The Ethics of Courage: Volume 1: From Greek Antiquity to the Middle Ages 3031327381, 9783031327384

Table of contents :
Contents
1: The Roots of Courage
Life, Power, and Truth
The Origins of Courage
Courage Throughout History
Methodological Remarks
Reference
2: Fearlessness and Fate in Ancient Greece
Lion-hearted Heracles, Achilles, and Ulysses
Women Without Fear: Euripides, Sophocles, and Aristophanes
Euripides
Sophocles
Aristophanes
References
3: Soldierly Courage and Wisdom
The Invention of History: Herodotus and Thucydides
Facts and Fables of World History: Diodorus of Sicily
The Laws of Physis: From Hippocrates to Galen
References
4: Wisdom Above Soldierly Courage
The Unity and Rank-ordering of Virtue: Plato
Education and Battles for Justice: Isocrates and Lysias
Aristotle’s Happy Mean
The Art of Persuasion: Demosthenes
Physis, Polis, and Logos
References
5: Wisdom as Courage
Socrates Questioning
Questioning Socrates
References
6: The Courage of Natural Living
The Wisdom of Simple Pleasures: Epicurus
Freedom from Irrational Passions: Stoicism
References
7: Courage, Wisdom, and Mysticism
Ascending to the Divine: Pythagoreanism
The All-Soul and the Divine Intellect: Porphyry and Plotinus
Jewish Piety and Perfection of the Soul: Philo of Alexandria
References
8: Fear and Love in Early Christianity
Strength in Fear and Faith in the Holy Writ
Fear of God and Fearless Martyrdom
Gnostic Love and the Futility of Courage
References
9: Living, Conquering, and Ruling
Self-killing and Martyrdom: Clement of Rome and Athanasius
Victorious Rulers and Soldiers of Christ
Beyond Fear and Faith-based Courage
References
10: Overtures to Reason and the Gift of Love
Wavering Between Reason and Religion: Origen and Lactantius
Virtue Received from God: Gregory of Nyssa and Augustine of Hippo
References
11: Freedom and the Wisdom of Love and Fortitude
Paradise and Fortitude of the Mind: Ambrose
Conscience, Fear, and Love: John Cassian and John Chrysostom
References
12: Courage in the Early Middle Ages and Islam
Varieties of Courage in Gethsemane
Courage in the Early Middle Ages
Islam in Greek Garb: Averroes (Ibn Rushd)
References
13: Crusading and Dying for Christ
Fear and War: Bernard of Clairvaux and Ramon Llull
Logic, Causality, and Metaphor: Bonaventure
God, Courage, and the Common Good: Avicenna and Albert the Great
References
14: Reason, Faith, and Charity
Levels of Fear and Love: Peter Lombard
Courage Perfected with Divine Love: Philip the Chancellor
God, Reason, Justice, and Fortitude: Thomas Aquinas
References
15: Intentionality and Powers of the Will
Charity and Intentional Consent: Peter Abelard
The Will Above All Else: Duns Scotus
Fighting Off and Enduring What Needs to Be Fought and Endured
The Mind Proposes, the Will Disposes
The Body Predisposes, the Will Disposes
Charity as the Highest Perfection of the Will
Evil Can Be Willed: William of Ockham
References
16: Challenging and Reforming the Church
The Selfless Love of Catherine of Siena and Bridget of Sweden
Predestination, Filial Fear, and the Unfaithful Church: John Wyclif
Love Out of Faith and Fear: Martin Luther
Fortitude Without Merit: Jean Calvin
References
17: Custodians of the Earth
Tribulation and Humble Faith: Thomas More
Utopia and Life on Earth
The Throne Shall Never be Empty
References

Citation preview

The Ethics of Courage Volume 1: From Greek Antiquity to the Middle Ages jacqu e s m . c h e va l i e r

The Ethics of Courage

Jacques M. Chevalier

The Ethics of Courage Volume 1: From Greek Antiquity to the Middle Ages

Jacques M. Chevalier Sociology and Anthropology Carleton University Ottawa, ON, Canada

ISBN 978-3-031-32738-4    ISBN 978-3-031-32739-1 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32739-1 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland Paper in this product is recyclable.

À Michelle, la compagne de ma vie, de mon courage, de ma joie.

Contents

1 The  Roots of Courage  1 Life, Power, and Truth   1 The Origins of Courage    6 Courage Throughout History   11 Methodological Remarks  16 Reference  17 2 Fearlessness  and Fate in Ancient Greece 19 Lion-hearted Heracles, Achilles, and Ulysses   19 Women Without Fear: Euripides, Sophocles, and Aristophanes  26 References  36 3 S  oldierly Courage and Wisdom 39 The Invention of History: Herodotus and Thucydides   42 Facts and Fables of World History: Diodorus of Sicily   53 The Laws of Physis: From Hippocrates to Galen   62 References  65 4 Wisdom  Above Soldierly Courage 67 The Unity and Rank-ordering of Virtue: Plato   67 Education and Battles for Justice: Isocrates and Lysias   75 vii

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Aristotle’s Happy Mean   78 The Art of Persuasion: Demosthenes   84 Physis, Polis, and Logos  91 References  94 5 W  isdom as Courage 97 Socrates Questioning  97 Questioning Socrates  110 References 115 6 The  Courage of Natural Living117 The Wisdom of Simple Pleasures: Epicurus  117 Freedom from Irrational Passions: Stoicism  124 References 138 7 C  ourage, Wisdom, and Mysticism141 Ascending to the Divine: Pythagoreanism  142 The All-Soul and the Divine Intellect: Porphyry and Plotinus  146 Jewish Piety and Perfection of the Soul: Philo of Alexandria  151 References 156 8 Fear  and Love in Early Christianity159 Strength in Fear and Faith in the Holy Writ  161 Fear of God and Fearless Martyrdom  168 Gnostic Love and the Futility of Courage  173 References 178 9 Living,  Conquering, and Ruling181 Self-killing and Martyrdom: Clement of Rome and Athanasius 183 Victorious Rulers and Soldiers of Christ  186 Beyond Fear and Faith-based Courage  195 References 196

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10 Overtures  to Reason and the Gift of Love199 Wavering Between Reason and Religion: Origen and Lactantius 200 Virtue Received from God: Gregory of Nyssa and Augustine of Hippo  206 References 216 11 Freedom  and the Wisdom of Love and Fortitude221 Paradise and Fortitude of the Mind: Ambrose  222 Conscience, Fear, and Love: John Cassian and John Chrysostom 228 References 243 12 Courage  in the Early Middle Ages and Islam247 Varieties of Courage in Gethsemane  248 Courage in the Early Middle Ages  253 Islam in Greek Garb: Averroes (Ibn Rushd)  259 References 269 13 Crusading  and Dying for Christ271 Fear and War: Bernard of Clairvaux and Ramon Llull  271 Logic, Causality, and Metaphor: Bonaventure  275 God, Courage, and the Common Good: Avicenna and Albert the Great  283 References 288 14 Reason,  Faith, and Charity291 Levels of Fear and Love: Peter Lombard  291 Courage Perfected with Divine Love: Philip the Chancellor  296 God, Reason, Justice, and Fortitude: Thomas Aquinas  301 References 310 15 Intentionality  and Powers of the Will311 Charity and Intentional Consent: Peter Abelard  313 The Will Above All Else: Duns Scotus  319 Evil Can Be Willed: William of Ockham  334 References 337

