Tag: virtue

  • The Beauty of Virtue

    Vice is a virtue these days. Indulgence, lavishness, and vanity are held up as some of the highest goods. Phrases like “retail therapy,” “guilty pleasure,” and “sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll” are almost viewed as positive values. On the other hand, virtue is seen as a drag. We hear, “go big or go home,” “nice guys finish last,” and “don’t be a buzzkill.”

    While there is an ounce of truth to each of these phrases, the bigger idea behind them—that virtue is a bummer or a bore or a waste of life—is a misconception. The truth is, virtue is beautiful, and it leads to the best possible life.

    Before we can see why virtue leads to a better life, we have to understand what virtue actually is—something ordered, proportioned, and aligned with reality, much like beauty itself.

    Let’s consider beauty. If you’ve ever used word processing software, you’re probably familiar with line justification. If you set the software to right-justify, all of the lines are lined up along the right side of the page. To justify lines on a page is to order them a certain way. In order for this to happen, there needs to be a boundary around the page—the margins—for the lines to be ordered against.

    These two attributes—borders and justification—go a long way in producing a beautiful representation of text on the page. In fact, these two attributes are important components of anything beautiful. Take a look at this lithograph, titled “The Good Shepherd,” by Gebhard Fugel.

    Most obviously, there is the rectangular boundary that makes up the outer edges of the image. All of the main elements within the border—Christ, the sheep, the clouds, etc—are justified in relation to both the border and to one another. When these elements are well-ordered, clearly defined, and proportional, the image is more beautiful. There is a certain balance, a certain uniformity, to the whole scene.

    The uniformity is not perfect, but this doesn’t diminish the beauty of the image. In fact, if the image was perfectly uniform, it would lack another important component of beauty: variety. According to Edgar Allan Poe, “the “Uniformity” is the principle: — the “Variety” is but the principle’s natural safeguard from self-destruction by excess of self.”

    These two central components of beauty—uniformity and variety—are aligned with the very nature of reality. Iain McGilchrist, considered by many to be one of the greatest neuroscientists and philosophers of our time, comes to a similar conclusion about the nature of reality as Poe does about the nature of beauty.

    In an extraordinary lecture, titled “Division and Union,” at Ralston University, McGilchrist explained that both division and union are important, and that it is “the business of the unfolding of the cosmos to make [distinction within sameness] grow and flourish—an eternal creative unfolding of generality into uniqueness. It’s what we mean by there being anything at all.”

    He used snowflakes as an example. “No two snowflakes have the same structure. But interestingly, each arm of the snowflake obeys the same pattern that each other arm of the six arms of the snowflake obey…They seem to me to be a beautiful example of beauty and complexity that give rise to things that are unified and unique, and yet have interesting parts that make them the whole that they are.”

    Photos by Wilson Alwyn Bentley.

    So, in beauty and in the very nature of the universe, there is uniformity and variety. These are determined, in large part, by the borders and justification of its components.

    Let’s look at justification again. The word, justification, comes from Late Latin iustificationem. It means, “administration of justice.” (https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=justification) We generally think of justice in terms of laws and the legal system. A judge serves justice. But on a deeper level, it is much like justification in word processing software.

    Justice, in the legal sense, means a boundary is set and enforced, a line is drawn in a place deemed fair or right. Justice in terms of beauty is, similarly, all about forming the boundaries of the materials in the right relationship to themselves and to other boundaries, giving them uniformity and variety. Think back to justification in word processing software. It’s all about lining things up a certain way, relative to specific boundaries.

    Ultimately, though, justice is not just a legal term or a component of a beautiful document. It is a virtue, a way of being in alignment with the true nature of reality.

    It is the virtue of justice that underlies all of these other fields we call justice. According to Aristotle, virtue is “the golden mean between two vices,” and “means doing the right thing, in relation to the right person, at the right time, to the right extent, in the right manner, and for the right purpose.”

    When Poe spoke of variety being the natural safeguard from uniformity’s self-destruction by excess of self, he was talking about a “golden mean between two vices.” Variety prevents uniformity from being excessively uniform, and uniformity prevents variety from being chaotic. These virtues compose beauty. Their excesses, which are vices, produce ugliness—disproportionality, injustice, disorder, etc.

