognizing it’s a constructed lens that shapes our thoughts and ideas into certain preconditioned patterns.[3] So what is the worldview most people in positions of authority and influence embrace? It’s revealed in the assumed intellectual superiority behind demands like “follow the science” or “follow the facts.” It’s the appeal to authority underlying assertions like “the science tells us” or “science says.” It’s the assumed worldview upon which most moderns stand when they demand “proof” and “evidence” to support your assertions while they simultaneously declare their beliefs are based on science. It’s called scientism, and that label will be disputed by those who hold to that belief system as quickly and adamantly as the label fundamentalism will be rejected by those who demand strict adherence to a set of religious beliefs. So, what is scientism? Richard Williams, professor of psychology at Brigham Young University, offers the following definition: Scientism is, in its basic form, a dogmatic overconfidence in science and “scientific” knowledge. But, more importantly it is overconfidence in science, defined by, constructed around, and requiring that, the world must be made up of physical matter following particular lawful principles, and that all phenomena are essentially thus constituted. This gives scholars the great confidence that characterizes scientism. The confidence associated with this worldview is seen in the insistence that any scholarly endeavor that does not ground itself in that required set of constructs and ideas must be rejected as unscientific, and any knowledge claims made as a result of such endeavors are suspect. Such knowledge claims are to be rejected as being only metaphysical speculation, reflecting mere subjective bias, or, ironically, a devotion to religious orthodoxy.[4] Religious believers in centuries past rarely stopped to consider how some of their beliefs affected their psychology and behavior. Why? They didn’t need to; their worldview was mainstream and left largely unchallenged. In the same way, moderns neglect to consider how the scientific worldview that implicitly molds the spirit of our secular age affects their beliefs and behaviors. Why? Scientism and secularism are now mainstream, so their worldview is rarely challenged in modern times. Let’s consider some of the ideas perpetuated by modern orthodox science: The universe and human life are accidents; they result from a long sequence of chance events. There is no inherent meaning in the universe or human life. Everything is reducible to interactions of inert matter constrained by the physical laws. Humans are driven by selfish genes to propagate their genetic code into the next generation. Consciousness is an illusion—an epiphenomenon of neural activity. Free will is an illusion. There is no room for any freedom of the human will within the mechanistic, clocklike operation of the universe. Do the intellectuals and scientists who impose these beliefs on moderns ever stop to consider where those beliefs will lead us? Do they reflect on what kind of behaviors they might produce?

In this podcast episode, the host explores Epictetus' advice for making progress on the Stoic path. They discuss the importance of not desiring externals and not seeking validation as an expert. They also delve into the concepts of moral excellence and the challenges of rejecting religious aspects of Stoicism.

David Fideler, author of Breakfast with Seneca, discusses Seneca as a Stoic prokopton. His book provides an easy introduction to Stoic philosophy through the life and writings of Seneca. They explore topics such as monitoring inner judgments, the impact of reductive materialism, the Stoic conception of God, the influence of Stoicism on human rights, and the contrasting styles of Epictetus and Seneca in Stoicism.

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

Our situation is like that at a festival. Sheep and cattle are driven to it to be sold, and most people come either to buy or to sell, while only a few come to look at the spectacle of the festival, to see how it is proceeding and why, and who is organizing it, and for what purpose. So also in this festival of the world. Some people are like sheep and cattle and are interested in nothing but their fodder; for in the case of those of you who are interested in nothing but your property, and land, and slaves, and public posts, all of that is nothing more than fodder. Few indeed are those who attend the fair for love of the spectacle, asking, ‘What is the universe, then, and who governs it? No one at all? (Discourses 2.14.23-25) In this passage, Epictetus paints an unflattering picture of the mass of humanity. He suggests some of us treat the festival of life as a marketplace; we are distracted by the superficial endeavors of life. This chapter of the Discourses tells the story of a wealthy, influential Roman who was attending one of Epictetus’ with his son. Midway through the lecture, Epictetus instructs his students they must imitate God. With this, the father asked, “Where are we to start then?” The father now has Epictetus's undivided attention. I can only assume he did not know what that would entail. Epictetus acknowledges the father is wealthy and likely known to Caesar. Nevertheless, he informs the father he lacks what is most essential for happiness: …you know neither what God is, nor what a human being is, nor what is good, nor what is bad. (Discourses2.14.19) Next, Epictetus suggests most people behave like sheep and cattle, driven here and there by our appetites (desires). He