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16 Challenging  and Reforming the Church339 The Selfless Love of Catherine of Siena and Bridget of Sweden 340 Predestination, Filial Fear, and the Unfaithful Church: John Wyclif 344 Love Out of Faith and Fear: Martin Luther  348 Fortitude Without Merit: Jean Calvin  354 References 363 17 Custodians  of the Earth365 Tribulation and Humble Faith: Thomas More  366 Utopia and Life on Earth  369 The Throne Shall Never be Empty  374 References 378

1 The Roots of Courage

Life, Power, and Truth In today’s context, hopes for brighter futures are fading, and with them, the courage to roll up our sleeves and do something about it. Of course, this is easier said than done, considering the many crises and powerful constraints that haunt the present world. Pathways for individual and collective action are difficult and uncertain. To complicate matters further, the idea of courage itself has lost currency, at least in the eyes of social theorists and most philosophers. Commendable responses to adversity, suffering, and danger are now framed as “resilience,” a term imported into the human sciences from civil engineering and the science of materials. Individuals and systems are invited to “bounce back,” recover, and thrive despite traumatic events, high stress, and rapid change. The ethics of courage now give way to the science of mitigation, adaptation, and “living with” adversity as opposed to “living for” something higher than our immediate selves. Moral courage has lost its appeal, reinforcing the current mood of global dis-couragement and despair. This study in two volumes reflects on the idea of “courage” in the history of Western philosophy, using it as a window on competing visions of moral goodness and what they have to offer today. From Homeric times © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32739-1_1

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to the present day, the idea of courage has gone through profound transformations that converge on the affirmation of life, the exercise of power, and the pursuit of truth. The immediate task of this journey into moral history is thus to show the complex interweaving of three facets of courage: the existential, the political, and the epistemic. My goal is also to let courage grow in scope and strength beyond what previous or current systems of ethics have to offer. The approach I take is intended to counter a reflex that goes back to ancient Greece, where people’s capacity for courage is used to support narrow views and powerful interests. The three aspects of courage are key to understanding the many ramifications of the idea and freeing them for modern use. From an existential perspective, the impulse to plant courage in the human heart and body received considerable attention in the writings of Hippocrates and leading intellectuals of the post-mediaeval period and the modern era, starting with Descartes. On this topic, countless efforts have been made to better comprehend how hopes of wellness and happiness can tally with inevitable suffering and death. One way out of this tension consists in appreciating everything that life on Earth has to offer and a stubborn refusal to give in to despair. Many philosophers have chosen to follow this path. The approach nonetheless points to a neglected theme with vital consequences: the courage that we need to acknowledge and find our humble place in Nature and the universe, and not merely the place of Nature in our self-centred lives. What can human values and “valour” do to ensure the future of other life forms and the whole Earth, as opposed to inciting humans to live at the expense of everything else? As we shall see, rational thinking, faith in God, the fixed laws of Nature, the ideal self, and the energetic will are all overarching principles that have consistently uprooted courage from its grounding in our two-way engagement with Nature and the realm of physis. The question of reciprocity and unity with Nature needs an answer and will determine our fate as a species. To this existential problem must be added another longstanding failure in courage, which also concerns the togetherness of living. Over the centuries, discussions of the societal implications of courage have fallen short of extending the rule and spirit of fellowship in valour to the whole of humanity. To put it more bluntly, they have collectively unleashed a

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whole litany of reasons to uphold the fear of others and the rule of might in every aspect of our lives. More often than not, the ethics of courage have been used to exalt diehard dogmatism, despotism, militarism, ageism, sexism, racism, and xenophobia. While humanism rose in Italy about five hundred years ago, the political courage to form bonds and show solidarity with others as members of the same species has yet to unleash its full unifying force. The power that humans have over their own lives, or the relationship between freedom and fate, is another longstanding question that has a direct bearing on the politics of courage. While this study does not pretend to resolve this question, it is sceptical of any framing of courage that simply pits one principle against the other. If fate condemns us to anything, it is to be free. And if freedom reigns supreme, it can never be in the sense of total arbitrariness prevailing in the world. Freedom becomes an illusion when the conditions that make freedom possible are not met, notably the power to understand and build on laws other than our own. The workings of physis and our ability to determine probable and certain facts are powerful enablers, not mere impediments to our freedom of action. The existential and political ramifications of courage merit re-­ examination. On the epistemic level, other challenges haunt the literature on courage dating back to Greek antiquity. One concerns the conflicting claims of faith and logic or believing and understanding. Either we trust and give credence to what is deemed self-evident and an article of faith, or we seek the evidence and demonstration that meet the requirements of scientific thinking or philosophical reasoning. The long history of Greco-­ Roman philosophy, Christian theology, and modern science dance around this fundamental dilemma, with a tendency to ultimately choose or prioritise one principle over the other. This is another false dilemma, with disastrous effects for advances in knowledge and the politics of truth. The challenge that we face today does not consist in either explaining everything or remaining faithful to our convictions and principles despite everything. Rather, the question is how to maintain our beliefs in the necessity of understanding what is real and continue to build on it so that we never lose faith in a meaningful world and in ourselves.

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Life has meaning, provided that certain things are taken for granted. At the same time, unquestionable truths do not last forever; their demonstration in real life can never be absolutely conclusive, and many fail to pass the test of social relevance. This is certainly true of the ethics of courage. Another epistemic challenge that must be addressed when discussing courage is the opposition between universal thinking and pluralism of mind. How can we develop a wisdom that celebrates permanent dialogue and learning across systems of belief, knowledge, and ways of life? Again, this is not an easy task. It implies that we work towards a shared vision of courageous living and, at the same time, uphold the richness of differences in philosophical and cultural sensibilities with respect to moral issues. My position on this thorny issue is rooted in the culture of dialogue, at a distance from the two dead-end paths of universalism and relativism. I approach the ethics of courage in an open spirit, as a subject of continuing debate in the history of Western philosophy. Unlike most studies in this field, I do not see courage as a directly observable behaviour based on common sense, let alone an abstract idea that can be spread around the world, regardless of differences in cultures and traditions. As a result, I make no claim to have discovered a universal definition of courage or to have pieced together a wealth of insights into a comprehensive theory that hovers well above the vagaries of human history. I do not use concrete indicators of behaviour in a wide range of societies or cultural settings to establish or compare prevailing attitudes and customs. Observing the quality so as to better grasp “it” is a strategy that may appeal to common sense, but the strategy is deeply flawed. The rub is that the investigator must have some prior knowledge of what the idea of courage means before watching it in real life. Despite their apparent objectivity, factual accounts of courage typically focus on certain aspects and deliberately ignore or unknowingly miss other possible viewpoints. Descriptions can easily mistake courage for rage, cruelty, temerity, or fate, among other things. By way of example, a man who wrestles with a bear may seem brave, but he is a fool if he runs to danger under the influence of alcohol. The same man might be applauded for saving a child from the paws and jaws of the beast. But even there, the quality that is thought to reflect the man’s character or deed may involve a quality other than