    In the same way, the promotion of indulgence, lavishness, and vanity, as the highest goods is vicious. Indulgence is the excess of temperance (deprivation is its deficiency, the other end of the golden mean of temperance). Lavishness is an excess of spending and consuming (stinginess is its deficiency) while generosity is the mean. And vanity, in our culture, is the excess of self-worth (low self-esteem is its deficiency).

    On a surface level, indulgence sounds great. It means I get to eat all the ice cream I want. But in reality, it’s a shallow, unrealistic approach to consumption. Sure, limiting myself to one scoop of ice cream might feel restrictive in the moment, but the true buzzkill is the lethargy and health issues that follow excess. Temperance leads to a better, more beautiful life.

    To favor vice is really just to take a shallow view, to aim lower, to miss the bigger picture. It is to not understand the true values of things, or to understand them but still fail to put them in the right order. To live virtuously is to put things in their proper place just the way a painter does with strokes on a canvas. To live virtuously is to live beautifully.

    To do so, we must learn the nature of reality and align our actions with the highest values. Then, we are in a position to live our best lives. It’s time to stop settling for less. It’s time to raise ourselves beyond the limited ways of vice.

  • Against Confident Nonsense

    Against Confident Nonsense

    I recently heard a podcast with a thirty-year-old woman who had written a book about dating. Aside from writing the book and being married, she had no other credentials in the field. Yet she spoke like she’d discovered the universal rules of modern romance: how to approach online dating, how to ask someone out, and what a good first date should be.

    But I’ve asked many women similar questions (what a date should be, what a man should or shouldn’t say, what they’re looking for in a partner) and the answers are all over the place. One woman said a man should never bring up his job on a first date because it’s boring and impersonal. Another said, if a guy doesn’t ask about her work or mention his own, it feels like a red flag. Both of them spoke with the same certainty.

    This confident nonsense is not just a problem in the dating sphere, either. Everywhere you turn, there’s someone claiming to know the best way to eat, how to raise children, and who to vote for. Each answer seems to contradict the last.

    This is, partly, a problem of our mass media headline-driven culture. If a scientific study finds that 90% of people see health improvements from eating a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast every day, the headline becomes: “Oatmeal Improves Health.” But what about the 10% of study participants who didn’t improve? Or the small slice of that group who actually got worse? The confident “truth” ignores their reality.

    The Information Age has given us endless access to data and information. But we lack the habits that turn data into wisdom. Instead of knowledge, we get noise. Instead of answers, we get overconfidence dressed as truth.

    So how do we find what’s real? I lean on four practices that help me cut through the clamor: old stories, genuine inquiry, disciplined attention to intuition, and writing.

    The truth is more potent in certain forms. Stories, especially old ones, are one of the most potent sources of truth. They don’t last unless they’re built on something solid, like a deep truth about the human condition.

    Our inner worlds contain the tools for unpacking those truths. If we don’t mine for truth in our hearts and minds, then we’re apt to accept and repeat lies that others pass off as truth. We see this all the time. One media personality says something, and they all start parroting it. Do they stop to wonder if what they’re repeating is actually true?

    Honest reflection, the kind that asks uncomfortable questions and is willing to challenge its own assumptions, is key. Truth-seeking is the lifeblood of many ways of life (stoicism, Christianity, Buddhism, etc) and the basis of many psychotherapies (CBT, DBT, IFS, ACT, etc). Algorithms reward confident opinions, but life rewards honest seeking.

    Yet we are more than minds. We’re bodies and souls. We have knowledge that is deeper than our thoughts. We have intuition. And by that I don’t just mean fleeting feelings or instincts. I’m talking about the quieter, deeper knowing that lives in our bodies. We must pay attention to what feels tense or open, alive or heavy. Our bodies often know the truth before our minds can articulate it.

    Still, our intuitions must be balanced by our thoughts. The two must be synthesized and integrated. For that, the best tool is pen and paper. Writing helps us notice and articulate what we believe, what we feel, and what we already know underneath all the noise.

    If we practiced those four things more often—read the old stories, ask better questions, learn to feel more carefully, and write what we learn—we’d be wiser than our headlines.

