Dog Genius and Us

   There is a truly fascinating program that is shown periodically on NatGeoWild titled "Dog Genius."  It is intended to demonstrate the degree of canine intelligence, but it also says quite a bit about human thinking, too.

   One aspect about canine intelligence that is demonstrated on this program is that dogs are capable, not just of "trial and error" learning, but of true reasoning as well.  The show depicts an experiment where dogs are placed in "Skinner boxes" and shown two images, say a teacup and a box on a touch screen.  If the dog presses the "correct" image--say, in this case, the box--he is rewarded with a treat.  If he presses the wrong image, the screen flashes and he gets nothing.  Of course, the dog learns that he is rewarded for pressing the box rather than the tea cup--big deal!

  Ah, but it really is a big deal.  Say, on the next trial, the dog is shown a teacup and a chair.  Well, he doesn't apparently start from scratch.  He remembers that the teacup gives him nothing, so he presses the chair and, voila, he gets his treat.  The next time, say, he is shown a box and a table.  He remembers that the box image gets him the treat, so he ignores the table and chooses the box.  He doesn't experiment with trying the table to see what happens: he chooses the box because he knows that gets him a treat.  It goes further.  Now, he is shown a chair and a table, neither of which is the original image.  Which does he select?  The chair, because he remembers that the chair image provided a treat as well.  He has learned, ON HIS OWN, to make these kind of logical associations.  He is thinking, he is reasoning, although of course not at our level, but give him a break; he is, after all, still a dog.

   Dogs have learned to read our expressions, and it seems they are the only non-human animals to do so.  Say that you have taught your dog the "leave it" command; you place a treat on the floor, give the command, and the dog will learn NOT to pick up the treat until you give permission.  All right, everyone knows that, but...If you close your eyes, and the dog sees that you have closed your eyes, he will ignore the command and take the treat anyway!  Why not?  You can't tell that he took it, he wants it, so why not take it?  They have apparently learned that we process information through our eyes, while a dog processes most of his through his nose.  This dog is understanding--and thinks he is manipulating--a member of another species.  And, half the time, our dogs get away with it!!

   This is just one more batch of data demonstrating that those activities that make up thinking, that correspond to what we mistakenly call "the mind," are the result of cerebral development, not interaction with some disembodied intellect.  
 

Peer Approval

As I have said several times in my first book, anyone who has a serious wish to pursue the Stoic life style will soon discover that this entails far more than merely accepting some different philosophic propositions. It is not as if I am deciding that sense data theory is correct, that we do not perceive objects directly. If I did accept that theory—and I don't—what real difference would it make in my life? Would I live any differently, be any happier, if I accepted that I am perceiving sense-data of a pen and paper rather than the objects themselves? I think not. To seek to become a Stoic entails something far more difficult: it involves a change in the way we perceive and act in the world around us. If it is anything else, it is a waste of time.

Why is this so difficult? Simply for this reason: one of the most powerful influences on any person is the desire to please, and receive the approval of, our friends and acquaintances. We call this the desire for peer approval, and it works both ways. We crave approval by our associates, and we know that this approval must be reciprocated. From the Stoic perspective, the tricky part is that, in order to obtain this approval, we must act in ways that will elicit this approval, and we must demonstrate approval of others' actions. After all, how can we expect to receive approval when we will not grant it ourselves? If we reject our friends' actions, they will probably interpret this rejection as a rejection of them, personally, and there goes the friendship.¹ Furthermore, this pressure to conform to our friends' expectations is constant and reinforced by all types of pressure, from the most inane popular psychology to serious ethical dissertations.

Epictetus, however, along all the other Stoic teachers, pointed out that as seductive as this is, this desire is just as harmful to the Stoic ideal as the desire for wealth, fame or power. He was absolutely correct on this point. When we think about it, we realize that peer approval is just as much outside of our control as anything else we might desire. I can no more control a friend's or acquaintance's attitudes or opinions anymore than I can control a stranger's. Oh, I might be able to claim some small measure of influence, but ]certainly not control. Remember the basic principle: if I desire something that is not in my control but in another's, then I am, in reality, a slave to whomever does control what I desire. But how, when I am just learning to follow the Stoic principles, can I escape from this habit?