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courage, such as the fear of loss or shame for not intervening. Much depends on what the word “courage” is meant to represent and whether the concept has social and linguistic currency in the first place. The warning is particularly relevant when it comes to investigating courage in non-Western settings, under the assumption that the idea is simple and salient enough to have a counterpart almost everywhere. The assumption is naive, if only for the following reason: definitions contain many other key words (such as danger, terrible misfortune, or fear), all of which need definitions of their own. Many statements of intended meanings are needed to specify what courage signifies prior to seeking its translation in other cultural contexts and periods of history. The conundrum is deeply anthropological. In order to translate the word, we must first take a stance on its meaning and identify its close associates. Only then can we turn to other languages and worldviews and look for synonyms. Then we face yet another problem: words and ideas that debate and portray right and wrong in ways other than our own. Because cultures and settings differ so greatly, some people and mindsets show little interest in concepts like courage, valour, daring, boldness, or fortitude. Difficulties of this kind already exist within European languages, where words that seem identical offer divergent meanings. In contrast to its English, French, or Italian equivalents, the Spanish word “coraje,” for instance, denotes a fit of anger or rage. I hasten to stress that my interpretation of courage is not meant to rehash the mantras of cultural and historical relativism. Although currently in vogue, accepting the diversity of views and letting competing universals coexist in peaceful ignorance of each other is a poor excuse for laziness of the mind. The global challenges we face call for more, starting with a brave dialogue on the values of our shared humanity. This study attempts to shed new light on past teachings of courage and their shortcomings in our current world. Assessing and settling past debates against present hopes is the very definition of anachronism, one might say. But so too is defining the future against the claims of any present ethical system, which is what all moral judgements do. Ultimately, all thoughts about where humans come from and where they should be heading are grounded in the present and therefore misdated. My own forward-looking views about extinct and current codes of conduct are no

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exception to the rule. They are meant to contribute to ongoing discussions about right and wrong and hopes for more sanity and goodness in this world.

The Origins of Courage My entry point into discussions of courage is the history of Western philosophy, with a focus on competing views evolving over time. I argue that all theories of courage lead us back to the concept’s root system and threefold origins. They revolve around • questions of suffering and existential wellness; • the politics of freedom and fate, trust and fear, might and meekness; • epistemic claims to truth based on rational knowledge or beliefs justified by faith. Courage is a complex field of signification open to different moves in language and discourse. Constant shifts in meaning are a reminder that the words we use to create and communicate are not as simple as they seem, especially in the moral domain. Terms that give us a sense of right and wrong are many and include honesty and dishonesty, justice and injustice, wisdom and ignorance, virtue and baseness, as well as loyalty and betrayal. All turn out to be elusive concepts. When approached hastily or taken out of context, they run wild and escape every attempt to box them into clear definitions and categories of the mind. Metaphorically speaking, words that describe moral life are not cultivars neatly sown on an open field. They are more like roots and vines twisting and turning below and above the ground in lush forests of the mind. At first sight, all discourses on courage ask how we should face and deal with difficulty, danger, fear, pain, sorrow, or death. The question sounds simple and universally relevant. However, a closer look at efforts to think through the issue reveals an astonishing range of conflicting theories about right and wrong and the way people should get on with their lives. The diversity of views that have clashed and intersected over the last

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twenty-five centuries is astounding. Finding one’s way through the labyrinth is a daunting task. One way to avoid getting lost is to go back to the origins of the word. Etymology gives us a sign from which to begin and the range of possible associations. The roots of the word “courage” are particularly rich in meaning. They conjure up images of life, power, and truth, thus setting the stage for competing views on the existential, political, and epistemic ramifications of courage. At the existential level, the Latin cor, or cœur in French, and its Proto-Indo-European root kerd-, set courage firmly in the living heart. The symbolism raises questions grounded in the body and the realm of physis: those of life and death, wellness and sorrow, pleasure and pain. This physical outlook, reflected in the writings of Hippocrates and Descartes, is “heartening.” That is, it encourages brave hearts to find strength and hope in the “core” of their existence—in their innermost feelings and the flow of life that thrives and “blooms” (possibly from bhel-, for blood, blow, or swell) in the heart. Courage endowed with cardiac vitality is an expression of natural energy, a wholehearted willingness to live life to the fullest. Philo of Alexandria once said of courage that “it irrigates our souls with fiery passion from the chest.” In the same vein, the Greek word “thumos,” also spelled “thymós” (θυμὸς), equates courage with physically expressed passions and the spiritedness that resides in one’s breath, blood, heart, and thoracic thymus gland. Tolmí has similar connotations. It evokes the characteristics of people who have “guts,” “nerve,” and boldness of “heart.” The risks they take (Gr. thársos, θάρσος) speak to their vigour, hardiness, and inner strength, notably in battle (Gr. alkḗ, ἀλκή). Desires, emotions, passions, activity, and willpower all keep our core energy and being alive. But evocations of the heart are also painful reminders of human suffering, pain, and certain death, which are no less real and constitutive of the flow and cycle of life. All hearts can be broken, no matter how healthy. They experience weariness, yearn for a better life, and may stop beating at any time. As with happiness, life in the here and now is not meant to last. These existential concerns built into the primitive cor imagery point to a fundamental dilemma in the history of philosophy and theology. Should we assert ourselves and our happiness against the sorrows and hardships that we experience by virtue of being

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human? Or is there more strength to be found in embracing grief and suffering as vital sources of meaning in life? Answers to these questions cover the whole range of moral systems that have been passed down since Homer’s time. The root system of courage is also political. It evokes power in three ways. First, there is the question of fate versus freedom, or the power that humans possess over their own lives. The heart is an organ of the body that functions as Nature dictates, based on the necessary conditions of life. It is an appropriate symbol to represent the workings of fate and what cannot be otherwise. But humans also have the freedom to use their hearts as they see fit. Like all muscles, the heart can be trained for better performance. Ordinary language and idioms suggest that people are at liberty to open or close their hearts, depending on what they want or learn from others. They can act to win someone else’s heart or lose it. Humans can opt to fill their hearts with love and kindness or hatred and cruelty. They are free to cry or sing their hearts out. They can let their hearts be ruled by their heads or not. They can also take heart or lose it in the face of what they cannot control. All options hinge on what people choose and their outlook on life and the world as it is or as they feel it ought to be. The relationship between liberty and necessity is at stake here. Not surprisingly, it shapes some of the most important debates on the question of courage. Secondly, debates around the politics of fear and trust dating back to classical antiquity have a direct bearing on conceptions of courage. They address the extent to which “cor-dial” relations can and should develop in the hearts of men. In a letter to St. Augustine, Paulinus of Nola and his wife speak of the “affection of cordial brotherhood,” which they offer as a token of their “oneness in heart” with their brethren. Putting religion aside, feelings of trust and loyalty are often thought to be essential for humans to coexist, resolve their differences, and reach an “accord” whenever necessary. Every pact or treaty depends on people’s sense of fellowship and the climate of “concord” and social peace that follows. This is understandable. To flourish, humans must fulfil the basic requirements of social bonding, goodwill, heartfelt benevolence, and genuine caring. Kindheartedness is at the heart of our being-in-the-world.

