Letters from a Stoic 65 - On the First Cause

On the First Cause

Seneca and some friends have a debate about the prime cause of the universe.  It seems his friends perhaps tilt towards the Platonic and Aristotelian perspectives.  Seneca does a fine job summarizing the differing perspectives.

For the Stoics, the prime cause is Nature/Reason/Cosmos/the Universe.  And to be even more specific, it is pneuma that is the prime mover and cause of all actions in the universe.

two things in the universe which are the source of everything, – namely, cause and matter.  Matter lies sluggish, a substance ready for any use, but sure to remain unemployed if no one sets it in motion. Cause, however, by which we mean reason, moulds matter and turns it in whatever direction it will, producing thereby various concrete results.

...

The Stoics believe in one cause only, – the maker.

Elsewhere, Aetius states,

The Stoics made god out to be intelligent, a designing fire which methodically proceeds towards creation of the world, and encompasses all the seminal principles according to which everything comes about according to fate, (2) and a breath pervading the whole world, which takes on different names owing to the alterations of the matter through which it passes (The Hellenistic Philosophers, Long, Sedley, p. 274-275).

After contrasting the Stoic view with the Platonic and Aristotelian, the question becomes very deeply philosophical.

Do you ask what God's purpose is?

Seneca states that God's purpose is goodness.

Elsewhere, I've written about what I've learned in the College of Stoic Philosophers, in which I noted others' theories that God not only has infinite potential, but God's purpose is to experience all that potential (see the God, Determinism and Free Will section of my essay on Stoic Physics).

Seneca then addresses a very practical question:

"What pleasure do you get from wasting your time on these problems, which relieve you of none of your emotions, rout none of your desires?"

His response to the question he poses, is worth reading in its entirety.

So far as I am concerned, I treat and discuss them as matters which contribute greatly toward calming the spirit, and I search myself first, and then the world about me.  And not even now am I, as you think, wasting my time. For all these questions, provided that they be not chopped up and torn apart into such unprofitable refinements, elevate and lighten the soul, which is weighted down by a heavy burden and desires to be freed and to return to the elements of which it was once a part. For this body of ours is a weight upon the soul and its penance; as the load presses down the soul is crushed and is in bondage, unless philosophy has come to its assistance and has bid it take fresh courage by contemplating the universe, and has turned it from things earthly to things divine. There it has its liberty, there it can roam abroad; meantime it escapes the custody in which it is bound, and renews its life in heaven.

Marcus Aurelius, similarly took a metaphysical flight through the cosmos, perhaps too, contemplating God's purpose.

the rational soul traverses the whole universe and its surrounding void, explores the shape of it, stretches into the infinity of time, encompasses and comprehends the periodic regeneration of the Whole (Meditations 11.1).

And lastly, I recently came across this passage by Pierre Hadot in The Present Alone is Our Happiness where he said,

Things changed at the time of my adolescence.  Indeed, I have long had the impression of having been in the world only from the time I became an adolescent.  I will always regret having thrown away - out of Christian humility - my first handwritten notes that were an echo of the birth of my personality, for it is very difficult for me now to rediscover the psychological content of the overwhelming discoveries I made then.  I do remember their context.  One happened on rue Ruinart, on the route I took home to my parents' house every day from the Petit Seminaire.  Night had fallen.  The stars were shining in an immense sky; one could still see them at the time.  Another took place in a room of our house.  In both cases I was filled with an anxiety that was both terrifying and delicious, provoked by the sentiment of the presence of the world, or of the Whole, and of me in that world.  In fact, I was incapable of formulating my experience, but after the fact I felt that it might correspond to questions such as What am I?  Why am I here?  What is this world I am in?  I experienced a sentiment of strangeness, of astonishment, and of wonder at being there.  At the same time I had the sentiment of being immersed in the world, of being a part of it, the world extending from the smallest blade of grass to the stars. This world was present to me, intensely present.  Much later I would discover that this awareness of my immersion in the world, this impression of belonging to the Whole, was what Romain Rolland called the "oceanic feeling."  I think I have been a philosopher since that time, if by philosophy one understands this awareness of existence, of being-in-the-world (p. 5-6).

In a sense, it seems that Seneca, Aurelius and Hadot speak of out-of-body experiences.  Seneca reminds us that our body is a form of slavery and that we ought to spend our experience in the higher sphere rather the bodily.

