Monthly Archives: June 2024

Better to Have Laughed and Lived Than Never to Have Lived at All

Christopher Rush

Christianity has a difficult time with happiness.  Such a difficulty is somewhat understandable, considering Christianity itself comes from Jesus, the Man of Sorrows.  This difficulty has manifested in diverse ways throughout the centuries, mainly as opposition to activities prone to bring happiness to people: dancing, reading fiction, playing games (especially those with dice, six-sided or otherwise).  While Christianity should, as a matter of course, stand in opposition to activities that bring happiness through sinful behavior, one wonders if the accretion of antagonism to things deemed “worldly” or “secular” have come from an outright conflation of “happiness” and “sin.”  An investigation into that notion is beyond our scope, so we, admittedly somewhat pusillanimously, wonder it in passing and turn instead to a kind of rescue attempt on behalf of both happiness and Christianity, since both would be enhanced if they operate in tandem and not in opposition.  Even the Man of Sorrows had a habit of making people feel better, see better, hear better, and even sustained the occasional shindig by improving the comestibles – what is this if not increasing the happiness of the people?  Desiderius Erasmus’s In Praise of Folly may seem, now, an odd embarkation point from which to begin such a rescue operation, but the work, even from the voice of Folly herself, provides many helpful insights for this cause, offered in a lighthearted tone that lends itself to a more persuasive posture than a more overtly didactic approach likely would to prove happiness is not just for fools but for Christians as well.

Before fully turning to the reunification of happiness and Christianity, we should begin by briefly refuting the popular notion in Christian circles that happiness is unnecessary because of joy; next to joy, happiness is ephemeral, trivial, and downright small potatoes compared to the full satisfaction of joy.  After all, the Man of Sorrows did say and do much of what He said and did to impart His joy into His audience, not in dribs and drabs but to the full.  Admittedly, it would be foolhardy (and not in a clever, Erasmusian way) to deny or refute Jesus’ words, so we shall not do that.  The problem, as indicated above, is the artificial distinction between happiness and joy – and if not artificial, then it has always struck me as more Epicurean than Christian: why seek, says this idea, the temporary pleasures of happiness when the fuller, more mature satisfactions of joy can be found (whatever those are)?  But if happiness can be severed from sin, surely there is nothing inappropriate about enjoying life and being happy while one waits for the complete impartation of Jesus’ joy?  After all, might not happiness be a kind of precursor to joy?

Erasmus discusses happiness, indeed, all his topics in Praise of Folly, through the voice of Folly herself, so it is difficult at times to know if Erasmus is lightheartedly jesting at the topic, more intellectually satirizing the issue, or outright ridiculing the subject at hand.  Such is the difficulty with (potentially) satirical works such as these.  Happiness is a frequent subject throughout the work, so an exhaustive study is far beyond our scope here.  We shall focus on two brief passages to show happiness and Christianity are not truly at odds in Erasmus, and thus they should not be for us, either.

One interesting discussion on happiness comes in chapter thirty-seven, in which Erasmus (through Folly) contrasts the lives of fools and so-called wise men and is worth quoting in full:

To return to the happiness of fools. After living a life full of enjoyment, with no fear or awareness of death, they move straight off to the Elysian fields where their tricks can amuse pious souls who have come to rest. Let’s now compare the lot of a wise man with that of this clown.  Imagine some paragon of wisdom set up against him, a man who has frittered away all his boyhood and youth in acquiring learning, has lost the happiest part of his life in endless wakeful nights, toil and care, and never tastes a drop of pleasure even in what’s left to him. He’s always thrifty, impoverished, miserable, grumpy, harsh and unjust to himself, disagreeable and unpopular with his fellows, pale and thin, sickly and blear-eyed, prematurely white-haired and senile, worn-out and dying before his time. Though what difference does it make when a man like that does die? He’s never been alive. There you have a splendid picture of a wise man. (16)

Those who prefer joy to happiness might highlight that the happy people in this example are fools who live for enjoyment and trick and romp and do not seem to live meaningful lives.  That is not Erasmus’s point here, though – rather, those who eschew happiness do not seem to be living admirable lives, either: “miserable, grumpy, harsh and unjust to himself, disagreeable and unpopular” … these are not noble qualities of a Christian life spent waiting for joy.  The main distinction here is a life of play versus a life of study more than sin versus Christian living, to be sure, but the essence of Erasmus’s distinction can easily be translated into Christian terms.  A “life in endless wakeful nights, toil and care,” even for the glory of God, is not somehow more holy just because it results in pain and discomfort.  Are Christians to fear death?  No, they are not.  Can Christians “[live] a life full of enjoyment”?  Yes, they can – and they can experience happiness while doing so.  A life without happiness may be no life at all.