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But life in society is not always harmonious. It was and continues to be the subject of “discord,” another derivative of the Latin cor. Evocations of cordial sentiments are subject to limits such as fear and animosity. In actual life, loyal friends are frequently those who share the same deadly foes. Fear of the other and the constant risk of social strife loom large in discussions of courage, notably when people gather to face the common enemy. Courage is then driven by feelings of deep hatred and bad blood. In short, the opposing forces of sociability and animosity can easily coexist in the same moral space. They have also received unequal attention in the history of philosophy. Thirdly, the politics of courage can be approached from the angle of justice, the rule of law, and the distribution of power and authority in society. Longstanding debates on these issues revolve around the role of courage in showing strength, overcoming crime and oppression, and fulfilling one’s duty, for one’s own good or for the good of all. The positions that moral theorists take on this crucial topic in the field of polis have evolved considerably over time. They cover the whole range of competing theories on the ethics of might and meekness and related issues of dominion and submission, superiority and inferiority, leadership and followship, or command and obedience. The oldest and most enduring sign of inequality at the heart of our social lives is the gendered nature of andreía (ἀνδρεία), the Greek word for courage. The word is a derivative of anēr, “a man, a male,” as opposed to a woman, a youth, or a god. Anēr is the root for ánthropos, a human. Ánandros is an unmanly coward overcome by fear (Gr. deilós), lacking the strength or prowess needed to ensure “manhood’s triumphs” (Gr. ēnoreē). In Latin, cowards lack virtue and the virility of those who behave like heroes. The original sense of the word “man” hints at the importance of delving into the roots of our “humanity,” in a way that suggests the strength of our species but also its inherent vulnerability. Adam, the first man, is literally “the one formed from the ground.” The symbolism is echoed in the Latin word humanus, from “humus,” “earth, ground, soil.” Humans are earthly beings first and foremost, “exhumed” from the womb of the Earth at birth and buried or “inhumed” with other bodies after death. The early meanings of “humanity” invite us to accept our lowly and “humble” origins (from Latin humilis) while also striving to grow and

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thrive in this world. Those who behave otherwise and plunder the Earth sow discord and play havoc with people’s lives, including their own. “Miscreant” is another politically and morally loaded derivation of “cor” imagery. It refers to an evildoer or villain who breaks the law and commits a crime, thereby losing “credibility” in the face of society. The term is derived from Old French mes- (mis) and creant, from Latin credere, which means “to believe.” It previously meant an infidel or heretic accused of committing a grave offense. The wrongdoing consists in disbelieving the prevailing wisdom or accepted “creed,” another term originating from the Proto-Indo-European root kerd-. The heart may be the organ of courage, but the “miscreant” imagery suggests that courage has also much to do with political battles over claims to knowledge seated in the head or mind. The term “creed” brings us to the epistemic concerns planted in the root system of courage. As Socrates remarks in the Laches, it takes courage to achieve a true “concord” of our lives and make sure that our deeds “accord” with our words, matching them in the service of noble ends (Plato 1955, 188d, 193e). Courage means taking pains to uphold the truth and, one might add, preserve it against loss through proper “recording.” It also means placing one’s confidence in a “credo,” giving it “credence” and due “credit” for its trustworthiness. All these derivations of kerd- provide fertile ground for competing views on the foundations of truth and “credible” forms of thinking and believing. Debates on this question feature prominently in the history of Western ethics. Notions of truth invite discussions about how reason and faith fit into our personal lives and society as a whole. They point to the role of understanding, believing, trusting, and doubting in drawing the boundaries of truth. Interestingly, the mental dimension of courage is a reminder of the root meaning of “man.” While the term comes from Old English mann, for “human being, person (male or female), brave man, hero,” it may also be connected to the Proto-Indo-European root men-, “to think.” Man is “the one who has intelligence” and displays the strength and powers of Homo sapiens. All theories examined in this study take a stance on the core issues of life, power, and knowledge. Interestingly, the word “cowardice” evokes negative views on the same issues, i.e., failings to be expected from the

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faint of heart and “miscreants” who foment dis-cord and dis-­couragement in the face of adversity. However, simply portraying the coward as un-­ courageous does not get us very far. Etymology does a better job of making sense of the ramifications of cowardice, a mirror image of the origins of courage. The existential, or physical, aspect of cowardice is the most striking. It points to the tension that lies between the heart and lower parts of the body. Cowardice is from Old French coue, “tail,” and Latin coda, or cauda, queue in modern French. It evokes the bottom, rear, or hindmost part of the body, a loose end split from the main trunk. To use the vernacular, someone who lacks courage has cold feet and runs like an animal with its tail between its legs. On the political plane, a caudex or wooden tablet covered with wax denotes the stakes, tree trunks, and wooden beams that convicts were tied to in ancient Rome. This was a form of punishment for infringements of laws written on caudex tablets. The “queue” imagery can also be used in French and English to point the finger at social inferiors and followers, those who obey and take their “cue” from others. They keep their place in society, as if lining up in a queue, behind their leaders and military commanders. On the epistemic plane, a coda becomes a code or cue that provides guidance and information at the same time as it hides a solution to a problem. For all its usefulness, the “code” hides the truth and keeps it a secret. Likewise, a “cue” may prompt an important event in a performance, but it never takes centre stage in the production of meaning and truth.

Courage Throughout History Courage and cowardice form the heart and the tail end of this book, as it were. The meanings triggered by the cor imagery raise hopes and expectations of wellness in life, goodness in politics, and rightness in knowledge. However, root meanings revealed through etymology do no more than outline a field of potential developments in living language, some of which may be abandoned, minimised, further explored, or redirected over time. Systems of ethics expand on some but not all “radical” elements that arise from and go to the root or source of courage. Through

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discourse, particular combinations of signs of courage and coalitions with other foundational words, like “reason,” “justice,” “faith,” and “fear,” to name the most important, lead to conflicting views of the world and uneven efforts to bring together the different parts of a moral life. This first volume investigates signs of courage from Greek antiquity to the end of the Middle Ages, with a focus on how key ideas and associations change over time. Each era emphasises certain aspects of the root system while rearranging others to fit the dominant morality and politics of the time. The first era is classical antiquity, beginning with the poetry of Homer and Hesiod (eighth–seventh centuries BC) and ending with the fall of the Western Roman Empire (fifth century AD). The era opens with a poetic fascination for the politics of fearless demi-gods thriving on war. Their tragic stories of suffering and falling at the hands of fate define the era. The tales of lion-hearted Heracles, Achilles, and Ulysses are more myth than reality. They leave little room for principles of rational thinking, civic freedom, humble service, or loving kindness. Tragedians and playwrights in classical Athens were among the first to question the moral foundations of the Homeric Age. Euripides, Sophocles, and Aristophanes take issue with the ethos of manly warmongering inherited from the past. However, the rise of science and rational thinking in classical Greece is even more challenging and takes the discourse on courage in radically new directions. Fears of the enemy and anxieties about suffering and death are brought down to Earth. They become real and are looked at through the lenses of medicine, geography, military history, moral philosophy, and rational metaphysics. Studies of the body, war, and abstract ideas give rise to four divergent approaches to the teachings of courage. The first approach is clearly existential and is informed by early developments in medical thinking. Hippocrates prioritises the relationship between courage and men’s compulsion to meet their basic needs and survive in harsh climates. The later writings of Galen are in this tradition, but with a greater emphasis on observations of human physiology and the role of the human intellect in the evolution of human achievements. Many centuries will elapse before these and other materialistic views of courage are seriously considered by influential philosophers, such as René Descartes and Montesquieu.