argues that only a few love the spectacle of the festival of life. These few are the ones who inquire about the nature of the festival: The nature of the cosmos – “What is the universe, then, and who governs it? No one at all? And yet when a city or household cannot survive for even a very short time without someone to govern it and watch over it, how could it be that such a vast and beautiful structure could be kept so well ordered by mere chance and good luck?” (2.14.25-26) The nature of the divine – “So there must be someone governing it. What sort of being is he, and how does he govern it?” (2.14.27) Human nature – “And we who have been created by him, who are we, and what were we created for?” (2.14.27) The relationship between humans and the divine – “Are we bound together with him in some kind of union and interrelationship, or is that not the case?” (2.14.27) Epictetus continues to elaborate on this small group of people who seek to understand this festival of life. He asserts, “they devote their leisure to this one thing alone, to finding out about the festival before they have to take their leave” (2.14.28). Our quest as philosophers is to discover as much as we can about this festival we call life before we take our leave from it. Like Socrates, the true philosopher is naturally curious and cannot be stopped from inquiring—it is in a philosopher’s nature to seek wisdom. It is part of our human nature to inquire about the nature of the cosmos and humankind. Epictetus tells us: But God has brought the human race into the world to be a spectator of himself and of his works, and not merely to observe them, but also to interpret them. It is thus shameful for a human being to begin and end where the irrational animals do. Rather, he should start off where they do and end where nature ended with regard to ourselves. Now it ended with contemplation, and understanding, and a way of life that is in harmony with nature. Take care, then, that you don’t die without having contemplated these realities. (Discourses 1.16.19-22) Seneca offers a similar list of inquiries. Seneca’s list is found in his work appropriately titled Natural Questions. That list includes the following: What is the material that makes up the universe? Who is the creator or guardian of the universe? Is god concerned with humans? Is god immanent and acting in the world or created the universe and remains remote? Is god part of the world or the world itself? (Natural Questions I, praef. 1-2) The similarity between these lists is obvious. However, Seneca follows his list of ponderings with a remarkable statement, If I were not allowed access to these questions, it would not have been worth being born. For what could give mea reason to be glad that I had been included in the ranks of the living? Digesting food and drink? Stuffing full this body—which is vulnerable, delicate, and will perish if it is not constantly replenished—and living as nurse to a sick man? Fearing death, the one thing to which we are born? Take away this invaluable blessing, and life is not worth the sweat and the panic. (Natural Questions I, praef. 4) Marcus Aurelius makes a similar argument about the value of human life without the divine: Let your every action, word, and thought be those of one who could depart from life at any moment. But taking your leave of the human race is nothing to be feared, if the gods exist; for they would not involve you in anything bad. If, on the other hand, they do not exist, or if they do not concern themselves with human affairs, why should I care to go on living in a world devoid of gods or devoid of providence? But they do exist, and they do show concern for human affairs, and they have placed it wholly within the power of human beings never to fall into genuine evils; and besides, if anything were bad for us, they would have taken measures too to ensure that everyone would have it in his power not to fall victim to it. (Meditations 2.11) Life without the rational fragment of the divine—the God within—each of us possesses is not worth living because that is an animal's life, not a human. As Epictetus asserts: Merely to fulfil the role of a human being is no simple matter. For what is a human being? ‘A rational and mortal creature,’ someone says. First of all, what does the rational element serve to distinguish us from? ‘From wild beasts.’ And from what else? ‘From sheep and the like.’ Take care, then, never to be like a wild beast; otherwiseyou will have destroyed what is human in you, and will have failed to fulfil your part as a human being. Take care that you never act like a sheep; or else in that way, too, you will have destroyed what is human in you.‘When is it, then, that we act like sheep?’ When we act for the sake of our belly or genitals, when we act at random, or in a filthy manner, or without proper care, to what level have we sunk? To that of sheep. What have we destroyed? What is rational in us. And when we behave aggressively, and harmfully, and angrily, and forcefully, to what level have we sunk? To that of wild beasts. There are, besides, some among us who are large ferocious beasts, while others are little ones, small and evil-natured, which prompt us to say, ‘I’d rather be eaten by a lion!’ By all such behaviour, the human calling is destroyed. (Discourses 2.9.1-7) More than two millennia later, most people still follow the herd and behave like animals rather than rational humans, and philosophers still contemplate the same basic questions. What is the nature of reality? What is this festival of life all about? Is there a purpose?  