Category: Christian Living

The Pursuit of Happiness and the Good Life

When the prison door closes behind Boethius, he does not yet know that the cell walls are almost entirely of his own making. As the lock clicks home, he looks around desperately, blind to the fact that the key is in his own hands. Accused of a crime he did not commit, Boethius descends into despair, believing there is nothing good left in the world. He is wont, like most of us, to view life as good or ill, just or unjust, upon our external conditions. In other words, we believe the secret to happiness is found in fortune. But fortune is not found entirely—maybe not even primarily—in wealth, as we often assume. We all have the survival instinct to create our own fortune, and perhaps the strongest among us can truly will our desires into reality. We grope and fight and push as hard as control the outcomes. And the more we do, the smaller our prison cell becomes. It is, when, unable to bear the weight of reality, we turn inward. We seek, stealthily at first, the small distractions and the little highs to balance out the lows. If justice is imbalanced, then we may steady the scales through titliating evasion. If the prison cannot be torn down, it can be endured through pleasure. Such a response is puerile, if understandable, choosing as it does a temporary oblivion over stoic resolve. Perhaps there is no escape from suffering. Perhaps suffering is as immutable a characteristic as our eye color, written into the chromosomes of humanity. Yet perhaps in the embrace of suffering, we not only find a way through it but also a peace within it.

Boethius’ struggle, depicted in Consolation of Philosophy, is not unique. All men and women desire to be happy—though many of us find it an elusive friend. So convinced are we in the pure fact of expressive selfhood that we presume there are many routes to happiness; even our founding fathers thought it an inalienable right for the individual to pursue. What many Westerners today overlook is that the conception of happiness articulated by John Hancock and the boys derived not from modern notions of personal, individual fulfillment but from the classical, universal truth of happiness (eudaimonia), also known as the summum bonum, the highest good.

The existence of the highest good implies both the existence of lesser goods and of degrees of evil. If we have any interest in not becoming moral Gollums, then it does little good asking, “What makes me happy?” but rather “What makes all men happy?” To the former question, I state that my contingent gratification is a poor standard to measure the goodness of an action. Unfortunately, to answer the latter question might not permit us to reach our goal if all men are broken and desire broken things, but it is far better an attempt than the former. This is not to diminish our individual dreams consonant with the imago Dei within us. (Why the Lord saw fit to interest me in medieval literature and not something far more lucrative like hedge fund management I will never understand.) But it is to acknowledge that the pursuit of the universal will likely yield the achievement of the knight’s quest than the personal search for gold at the end of the rainbow. If we are to find a permanent happiness that will finally satisfy, we must seek out the universal and not merely be satisfied with individual desire.

Boethius, after examining all of the imperfect pictures of happiness—fame, wealth, power, and pleasure—concludes that the only way men could truly be happy is in possessing all of these things perfectly and simultaneously. Since the only being who can achieve this kind of self-sufficiency is God, then only God both possesses and must be the source of happiness. If man’s highest good is to be happy, then the summum bonum must be God Himself (III.10).

Boethius’ syllogism is not so sanctimonious as to claim that the lesser goods are evil. The gift of power, wielded rightly, may be used to administer justice. But sought as an end in itself, for the purpose of self-aggrandizement or for the perks of ruling, power will never bring fulfillment. What Boethius charitably recognizes, however, is that in seeking goodness in fame or power, we are actually seeking—in our own fallen ways—restoration with God. As Lady Philosophy notes, “although men have different ideas about how to go about it, they are united in their desire for the good” (III.2). But he shrewdly alters the conversation to conclude that the only way to truly be happy is to seek God directly. All desire the good, and all pursue what they think to be good, but not all achieve it. Without ordering our desires rightly, then, the goods we pursue will not reflect the summum bonum and will likely bring us more misery than happiness.

Scripture asserts that the things of the world—the lusts of the flesh and eyes and pride of life—are not of the Father (1 John 2:16). If they are not of the same household as the Father, then they cannot truly satisfy, since life with the Father is what brings real happiness. We must, therefore, live as he created us to live. Since life in the far country brings sadness, then we might build an opposite homestead. If gluttony will not satisfy, then we should counteract that impulse with a regimen of fasting. If pride produces a false joy, then true joy will be found in humility.

Does this mean we should choose a rigid monasticism as the best or only route to happiness? If I find myself boasting about my accomplishments to my neighbors, should I go so far as to live like a hermit, creating few accomplishments and having no one around me to whom I can brag. Perhaps this is one approach. After all, our Lord told us to gouge out our eyes if we must (Matt. 18:9), but removing the organ only limits our access—it does not remove the desire. Yet were I to somehow be successful in removing desire, I will too easily fall prey to the pride of being more committed to the faith than my two-eyed counterparts. Such extremes may not be evil, but I don’t know that they are wise. A better approach, I think, is incarnational rather than disembodied, a moderate virtue above radical asceticism.