Epictetus actually taught his students to leave their family and friends and live at his school while they were still learning the basic principles, and many of the other teachers of philosophy felt the same way. This physical isolation from friends and family would help remove the new student from the daily temptations with which he was surrounded. Those temptations might take the form of acting in ways that while contrary to the Stoic life would elicit the approvals of friends and family, or they might be the temptation to abandon any serious adoption of Stoic life in favor of political or business advancement. Suppose his former friends made up a crowd dedicated to hard living and drinking after work; it would certainly be much harder to decline taking part in their revelries if one lived in the same town rather than hundreds of miles away! Epictetus felt that trying, on the one hand, to live by Stoic principles surrounded by friends who had no use for them made as much sense as trying to train to run a marathon while continuing to smoke cigarettes would today. How does one learn to despise external pleasures when constantly associating with people who pursue them?²

Remember this basic truth: why care at all about what others think, of what they approve or disapprove? Consider a hypothetical comment, from an acquaintance I will call “Tom.” Suppose he lets you know that he completely disapproves of the position that you have taken, that we should consider anything external to our own will as unimportant. Furthermore, he thinks that such an attitude is totally irresponsible: “How can one be a productive member of a modern society and refuse to care about what is happening around you?” No matter the nature of your relation to Tom, whether he is a casual acquaintance or a life-long friend, you have to ask yourself these questions: First, is Tom himself a serious student of philosophy, is his challenge coming from a trained intellect or is it a “gut reaction?” If the answer is “yes,” then these questions arise. Are his premises correct, and is his logic valid? If the answer to either of these is “no,” then you must consider his comments as simply erroneous. He has made a mistake, and you might want to correct the error.

Suppose the answer to the first question is “no,” that he has no training, or possibly even interest, in philosophy. If this is the case, you should consider the objection as meaningless. Assuming that you began the study of the Stoic perspective because you understood that it would have some value for your life, why should his disapproval mean anything to you? I am not saying that you need treat him with disdain; he might be a good friend for other reasons, but a good friend would not expect you to live according to his lights, anymore than you should expect him to adopt the Stoic life, simply because you have done so. Nonetheless, you have no moral obligation to accept his perspective, either, and every reason to refuse to do so. You may appreciate his friendship, but you also want to be able to look yourself in the mirror and approve of what you see. And consider this: Besides you own approval, whose would you rather have? Tom's, or Epictetus'? Tom's, or Cato of Utica's? Tom's, or Cicero's? That is, in fact, the choice you have to make.

Obviously, unlike the young men who studied with Epictetus and others, there are steps that we do not have the option of taking. How many of us are the children of millionaires who can take the time to dedicate ourselves to philosophy to the exclusion of all practical affairs? Most of us, me included, have to work in order to have food, shelter, clothing, support a family, and so on. We do not have the luxury of traveling hundreds of miles to study with a teacher in some bucolic setting, oblivious to the world around us, cleansing our minds of the erroneous habits of a lifetime. We have to work, care for our families, cook, clean, perhaps tend to our yards, in short, do all those things that everyone else has to do. How do we, how can we, take the time to learn and perfect those principles we need to learn?

It is precisely because we have these responsibilities, these cares, that we need to find a way to make the extra efforts. Physical withdrawal may not be an option, but psychic withdrawal is. The easiest way to accomplis that is to step back from any comment we receive, any compliment or criticism, and analyze it the same way we would analyze an external event. Just as we do with appearances, when someone make a comment, we must “turn the mask,” as Epictetus said, and see exactly what it means. Assume for a moment that a co-worker gave you a compliment at work. What you are going to have to do is analyze the comment by starting with these two questions: First, who gave me the compliment, and second, what behavior, what action, elicited this compliment. Is he or she a philosopher, conversant with Stoic principles? Probably not, true? And be honest with yourself. Wasn't the compliment something to do with matters that most people might value but which you have learned as something to regard as outside of your control, hence neither good nor bad in itself? Did you really get a compliment on how much progress you are making in learning how to regulate your desires and aversions, or what is something as mundane as a task at work or, even worse, your clothing or personal appearance?