An even more important idea for happiness’s alignment with Christianity is tucked away in the middle of a thought earlier in the book, in chapter twenty-two: “…for the most part happiness consists in being willing to be what you are …” (8).  Though this comes from Folly, the almost casual way Erasmus has Folly mention it in passing, as if it is a well-known fact that needs no discussion or explanation, seems significant.  The context again requires some finessing, since this remarkable notion occurs in the midst of Folly praising Self-love, but this is not an insuperable barrier to the truth of this idea.  Our present goal is not to align everything Folly says with Christianity, only happiness itself.  If the idea is true, even if it comes from Folly, what better reason for Christians to accept happiness, as it is a byproduct of being who we were created to be by God?  Simply by being willing to live the Christian life, Christians can be not just content and stoically (apathetically?) waiting for joy but also they can be happy.

Surely Jesus’ words to “take heart” since He has overcome the world need not be simply an intellectual acknowledgment of future redemption or mild stiff-upper-lippedness.  Why not an active happiness, even while suffering trials and being strengthened by the joy of the Lord?  Christianity should not have difficulty with happiness.  Happiness can happen not just from doing things in this life that bring pleasure but also from being the kind of person we were created to be.  Let the conflict between happiness and Christianity come to an end.  Christians, do not be afraid to be happy!

What’s In a Name?: Fear, Pride, and Courage in Cratylus (and Roses, Onions, and Stars)

Christopher Rush

Juliet was rather unhappy with Romeo’s surname and for good reason: had he any other name, the barriers to their love and companionship would likely have been much less perilous.  If he could “be some other name” he might still be everything she wanted him to be.  The rose may smell as sweet were it called a pumpkin, but would Romeo Mackintosh be as lovely as Romeo Montague?  What Juliet may fail to grasp in her youthful furor is that the “Montague” aspect of Romeo’s identity is not as arbitrary as the “Romeo” half – he is a Montague by nature, by birth.  He would not exist were he not a Montague.

Whether names are a necessary reflection or indicator of a thing’s identity is a major focus in Plato’s Cratylus as well.  Socrates’ two interlocutors in this dialogue share the desire for names to be innate and accurately reflect the nature or identity of that which is named.  They differ, though, in that Hermogenes is having trouble accepting that it is true: “I have often talked over this matter, both with Cratylus and others, and cannot convince myself that there is any principle of correctness in names other than convention and agreement” (86), he says at the outset of the conversation with Socrates.  He clearly wants names to be objective or, as the video lecturer called it, a “natural rightness.”  Cratylus, at the other extreme, is unwilling to conceive of names being anything other than naturally right: whereas pictures may be imitations and incorrectly identified, “but not in the case of names – they must be always right” (109), he insists again and again.  Cratylus seems like he would be an unforgiving grade school teacher, going so far to say a misspelled word is not “close enough” for young learners, but “if we add, or subtract, or misplace a letter, the name which is written is not only written wrongly, but not written at all” (110) – no partial credit in Mr. Cratylus’ classroom.  Thus, Hermogenes desires names to be naturally right, yearning for a rose to be a rose to be a rose, but he fears that a rose is a rose is an onion, yet that onion would smell as sweet.  Cratylus imperiously cannot believe names could be anything other than what they are: a rose that is an onion cannot exist at all.

Socrates, perhaps in an effort to live up to his assigned name as “wisest man alive,” leads both fellows toward common ground in the middle between such emotional extremes.  He assures Hermogenes that names are true and real and can reflect the authentic identity of a thing or person, yet he also shows Cratylus things have a nature and exist even if one did not know what the proper appellation should be, and perhaps some trial and error in nomenclature is not a bad thing: “But if things are only to be known through names, how can we suppose that the givers of names had knowledge … before they could have known them?” (113).  Names have to come from somewhere.  Humans had left ventricles a long time before anyone knew they existed, let alone what to call them.  In finding that common ground, Socrates attempts to assuage the fear of Hermogenes and soften the obduracy of Cratylus, since the subject is so complex it should be neither one of fear nor pride.  Our attitude toward names should, perhaps, be more calm, yielding what McClay urged for in that “composure in one’s speech” that could balance fear and pride into “composure in one’s soul.”  Perhaps it is courage we need today to call things what they are, as Zach said, not fear of being wrong or pride at being correct.

And perhaps some composure could enable young lovers to stop calling each other the sun and stars and thus really set themselves up for failure.