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The second approach is reflected in the works of Greek historians and their interest in the politics of war and struggles for freedom and democracy. The semi-Homeric writings of Herodotus (and after him, Diodorus of Sicily) and the more rationally minded investigations of Thucydides follow this line of thinking. Their accounts of political and military history move away from the epic genre in two significant ways: real events become worthy of study, and their outcomes are shaped by the art of war, a practical science on its own. These new ways of thinking about courage lead to discussions of epistemology, practical wisdom, and the role of knowledge and the mind in politics and other aspects of people’s lives. The third approach to courage builds on the workings of the mind and elevates them to the highest plane. Epistemic thinking is the main legacy of classical antiquity. It starts from the following premise: “credence” can be given to expressions of courage provided that “credible” reasons are given, inspired by the practice of good habits and the pursuit of moral excellence and happiness in life. Moral daring and endurance are integral parts of a rational and virtuous existence that has intrinsic value. Age-old questions of fighting, living, and dying continue to be debated but are subordinated to the rule of reason and intellectual wisdom. Political and existential issues take second place, depending on the moral imperatives advanced by each philosopher. The Laches is the epitome of the mind looking for courage within itself. The dialogue centres on Socrates’ thoughts about courage and his call for the courage of thinking, sparing no effort to challenge prevailing opinions and old certainties in the moral domain. The difficult search for wisdom becomes the highest form of courage. Politics and the art of war are part of the staging of the dialogue and serve as foils for contrast with Socrates’ intellectualisation of moral daring and goodness. In the final analysis, the discourse on courage falls primarily within the epistemic domain. Post-Socratic philosophers pay more attention to the politics of war and how the intellect guides the virtue of free men trained to think and wage battles against hostile forces for the good of all. Those who fall into this camp include Plato, Aristotle, Lysias, and Demosthenes. The Stoics adopt a different line of epistemic reasoning, more in tune with existential problems of wellness and suffering in this world. Their focus is on the

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inward struggles of the rational soul, or the wisdom of fortitude in the pursuit of eudemonia, from the Greek words “eu” (“good, well”) and “daïmôn” (“spirit”). Epicurus takes yet another path by extolling man’s freedom to choose the simple pleasures of life. Intellectual activity and virtue on their own are of no value and must serve the pursuit of natural living and happiness above all. But he, too, promotes the wisdom that people need to get past their fears and existential anxieties in the face of unavoidable suffering and death. Mysticism is the fourth approach, one that places reason and knowledge of the divine above everything and teaches the courage to live in accordance with the laws of the universe. The pre-Socratic philosopher and mathematician Pythagoras develops this view of courage and reconciles it with the precepts of the ascetic life and political concerns as well, including those of justice in this world. In the later writings of Plotinus and Porphyry, fortitude is understood as the divine energy needed for the intellect to commune with its own eternal principles. At the moral level, courageous detachment from the senses and the anxieties of life and death is part of the mind’s effort to fully grasp the essence of courage through ascetic practice. Philo of Alexandria, a contemporary of Jesus of Nazareth, is also interested in making courage more intellectual and spiritual. However, his focus is on the canons of Jewish piety and the promises of God dwelling in heaven. The second era overlaps with the last phase of the classical age and covers fifteen centuries of biblical teachings and Christian theology. The voice of reason and the wisdom of virtue are initially replaced by the ethics of fear, fate, and fealty to the Almighty. The Scriptures and early Church Fathers interpret fortitude (from Latin fortis, “strong”) as the fearlessness bestowed upon those who are blessed with the fear of God. The gift is designed to strengthen the spirit of pious faith, devotional fear, meekness before the Lord, dependence on his will, and inevitable suffering in this life. The message is diametrically opposed to the “pagan” rule of free will and rational thinking in the service of power and wellness in life. Accordingly, virtue as an end (or as a means to achieving a pleasurable life, as in the case of Epicurus) gives way to the rule of faith that rewards courage, mostly at the end of time. When it comes to knowledge, faith, religious convictions, and trust are more important than understanding and intellectual certainty.

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The ruling order of epistêmê and its ideal polis are eclipsed by a power system centred on God. Much of the history of Christian doctrine revolves around this deep divide between wisdom in this world and devotion to the otherworldly powers that be. There ensues a long journey on the road to spanning the gap, i.e., building bridges that keep leading back to the higher rule of the Almighty in heaven. Some Church Fathers attempt to dispel the fear of suffering through a joyful craving for martyrdom and the eternal blessings that follow. Others show openness to one or more of the following principles: the abstractions of moral philosophy, the metaphysics of Gnostic enlightenment, the gift of free will and intentionality, the growth of church authority and hegemony, and the intrinsic worth of life on Earth. Each in their own way, Augustine, Ambrose, Cassian, and Chrysostom played a central role in revisiting the foundations of Christian fortitude along some or all of these lines. They laid the groundwork for the adaptations of rationalism proposed by Peter Lombard, Philip the Chancellor, Albert the Great, and Thomas of Aquinas. With a few notable exceptions, the founders of the high mediaeval scholastic movement abandoned the early focus on church politics in favour of an elaborate reinterpretation of Aristotelian ethics to suit the Christian faith. They propose a comprehensive system of morals centred on the spirit of love and charity infused by the grace of God, an overarching principle that governs all dispositions and perfections of the soul, including the fear of God. As we shall see, issues of human intentionality and the gift of free will assume even greater importance in the writings of Peter Abelard, Dun Scotus, and William of Ockham. Their emphasis on the power of “willing an end freely” opens new horizons for discussions of courage outside the twin rules of faith and reason prevailing in church doctrine. At the end of this volume, I explore the ways in which religious dissidents and leaders of the Protestant Reform denounce the corruption in the Church of Rome and reinstate beliefs in a God that governs and preordains all facets of human destiny. Their writings close the mediaeval loop and bring back early Christianity’s faith in the blessings of fear, submission, suffering, and fate.

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The second volume delves into the many theories of courage spanning the five centuries of pre-modern history and the modern period. It examines the profound impact that the social and natural sciences, evolutionism, and the existentialist movement have had on moral thinking in recent history. Courage seen through the lens of reason or faith, or a combination thereof, gives way to the protection of people’s best interests, the passions and powers of the human will, and the rule of active energy in all realms of life. This new perspective and its many variants announce a somewhat inglorious end to the ethics of courage and bring down the courage of ethics with them. Courage is no longer an end, and even less a means to achieve happiness “at the end.” Despite what Gandhi, Tillich, and Foucault may say about the subject, late modernity witnesses a marked loss of interest in courage as an idea worthy of conceptual investigation. Debates about the morality of courage give way to the value-free science of resilience, which looks at how people can recover from past trauma and find wellness, mostly in the realm of physis.