“What if I receive a compliment at work, and it concerns how I have performed my job, and the compliment comes from a co-worker who is an expert in the work I do? Are you seriously saying that I should not be pleased, not be proud?” Of course not, nor am I saying that you should not offer a pleasant “Thank you” for such a comment. Being a Stoic is not the same thing as being rude; every Stoic teacher has taught that it is a virtue to perform any task to the best of one's ability. There is never a reason to act in a churlish of self-righteous manner and openly deprecate a sincere compliment. What is important is to refrain from internalizing the compliment; in other words, let it be as water of a duck's back, emotionally. It does not touch you as a person. Now, it may well speak a great deal about your value as an employee, and there is nothing wrong with that. However, it does say nothing about you as a human being, and it says nothing about your progress towards the Stoic ideal. THAT is what should be truly important to you.

Is it being hypocritical to accept a compliment from someone while, at the same time, telling yourself that you should disregard it? Not at all, unless you have chosen to elevate rudeness and self-righteousness to the status of virtues. How can anyone think that it would be a virtue to be deliberately unpleasant, or a vice to be agreeable, particularly when there are no moral considerations involved? If someone has told me that my tie coordinates perfectly with my shirt and suit, why not express my appreciation for the comment and move on? What is the moral issue involved here? There is no reason to believe that every inter-personal action will have an ethical aspect. If it does in a particular circumstance that is one thing, but it usually won't.

What if the comment is not a compliment, but a criticism? The same rules would apply. If the criticism is well informed and correct, then accept it and move on. If it does not pertain to your moral principles, it isn't really important, at least certainly not central to your life. What if it really does touch on your commitment to the Stoic life? As I said above, that is a different matter. There are, I think, two types of comments or criticisms that could have a moral or principled content. The first would be a case when we are accused, rightly or wrongly, of failing to live or act in accordance with the principles we have espoused. The second would involve a criticism of the principles themselves. Dealing with the first situation, I would have to ask myself, “Is the criticism valid? Did I, in fact, actually fail to live up to, act in accordance with, some principle I have advocated?” After all, since none of us are perfect, it is quite possible that the criticism is valid. If that is true, then there are two actions I have to take. The first would be to admit, in all humility, the correctness of the criticism, because this not only establishes that I am being honest, but it reinforces, psychologically, the validity of the principle we are accused of violating. Perhaps I allowed myself to become emotionally upset at some event that was outside of my control. The best thing to do in such a case is to admit the failing, analyze my mistake, and try to resume the proper attitude towards externals.³

Yeah, well, what if the criticisms are false? Let's assume that they are, indeed, totally false, and that the claim that they are false is, itself, correct, and not some rationalization. If I know that my action was proper to the moment, why concern myself? It might be nice to be able to convince my critic, but I am the most important person I have to convince, not others. This type of situation is one where we must summon the moral courage to act in accordance with our convictions, is it not? And it is here that each one of us must decide what we value more, that which we consider to be right and true, or the good will of those whom we consider our friends. The same applies if the criticism is directed towards our principles themselves. We can take this “to the bank”: since most people base their moral beliefs on grounds other than rigorous logic, your principles themselves will be challenged and even derided. In America, the common source for most ethical beliefs is either religious faith, emotional sentiment, or, usually, a mixture of both. An intellectually rigorous ethical system will alienate many people, and their responses are just as likely to be as emotional as their beliefs.

Ir would be hard to underestimate the importance of this fact: opposition to the principles of the Stoic life are usually based on emotion, not rational analysis. Our ideals fly in the face of most “normal” feelings. True, on some rare occasions you might meet someone whose ethical principles, while different, are based upon rational, intellectual philosophy, but not very often.⁴ Because it is true that, for most people, morality is based upon religious expression, this usually means that it must not be questioned. When that faith is reinforced by social approval as well, it tends to be even more rigid. We often tend to associate such reinforcement as being conservative or traditional, but that is certainly not always the case. There is no such thing, anymore, as a monolithic “society,” and this means that there no longer exists any monolithic moral standards. To a large extent, we are members of whatever sub-culture we choose to be, and these sub-cultures have wide ranging variations in moral expectations. For example, I live in the northern exurbs of Atlanta, not far from authentically rural areas, and it is a very traditional society. Not that far away, I could have chosen to live in the academic environment of the University of Georgia, which is almost as liberal as any eastern university society, or the moved just a few miles south and lived in urban Atlanta, and each of these three embodies a different set of values. In each situation, the dominant values are quite different, and in each we can expect pressure to conform to the differing mores.