Is there inherent meaning? Unfortunately, many of us neglect to ask these questions because we believe there are no meaningful answers. Additionally, contemplation like this reminds us of the existential angst lurking in the shadow of our psyche. So, we continue to follow our impulses and behave like sheep and cattle. We follow the herd. We uncritically accept the worldview and values of the society in which we live. We absorb the spirit of the times (zeitgeist) without challenging the current orthodoxy. In the past, the herd followed religious orthodoxy. Today, the herd typically follows the orthodoxy of scientism combined with the latest, trendy sociopolitical theory. Neither of those paths is appropriate for the philosopher because both lead to soul-destroying behavior. They both demand that we follow the herd, which entails following authority figures rather than thinking for themselves. Most importantly, we neglect to examine our judgments, desires, and intentions. Why? Because exposing and then changing our thought patterns is hard work, and it requires self-knowledge we often lack. We are equally resistant to discovering and relinquishing the desire for things outside our sphere of control. These desires have driven us toward what we thought was happiness for so long that we cannot imagine abandoning them. Finally, many of us avoid examining our behavior because it may entail a change we are unprepared to face. Therefore, we continue to follow the herd. We ignore our troubled minds; we remain angry at God, the universe, and fellow humans. Besides, there is a sense of comfort, security, and belonging in the herd. Alternatively, we know that if we step outside the herd, we face what Epictetus predicted: [We] become an object of mockery for the crowd, just as the spectators at an ordinary festival are mocked by the traders; and even the sheep and cattle, if they had sufficient intelligence, would laugh at those who attach value to anything other than fodder! (Discourses 2.14.29) The challenge for us moderns is to step away from the herd long enough to do a thorough self-examination. As uncomfortable as it may be, we need to hear Epictetus’ diagnosis of our current state of mind: our desires are inflamed, our aversions are low, our purposes are inconsistent, our motives are out of harmony with nature, and our opinions are ill-considered and mistaken (Discourses 2.14.22). The diagnosis is harsh, the medicine is bitter, and the path to recovery will be long and occasionally quite challenging. However, the alternative is much worse.

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

Everything suits me that suits your designs, O my universe. Nothing is too early or too late for me that is in your own good time. All is fruit for me that your seasons bring, O nature. All proceeds from you, all subsists in you, and to you all things return. (Meditations 4.23) The Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius was a deeply spiritual person, and that fact comes across clearly in his Meditations. The American philosopher and religious scholar Jacob Needleman suggests the combination of “metaphysical vision, poetic genius, and the worldly realism of a ruler” within the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius inspire us and give us “honorable and realistic hope in our embattled lives.”[1] As a result, he argues, [The Meditations] deserves its unique place among the writings of the world’s great spiritual philosophers.[2] Needleman elaborates on the spiritual impact Marcus’ Meditations has on many of its readers, Marcus is seeking to experience from within himself the higher attention of what he calls the logos, or Universal Reason, so too the sensitive reader begins to listen for that same finer life within his own psyche. That is to say, the reader— you and I— is not simply given great ideas which he then feeds into his already formed opinions and rules of logic. The action of many of these meditations is far more serious than that, and far more interesting and spiritually practical. In a word, in such cases, in many of these meditations, we are being guided—without even necessarily knowing what to call it—we are being guided through a brief moment of inner work. We are being given a taste of what it means to step back in ourselves and develop an intentional relationship to our own mind.[3] The practice of Stoicism for Marcus was a means to find his place in the cosmos. He sought congruity with Nature and learned to love what fate had in store for him because he trusted in a providential cosmos. As David Hicks asserts, The Stoicism in which Marcus believed is rooted in an all-encompassing nature. Everything in man and in the universe, everything that is or ought to be, everything fated and everything free, and the logos or rational principle that informs everything and ties everything together and is ultimately identified with the deity – all of this is found in nature, and there is nothing else.