Methodological Remarks The chapters that follow focus on the teachings of tragic fate, war, and virtue in Greek antiquity. Before launching the journey, however, a few cautions are in order. They revolve around basic stop-rules designed to protect everyone’s sanity in a jungle of expectations that are impossible to meet. An important set of limitations pertains to the relationship between each philosopher’s discourse on the topic at hand and other considerations that may shed light on their stated views, which include their personal lives, their full treatment of closely related ideas (such as reason and faith, or freedom and fate), the rich ways in which the term “courage” is used in their cultural and literary surroundings, and the broader political and economic conditions prevailing in each context. At the risk of stating the obvious, addressing these questions in a study that covers twenty-five centuries of moral philosophy would be sheer folly. The focus instead is on theories of courage, with only passing reference to personal and social circumstances. Other key concepts are analysed only when explicitly tied to the subject of this book. Descartes has

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nothing to say about courage in his Discourse on the Method, for instance. In the absence of any interest or guidelines on his part, I make limited inroads into the Cartesian approach to questions of knowledge. Similarly, the Scriptures are relatively silent on the direct link that may exist between the teachings of love and evocations of fortitude. Connections with the ethos of fear are more clearly established and provide the focus for my analysis. By contrast, philosophers such as Kierkegaard and Nietzsche sprinkle thoughts on courage throughout their work, making it necessary to cover their thinking on many issues at some length. In the end, the amount of attention each theorist gets in this theme-based history of Western ethics is based on the actual level of interest they show in the idea of courage and its many ramifications. Language is another issue. Every account of writings on courage presented in this book is based on my reading of primary sources in English or French or their published translations from Greek, Latin, Hebrew, or German. Those who know the source languages may want to look at the original texts for the passages that I quote and, if necessary, do their own translations to improve the analysis. On a final note, I should warn readers that philosophical works spanning the ages exhibit a clear bias towards manly courage, reflected in the generic use of the word “man” and related pronouns and possessives (he, his). The language is irritating and frequently misogynous. Nonetheless, if we are to condemn it and rethink the values of human valour and “virtue,” from Latin vir and virīlis, the male chauvinism built into moral philosophy should not be hidden. Given these considerations, I choose not to use gender-neutral words and possessives, with one important exception: passages where I argue for a more inclusive view of the callings of courage, a perspective in philosophy that is long overdue.

Reference Plato. 1955 [1924]. Laches. In Plato in Twelve Volumes, Vol. 8, trans. W.R.M. Lamb. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann.

2 Fearlessness and Fate in Ancient Greece

Lion-hearted Heracles, Achilles, and Ulysses The lion is the king of beasts. It shows invincible strength and a fearless spirit when defending its loved ones against the enemy, doing so out of instinct, not wisdom. The symbol, widely used in Western heraldry, grounds our story of courage in the memory of the lion-hearted warriors of Greek antiquity, noble men larger than life and courageous by nature. In The Shield of Heracles, Hesiod (c. 700 BC), inspired by the Muses, recounts the battle of Heracles, son of Zeus, against cruel Cycnus, son of Ares, the great god of war. His formidable strength is reflected in his bronze shield, richly decorated with animal symbolism, including bright-­ eyed lions eager to slay wild boars and deer. Heracles kills Cycnus with a spear through the throat. Later, the hero must face his victim’s father, who thirsts for vengeance and is about to engage in combat. The mighty Ares is portrayed staring at Heracles like a lion who has come upon a body and full eagerly rips the hide with his strong claws and takes away the sweet life with all speed: his dark heart is filled with rage and his eyes glare fiercely, while he tears up the earth with

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his paws and lashes his flanks and shoulders with his tail so that no one dares to face him and go near to give battle.

Even so, Heracles stands eagerly face to face with Ares, nursing courage in his heart. And Ares drew near him with grief in his heart; and they both sprang at one another with a cry. (Hesiod 1914a: 402–42; see 154, 165–77)

The battle scene echoes one of the twelve labours of Heracles, known as Hercules to the Romans. In Hesiod’s Theogony, Heracles defeats the Lion of Nemea by bearding the animal in its den, seizing it by the neck, and wrestling it to death (Hesiod 1914b, 320–36). Similar fables of ancient Greece include the story of lion-hearted Achilles, as told in Homer’s epic poems written around the late eighth or early seventh century BC (Homer 1923, 7:225–30). Achilles is the greatest hero of The Iliad and the Trojan War. He is the son of the immortal nymph Thetis and the mortal Peleus, king of the Myrmidons. His body is invulnerable except for the heel, which his mother held as she plunged him in the river Styx when he was an infant. A central theme in the poem concerns the hero avenging the death of his beloved companion, Patroclus, who dies at the hands of Hector while leading the Myrmidons into battle against the Trojans. Raging Achilles decides to join the Myrmidons and chase Hector, the firstborn son of King Priam. He kills many Trojan soldiers in his way and battles with the river god Scamander, who is angry with him for all the dead men choking his waters. Achilles ends up fighting Hector face-­ to-­face. Hector knows he is fated to die at the hands of his opponent and begs him to treat his body with respect after killing him. Achilles denies his request and drags Hector’s corpse by its heels behind his chariot. He later changes his mind and hosts a series of funeral rites in honour of Hector. Achilles dies later at the hands of Paris, wounded by an arrow shot in his heel. Although driven by passion, Achilles demonstrates military excellence (Gr. aretê) by being brave, skilled, and successful in battle. His deeds are those of a noble warrior fulfilling his duty by avenging the death of his friend, in accordance with rules of honour and loyalty towards family,

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friends, kings, and deities. The courage he displays is essentially a matter of role performance, based on deeds and behaviour alone. The man is what he does; as MacIntyre remarks, he knows his place in society and the world and behaves accordingly (MacIntyre 2007, p. 122). His conduct speaks for itself. In the words of Idomeneus, a Greek general who entered the Trojan Horse, knowing what a man is made of is easy to tell. When ambushed, the coward is full of fear. He changes colour, feels his heart beat, rattles his teeth, and keeps shifting his weight from one leg to the other. The dart or sword that strikes him from behind, in the neck or back, is the weapon that kills him. By contrast, the brave man shows steadiness and is always ready for action. He faces the risk of being struck in the chest or belly as he presses his way forward to a place in the front ranks with a spear in his hand (Homer 1923, 13:255–75). To be sure, a noble warrior does not spend all his time risking his life on the battlefield. In times of peace, he engages in leisurely activities and enjoys a lion’s share of the spoils of war, to which he is entitled. While he owes much to others, much is owed to him. By virtue of his rank and his military accomplishments, he can count on receiving many honours and enjoying the privileges of a good life, by availing himself of the proverbial “fruit of plentiful orchards and cornfields.” The inevitability of Achilles’ own death is nonetheless sealed in advance by the gods, a fate that comes at the hands of passions and powers he cannot control. Whatever the hero does, life remains fragile, mortals are vulnerable, and humans never know when their hour will come. Death, whether suffered or inflicted, is always owed. It is a final debt that cannot be cancelled and must be paid in due time. Brave souls know this, unlike warriors who beg for their lives. At the end of Book 16, dying Patroclus tells Hector that “he shall live for a little season; death and the day of your doom are close upon you, and they will lay you low by the hand of Achilles son of Aeacus” (Homer 1923, 21:1). Nothing can alter Hector’s destiny. Achilles expresses the same idea when he denies the request of Lycaon (Hector’s brother) to spare his life in exchange for a ransom. Therefore, my friend, you too shall die. Why should you whine in this way? Patroclus fell, and he was a better man than you are. I too–see you not how I am great and goodly? I am son to a noble father, and have a goddess for

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my mother, but the hands of doom and death overshadow me all as surely. The day will come, either at dawn or dark, or at the noontide, when one shall take my life also in battle, either with his spear, or with an arrow sped from his bow. (Homer 1923, 21:1)