How do we learn to resist such pressure to conform to the mores of whatever society in which we live? In short, we do it the same way we do any new skill: one step at a time. If I were to expect, after my first reading of Epictetus' Discourses, to have the ability and the strength of will to totally disregard the values of my social circle, I would be a fool. As I have said before, that would be a ridiculous as deciding, after watch a track and field meet, to immediate exchange a sedentary life for an athletic one by buying a pair of running shoes and attempting to run a marathon on my first day of training! Assuming that I did not die of a stroke or a heart attack, I would at least feel horribly disappointed when I fell on my face and failed miserably. So, let's pick a possible scenario and review how it should play out. While at work, let's say that I go on my afternoon break into the break room and see that a group of my co-workers are sitting around a table where one of them seems visibly upset. It is clear from the conversation that he is upset because he was denied a promotion which he, and most everyone else, including me, thought that he deserved. “That's it,” he says. “I am through busting my ass for this company. From now on I'm not doing anything more than I have to in order to keep my job!” Everyone at the table agrees with him: the company is run by idiots, you deserved the promotion, why not slack off as much as you can, and so on. My natural response, once I hear the topic of the conversation—this is, after all, someone I would have known for years and with whom I am on good terms—would be to say that I was also sorry that he didn't get the promotion, but not to join in with the “pity party.”

There is certainly no need for me to be some kind of jerk, to come across as a sanctimonious prig, so I leave it at that. Wallowing in that kind of misery is hardly conduct in keeping with the Stoic ideal. If I analyze the situation, if I “turn the mask,” I will see that clearly see that getting a promotion is not within any employee's power, but how he or she reacts to the event is. I do not mean to imply that it is my place to start preaching, to lecture my associates on the uselessness of complaining about his situation. In the first place, I doubt that he or any of his friends would care about my opinion. In the second place, I doubt he would be in the mood to listen to a lecture on the Stoic attitude towards life's circumstances. Later he might, perhaps, but not at this time, so it would be best to let it go. If I were to be asked my opinion, that would be a whole different matter. “Why didn't you sit down with us? Don't you think he deserved the promotion?” Here I could honestly say, “Yes, I do think he should have been promoted, and I said so quite clearly.” “Ok, but why did you walk off?” Having been asked that question, it is my duty to reply, “What good would it have done? All of you were sitting around complaining about things that were outside of your control, making yourselves bitter and accomplishing nothing. If you are denied a promotion, would you want to start doing only the bare minimum and guarantee that you will never get promoted in the future? And, on top of that, just end up making yourself feel miserable in the process?”

Here my friends or associates may agree with me, or they may disagree. In fact, whether or not I am right or wrong on this specific issue is not much to the point. What does matter is that we have disagree on a point, and I have to make a choice: do I follow the principles that I believe to be true, or do I fall in with my friends? This particular example may not seem very earthshaking, but that makes no difference. We have all seen friendships end over very trivial matters, and have also seen them survive disagreements about core values. Like with any other activity, we analyze the situation, see what it really entails, and act on that knowledge. Forgetting the irrelevant specifics, I saw a friend upset by a situation that is outside of his control, in this case being passed over for a promotion. I offered my sympathy—nothing wrong with that—but I do not, by my own actions or comments, validate his emotions. I refrain, because to do so would violate the basic principle of the Stoic life: learn to desire only that which is within your own control.

If this attitude, this response, offers no quick or easy solution, so be it. My friend may accept my offer of sympathy and move on, or he may become offended that I did not seem to agree with his attitude. Isn't his reaction also outside of my control? It is, and all I can do is manage my own reaction to his emotions, and this could end up in a fractured relationship. It was not for nothing that the Stoic teachers emphasized the importance of moral courage. For those of us embracing a rationalist rather than mystical Stoicism, this virtue is central. We have no Divine Providence assuring us that Pangloss was right, that this is the best of all possible worlds. We must accept what comes, having learned to desire only that we act accordingly.

1Anyone who doubts the temptation to grant apparent approval, even when our “better natures” tell us we should not, should just look with brutal honesty over the last time one of our friends did something that did not meet with our approval, particularly if the action only transgressed our own beliefs in a minor way. Did you never overlook a less than sterling action simply in order to be accepted as part of the group?