[4] Stoicism provided Marcus with more than an abstract, intellectual understanding of human and cosmic Nature. The religious nature of Stoic philosophy differentiated it from other philosophies as well as organized religions. I covered the religious nature of Stoicism previously, so I will not address it fully here. However, it is important to understand that Stoicism was more than an intellectual endeavor for Marcus. Stoicism provided a rational form of spirituality for Marcus, and it offers the same for moderns. Stoicism is an alternative for those who consider themselves spiritual but not religious. If you're uncomfortable with the dogmas of organized religion and the nihilism of atheism, Stoicism offers a middle ground. Stoicism provides a spiritual way of life guided by reason. Stoicism relies on our innate connection with the rationality permeating the cosmos to guide our human reason toward a relationship with the divine that inspires us to develop our moral character and thereby experience true well-being. As Mark Forstater wrote in his insightful book The Spiritual Teachings of Marcus Aurelius: Until the time of Neoplatonism, Stoicism was the most highly spiritualised form of philosophy in ancient Greece and Rome. It was so spiritualised that it is as accurate to call it a religion as a philosophy.[5] As Henry Sedgewick points out in his biography of Marcus Aurelius, the traditional religions did not provide what he was looking for, Marcus was seeking a religion, as I have said, but there was none at hand that he could accept. The old Roman religion was a mere series of ceremonies, with nothing sacred except lingering patriotic sentiment, and withal marred by superstitions, such as those at Lanuvium. Foreign religions were no better. Syrian priests, like mountebanks, trundled images of the Magna Mater about the countryside, hoping to wheedle peasants out of their pennies; the worshippers of the Egyptian gods offered sensuous exaltation, and mysteries that disregarded reason. Christianity, as we understand it, was utterly unknown to him. He was compelled to look for religion in philosophy; for there only, as he thought, and perhaps thought truly, could a man, without doing wrong to his reason, find spiritual help to enable him to do his duty and keep his soul pure.[6]  Marcus did not find consolation in the rituals of traditional religions or the mediation of priests. He was looking for psychological strength and consolation which could allow him to keep his mind pure in trying times and under troublesome circumstances. Marcus discovered the personal religious practice he was looking for within the deeply spiritual philosophy of Stoicism.[7] As a result, his life became an example of the power of Stoicism in a person’s inner life. Sedgewick argues, Marcus Aurelius is not a prodigy among men, unheralded by what has come before; on the contrary he is the ripe product of the spiritual movement that expressed itself in the Stoic philosophy, or rather, as it had then become, the Stoic religion.[8] As can be seen in his Meditations, Marcus followed the Stoic path and became his own priest, in service to the gods, For such a man, who no longer postpones his endeavour to take his place among the best, is indeed a priest and servant of the gods, behaving rightly towards the deity stationed within him, so ensuring that the mortal being remains unpolluted by pleasures, invulnerable to every pain, untouched by any wrong, unconscious of any evil, a wrestler in the greatest contest of all… (Meditations 3.4.3) In Meditations 3.16, Marcus draws upon the importance of the divine while discussing four models of human behavior. Body, soul, intellect: for the body, sense-impressions; for the soul, impulses; for the intellect, judgements. To receive impressions by means of images is something that we share even with cattle; and to be drawn this way and that by the puppet-strings of impulse, we share with wild beasts, with catamites, and with a Phalaris or a Nero; and to have the intellect as a guide towards what appear to be duties is something that we share with those who do not believe in the gods, with those who betray their country, with those who will do anything whatever behind locked doors. If you share everything else with those whom I have just mentioned, there remains the special characteristic of a good person, namely, to love and welcome all that happens to him and is spun for him as his fate, and not to defile the guardian-spirit seated within his breast, nor to trouble it with a host of fancies, but to preserve it in cheerful serenity, following God in an orderly fashion, never uttering a word that is contrary to the truth nor performing an action that is contrary to justice. In this passage, Marcus outlined three aspects of the Stoic Self and their corresponding capacities; then, he uses these to delineate four behavior models. First, let’s look at the three aspects of Self: Body (soma)—sense-impressions (phantasia) Soul (pneuma)—impulses (horme) Intellect (nous)—judgments It would be a mistake to impose a Platonic conception of a divided mind here. The mind is a unified whole in Stoicism. As Christopher Gill notes in his note on the Robin Hard translation of Meditations, where Marus used this same language: This threefold division differs from the standard Stoic view that psychological processes are also physical and are functions of an animating ‘breath’ (pneuma); see LS 47, 53. However, the division is probably best taken as an essentially ethical one (Marcus urges himself to identify with his rational and potentially virtuous mind or ‘ruling centre’), rather than indicating the deliberate adoption of a non-standard, Platonic-style view of psychology.