The wise man, the seeker after wisdom, is bound closely, indeed, to his body, but he is an absentee so far as his better self is concerned, and he concentrates his thoughts upon lofty things. Bound, so to speak, to his oath of allegiance, he regards the period of life as his term of service. He is so trained that he neither loves nor hates life; he endures a mortal lot, although he knows that an ampler lot is in store for him.

Seneca then rhetorically asks thirteen deep questions, to demonstrate to Lucilius, that questions - philosophical questions - can have a freeing effect on our minds and that we are not slaves to our bodies and that our minds can contemplate and discuss such lofty subjects.

this freedom will be greatly helped by the contemplation of which we were just speaking.

He then evokes the Scala naturae in the context of God and humans.

All things are made up of matter and of God; God controls matter, which encompasses him and follows him as its guide and leader. And that which creates, in other words, God, is more powerful and precious than matter, which is acted upon by God.  God's place in the universe corresponds to the soul's relation to man. World-matter corresponds to our mortal body; therefore let the lower serve the higher. Let us be brave in the face of hazards. Let us not fear wrongs, or wounds, or bonds, or poverty.

And the very essence of us is pneuma as displayed by our hegemonikon.  While we are a part of the Cosmos and the Whole, we nevertheless have autonomy in how we display that which is unique to us.  While the indifferents in our life (hazards, fears, wrongs, wounds, bonds, poverty, riches, etc.) do not represent us entirely, it is our unique response to these things which define us.  In our space of choice, is how we exercise our autonomy, creativity, personality and virtue: our arete.

Epictetus Discourses 3.13 - What desolation means, and the nature of one who is desolate

The meaning of a forlorn state, and the kind of person a forlorn man is

In Scott Adams' God's Debris in the chapter entitled "God's Motivation" the avatar claims there is only one challenge for God: “the challenge of destroying himself" and attempting to learn what happens afterwards.

It is an interesting thought experiment, one which Adams fleshes out in the book.

Epictetus touches on a similar concept; one of desolation and the conflagration of the universe.  If you're like me, you might wonder what the definition of "conflagration" is.  It's defined as, "an extensive fire which destroys a great deal of land or property."  So, the conflagration of the universe seems to hit at the Big Bang Theory, which also sounds similar to how we possibly exist according to the thought experiment in God's debris.

Epictetus talks of desolation in the human condition as well as in Zeus' condition.  Humans might be considered desolate when they are "bereft of help" (v. 1, p. 167).  The worst kind of desolation isn't just lack of people around you, but lack of people who are "trustworthy, honest and helpful" (v. 3, p. 168).  Whereas in Zeus' condition, he is able to live with himself and "is at peace with himself, and reflects on the nature of his own rule, and occupies himself with thoughts that are worthy of him" (v. 7, p. 168).  However, I wonder if ever at some point in his long, endless life, he arrived at the idea that the Avatar proposes in God's Debris?  All of that is fascinating to discuss, but lets get back to solving the human condition first!

Epictetus teaches, "we too should be able to converse with ourselves, and know how to do without others, and not be at a loss about how to occupy ourselves; we should reflect on the divine governing order, and the nature of our relationship with all other things, and consider how we have responded to events up until now, and how we are doing so at present, and what are the things that afflict us, and how these too can be remedied; and if any of these things need perfecting" (v. 7-8, p. 168).

In other words, we ought to find time and space for self-reflection and how we plan to improve ourselves.

Indeed, Caesar and other powerful leaders of the world can sue and guarantee peace from war and piracy, but they would not be able to guarantee their people peace from sorrow or envy or natural disasters.  Only "the teaching of the philosophers promises to provide us with peace from all such things" (v. 11, p. 169).  We learn from the philosophers "by God through the voice of reason ... how nothing bad can possible happen to me; there can be no robber for me, no earthquake; everything is full of peace, full of tranquility; and every road, every city, every fellow traveler, neighbour, companion, all are harmless" (v. 13, p. 169).  And when our time is up and God calls us to return, we return from whence we came: the elements.