2 As I was writing these lines it struck me that this whole arrangement could seem, from a 21^st Century perspective, as frighteningly similar to the practices of modern religious cults. They, too, often try to isolate their followers in order to maximize the influence of the cult leader, saying that they want to protect the student from the “contagion” of his or her former life. This might have a superficially familiar tone, but the motivation is quite different. True enough, Nicopolis, where Epictetus taught, may have been a great distance from Rome, or even Athens. However, by the time Epictetus was teaching it had become a reasonably large city in its own right, and his students were not cut off from contact with family and friends, except for the constraints of distance. Furthermore the Stoics, unlike the Cynics, did not constitute some Hellenistic, quasi-monastic order. These young men were being trained simply to improve their character in preparation for the time when they would return to public life. By the time they finished their training, hopefully they would be capable, productive citizens of the Empire, as well as grounded in the principles that would help them live satisfying lives. They were not being trained to live in barrels and avoid the world, as were the Cynics, but to engage it.

3I think this is important, considering humanity's tendencies to engage in some form of cognitive dissonance, wherein we change our beliefs in order to match our behavior. Admitting that the criticism is genuine helps forestall, I think, such patterns of thinking.

4I certainly do not mean to imply, by any means, that the Stoic approach is the only rational one. There have certainly been others, such as Epicureanism in the ancient world. However, it is still true that most objections to our path will be emotional in nature, not rational.

Living in Pain

I have been living with chronic pain since May of 1995 when, dummy that I was, I crossed a street without a light and went flying over the hood of a car.  My right leg was shattered, and healed with my right foot sticking out at a funny angle.  This means that I walk on the foot the wrong way, and the bones have become quite deformed.  I had corrective surgery, but since I did not have the leg re-broken and reset, the condition returned.  Every step is painful, and I joke that my foot looks like a dragon's claw!  On bad days I limp as badly as Chester on the old "Gunsmoke" series, and on good days I still walk funny.

Well, so what?  As I have said to others, I don't have a time machine, do I?  I can't go back in time and change what happened.  External events are, after all, outside of our control.  What I DO control is how I react to events.  I have a choice: I can paint myself as a "victim" and annoy everyone with my complaints about how I feel, or I can simply choose to go on living.  Is a funny story any less funny because my foot hurts?  Is a beautiful song any less beautiful because of how my foot feels?  I don't think so.  Should I not appreciate the story or the song because of some pain?   The Redskins still beat Dallas last night, didn't they?  (I am a native of Washington, DC, so Hail to the Redskins!)

We can learn, if we make the effort, to treat external events in this way.  It is not "natural," I grant, at least not at first.  We can learn, however, to adopt this attitude towards what happens to us, if we choose to do so.  What do we gain?  Oh, nothing more than peace of mind, a pleasant attitude, and an ability to face life as if the "problem" never happened.  Or, we can choose to go on about what a "victim" we are, but nothing changes, does it? 

The Message is Always Important; the Messenger is Never Important

   I see what seems to me to be an increasing trend, and it is a sign of a weak intellect: judging a message by the character of the messenger.  To put it bluntly: If a statement is true, it doesn't matter if the person making the statement is morally bankrupt or personally degenerate.  If a statement is false, it doesn't matter how morally admirable he or she might be, or how personally admirable.  For this reason, I often do not give the citations of who said what when I am writing an opinion piece.  Now, if I am making a statement of fact, I would want to quote the source of the "fact," but not for an opinion.

  Here is a historical example.  During the Second World War, when the Germans were invading the Soviet Union, they came across a mass grave of Polish soldiers.  Goebbels, the German Propaganda Minister, blamed the massacre on the Soviet government, which of course denied any involvement.  The Germans, they said, murdered the Poles and tried to blame the Soviets.  No one believed Goebbels.  As it turned out, however, he was correct; the Soviet archives that were opened after the fall of the USSR confirmed that the Soviet government had, in fact, ordered the massacre of captured Polish officers and soldiers. 