    But if you only take my word for it, you’re perpetuating the cycle of nonsense. Break the cycle now by giving yourself a few minutes of silence. Write what you believe and why. Then see whether it’s yours.

  • Luna Lovegood’s Secret to Happiness (That Darth Vader Learned Too Late)

    Luna Lovegood’s Secret to Happiness (That Darth Vader Learned Too Late)

    More Like Luna, Less Like Vader

    I recently embarked on a thought journey: how can I be more like Luna Lovegood and less like Darth Vader. I asked many questions.

    How is Luna Lovegood so carefree, especially in the films, despite the suffering she has experienced? She saw her mother die in an accident when she was nine years old.

    How does she stay so authentic and kind in the face of relentless bullying? They steal her shoes and snicker at her handmade jewelry.

    How does she remain confident in her beliefs despite the constant doubts of others? They call her “Loony Lovegood” and truly believe she’s crazy.

    Luna and Anakin Skywalker both experienced loss and suffering. But Luna became a force for good while Anakin succumbed to resentment, thirst for control, and violence.

    How did Vader become so paranoid and cruel? In the same film, he massacred Jedi younglings and then claimed that he’d brought freedom, justice, and security to the new empire.

    If I could understand where their paths diverged, maybe I could follow Luna’s instead of Vader’s.

    Forgiveness

    At first, I thought the answer was forgiveness. Vader was consumed by resentment, while Luna was clearly forgiving. But why should anyone forgive? And how does one do it? Resentment is an emotion, not something we can simply command away.

    Perhaps Luna didn’t forgive everything all at once, but instead practiced small acts of forgiveness every day—letting go of frustration when she made mistakes. When she commentated the Quidditch match in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, she received some laughs from the crowd. Instead of feeling embarrassed, she let it go. Maybe small moments of forgiveness like that strengthened her ability to forgive greater injustices.

    It seems like starting with small acts of self-forgiveness would be a good place to start, but could Darth Vader, obsessed with control, have been convinced to even begin to let anything slide?

    Humility

    I suspect it would come down to humility. Vader would need to understand that there is more to reality than his own perspective. If he’d realized this, he might have questioned his perceptions. Instead of assuming Padmé had betrayed him, he might have wondered why she opposed the Empire. He might have considered that he was missing something.

    Luna embodied humility. She accepted that there was more to reality than she could understand. She believed in Nargles. She understood reality held more than what she could personally verify—and that was a source of strength.

    When her classmates stole her shoes, she didn’t assume cruelty. Maybe she wondered if they needed them or intended to return them but were afraid. With reality being too complicated for a human mind to fully understand, maybe she figured it was best to simply forgive.

    If Vader had been able to entertain such possibilities, might he have chosen a different path?

    Open Curiosity

    Humility leads to curiosity—genuine wondering rather than demanding answers. The humble person not only understands he can’t know everything, he also understands he doesn’t know everything. Out of this realization, questions arise.

    Before turning to the dark side, Anakin did ask questions. He tried to find a way to prevent death and he wanted to learn everything he could about the Force. But his curiosity was driven by fear. He didn’t just ask questions. He demanded answers.

    Luna, by contrast, seemed to ask questions without attachment to an answer. She was always searching for hidden wonders, like the Crumple-Horned Snorkack, even though there was little hope of finding one. Her curiosity wasn’t rooted in fear but in faith—faith that reality had goodness waiting to be discovered.

    How could Vader have learned to approach life with faith instead of fear?

    Faith

    If he had faith—if he believed that goodness was real and not just a human construct—he might have asked questions out of hope rather than demanding answers out of fear. He might have been able to see the goodness in Padmé’s actions which would have strengthened his faith even more.

    Faith is tricky though. To have faith means to believe something beyond proof. How could Darth Vader have been convinced that goodness was real if it couldn’t be proven?

    He never receives absolute proof. None of us do. But in the end, he does find faith through his orphaned son. Seeing Luke consistently choose love over power, refusing to kill him even in desperate circumstances, Vader is finally confronted with enough goodness to take the leap of faith. It is Luke’s willingness to love him unconditionally—something that makes no sense if goodness isn’t real—that changes Vader’s mind.