[9] In his Introduction to the same translation, Gill wrote: …[Marcus] sometimes stresses that we are, essentially, our ‘ruling’ or ‘governing’ centre (or ‘mind’, hēgemonikon), sometimes contrasting this with other aspects of our self, including ‘flesh’, and, more surprisingly, psuchē (which he uses to mean ‘breath’ or ‘vitality’).25 On the face of it, this looks like a shift towards a Platonic-style dualism, distinguishing between the disembodied mind and the body in a way that is quite inconsistent with the Stoic view that our psychological functions are also bodily ones. But, examined more closely, it is clear that such passages are really making an ethical point, and one that reflects the first Stoic theme noted earlier. What Marcus is stressing (like Epictetus in similar phrases) is that the really important aspect of human nature is the capacity to use the mind, or ‘governing part’, to try to live virtuously, rather than attaching supreme value to ‘matters of indifference’ such as material goods or sensual pleasures.[10] Next, Marcus uses these aspects of the Self to delineate four models of behavior: Those who are driven by sense impressions (phantasia): “To receive impressions by means of images is something that we share even with cattle.” Those who are driven by desires (horme): “Drawn this way and that by the puppet-strings of impulse, we share with wild beasts, with catamites, and with a Phalaris or a Nero.” Those who are driven by their intellect (nous) alone: “To have the intellect as a guide towards what appear to be duties is something that we share with those who do not believe in the gods, with those who betray their country, with those who will do anything whatever behind locked doors.” So far,

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

If I were a nightingale, I would perform the work of a nightingale, and if I were a swan, that of a swan. But as it is, I am a rational being, and I must sing the praise of God. This is my work, and I accomplish it, and I will never abandon my post for as long as it is granted to me to remain in it; and I invite all of you to join me in this same song. (Discourses 1.16.20-21) Epictetus is typically considered the most religious of the Roman Stoics. As such, some attempt to portray him as an outlier among the Stoics. However, as A.A. Long points out, In his conception of divine providence, creativity, and rationality, Epictetus is completely in line with the general Stoic tradition. His distinctiveness, in what I have discussed so far, extends mainly to the enthusiasm with which he commends obedience to God and to the warmth he infuses in his expressions of God's concern for human beings.[1] We find this same “notable religious sensibility” in the philosophy of Seneca, Musonius Rufus, and Marcus Aurelius,[2] and, as A.A. Long further notes, it is “broadly in line with traditional Stoicism.”[3] To a large degree, these religious sentiments result from the inherent “structural resemblance” between the rationality of humans and that of the divine logos, which allows for a “certain degree of personalistic theism in thinking and speaking about god”[4] in Stoicism. We see this language used frequently by Epictetus. Likewise, over the history of the Stoa, God will “assume more and more spiritual and personal traits” and “religiousness will tend to permeate” Stoicism and move it toward theism without fully arriving there.[5] Nevertheless, it is essential to balance the religious sentiments of Epictetus with the realization that he never claimed nor adhered to any form of divine revelation; neither did he express a need for religious faith, in the forms those concepts are commonly understood today. For Epictetus, to follow God means “we should pay attention to the God in us, i.e. to our reason, in order to determine what is the right thing for us, namely how we are to live in accordance with nature.”[6] As Andrew Mason, Teaching Fellow at the University of Edinburgh, points out in the introduction of a beautiful little volume on The Philosophy of Epictetus: Talk of God’s seeing, helping, guiding, speaking to and punishing us, and of God as our father, can be explained in terms either of God’s overall providence, or of our inner god or daemon, our reason, which is a fragment of the cosmic deity. Likewise prayer, for Epictetus, is not an appeal for intervention by an external God, but rather an admonition to oneself. Epictetus does differ from the early Stoics in the extent to which he uses personalistic language about God; this may be explained partly by his personal outlook, but also by the purpose of the Discourses, in the context of which God’s providence and his status as an ethical example are more important than the cosmological aspects of him which played an important part in early Stoicism.[7] A.A. Long sums up the difference between Epictetus and his predecessors in the Stoa by arguing he “proceeds from rather than to God.”[8] He points out, “Epictetus’ favourite formula for the goal of human life is ‘to follow the gods’ (Discourses1.12.5; 1.30.4; 4.7.20).”[9] The earlier Stoics used oikeiosis as the starting point to explain Stoic ethical theory; they taught theology last. Epictetus reversed that approach and made theology the starting point of ethics. Epictetus builds his ethical theory and practice on what Long calls THEONOMIC FOUNDATIONS.[10] Epictetus argues we are born with an innate moral sense (preconception) of the good and the divine.[11] Because each of us possesses a fragment of divine Reason (logos) as our guiding principle, we are innately capable of understanding and living according to the laws of God that are written in Nature. Thus, Epictetus’ instruction to ‘follow God’ is equivalent to ‘living according to nature’ (1.26.1). Nevertheless, Epictetus is not unique in this approach; as Plutarch noted, Chrysippus always put theology first when discussing ethical matters.