   What could be the possible relationship of the moral character of an observer with a piece of observed data?  Simply nothing whatsoever.  Oh, it is absolutely true that people do, in fact, often judge a conclusion by the character of the person stating the conclusion, but that simply shows that they have a poor grasp of logical principles.  If Einstein had been a child molester, for example, would not E=mc2 anyway?  (Please forgive the fact that the "2" is not written as a superscript!)  If Gandhi made the statement that the sun orbited the earth, would it not be just as wrong if anyone else made the same statement? 

   This applies to any field of endeavor, any subject of discussion, without exception.  

 

The Brain and the Lamp

   I was sitting out on my back porch the other night while my little dog was outside for his evening sniffs of the yard, when an image about the nature of the brain and thought became perfectly clear.  I was sitting at my table looking at my oil lamp burning on the table--yes, you read it correctly, my oil lamp--and it struck me that the lamp was an almost perfect metaphor for how we think, for the relationship between the brain, "mind," and our thoughts.  Its an even better metaphor than the one I used in my book.

   The lamp itself-the body and the wick-represents the brain.  Alone, it has the potential, but only the potential, to produce light.  It is not, obviously, the light itself.  The brain has the potential to produce thought, but it is not thought itself.  Unless the lamp is filled with oil and lit, it does nothing but sit there.  Unless the brain is fed nutrients to keep it alive and functioning, it does nothing.  It takes some kind of stimulus to make it active as well.  The brain is an object that could be used to produce thought, in the same way that the lamp is an object that could be used to produce light.

  There are several factors that will determine the quality of the lamp, and thus of the light it produces.  Is the lamp itself built correctly with the proper size opening?  Is the wick of the right material?  Is the oil the best oil for that lamp?  We can ask the same questions about the brain.  Did it grow properly, or is it sick or injured?  Does it get the proper nourishment?  We know that without the proper nutrition the brain will not function properly,  If all of these questions are answered affirmatively, we will get a good light from the lamp, and clear thoughts from the brain.

  The light itself produced by the lamp is analogous to the thoughts produced by the brain.  As long as the lamp is working, as long as the wick remains and there is oil, the lamp will produce the flame, and hence the light.  When the wick is burned, or the oil runs out, the lamp goes out, and darkness returns.  When the brain cells die, the thoughts die with them.   Yes, the light that was produced continues on, as do our thoughts in the minds of those to whom they were shared.  But the light dissipates, eventually, and the memories die out as well.

  Notice that we do not even need an analogy for the entity we call "mind." 

The Nature of the Sacred to a Naturalist

   The subject of “sacredness” can be confusing, subject to serious misunderstandings, particularly when trying to understand it from a totally naturalistic perspective.  To start with a repetition: a religious Weltanschauung divides the world into the secular, or day to day, and the sacred.  The secular includes most, if not all, of what we consider daily life: work, family, recreation, and so forth.  The sacred deals with the “other,” the source or center, as you will, of secular life.

   The sacred is, as I mentioned earlier, generally divided into sacred time and sacred space.  Sacred time can consist of holy days—or parts of days—based upon the seasons, historical events, or personal passages in life such as birth, marriage, death, or reaching adulthood.  Sacred space has consisted of temples, shrines, churches, synagogues, groves, mountains, rivers or even the sky.  Sacred space certainly does not need to be man made, although it certainly has been in most cultures.

   Within the sacred, man has the ability to set aside daily life, at least in its more routine aspects, and focus on what is truly central.  Theistic cultures might focus on worship of the deities or deity: thanksgiving, praise, or petitions for this or that favor.[1]   The forms of worship might be largely, or even totally, contemplative, if either the cultural traditions or the personal interest of the worshiper tended in that direction.  Usually, of course, worship was a combination of all of these, since most religions have both an esoteric and exoteric aspect, the former appealing to the intellectual or the mystic, and the latter appealing to the masses of the people.[2]  Religions that tended to be non-theistic, at least in the Western sense, would focus more on contemplation rather than prayer or sacrifice, and this works even when one’s beliefs are totally naturalist.

   What, one might ask, is the real difference between sacred time and simply time off from work?  After all, an honest examination of past cultures clearly shows that for most of human history people had to work at their occupation every day, unless the day was dedicated to religious matters.  The phenomenon of having purely secular or profane days off from work is a relatively recent one in human history.