Pursuing the Good means, ultimately, pursuing God and the well-being of my neighbor. Though the way of the cross is counter to the fear that prompts a win-at-all-costs acquisitiveness, it is through the paradox that we see the righting of reality. As Dorothy Sayers writes, “whoever will be a lord of life, let him be its servant.” Thus, I must ask, not “Does it make me happy,” but ask, “Does this good put me first? Does it benefit others? Does it promote the Good—not the Happy?”

Boethius’ solution is not a popular one. It will not be found among the self-love preaching of Oprah and the good tidings of Hananiah the prophet. It doesn’t save him from the hood of the executioner. But it is the clear difference between Dorian Grey and Atticus Finch, the latter admired because of his commitment to truth and justice, the former detested because of his devotion to beauty and himself. The question is, whom do we want to become? If we are to endure suffering well, we must have a clear vision of objective reality, understand the Good, and commit to seeing it through no matter the consequences. If those consequences be evil, we can still remain confident in a God who creates good from evil (Gen. 50:26), good that can be found in a suburban neighborhood, the mission field, and even a prison cell.

The Pursuit of Happiness and the Seduction of Pleasure

When the prison door closes behind Boethius, he does not yet know that the cell walls are almost entirely of his own making. As the lock clicks home, he looks around desperately, blind to the fact that the key is in his own hands. Accused of a crime he did not commit, Boethius descends into despair, believing there is nothing good left in the world. He is wont, like most of us, to view life as good or ill, just or unjust, upon our external conditions. In other words, we believe the secret to happiness is found in fortune. But fortune is not found entirely—maybe not even primarily—in wealth, as we often assume. We all have the survival instinct to create our own fortune, and perhaps the strongest among us can truly will our desires into reality. We grope and fight and push as hard as we can to make our fortune good. And the more we do, the smaller our prison cell becomes. It is, then, unable to bear the weight of reality, we turn inward. We seek out, stealthily at first, the small distractions and the little highs to balance out the lows. If justice is imbalanced, then we may steady the scales through titillating evasion. If the prison cannot be torn down, it can be waited out through pleasure.

                            *                           *                           *

Disney’s Pinocchio depicts the titular wooden puppet-turned-real boy distracted from his quest for reality. Granted a partial humanity, the boy nevertheless rejects his kindly father Geppetto’s ambition of humane education, leaving the demanding life of learning to perform in an exploitative puppet show. Freed by the Blue Fairy only to become a victim of puppet trafficking, he chooses a life of hedonism on Pleasure Island. There he and another disobedient boy, Lampwick, spend their days riding roller coasters, playing games, and drinking beer. He unexpectedly receives the transformation he and his father long for—but he is turned into a beast. Pinocchio’s allegory is a sobering reminder that the unbridled pursuit of pleasure turns all of us into jackasses.

Such a reminder is always necessary in a dissipated age. But the message tends to overplay its hand—or loses its translation in the hands of the untrained or accusatory. Pleasure is as natural as breathing, and its ubiquity among the human experience is proof not merely of man’s desire to be happy but of God’s desire that we be happy. It is not, however, the highest route to happiness—which means our analysis must be all the more subtle, neither embracing all pleasure as good nor refuting it all as evil. Nuance and moderation are required here, and we must urge happiness without indulgence, and uphold morality without moralizing.

In a previous post, I noted that Nietzsche’s vision encourages a hedonistic ethic. If traditional morality is seen as an oppressive force that dominates the people, then it is only right that we reject the immoral constraints of morality and each follow the desires of our heats. If his vision is accurate, then Freud also is correct, and we should throw off the now-useless constraints of society; restraining our impulses will only inflame boiling cauldrons of subconscious danger. The danger in this psycho-social narrative is labeled harm, and 150 years later it is now a cultural commonplace that restraint actually hurts one’s self. (Only in such a luxurious and unserious time might words be considered “violence.”) Curiously enough, many of our modern societal cataclysms use an apocalyptic language of despair, concluding that if people do not indulge desires, they will run headlong into suicide. Tossing a colossal fit off a cliff seems a poor answer to one’s problems, to which a much deeper psychological problem exists than mere desire. One might surely conclude that a person may be happy seeking pleasure for a time, but only the naïve or obtuse think such happiness shall be permanent. As Lady Philosophy tells Boethius: “what do we have but the pains of longing followed by the regrets of satisfaction? One indulges the body and for this one gets pain and disease” (III.7). Obeying the self-rule of pleasure makes one a servant to his own body (III.8), and giving in to one’s selfish inner child makes one a slave to his impulses.

