One of the arguments frequently advanced for the existence of god, or at least for a positive cause influencing human affairs, is the belief that to be moral, we had to inherit or learn from God the morality that separates us from the cruelties of nature, observed by many as being different than man’s morality. Whereas the law of nature has the strongest and cruelest ruling over all others, and all other things eat one another, only man seems to be the exception to this rule as he has the capacity to ponder the morality of decisions and ask whether it is justifiable that the strong and the cruel should dominate the weak and the powerless. to teach himself and others of his kind to not be cruel and to cause suffering.

It is not in nature, they say, that man should have emerged with this reasoning. It cannot be from nature that we have learned a moral code that does not exist in nature, except in us, and if we are only products of nature, we could have not learned something that we inherently today believe is proper moral conduct – to treat others as one would wish to be treated, and therefore, that such orientation toward the world must be somehow supernatural.

I used to subscribe to this view beyond simply the outlines of the argument that I highlight above. Anyone reading Homer can quickly recognize the moral code that emerges from the text: the heroes are all brave, wise, beautiful, place honour before all other qualities, and are ready to die for that honour code; there is no proscription against an inherent immorality of looting cities, taking slaves, or stealing that which belongs to someone else.

No, Homer’s is very much the moral code of the Bronze Age, where a Greek hero who sacked cities and collected the most booty reveled in his material wealth stolen through theft and pillage, and the more “enemies” he had killed, the greater the hero he was.

The cowards and the immoral were the men who questioned the heroic pursuits. Famously, Thersites, in the Iliad, a man who by today’s moral code, advocated for the prudent course of action, is characterized as ugly and deformed, his outer features a window on his inner character, cursed by the gods to broadcast to all what a wicked creature he was inside by his outer appearance:

The rest now took their seats and kept to their own several places, but Thersites still went on wagging his unbridled tongue – a man of many words, and those unseemly; a monger of sedition, a railer against all who were in authority [kosmos], who cared not what he said, so that he might set the Achaeans in a laugh.

He was the ugliest man of all those that came before Troy – bandy-legged, lame of one foot, with his two shoulders rounded and hunched over his chest. His head ran up to a point, but there was little hair on the top of it.
Achilles and Odysseus hated him worst of all, for it was with them that he was most wont to wrangle; now, however, with a shrill squeaky voice he began heaping his abuse on Agamemnon. The Achaeans were angry and disgusted, yet none the less he kept on brawling and bawling at the son of Atreus. “Agamemnon,” he cried, “what ails you now, and what more do you want? Your tents are filled with bronze and with fair women, for whenever we take a town we give you the pick of them. Would you have yet more gold, which some Trojan is to give you as a ransom for his son, when I or another Achaean has taken him prisoner? Or is it some young girl to hide and lie with? It is not well that you, the ruler of the Achaeans, should bring them into such misery.

Weakling cowards, women rather than men, let us sail home, and leave this man here at Troy to stew in his own prizes of honor, and discover whether we were of any service to him or no. Achilles is a much better man than he is, and see how he has treated him – robbing him of his prize and keeping it himself. Achilles takes it meekly and shows no fight; if he did, son of Atreus, you would never again insult him.”

Thus railed Thersites, but Odysseus at once went up to him and rebuked him sternly. “Check your glib tongue, Thersites,” said be, “and babble not a word further. Chide not with princes when you have none to back you. There is no viler creature come before Troy with the sons of Atreus.
Drop this chatter about kings, and neither revile them nor keep harping about homecoming [nostos]. We do not yet know how things are going to be, nor whether the Achaeans are to return with good success or evil. How dare you gibe at Agamemnon because the Danaans have awarded him so many prizes?

I tell you, therefore – and it shall surely be – that if I again catch you talking such nonsense, I will either forfeit my own head and be no more called father of Telemakhos, or I will take you, strip away from you all respect [aidôs], and whip you out of the assembly till you go blubbering back to the ships.”

On this he beat him with his staff about the back and shoulders till Thersites dropped and fell weeping. The golden scepter raised a bloody weal on his back, so he sat down frightened and in pain, looking foolish as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

The people were sorry for him, yet they laughed heartily, and one would turn to his neighbor saying, “Odysseus has done many a good thing ere now in fight and council, but he never did the Argives a better turn than when he stopped this man’s mouth from prating further. He will give the kings no more of his insolence.” Thus said the multitude.

Homer. The Iliad of Homer. Rendered into English prose for the use of those who cannot read the original. Samuel Butler. Longmans, Green and Co. 39 Paternoster Row, London. New York and Bombay. 1898, ch. II: 240-280.

It is not difficult, then, in the context of Christianity, to believe that “turn the other cheek” is an incredible moral departure from social norms that viewed selflessness as selfishness, theft as earned reward, and murder as heroic necessity. Make no mistake, theft of Hellen is a pretext for the war – the real reason is quest for riches through robbery.