Unlike cowards, a courageous man never begs for mercy. He refuses to cover himself with shame (Gr. aidós), which is what he fears above all, whether he be a semi-divine hero, a king, an aristocrat, or simply a manly man (Zavaliy 2020, p. 60). Nor does he act bravely for the sake of an afterlife. He knows full well he is fated to lose the most precious gift there is, which is life itself. What he doesn’t know, however, is that he is part of an epic tale meant to last forever. In the words of MacIntyre, “the Iliad puts in question what neither Achilles nor Hector can put in question; the poem lays claim to a form of understanding which it denies to those whose actions it describes” (MacIntyre 2007, pp. 127–28). Famed heroes such as Achilles exhibit courage by accepting their own fate, and the role of the poet is to ensure they obtain an immortal and glorious place in human memory. The ultimate destiny of courageous souls and their astonishing lives consists in inspiring humbler mortals for many generations, reminding them of where they fit in the broader scheme of things. Zavaliy (2020, p. 62) introduces an important nuance to this argument: while poets may be needed to tell their story, celebrated warriors are inspired by the fear of shame and the prospects of future fame. The promise of post-mortem glory and never-ending praise forms an integral part of the cult of the fallen heroes in Homeric times. Courageous men fight like lions without fear for their own safety. In The Iliad, the lion is named forty-six times. The mighty-jawed beast is portrayed as furiously attacking and devouring sheep, goats, bulls, cows, jackals, and wild boars alike. The animal represents fearsome warriors, armies, and kings that are confident in their own strength, covering themselves in lion’s skin, and slaying their enemies who fear them and run away like cowardly dogs. Warriors that fight like lions can conquer other lion-like enemies. They can also hunt down real lions, who weep over their vulnerable whelps. Ulyssean courage follows the same script. In The Odyssey, lions are named thirteen times. They are cruel and fearsome, even when they are

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drugged and tamed to guard the house of Circe, the beautiful goddess of magic and sorcery. Ulysses walks about and fights like a fierce lion (Homer 1900, 4:7, 17, 19; 17:3, 22:11, 23:2). He demonstrates heroic valour and leadership in battle against formidable foes such as the Cyclops, Polyphemus, Scylaa, and the Trojan Army. He will not hesitate to fight hundreds of men so as to defend his home and children and take vengeance on his enemy (Homer 1900, 13:9). He does so knowing full well that he is doomed to suffer and that death is certain, for “when a man’s hour is come, not even the gods can save him, no matter how fond they are of him” (Homer 1900, 3:5). Unlike The Iliad, The Odyssey elevates another aspect of courage to epic proportions: the capacity to bravely suffer, a theme that becomes commonplace in later centuries, up to the present day. Like Hercules and the prophet Theoclymenus, exiled Ulysses should expect to live in sadness and go through an infinite amount of suffering (Homer 1900, 11:14). Moments of joy and relief are not excluded. Circe, the goddess of magic, advises Ulysses to tell his men to stop shedding tears of sorrow because of their many sufferings at sea and at the hands of cruel savages on the mainland. Whining makes them weaker in body and mind. Instead of crying, they should drink till they regain their strength and feeling of joy (Homer 1900, 10:10). Notwithstanding these words of wisdom, brave souls have no illusions. They know that any escape from suffering lasts only for a while. The hero is aware that whatever he does, heaven still has much evil in store for him (Homer 1900, 6:4). The suffering endured by the Achaean men and Ulysses is beyond words. As Nestor, the King of Palos, says to Telemachus, Ulysses’ son, “though you were to stay here and question me for five years, or even six, I could not tell you all that the Achaeans suffered, and you would turn homeward weary of my tale before it ended.” “Nine long years did we try every kind of stratagem, but the hand of heaven was against us” (Homer 1900, 3:3). All the same, there is pleasure and glory in recalling the memory of many sorrows. In the words of Eumaeus, Ulysses’ swineherd and friend, “We too will sit here eating and drinking in the hut, and telling one another stories about our misfortunes; for when a man has suffered much, and been buffeted about in the world, he takes pleasure in recalling the memory of sorrows that have long gone by” (Homer 1900, 15:9).

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In a true Homeric spirit, The Odyssey tells an everlasting tale of heroic battles against external threats and enemies and the inevitable suffering that ends in death, as fate dictates. But the epic poem delves into other types of struggles as well, those directed against the hero’s instincts and passions, acting as the enemy from within. This brings us to another central feature of his character. Ulysses’ heroic behaviour comes naturally to him, but it does not draw on instinct and endurance alone. It also involves expressions of self-control and some cunning as well. At the beginning of Book 20, Ulysses shows considerable hesitation, like a cook constantly tossing fat and blood over a hot fire. He struggles to contain his rage at the sight of his maidservants about to join their lovers, the Suitors. Their wickedness and disloyalty make him furious. His heart growls like a bitch protecting her puppies, wondering if he should kill them all. To control his killing impulse, Ulysses remembers the day when he stayed silent and saved himself from certain death while the giant, single-eyed Cyclops devoured his companions (Homer 1900, 20:1). In the same vein, Spartan King Menelaus praises the courage and endurance that Ulysses displayed as he hid in the Trojan horse and restrained his companions from answering the call of Helen using their wives’ voices. “It was this that saved us all, for he muzzled Anticlus till Minerva took you away again” (Homer 1900, 4:6). Lion-hearted heroes such as Ulysses are not always fearsome men acting on instinct. They also express doubt about their own instincts and seek to control them. This is true not only in wartime but also in matters of sex and love. Shipwrecked on the coast of the island of Scheria, Ulysses is awoken by Nausicaa and her handmaidens washing clothes by the seaside. The hero hears their nymph-like voices and picks up leaves to cover his naked body. He emerges from the forest and approaches the intruders. In the eyes of the young women, Ulysses seems like a wild lion displaying great strength, a bright-eyed beast that is famished and preying on oxen, sheep, or deer. “For he was in great want” (Homer 1900, 6:3). While the handmaidens fear the lion-like man and run away, Nausicaa shows courage in her own way. She decides to stay and stand right in front of him. Instead of jumping on his prey, Ulysses wonders if he should go to her and throw himself at her feet or stay put and merely ask her to give him clothes and directions on how to reach the town. “In the end he

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deemed it best to entreat her from a distance in case the girl should take offense at his coming near enough to clasp her knees, so he addressed her in honeyed and persuasive language” (Homer 1900, 6:3). While he fights like a lion, Ulysses contains his feline instincts and uses his manly charms to seduce Nausicaa and conquer her heart. The warrior is even more courageous as he shows self-restraint, and the woman he approaches stands as his equal by overcoming her own fear. Feats of endurance are conjoined with expressions of doubt, battles from within, self-restraint, and a touch of cunning. Even though these subthemes are rich in meaning, it will be a few hundred years before they are fully explored, along with other new ideas such as the exercise of free will, practical reason, and the courage of real mortals other than heroes of war. Heracles, Achilles, Hector, and Ulysses are high-born, lion-hearted heroes of war who cover themselves with immortal glory. They display acts of extraordinary valour and meet a tragic fate in the process. Their courage is demonstrated through deeds of fearlessness, the instinctive fulfilment of duty, and the manly strength needed to exercise self-control and endure terrible suffering. From a late-modern perspective, the fables of archaic Greece seem rather distant, the kind that should be relegated to history or tropes for entertainment. The world of Homeric tales fails to transcend time because it is marred by problems of constant war and fatalism. It also raises concerns about gullible religiosity, aristocratism, militarism, and misogyny. The stories preclude foreigners, ordinary people, women, the elderly, and the vulnerable from becoming models of courage, especially in times of peace. Animals are mere metaphors or beasts that are larger than life, to be conquered or used to conquer fabled enemies. The heroes of The Shield of Heracles, The Iliad, and The Odyssey display an exaggerated sense of superiority that deserves rewards beyond what lesser mortals and life forms can reasonably pursue. Their natural instincts are never seriously examined or questioned, and their lives are disconnected from social reality and the natural world we live in. Balot remarks that the main characters portrayed by Hesiod and Homer offer an unreflective and conservative view of courage (Balot 2014, p. 209). As we are about to see, the ancient founders of the sciences of medicine and military history overcame these limitations in favour of an earthbound conception of sound knowledge, worldly existence, and