This does not mean that pleasure itself is the evil. God’s first commands to man and woman were to be multiply and to exercise lordship over the earth (Gen. 1:28). Creation and recreation both of fellow human beings and of civil society are pleasurable actions designed to beget more fruitful, pleasurable actions. The Lord busies himself with the proliferation of joy that comes through human connection and human community. But only he as Creator knows how best to prompt joy. Thus, in the two-fold command is premised the dual impulses of responsible liberty and delightful authority.

Here we must pause, taking care not to play the part of the moralist, who would prohibit all pleasures for the sake of authority. It was the Pharisee who accused Jesus of drunkenness, as he ate and drank with sinners (Luke 7:34). It was David’s wife who accused him of appearing undignified with his dancing (2 Sam. 6:20). It was the gnostic who persuaded the Colossian church to maintain an appearance of worship through total abstinence (Col. 2:20-23). Each example here attempts the exercise of power of one group over another to fit individual, not universal, definitions of righteousness. The moralist adapts the virtue of self-control to the vice of other-control. An alcoholic must rigorously control his impulses for the drink; given too much control, however, he develops an overexaggerated sense of ambition, which easily slips into narcissism and megalomania. Even righteousness unchecked can become a hedonism of self-righteousness, impotent substitutes for the joy intended by God.

Yet neither is joy absolute. Freedom and play must be virtuous, firmly fenced by the bounds of reality if they are to flourish. To cross those bounds, to violate the limitations of the eternal order, is to act in a way contrary to our created nature, in a way that will do actual injury to ourselves and others. It is, as Boethius mentions, like a man trying to walk on his hands. He might accomplish his goal, in part, but not efficiently or sustainably. Far from causing harm, order preserves our dignity and that of our fellow man. To do less makes us “the instrument of our own torments” (I.5)

How, then, to view pleasure? How to use it reasonably without falling under its spell? It may help, first, to consider the ends of pleasure. I, for one, tend to think that the pursuit of pleasure is often a coping mechanism rather than the end goal. The man who loves the drink surely desires to feel good, but the feeling good is the means by which he avoids the bad. The mother without her child, the employee without labor, the lover without the beloved all struggle to accept the pain of reality. Pleasure numbs the ache, or, to use another metaphor, it is the fluid that fills the cracks in our broken psyches. Yet it cannot be a glue, and its presence is only temporary. If this is pleasure’s end, then one hopes to escape reality, not confront it.

Further, we should also consider pleasure’s effects. Does it lead us toward the good of people or away from them? Pleasure is frequently self-reflective, and when consumed by it we turn not outward to the community of others, nor even upward to prayer, but inward into self-pity. The prodigal is not profligate because he spends his money on riotous living; this is only symptomatic of the greater loss of being estranged from the Father. He indulges in hedonism because he mistakes pleasure for happiness. The Father, wisely knowing that pleasure, ironically, brings emptiness, imposes on us behavioral limits, a series of Thou Shalt Not’s for our own well-being. To live in the Father’s house means a life of holiness—a life worlds away from hedonism.

Love God, said St. Augustine, and do as you please. If our desires, in other words, are ordered under the lordship of Christ, then we may feel at liberty to do all things pleasing and beneficial. Happiness, which is pleasure at its apex, allows us to overcome suffering. Pinocchio does not discover happiness at Pleasure Island. It is only during the harrowing journey into the belly of the beast, into the death of Jonah, that Pinocchio can experience true transformation. He becomes a real boy not through the freedom of riotous self-rule but through the humility of selfless suffering.

And, at last, we begin to arrive at an answer to one of humanity’s greatest questions by debasing idols falsely claiming to bring happiness. Yet how, then, might we truly become happy?

The Pursuit of Happiness and the Whispers of Wealth

When the prison door closes behind Boethius, he does not yet know that the cell walls are almost entirely of his own making. As the lock clicks home, he looks around desperately, blind to the fact that the key is in his own hands. Accused of a crime he did not commit, Boethius descends into despair, believing there is nothing good left in the world. He is wont, like most of us, to view life as good or ill, just or unjust, upon the external conditions of fortune.

                                    *                                  *                                  *

Fortune is one of those troublesome English words, its promise undercut by its ambiguity.

Its use first appears around 1300, personified as a Lady who dispenses gifts haphazardly to men. Its origin comes to us through Latin; one recalls images of Caesar casting his die and crossing the Rubicon, announcing that he serves no god but fortune. Yet only a few generations later in 1369, the word appears as an endowment of money or property, becoming synonymous with wealth. Which means there is an associative etymological link in the minds of medieval peoples between wealth and blind chance. Surely no astute observers of microeconomics, they assumed that accident, not fate nor merit, garnered good fortune.