   The biggest difference, of course, is that secular activities are usually about hobbies, sports, home improvement, social gatherings, or any other pleasurable activities that are not a part of our normal occupations, and that negative feature is precisely what they have in common: they are not work!  Even national holidays are now being co-opted into the culture of recreation.[3] They generally lack introspective, contemplative or commemorative qualities.  Now, this is not a criticism in any way; there is nothing at all improper about play itself.   We need it for healthy living, and that is justification enough.  On a personal note, I take a great deal of pleasure in certain forms of work on my yard.  My current project involves building borders of landscaping bricks around garden plots that my wife has planted.  There is absolutely nothing commemorative, introspective or contemplative about this activity, but I enjoy it and my wife—not to speak of my neighbors--approve of the physical improvement.

   Is this kind of activity rational?  Strictly speaking, it is not, but far more importantly, neither is it irrational.  An activity can be non-rational without being irrational, without being something to be avoided.  We call something irrational when it violates the rules of logic and evidence, whereas something that is non-rational simply has no relationship to such rules.  Strictly speaking, it is not rational for me to be devoted to my little dog, but neither is it irrational.  It is a perfectly natural, non-rational feeling.  On the other hand, if I were to become convinced that not only could my dog respond with affection, but that he could also discuss the finer points of Stoic doctrine with me, I would be not only irrational, but delusional as well.  We should embrace the non-rational aspects of our life at the same time that we reject the irrational.

   Since our perceptions of both sacred space and sacred time are subjective—and to a degree non-rational—either can be whatever we want them to be, whatever makes us feel comfortable.  When it comes to sacred space one person might prefer a scene natural beauty, while another might prefer a dedicated piece of architecture.  Or, for that matter, it might not even be solely dedicated to the sacred.  It need only be sacred when we wish it to be.  A Roman home might have, in its atrium, a small shrine to the household gods, the Lares and Penates, and these gods would receive offerings at every meal.  That did not mean that one was expected to treat the atrium with the reverence that one does a temple or church; the atrium was also the center of all household life.[4] 

   The origins of sacred time are also varied, and usually fall into one of two classifications.  A religious tradition could be primarily historical like those of the Semitic traditions.  Sacred times derived from events that were believed to have happened in real, not mythical, time; they were historical occurrences.  The exodus from Egypt happened once, the giving of the Torah happened once, the birth, crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus happened once, and the recitation of the Quran happened once.  To the extent that the faithful commemorate these events, their participation is virtual and symbolic, although it may also be sacramental, protestations to the contrary notwithstanding.

   Pagan religions, on the other hand, are usually cyclical, often following recurring events in nature rather than history.[5]  The recurring nature of these events cannot be stressed too much.  Trees lose their leaves every year, and the days get shorter and colder, not because Demeter is remembering what once happened to her daughter Persephone, but because she must now, once again, return to her husband Hades.  The sun was believed to be literally reborn at the winter solstice, and the worshipers participated in these cosmic events.  If the women of Republican Rome did not awaken Bona Dea from her winter sleep each spring, they believed that winter would not end.  Taking part in these ceremonies was more than virtual participation, and certainly far more than a commemoration of an important event.

   To a naturalist, it really does not matter whether we find our sense of the sacred in the historical or in the cyclic, or if we blatantly combine both views.  What does matter is that it is sacred, distinguished from the secular.  Naturally, the sacred and the secular do intersect; they always did.  When ancient people honored the planting of the crops, offered sacrifices for growing, and celebrated the harvest, they were clearly aware that a successful crop meant that they had averted famine, at least for one more year.  Paradoxically, by recognizing the difference between the sacred and the secular, we are choosing to infuse the secular with the sacred throughout our lives.

    We may choose to contemplate a secular issue that has a moral component, but in the sacred we are thinking about it in a different way, or at least from a different perspective.  Suppose I wish to consider a public issue that has a moral aspect.  On the one hand, I can think about it in a totally secular, totally mundane, way.  I can consider what I can do to support my own position on the issue, with whom I should speak, how much my activities will cost, and so forth.  On the other hand, I can examine the moral aspects of the issue and their relative merits, leaving aside the more mundane considerations.  Having a sense of the sacred, of the special, serves to shield me, for a time, from the more routine aspects of my life, such as what I will do at work tomorrow, what flowers I should plant in the garden, what new electronic device I should purchase, or what to have for supper.  And, in doing so, it allows me to concentrate on what is truly central, to that which gives life meaning.        

