The Highest Human Science: IV. The Sophists and Socrates

Amphitheater at Epidauros

This is a post from the series, "The Highest Human Science". Click here for a complete list of all posts in the series.

Although our previous post in ancient Greek philosophy in this series was of a bunch of guys with some pretty crazy ideas, at least they were using their brains. Unfortunately, Greece was plagued by a rampant intellectual disease known as sophistry.

The Sophists, as they were called, were the primary communicants of this sickness of the rational soul. Many of them were accomplished individuals in various fields of study. However, their aim was not towards the discovering of truth; rather, it was because intellectual prowess brought benefits. Their "expertise" gave them power and influence over others. Their opinions were highly respected by the like-minded, and they were praised and held in high esteem. Ultimately, the sophists practiced their art for the recognition it won them and the pleasure that their intellectual vanity afforded them

One of the primary teachings of the sophists was relativism or, more specifically, moral relativism. The arguments for their teachings were mostly attempts to rationally pick apart the established order without making any honest attempt at putting something back in its place. Relativism, or the theory that all laws are arbitrarily set by man and that man is his own judge of what is true, was the latest in intellectual pessimism and indeterminism. This was their primary doctrine and would have destroyed intellectual progress if it were not for one man.

A bust of Socrates by Lysippos

Socrates. Yes, though present culture has bestowed upon Albert Einstein the bizarre distinction of using his name as an intellectual insult (e.g. "way to go, Einstein"), Socrates, in my humble opinion, should be the runner-up. He taught for free to anyone who would listen and preferred to ask questions of others to illustrate his philosophy. That is to say, he did not put forth a specific "philosophy" for men the consider; rather, he required them to think about the topics of greatest importance.

One such encouragement was his focus on essence. Socrates taught that in our rational discussion and thought, we must always seek to separate accidental qualities (might also be referred to as secondary or unnecessary qualities of that being's nature) from those essential qualities (qualities that are primary and necessary to that being's nature). For example, a being is not a "human being" unless it has the capacity for rational thought. Or a being is not a "plant" if it does not have the ability to grow, nourish itself, and reproduce. These things are essential to the constitution of that being, because you would not call a being "human" unless it had the capacity to think, or a "plant" unless it had to capacity to grow. Furthermore, accidental qualities are things such as having blue eyes (which is not essential to constituting a human; if it were, all people with green eyes wouldn't be "human") or having a stem or stalk (many plants do not have these either).

The Death of Socrates by Jacques-Louis David

Socrates also laid the ground-work for rational discussion, known as the Socratic method. The method counter-acted the flourishing wordplay of the Sophists and gave rational discussion the means to achieve its goal of truth. It aimed at creating a coherent structure of logic and reasoning that would explain reality for all to understand. This essentially set rules for rational discussions and served as an excellent guide for those wishing to understand the truth for themselves.

However, Socrates' biggest contribution to philosophy, by far, is that he redirected the Sophists' aimless intellectual wanderings and set rational thought upon its purpose: the truth. He sought to reform the human intellect, which had been poisoned and misled by sophistry. He did not teach men what to think by writing down specific doctrines; instead, he taught them how to think in the middle of a world where the novelty of an idea was more important than its agreement with the truth.

The Dangers of God's Grace

Since middle-school, I had been very fond of swimming, particularly racing. I prided myself on being the fastest free-style and backstroke swimmer on the team, and winning first place in races was a common occurrence. One meet, however, the coaches had signed me up for my usual free-style and backstroke events, but also on my list of race events was the butterfly stroke race. This was a problem: I had never swam butterfly.

Sure, we had done some practice with it, but I never possessed the proper coordination to make it more than a few meters before I was doggie-paddling. I approached the starting blocks, shaken with fear of not only losing the race, but possibly not even finishing. Silently, I prayed to God that I should at least finish the race, let alone not drown in my attempt.

I not only finished, but I earned first place. It's difficult to convince anyone that the occurrence of this result was a miracle, but to me, it's profoundly clear that it was. Whatever grace I received was accompanied by the unsettling fear of failure before and a consequently very sore and worn-out body afterwards. In this instance, God's grace had been a painful experience.

"The Calling of the Apostles Peter and Andrew"
by Duccio di Buoninsegna

Today's gospel provides Luke's account of the first meeting between Christ and Peter. A few weeks ago, I published a post on the struggle with habitual sin and proper contrition for them, and I cited the example of Peter's initial encounter with Christ in the gospel of Luke. They meet on the shores of the Sea of Galilee and Christ instructs Peter to cast out to open water and lower his nets. Peter, having caught nothing at night, remained doubtful with the success of this course of action, but he acquiesced anyway. Once the nets had been lowered, the catch of fish was so great that their nets began to tear and even with the help of a second boat, they were both in danger of sinking.