[12] Here we see why the Stoic conception of Nature, derived from the study of physics and theology, is essential to understanding this holistic philosophical system. Both oikeiosis and theology fall under the topic of physics in Stoicism. Thus, whether the Stoics began with oikeiosis or theology, they grounded their ethical theory in physics—the study of nature. The Stoics did not conceive of God as a transcendent being; the Stoic divinity is immanent. As such, a fragment of the same logos that providentially orders the cosmos resides in us as our guiding principle (hegemonikon). A.A. Long suggests, The Stoics’ deepest religious intuitions are founded on their doctrine that the human mind, in all its functions – reflecting, sensing, desiring, and initiating action – is part and partner of God.[13] In his book dedicated to the application of Epictetus’ teachings to a philosophical life, A.A. Long writes, Whether [Epictetus] speaks of Zeus or God or Nature or the gods, he is completely committed to the belief that the world is providentially organized by a divine power whose creative agency reaches its highest manifestation in human beings.    That was orthodox Stoicism, and much else that Epictetus attributes to divinity is quite traditional. However, no theology is simply a matter of doctrine. Conceptions of the divine are indicated in numerous ways that go beyond such epithets as eternal, creative, providential, and beneficent, on all of which the Stoics were agreed. Awe, reverence, gratitude, joy, prayer, obedience-these are a sample of attitudes that a serious belief in a supreme divinity typically involves. Stoic philosophers, just like other believers, vary considerably over which of these attitudes they express and with what degree of emotional engagement.     When we review Epictetus from this perspective, his theology emerges as most distinctive in two respects: first, its serving as the explicit foundation for his moral psychology, and, secondly, its warmly and urgently personalist tone. More emphatically than any other Stoic in our record, Epictetus speaks of Zeus or God in terms that treat the world's divine principle as a person to whom one is actually present and who is equally present to oneself as an integral aspect of one's mind.[14] A word of caution is appropriate here. We must use due caution when approaching Stoicism with our modern conceptions of God, religion, and piety. If we fail to check our preconceived notions and biases, we are likely to misinterpret and misunderstand the Stoics by “falling victim to either over-assimilation or excessive differentiation.”[15] We moderns commit a serious error when we attempt to position the Stoics at either end of the modern metaphysical spectrum. The Stoics were neither theists nor atheists in the modern sense. Stoicism is a rational form of spirituality that arrived at a conception of divinity through reason rather than revelation. Therefore, the Stoic concept of a divine, providentially ordered cosmos resides in the open space between theism and atheism. Many scholars apply the label of pantheism to Stoic theology. However, it is clear a thread of theism was present from the founding of the Stoa, and this blend of pantheism and theism is expressed differently by various ancient Stoics. Nevertheless, as we will see, the Stoics, in general, and Epictetus, in particular, considered their worldview essential to their philosophical system. The difference in worldview—the nature of the cosmos and the nature of human beings—was one of the primary differentiators among the Stoics, Epicureans, Cynics, and Sceptics during the Hellenistic period. They all agreed that eudaimonia (a good flow) was the summum bonum of human life. Likewise, they all agreed an excellent character (virtue) was essential. The Cynics even agreed with the Stoics that virtue is both necessary and sufficient for eudaimonia. It was primarily their divergent worldviews, which subsequently affected their other doctrines and differentiated these philosophical schools. A.A. Long argues, The choice of Stoicism over Epicureanism, its principal rival, was decisive not only for one's ethical values and priorities but also for one's understanding of the world's general structure, one's theology, and the importance to be attached to systematic reasoning and the study of language. Yet, however much these and other schools disagreed over their accounts of such things, they all shared the view that philosophy should provide its adepts with the foundation for the best possible human life-that is to say, a happiness that would be lasting and serene. At Epictetus' date (and in fact, from long before) philosophy in general was taken to be a medicine for alleviating the errors and passions that stem from purely reactive and conventional attitudes. To put it another way, the choice of Stoicism over another philosophy depended not on its promise to deliver an admirable and thoroughly satisfying life (that project would not distinguish it from rival schools) but on its detailed specification of that life and on the appeal of its claims about the nature of the world and human beings.[16] Modern Stoic popularizers are simply wrong when they argue that physics and theology are not essential to the Stoic philosophical system. There is no support for such an assertion in the surviving texts or credible scholarship. One can abandon those aspects of Stoicism in modern times, as Lawrence Becker did, and attempt to create something entirely new for atheists and agnostics who reject the Stoic worldview.[17] Becker understood he was creating an entirely new synthesis of Stoicism; that’s why he called it “A New Stoicism.” Nevertheless,