    Good Like Luna

    As I explored these ideas, questions led to more questions. Maybe Luna is carefree and kind because she forgives, but how does she forgive? Maybe humility enables her to forgive, but how does she embrace uncertainty? Maybe faith allows her to approach the unknown without fear—but where does faith come from?

    I went in circles. If I couldn’t prove goodness was real, how could I blame Vader for not believing in it? And in that moment, I felt solidarity with him. My heart overflowed with empathy. And in that paradox—compassion for someone who had rejected compassion—I found myself feeling a little more like Luna. In that moment of compassion, I think I unknowingly accomplished what I’d set out to do. I became a little more carefree and compassionate.

  • The Art of Wonder: Curiosity, Awe, and the Story of Job

    The Art of Wonder: Curiosity, Awe, and the Story of Job

    I’ve been wondering about wonder. It seems there are two parts to wonder. There’s the curiosity part: “I wonder how?” And then there’s the awe part: “How wonderful!”

    It’s possible that curiosity and awe are two distinct definitions of the word wonder, but I suspect they go hand in hand. If we aren’t curious, we’ll never look to see what’s around the corner. And we’ll never be awestruck by something we can’t see.

    You might suggest that, at times, we can experience wonder without looking for it, without curiosity. Sometimes it surprises us. That may be true. But I wonder if, by being curious, we might find it far more often. We might even find it in the most ordinary things, like steam rising from a mug or the pair of eyes we see every day in the mirror.

    The Old Testament story of Job gets into this matter. At the beginning of the story, his life is great. But then all sorts of terrible things happen to him. His children die, his wife curses him, his health plummets. It is then that he becomes curious. “Why is this happening to me?”

    However, Job takes his questioning too far. Instead of remaining curious about things, he demands answers.

    In contrast to his demand for answers, Job’s friends don’t ask questions at all. Instead, they tell him why these terrible things must have happened to him. They don’t wonder, they assume. They cling to simplistic explanations, ignoring the mystery and complexity of life.

    Between Job and his friends, we see two forces that destroy curiosity, and therefore wonder. Job’s experience of wonder is inhibited by his demand for answers. His friends’ experiences of wonder are inhibited by their assumptions.

    Curiosity, by contrast, is neither a demand for answers nor an assumption of the answers. It’s asking questions while remaining open to mystery. And it’s the mysterious things that leave us in awe. It’s the unknown that makes us wonder and leaves us with a feeling of wonder. Neither Job nor his friends seem to understand this.

    No matter. God replies to Job’s demands. But He doesn’t give him answers. He doesn’t tell him why terrible things have happened to him. Instead, He asks Job questions that Job cannot answer, questions he can only wonder at. Through some of the most beautiful poetry, God opens Job’s heart to the awesomeness of wonder.

    He asks, “Where were you when I founded the earth?”

    If Job wasn’t struck with wonder in that very moment, no problem. God had plenty more questions for Job to ponder. These are some of my favorites:

    “Or who shut in the sea with doors, when it burst forth from the womb; when I made clouds its garment, and thick darkness its swaddling band, and prescribed bounds for it, and set bars and doors, and said, ‘Thus far shall you come, and no farther, and here shall your proud waves be stayed’?”

    Chapter 38, Verses 8-11

    “Have you commanded the morning since your days began, and caused the dawn to know its place?”

    Chapter 38, Verse 12

    “Who has cleft a channel for the torrents of rain, and a way for the thunderbolt?”

    Chapter 38, Verse 25

    God’s answer is one big, beautiful poem that essentially says, “Wonder.” It says, you were not the one who gave everything in the universe its form, its boundaries, its place, its beauty. You are the one who has been given it as a gift. You cannot know all the answers. You can demand to know, you can pretend to know, or you can wonder. The path that opens your heart to the experience of beauty, reality, and goodness is wonder.

    So perhaps, by cultivating curiosity, we can open ourselves to awe. By asking questions without demanding answers, by being present to mystery, we might find wonder, even in the ordinary. We might find it in the similarity between the words pain and rain, or we might find it in a sprinkled donut. We might, like Job, be invited into a deeper understanding of life’s mysteries, not through explanations, but through the gift of wonder itself.