You Have to Know Why to Die
If you want to silence a crowd, you should ask them earnestly for what cause they would sacrifice their lives — and not just in the abstract, but today if necessary. Faces will darken, a bit of nervous laughter will break out, but you will receive few ready answers. Some might reply that they would be willing to die for their family (this is the socially acceptable response). Perhaps a few would state that they would give their lives in service of their country. By and large, however, expect nothing more than pained silence or canned responses.
I think that this is because few can readily say what they would die for if they cannot identify their reason to live. They do not know what their life means, and consequently cannot say what would make it worth trading in. This inability to answer is a relatively new phenomenon. Until the last three hundred years or so, humanity lived completely under the wing of magical or mythical religion which prepared the individual and community for eternity. Many people would gladly accept martyrdom for their faith, knowing that their life has signified nothing but a longing for reunification with God in heaven. Faith in His word and obedience to His law were the ideals, and each individual hoped to symbolize them as best they could.
Even after the Enlightenment gutted the religious structures of society, humanity devised ideologies to serve as lodestars. One could readily find citizens willing to die for their nation, or for the ideals of democracy and equality before the law. Their day-to-day labor was in service of this hoped-for reality, pointing beyond itself to something transcendent and beautiful. Despite the decline of religion, life didn’t change all that much in its form. Existence was a sign and derived its meaning from that which it symbolized.
This is what we mean when we speak about the meaning of life. To mean something is to point to something other, something higher. This is why a soldier who has protected innocent lives, though he might suffer chronic psychic and physical pain, may rest easy in his final days. He knows that he has effectively incarnated, albeit imperfectly, the ideal of courage. He has safeguarded the lives of his fellow citizens and his comrades. Similarly, someone might choose to emulate Mother Teresa, eschewing worldly prestige for a life of service to the indigent. She may not have much to show for herself in the account books, but nonetheless feel deep satisfaction in her life and its referent: unconditional love. This is the sentiment I believe Mother Teresa wished to convey in her famous line: “God has not called me to be successful, but to be faithful.” There is little expectation of fully realizing the ideal. It is enough to make a good attempt. That means something.
I do not wish to imply that the symbolic life is futile. No one individual can fully actualize the ideal future, but we must also acknowledge that we would possess none of the freedom, equality, and prosperity that we now do if no one had fashioned their existence so as to inspire hope for the life of abundance and self-determination. Aside from merely pointing beyond the ego, the meaningful life is one that inspires others and thereby increases hope for a perfect future. Ideals only survive so long as individuals are willing to live and die on their behalf. Ideals do not perish, but they may be forgotten. I think this is why Thomas Jefferson reminded us that: “The tree of liberty must be watered from time to time by the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.”
A few years ago I came across an excellent book entitled Self and Soul by University of Virginia professor Mark Edmundson. In it, he outlines what he sees as the three great ideals of western civilization. They are: the sage, the saint, and the hero. A life lived according to these ideals is one of truth, compassion, or courage, respectively. These exemplars are willing to sacrifice their life for their ideals, and invite us to do so as well. Socrates willingly and joyfully drank his hemlock rather than agree to desist from his prodding of the comfortable. Jesus of Nazareth died the death of a common criminal, crucified for his doctrine of universal compassion. Hector of Troy, knowing full well that he was no match for the magnificent Achilles, donned his armor nonetheless and fought until he could fight no more for his city and his family.
Edmundson argues that it is the work of the much-maligned Humanities to teach such ideals. Rather than selecting a career, he argues, does it not make more sense to choose an ideal and let the professional chips fall where they may? If you wish to help people, choose compassion. If you wish to protect others, follow courage. The world is shifting and impermanent. Careers come and go, but Ideals are forever, so long as they are remembered and signified. Any time we exhibit courage of body or mind, Hector and Socrates cheer us on. Far from an impractical waste of time, the humanities offer indispensable guidance on how to live the meaningful — the good — life. Once we know the great stories, we have no desire to live as a pile of unrelated possessions, jealously guarded and consumed in a fit of denial.
A life lived in service to ideals also offers a solution to the problem of striving. By this I mean the problem of how to diminish the ego, how to relinquish attachments, and yet still satisfy the fundamental human urge to do things. Eastern traditions, such as the Zen schools, teach that we must release our dualistic hold on the world and accept the unreality of the self. It is in the formless yet fertile emptiness that we should rest, they say. As helpful as I find such practices, there is a persistent contradiction between their instruction and reality. One has to live as an embodied individual to some extent, no matter the amount of zazen you practice. Although these traditions tell us that we ought to renounce all concern for the future or the past, the great teachers clearly cared enough for the future to write down their teachings and to establish monasteries dedicated to their implementation. Further, I sometimes have wondered if one can become attached to being unattached. Working toward a condition of liberation from attachments seems to indicate a desire to attain a state of freedom, but desire is precisely the ball and chain we wish to be rid of.
The existence that, through its actions, points to courage or compassion may still be humble. This is because no individual may perfectly realize an ideal. We are all hopelessly flawed in our execution, constantly falling prey to egocentrism. Through our symbolism, however, we can accept these flaws, acknowledging that we “are dust and to dust we shall return” and perhaps becoming more effective signs through this frailty, stating what our lives are not and thereby pointing to what is. Though we may strive, we do not strive for an outcome. Though we may struggle to master the tools necessary to do justice to our chosen exemplar, we struggle to actualize something far beyond ourselves. Therefore, we may still dismiss our ego through devotion to our ideals and, while we desire others to witness the incarnations of our favored archetype, it is not the selfish grasping that the Buddha warned us against, nor the storing up of earthly treasures that Jesus of Nazareth decried. Such a life furnishes a middle way to self transcendence. We need not definitively win the battle because the struggle continues perpetually. In this sense we are part of a grand lineage which we serve for a fleeting moment and then pass our knowledge and counsel to the newcomers. This is our brush with the eternal.
We do not like to think about death, despite the fact that it awaits each one of us. It is darkly true that we are all on death row — we simply have to decide what significance we wish to grant it. I contend that the pervasive ennui shrouding the modern west is a symptom of a world drained of ideals by the vampires of materialism and relativism. Where we used to dwell in a grand enchanted universe we now have a home constructed from drunken atoms. Where we once had sweeping ideologies of progress we now throw our hands up in surrender, content to affirm any old interpretation as good enough. But can you take such worldviews to your deathbed and not feel cheated? I am not so sure.
My money is on the heroes, the saints, and the sages.