We can permit their misunderstanding, as these are not easy waters to navigate. There is, after all, a long-standing philosophical distrust of wealth. St. Augustine, quoting Cato, notes that instead of hard work and just rewards, luxury and avarice have replaced virtue in the state (City of God 5.12). Cato saw Roman greatness in its resourcefulness and industry, not in its opulence. But Rome, like its American grandchildren, grew fat on its own excesses, lauding its material prosperity as proof of its greatness, forgetting the values that urged them toward success, and mistaking the ends for the means. A century after Augustine, Lady Philosophy instructs Boethius that, despite our aims, “wealth doesn’t make a man self-sufficient, or satisfied, even though this is what the promise of wealth seemed to promise” (III.3). Surprisingly, wealth requires rich men to rely more on others: they need the aid of banks and financial advisors, security guards and systems to protect their homes, higher insurance rates, etc., which makes us more dependent than less. “Riches,” she explains, “don’t remove need, but rather they produce a need of their own” (III.3), in short the need to maintain one’s acquisitive lifestyle.

As a philosophic system, Christianity also questions what value wealth grants to the spiritual life. Jesus looks skeptically at wealth (Mark 10:25, Luke 6:24-25), as does St. Paul, equating lust to greed—and both to idolatry (Eph 5:2). They, like Boethius, understood that wealth breeds a false sense of self-sufficiency. And the self-sufficient man becomes his own idol, in need of nothing and no one to help him become better and to redeem him from a fallen world. He chooses the trash heap of gold over the mansions of eternity.

None of us want to suffer. All want good fortune. Even the most committed Christians want promotion, a more prestigious position, a comfortable retirement. Are these desires entirely counter to the cause of Christ and the call of the heavenly city? Should we, like the monastics and the white martyrs of the early church, prefer voluntary poverty to a life of ease? Can I force my way through the eye of a needle, despite what Jesus says?

We excuse ourselves from the call given to the rich young ruler by stating that Jesus commands us to only give up the things that keep us from him. Curiously, I have never met someone who has relinquished wealth for the sake of Christ. Few today even embracing fasting as a regular spiritual discipline. I wonder, then, if we fool ourselves into believing that we are not motivated by riches as Jesus’ would-be disciple. Our lips say, “Not I, Lord,” while our hearts say, “This is a hard teaching. Who can accept it?” But if I cannot fast from food or say no to material gain, how can I resist stronger temptations? If I will not give up wealth and comfort, what will I give up for Christ?

All Christians have struggled with this aspect of discipleship, American Christians perhaps the more so. Those of us in the middle class tell ourselves that we are not really rich. Rather, it is the politician who is wealthy, the millionaire who is at ease. Not I in my mortgaged home with my fine furniture, two-story home, and Prime shipping. We ignore the fact that the average U.S. salary is roughly $60,000 per year, while the average global salary is just over $12,000 per year. Many economists would rightly object to my comparing apples to oranges, yet it remains true that the poorer people in the U.S. are wealthier than many well-off people in other countries. If we are not wealthy with food, shelter, and material wants at our finger-tips, what then is wealth?

There may be a way through the dilemma by consulting the wisdom literature of the Proverbs. Here are listed countless passages about the value of building riches, acquiring property, bequeathing generational wealth, all with the recognition that people are more important than money, and God is to be honored over all. It may be true, then, that one can have wealth and follow Christ; Jesus himself used the accumulation of money as a parable of the kingdom, requiring us to work, invest, and increase what we have been given (Matt 25:14-30). But we must not be deceived into thinking that we are not wealthy nor that our wealth doesn’t distract or inhibit the more abundant life.

The real problem, as observed by both Jesus and Boethius, is that wealth grants the illusion of security, the hope that we can manage life’s tenuous stasis. Insurance soothes the fear that the hurricane will not destroy—or at least will make destruction an affordable proposition. Wealth parades itself as an inoculant against suffering. But like so many vaccines, inoculation can never be total, and we are bound to come down with the flu eventually. Even Dives, who can endure significantly more economic loss than Lazarus, cannot endure the emotional suffering of his brothers’ damnation (Luke 16:27-28). Suffering is an integral part of the human condition, the consequence of living in a fallen world. Paradoxically, it is through suffering, not from suffering—the way of the cross—that we come closest to the heart of the Father (Ps. 34:18). In avoiding suffering, we are inadvertently avoiding our own redemption. In amassing riches, we are amassing a strength when we are saved only in the recognition of our own weakness.

In short, wealth keeps our gaze earth-bound and blinds us from the spiritual reality beyond the veil. This is because wealth is closely allied with its corrupting cousin, power, of whose influence we will have more to say hereafter.