First, receiving God's grace only takes a simple "yes". Peter's dubious "yes" led to an incredible catch of fish. Mary's simple, yet perfect "yes" opened her to the conception of the very Son of God. On the mountain, the young boy's "yes" to providing the few loaves and the fishes he possessed led to the feeding of five thousand people with some to spare. Our gifts may be small, but in cooperation with God, miracles become possible. Most people have heard of this aspect of God's grace (or have experienced it for themselves). It is definitely a wonderful blessing to realize this and acknowledge it in our lives.

However, what you don't hear is that sometimes, God's grace may nearly kill us with its intensity. In the today's second reading, Paul refers to his conversion story of being cast off his horse simply at the sound of Christ's voice, and in the Gospel, Peter and his fellow fishermen nearly drowned as a result of an incredible catch of fish. In both circumstances, God's grace manifested itself in violent, threatening ways. These accounts challenge a common notion that God's grace is always quiet or subtle because sometimes, the furious power of God's grace comes to us in these "life(style)-threatening" situations.

Focusing on the Gospel account, the fishermen's nets were tearing, the boat was capsizing, and the human help of the second boat could not even alleviate the sheer enormity of God's grace. Similarly when we encounter His grace, the nets of our vices will be torn through and our lives, it seems, will be in danger of sinking and drowning. The manner in which we have allowed ourselves to just "float" through life will be shaken to such a degree that in order to be set right, we will be confronted with the reality of that very real danger of death to our lifestyles, If we're open to it, God's dangerous graces will "kill us", but our death will be a "death to self" and our rebirth will be in His divine love. Our sins and depravities will be put to death and all that will remain is our charity. 

"The Conversion of St. Paul" by Francesco Mazzola

So why is God's grace sometimes so violent in this fashion? Grace must necessarily purify us. In today's first reading, Isaiah had a hot coal placed on his mouth. In the second reading, St. Paul was cast from his horse and blinded. In the Gospel, Peter's physical strength fails him and even with the help of his companions, he is filled with fear of a drowning death. Each of these men were flawed and each received the cleansing gift of God's grace. However, just as Purgatory prepares us to see God face to face by a painful purification, God's grace to these sinful men is so great that in their fallen nature, they perceive it to be painful. To eyes that have never seen the sunlight, even the slightest ray of sunshine is blindingly painful, but once the eyes become accustomed to the goodness of the illumination around them, they rejoice at that purifying grace which was once excruciating.

How often do we allow ourselves to experience this fearful level of grace in our lives? Do we shirk away from it for fear of braving the danger to our lifestyles? There is a significant amount of dying-to-oneself that we all need to do in our lives, and if we avoid this death, we will always be devoid of God's greatest graces and blessings. But if we are open to that painfully purifying grace in our daily lives, we are given a blessed opportunity to suffer with the Suffering Servant, the Crucified Christ.

The Philosophical Basics of the Resurrection

Courtesy of WikiPaintings.org

Probably of all my classes at Our Lady’s University, none had me more attentive than my course on St. Thomas Aquinas’ account of human nature, taught by Dr. John O’Callaghan. Unfortunately, this was my first formal exposure to the philosophy of St. Thomas, and as a 4000 level course, I do not think I got the most out of it. I had taken a course on Aristotle’s ethical theory the semester before, but though these two great minds were similar in worldview, Aristotle’s pagan terminology and approach was nowhere near a proper introduction to Thomas’ intellectually mammoth rational constructions.

Despite this, I did benefit from this study, and as I have only and always been interested in acquiring the truth and never in spouting off any philosopher’s theories word-for-word, this was not an insignificant benefit. One thing that really fascinated me during my study of Aquinas’ philosophy of human nature was in terms of the resurrection.

As is the relationship between theology and philosophy, divine revelation can invariably be confirmed by human reason. The saying, “philosophy is the handmaiden of theology” springs to mind. Basically, if our understanding were to be laid out on a line spectrum with things we know from human reason and things we know from divine revelation, each would generally lie on either side of the spectrum and there would be a gap in between. This gap represents our lack of full understanding of the higher bits of knowledge, specifically those things divinely revealed to us, creating what we call “mysteries”. Divine revelation gives us those truths that would otherwise be impossible to reach solely with our own reason, though these truths are coherent with our own human reason. Everything divinely revealed can be confirmed with the same human reason that we use to work a math problem or organize a closet or make a gourmet meal.

The resurrection of the body promised by Christ at his Second Coming is just one of those things that, with a little Thomistic ontology, is completely reasonable to believe, though the particulars certainly remain a mystery. First, it is important to remember that we are human beings (don’t forget that definition), and “human being” is defined as a living body animated by a rational, immortal soul. Therefore, it is accurate to say that when John dies, John (the unified human being) ceases to exist because his soul is separated from his body. However, John’s essence, his soul, is immortal and survives the body.

So our soul lives on, separated from our body which decays and fades away with time. At this point, do our souls just remain in Heaven? It is eternal beatitude, after all, so what more could we want or need? Why does Christ promise that our souls will be reunited with our bodies in the Resurrection? Is that really necessary after achieving eternal beatitude?