So, to emerge from a culture of cruelty and pillaging, into a culture that adopts Christian values is, seemingly, somewhat odd, and one can see how – given the above characterization – a person would see their Judeo-Christian morality as somehow inspired by god.

The only problem: it’s not god, but Stoicism.

Rather than to respond to the sort of gross gut-feeling I certainly feel when I read about the treatment of Theristes, how they bullied him for doing nothing more than advocating from a place of justice for all those people who are about to suffer, something Socrates would also pay a price for, I leave you with only a few lines from Marcus Aurelius’ “The Meditations,” a masterful work of Stoic philosophy from the mid-2nd c. CE. This is from the first part of the book in which Aurelius goes through a list of many people who inspired him, taught him and cared for him, as a sort of final opus of life thanks to many other people, whom he hoped to memorialize as the forces who shaped his character and personhood, and to whom he was grateful.

From Diognetus, I learned not to waste time on [religious] nonsense. Not to be taken in by conjurors and hoodoo artists with their talk about incantations and exorcism and all the rest of it. Not to be obsessed with quail-fighting, sports or other crazes like that. To hear unwelcome truths. To practice philosophy, and to study with Baccheius, and then with Tandasis and Marcianus. To write dialogues as a student [ie to be brave and do it now, rather than wait.] To choose the Greek lifestyle— the camp-bed and the cloak [to be simple in how I sleep and dress].

From RUSTICUS, I learned, the recognition that I needed to train and discipline my character.

Not to be sidetracked by my interest in rhetoric. Not to write treatises on abstract questions, or deliver moralizing little sermons, or compose imaginary descriptions of The Simple Life or The Man Who Lives Only for Others. To steer clear of oratory, poetry and belles lettres [just to impress others].

Not to dress up just to stroll around the house, or things like that. To write straightforward letters (like the one he sent my mother from Sinuessa). And to behave in a conciliatory way when people who have angered or annoyed us want to make up, forgiving, as I would want to be forgiven.

To read attentively—not to be satisfied with “just getting the gist of it,” but to probe deeper. To see through praise and flattery, and not to fall for every smooth talker.

And for introducing me to Epictetus’s lectures—and loaning me his own copy, and that nothing given should not be passed on, returning the same generosity to others and was shown to us when we needed it.

From Apollonius I learned independence, self sufficiency and unvarying reliability, and to pay attention to nothing, no matter how tempting to wonder off in pursuit of, except the logos [reason], for it is the only path that doesn’t colour perceptions.

And to be the same in all circumstances—intense pain, the loss of a child, chronic illness. And to see clearly, from his example, that a man can show both strength and effection through integrity.

His patience in teaching. And to have seen someone who clearly viewed his expertise and ability as a teacher as the humblest of virtues.

And to have learned how to accept favors from friends without losing your self-respect or appearing ungrateful.

From Sextus I learned kindness.

An example of fatherly authority in the home. What it means to live as nature requires. How to be serious and have gravity, without being immovable.

To show intuitive sympathy for friends, tolerance to amateurs and those who err or offend. His ability to get along with everyone: sharing his company was the highest of compliments, and the opportunity an honor for those around him.

To investigate and analyze, with understanding and logic, the principles we ought to live by. Not to display anger or other emotions. To be free of passion and yet full of love.

To praise without bombast; to display expertise without pretension.

From Alexander the grammarian, I learned not to be constantly correcting people, and in particular not to jump on them whenever they make an error of usage or a grammatical mistake or mispronounce something, but just answer their question or add another example, or debate the issue itself (not their phrasing) [ie engage the issue, not the person], or make some other contribution to the discussion—and insert the right expression, unobtrusively, for caring about people requires correcting them gently.

From Fronto, I learned to recognize the malice, cunning, and hypocrisy that power produces, and the peculiar ruthlessness often shown by people from so-called patrician families, who far too often display everything but fatherly (patrician) love.

From Alexander the Platonist, I learned not to be constantly telling people (or writing them) that I’m too busy, unless I really am. Similarly, not to be always ducking my responsibilities to the people around me because of “pressing business.” People are our pressing business and we must make time for others, even those we would rather not see.

From CATULUS I learned not to shrug off a friend’s resentment—even unjustified resentment—but try to put things right, because friendships are not worth losing, we have so few friends, but we often discover this too late.

To show your teachers ungrudging respect (the Domitius and Athenodotus story), and your children unfeigned and unconditional love.

From my brother Severus, I learned to love my family, truth and justice. It was through him that I encountered Thrasea, Helvidius, Cato, Dion and Brutus, and conceived of a society of equal laws, governed by equality of status and of speech, and of rulers who respect the liberty of their subjects above all else.

And from him as well, to be steady and consistent in valuing philosophy.

And to help others and be eager to share, not to be a pessimist, and never to doubt your friends’ affection for you. We have so few friends in life, and learn this lesson often too late.