Seneca’s an amiable fellow. He’s friendly, he’s unpretentious, and his idiosyncrasies are of the more endearing sort. During his asthma attacks, he reminds himself that he could take his final breath at any moment, that every hour of our past has already been claimed by death; that we’re dying every day. He lives above a noisy gymnasium for a while and uses the opportunity to improve his concentration and make himself less susceptible to outside distractions. Then he decides to find another place to live; because after all, who the hell wants to live above a gym?
He plunders nuggets of wisdom from the rival Epicureans, because a philosopher takes everything that’s true and makes it his own. And now, two thousand years later, we’re still plundering him, though we tend not to share many of his philosophical presuppositions. I doubt he would have minded.
To understand a man, you have to understand what he worships. Seneca’s religion is a curious amalgamation of naturalistic, pantheistic, and henotheistic elements which are all allowed to hang together. If Stoic ethical teachings can be summarized in one sentence, it would be, “live according to nature”; but nature, for a Stoic, is always infused with divinity, to the point that nature and the supernatural paradoxically fold together. On top of this, Stoics like Seneca had no trouble believing in the traditional Greco-Roman pantheon, though they devoted themselves primarily to the worship of Jupiter, the king of the gods, who they believed to exist outside of space and time and to sustain the being of the world in a manner approximating monotheism.
They believed that the cosmos was periodically consumed in fire, and that the gods themselves (sans Jupiter) were stacked on top of each other and squeezed into a pinpoint of space, sort of like clothes in those vacuum storage bags. Then the cosmos started over. In one letter, Seneca expresses a belief in something like reincarnation: he says that as the seasons disappear only to return again the next year, so people live and die, but are reconstituted with no memory of their past existence.
To be a Stoic, for Seneca, is to be a natural man; and to be a natural man is to be like the creator of men: the old thunder-thrower himself. Jupiter is free because he doesn’t need anything. He exists and acts for its own sake. He relies on nothing and fears nothing, and so a natural man should be the same way. Fear and hope are the great tyrants of mankind; by submitting to them, we make ourselves hostage to fortune, and our stability comes to rely upon externalities, making us something less than natural.
But fortunately for us, nature’s god gave us the means with which to liberate ourselves from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, including its blackest dart, which is death. This means is called logos; the principle of reason which pervades all things and encapsulates the nature of god, and, by extension, the true nature of man. Through reason, we can recognize our hopes and fears for what they are: irrational phantom images that lie below the level of existence; which is the same thing as to say that they are unnatural, which is the same thing as to say that they are ungodly.
It’s an interesting way of thinking; and to some extent, I find it an appealing one. In the American religion—wherein the pope is Oprah Winfrey, the holy spirit is legal tender, and God wants nothing more than for you to indulge in every impulse—theodicy is a subject of much consternation. When disaster strikes; when the calamitous nature of being alive manifests itself above the din of our frivolous chatterings, we’ve a mind to cast aspersions on a god who greets evil with indifference. Seneca would reply that god is indeed indifferent to the ups and downs of life; and with a little practice, you could be too.
Keep well.