I certainly cannot say what is divinely necessary, but I can definitely say that it’s perfectly reasonable that I should be reunited with my body after I die. In the state after death, our human nature is divided: our soul is in Heaven and our decomposing body remains on earth. But since we were created as human beings (body and soul) and not as angels who are purely spiritual and incorporeal beings, it would seem a little odd that we should spend eternity in such a divided state, especially when our bodies are an intrinsic part of our own creation and being. (if they were not, why should we bother caring for them in this life?)

As an analogy to illustrate this, a free-floating balloon is caught by a child and tied down. The balloon’s natural destiny is to float away into the sky, but here, it is separated from that destination and tied to the ground. If the balloon was meant to remain close to earth, why was it filled with a lighter-than-air gas to begin with? Similarly, it is our natural destiny to be unified, soul and body. When we die, our soul is separated from our body and allowed to take root in Heaven. If this were the end of the story, then why did God create us with bodies in the first place? It seems perfectly natural to believe, then, that the destiny of our human nature is to be unified, body and soul, in eternal beatitude with God after the Resurrection.

So our use of human reason confirms the revelation of the Resurrection. I am not suggesting that while in Heaven after death, we will in some way miss our physical bodies or feel uncomfortable without them. This would suggest that eternal beatitude is deficient in some way. But as it has been revealed to the human race, Divine Justice promises to return us to our bodies at the end of time, and this is at the very least is something we can partially understand.

Fight to the Death

A few days ago, I watch the 2012 film, "The Grey", starring Liam Neeson and directed by Joe Carnahan ("The A-Team"). It's the story of a former special forces soldier, now working for oil pipeline company in Alaska/Canada, whose plane crashes in that region leaving only him and a few others as survivors. Together, they must brave the cold, the hunger, and the pack of nearby ravenous wolves that seek to pick the off, one at a time. A quick glance at the synopsis might not interest you immensely (it didn't interest me), but upon seeing the film, it felt more like a horror-thriller film than a boring "Cast Away" survival film. It was a very frightening film, but one, I believe, that offers a happy, through realistic ending with an emotional soundtrack and stunning snow-capped, evergreen visuals to match.

I do not usually cry during films (why should I? I'm a man). I used to just get caught up in the moment of "wow, this is an awesome scene!" and that was the extent of my excitement. But there are a few elements of cinema that, if properly portrayed, bring free-flowing tears to my eyes. One element of which is the notion of fighting to the death. I will not explain exactly how this relates to "The Grey", because I hope that this post will convince you to see an amazing film without giving any revealing details.

A number of films exist in which the "fight to the death" theme exists. A few that spring to mind include "The Lord of the Rings", "Henry V", "Gladiator", "Cinderella Man", and, though no actual fighting occurs, "The Passion of the Christ". It is a concept that is nonexistent in our society because we are so obsessed with immortality and preserving our own lives. The American culture is obsessed with extending life by whatever means necessary. Acceptance of death is considered a disastrous defeat. No matter what the challenge, there is always the hope that there will be a way that we can defeat the threat and still live at the end of it. There has to be a way that we can achieve a "happily ever after" ending where everyone lives, right?

Death comes for us all. Ready or not, it comes for us. People are afraid of death because they do not know what they will find on the other side. It is not a welcome event because if we have lived our whole lives the way we wanted to and not the way we ought to have, then we make a gamble. The unknown of death, whether it be Heaven, Hell, or just oblivion is terrifying to the one without a clean conscience.

When Death does come for us, there is no more running, no more hiding. We have been caught out in the open, ragged and exhausted from our frantic flight and the end is inevitable. What more worthy thing can we do? The film "Gladiator" suggests "Death smiles at us all. All a man can do is smile back".

The only thing we can do is gird our loins and face our darkest terror with courage and resolve. While other men will despair or beg for mercy, a man of true-spirit gathers himself up and stands his ground, despite the challenge ahead. Sometimes, we are afforded a moment of reflection. All options run through our head, and our vain hope that we could make it out of this grim circumstance alive is forever on our thoughts. But after breathing deeply and turning our eyes to our ultimate fate, we realize that there is only one thing to do. At this point, success and failure are irrelevant: our focus has to be on completing the task at hand, mustering all forces of body and soul for this one purpose.

Then comes the moment of clarity. All of the struggle and confusion of this world melts away and there is only one thing that remains: the purpose. It is finally apparent that everything that has happened to you, everything you have endured, everything that has filled you with joy and sadness in your entire life was given to you to prepare you for this moment. Now, what will you do with this precious gift of a single moment? The passengers of United Flight 93 on September 11 knew. There would be no returning from that flight, but they saw past the despair at the end of their own lives. Instead, they held onto the most critical thing to do at that moment, and if they did not do it, who would?

"Watery Grave"

O’er thund’rous crests and waves,
Of deep Hell’s maelstrom, grim,
Distance between has grown.
With those who’ve made their graves
Without prayer, song, or hymn,
I drift to sea alone.

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