         

                                         

    

  

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[1] It need not include all three; Roman gods, for example, were worshiped in a form that is more accurately described as magic rather than prayer.  The god had to grant the favor of the worshipper, if the request was made in the proper format, and the proper offering made.  Conveniently, if the favor was not granted, then clearly the ritual had been done improperly.  Their worship was largely of the “I do for you so that you will do for me” variety.

[2] What ancient religion usually did not include is what in Semitic traditions includes the Sermon or homily; religious education was either the function of the family, or took place outside of the normal acts of worship.

[3] If anyone would doubt this, simply ask this question: Last Memorial Day, did you go to a cemetery to leave some tribute to a deceased soldier, visit a Veteran’s Hospital, or engage in some related activity, or did you use the day off for shopping, or fishing, or some other private enjoyment?  For most people, we all know what the answer would be.

[4] The practical Romans also treated their temples in the same way; records of  state might be kept at the temple, as well as the state treasury.ce that one does a temple or church; the atrium was

[5] Of course I am speaking of two poles on a continuum rather than a rigid classification of only one or the other.

Admitting That We Are What We Are

  The "nature vs nurture" argument has been around for millenia in one form of the other, and this is one point on which I break with most of the ancient Stoics.  They tended to hold to the belief that, if we were taught properly, we could transcend our nature.  If a person acts immorally, he is simply mistaken, and needs to be taught how to act in the larger society.  The came down firmly on what we now call the "nurture" side of the debate, at least to the extent that they saw human nature as very malleable.

  I think, however, that what we have learned from the sciences compels us, if we are honest and follow the data rather than a priori ethical principles, to admit that while we might be able to control human behavior with the social unit, we cannot significantly change it.  First, the evidence tells us that we evolved from omnivorous and would-be carnivorous ancestors.  There were herbivorous hominids, yes, but they are not in our line of descent.  In fact, they were evolutionary failures. Secondly, animals that eat meat, even as only part of their diet, tend to be aggressive.  After all, the prey does not voluntarily agree to be killed for our nourishment.  it must be hunted, and the kill must be guarded from other, opportunistic predators.  A meek, peaceful animal will not make a successful hunter.

  We can look at living examples of these types of animals among the modern primates.  The gorilla, despite his size and the almost slanderous "King Kong" movies, is a relatively peaceful herbivore.  True, a silver-back male will respond quite aggressively to threats to his group, but they rarely exhibit aggressive behavior unless provoked.  By contrast, the chimpanzee, our closest genetic relative, is an aggressive omnivore.  Meat and insects are a normal part of their diet, and they exhibit the type of behavior one expects from a predator.  They even initiate raids on other groups' territories in order to capture better food resources, and their raids are not gentle and the fighting not ritualistic.http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/22/science/22chimp.html?_r=0

  Ok, so our ancestors and our closest relative behave aggressively; what does that say about us?  I suggest that we consider one other factor.  As Sagan pointed out in his work Gardens of Eden,  as we evolved we did not lose those parts of the brain possessed by our genetic ancestors.  They are still there, along with the drives and instincts they needed to survive.  What happened is that we developed new layers of brain, capable of turning hard-wired instincts into conscious behavior.  We can direct our drives, we can focus them, yes, but they are still quite present and an inescapable part of our heritage. We are apes, just more intelligent than any of the others currently on the planet. 

   The relevance of this to philosophy is that we have to stop dreaming about ethical or social systems that attempt to remake humanity; we are what we are, the descendent of an aggressive hominid who has learned how to control, to a limited extent, those aggressive tendencies.  Classical thought, unlike early Christian and also unlike Marxist thought, did not try to change man or reform him.  Certain behaviors might be against the law and the social contract, yes, and they would be forbidden.  The ethical and legal focus was purely on behavior, however, not on character.  No classical Roman would have had any concept, for example, of thinking in terms "committing adultery in the heart."  It would have been perfectly natural for a Roman man to look at an attractive woman and think, "I'd like to sleep with her."  As long as he refrained from committing the act, he had done nothing wrong, and the same understanding would apply to a woman as well.  There was no thought of denying normal human nature or trying to change it.