Later in the chapter, Epictetus advises us to practice to learn to live like the Gods, who need nothing.  "Take no food, drink water alone; abstain from every desire at one time so as to be able, one day, to exercise your desires in a reasonable way" (v. 21, p. 170).  And when you want to help others, you will be able to do so, since you have conquered yourself.  You can only help others conquer themselves when you have already done it (see. v. 22-23, p. 170).

This advice is very similar to quotes from the following:

Diogenes Laertius quotes Diogenes of Sinope as saying, "It is the privilege of the gods to want nothing and of godlike men to want little."

Crates who said, "practice being in need of only a few things, for this is the closest thing to god. for the gods need nothing. but, so that you may learn more exactly what is involved in having few needs ... reflect that children have more needs than adults, women than men, invalids than the healthy, and, in general, the inferior everywhere has more needs than the superior. therefore the gods have need of nothing and those nearest to them have the fewest needs." source

God's Debris: God's Motivation

This particular chapter, from Scott Adams' God's Debris is worth reading and thinking about.  In my readings of various Stoic philosophers, this thought experiment is useful to have in the back of your mind.  And, if you have the time, I would highly recommend reading the book or listening to it on audio book.

*****

“If you were God,” he said, “what would you want?”

“I don’t know. I barely know what I want, much less what God wants.”

“Imagine that you are omnipotent. You can do anything, create anything, be anything. As soon as you decide you want something, it becomes reality.”

I waited, knowing there was more.

He continued. “Does it make sense to think of God as wanting anything? A God would have no emotions, no fears, no desires, no curiosity, no hunger. Those are human shortcomings, not something that would be found in an omnipotent God. What then would motivate God?”

“Maybe it’s the challenge, the intellectual stimulation of creating things,” I offered.

“Omnipotence means that nothing is a challenge. And what could stimulate the mind of someone who knows everything?”

“You make it sound almost boring to be God. But I guess you’ll say boredom is a human feeling.”

“Everything that motivates living creatures is based on some weakness or flaw. Hunger motivates animals. Lust motivates animals. Fear and pain motivate animals. A God would have none of those impulses. Humans are driven by all of our animal passions plus loftier-sounding things like self-actualization and creativity and freedom and love. But God would care nothing for those things, or if he cared would already have them in unlimited quantities. None of them would be motivating.”

“So what motivates God?” I asked. “Do you have the answer to that question, or are you just yanking my chain?”

“I can conceive of only one challenge for an omnipotent being—the challenge of destroying himself.”

“You think God would want to commit suicide?” I asked.

“I’m not saying he wants anything. I’m saying it’s the only challenge.”

“I think God would prefer to exist than to not exist.”

“That’s thinking like a human, not like a God. You have a fear of death so you assume God would share your preference. But God would have no fears. Existing would be a choice. And there would be no pain of death, nor feelings of guilt or remorse or loss. Those are human feelings, not God feelings. God could simply choose to discontinue existence.”

“There’s a logical problem here, according to your way of thinking,” I said. “If God knows the future, he already knows if he will choose to end his existence, and he knows if he will succeed at it, so  here’s no challenge there, either.”

“Your thinking is getting clearer,” he said. “Yes, he will know the future of his own existence under normal conditions. But would his omnipotence include knowing what happens after he loses his omnipotence, or would his knowledge of the future end at that point?”

“That sounds like a thoroughly unanswerable question.  I think you’ve hit a dead end,” I said.

“Maybe. But consider this. A God who knew the answer to that question would indeed know  everything and have everything. For that reason he would be unmotivated to do anything or create anything. There would be no purpose to act in any way whatsoever. But a God who had one nagging question—what happens if I cease to exist?—might be motivated to find the answer in order to  complete his knowledge. And having no fear and no reason to continue existing, he might try it.”

“How would we know either way?”

“We have the answer. It is our existence. The fact that we exist is proof that God is motivated to act in some way. And since only the challenge of self-destruction could interest an omnipotent God, it stands to reason that we . . .”

I interrupted the old man in midsentence and stood straight up from the rocker. It felt as if a pulse of energy ran up my spine, compressing my lungs, electrifying my skin, bringing the hairs on the back of my neck to full alert. I moved closer to the fireplace, unable to absorb its heat.  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” My brain was taking on too much knowledge. There was overflow
and I needed to shake off the excess.

The old man looked at nothing and said, “We are God’s debris.”