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city-state politics. On the epistemic plane, their accounts of courage are less about the poetic and more about observations of the real world. Philosophers of classical antiquity also distance themselves from the mythical imagination. Their primary focus is on the virtues of rational wisdom, which are key to defeating the enemy and coping with problems of suffering and death. The impulse to fight and conquer continues to be a natural disposition, unequally distributed, but one that can be perfected through rational thinking and education. When it comes to political considerations, the focus is on the heroic deeds of Athenian generals and citizen soldiers fighting for their freedom and the rule of democracy. On the existential plane, displays of wisdom and courage contribute to achieving the fullness of life at a distance from tragedies of epic proportions. Chapters that follow are devoted to this rich legacy of classical antiquity, as developed by the founders of science and philosophy. But first, I explore how great playwrights such as Euripides, Sophocles, and Aristophanes challenge mainstream thinking about men’s courage and obsession with war.

 omen Without Fear: Euripides, Sophocles, W and Aristophanes Euripides In the Homeric Age, descriptions and discussions of female courage are sparse. Some rare passages of The Odyssey show how a female character can experience fear and yet illustrate lion-like courage, especially if she is concerned with the fate of her whelp (Homer 1900, 4:19, 6:3). Otherwise, courage remains a predominantly male virtue. Xenophon’s (431–354 BC) views on the matter are typical of the time. The wealthy philosopher, historian, and military leader calls our attention to the uneven distribution of inborn courage, a quality that may be enhanced through further learning and practice, as with any other virtue (Xenophon 1923a, 3:9; 1923b, 2:11–13). Even a female dancer can be taught to be fearless and, despite her sex, impress her audience as she jumps in and out of a hoop

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surrounded by swords. However, there are limitations to what education can do to instil courage in the weaker sex. This is understandable given that the virtue is naturally associated with military training and the honours of war (see Xenophon 1914, 1:2, 2:1–3, 3:1–3, 4:1–5, 5:2–4; 1918, 5:3, 7:1–5). There is little that education can do to change what Nature dictates. In Symposium, Xenophon asserts that woman is by nature less courageous than man; he alone “shows to the world physical strength and stamina, virile courage, and sobriety” (Xenophon 1923b, 8:9). Because God gave woman the responsibility of feeding children, he gave her a larger portion of affection for babies and concern for the safety of stored food. Man was created to carry out outdoor tasks and was granted a larger share of courage (Xenophon 1923c, 7:25–26). The philosopher thus recommends that an educated man be trained to strengthen his natural inclination to fight a noble cause, which is to protect his home and his homeland against external threats. Well-educated warriors will thus know how to handle danger appropriately. Echoing the primacy granted to knowledge in the Laches, Socrates’ student and friend adds that “those who know how to deal well with terrors and dangers are courageous, and those who utterly mistake the way are cowards” (Xenophon 1923a, 4:6.11). Exceptions to this male-centred view of courage nonetheless exist, some of which have left a lasting impression on Western memory. The writings of Euripides (c. 480–c. 406 BC) are particularly inspiring in this regard. At first sight, the prolific poet and tragedian of Athens seems to view lion-like courage as a martial and manly virtue, the kind displayed by a vengeful army of brave generals and citizen soldiers under their command (Euripides 1938a, 713, 1255; 1938b, 1400; 1938c, 1575; 1994a, 800–25; 1994b, 680–85). Born to be brave, noble warriors are willing to sacrifice their lives for their loved ones and their fatherland (Euripides 1938b, 754). As in Homeric times, brave souls accept their fate, knowing that “the one whose house is stricken by misfortune must have courage and honor the gods; for, at the end, the good obtain what they have deserved, but the bad by nature can never fare well” (Euripides 1938e, 1620). Euripides associates valour with manliness at war and loyalty to family, friends, and the city-state. In keeping with his time, he also believes that

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inborn courage is not enough. It must be learned and practised in concert with prudence, common sense, and the ruling virtue of intelligence. As the Theban herald teaches, “forethought, this too is bravery” (Euripides 1938a, 510). This is so true that no one should be appointed to rule a country and lead its warriors merely because of his courage. Common sense is what the general must have in order to govern a state (Euripides 1891, A.349, 375; see also 1938a, 160, 163, 201–4, 219–49; 1938c, 745). The poet thus takes issue with the idea that courage is the sole prerogative of noble generals or citizen soldiers fighting and dying on the battlefield. People from all walks of life can demonstrate the virtue, which can be learned as early as childhood. “Noble nurture carries reverence with it, and every man, when once he has practised virtue, scorns the name of villain” (Euripides 1938a, 915). The message is clear and subversive: a man’s worth is determined by merit rather than wealth or lineage. “Famine can be found in a rich man’s spirit, and a mighty soul in a poor man’s body” (Euripides 1938d, 365–90). The capacity for women to be models of courage is another issue where the tragedian departs from Homeric poets and from Greek statesmen, historians, and philosophers of his time. In Medea, Euripides says of women that they are the “most skilful architects of every evil,” unable as they are to perform great deeds of valour (Euripides 1994c, 405). The words, conduct, and motives attributed to female characters appearing in his plays nonetheless provide the most telling demonstrations of fearlessness and ferocity. In Bacchae, Agave believes her own son Pentheus to be a wild lion and tears him to pieces (Euripides 1850, 1184). The son dies at the hands of his mother because of the ban he declared on the worship of Dionysus. The chorus interprets his demise as justice falling on him like a raging lion: Let manifest justice go forth, let it go with sword in hand, slaying through the throat this godless, lawless, unjust, earth-born offspring of Echion. Appear as a bull or many-headed serpent or raging lion to see. (Euripides 1850, 1010–20)

In a similar vein, Euripides’ Medea tells the story of Jason’s unfaithfulness and his wife’s skill in manipulating powerful men to achieve her

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deadly ends. She takes vengeance on her husband by killing the children born from their union. Jason curses cruel Medea and compares his infanticidal wife to a savage she-lion beast, hated by the gods and the entire human race. No other Greek woman would commit such an atrocity. “You are a she-lion, not a woman, with a nature more savage than Scylla the Tuscan monster,” he says. Jason repudiates the murderess and laments his fate, knowing that he will no longer have a bride or be able to speak to the children he begot and raised (Euripides 1994c, 1323–50). Admittedly, these passages describe acts of savage cruelty, the opposite of moral goodness and virtue. They illustrate mainstream critiques of animal-like courage unhinged from rational thinking and the pursuit of noble ends, which are the dominant themes of classical antiquity. Images of lions that embody innate fearlessness and courage are diverted and extended to women’s ruthless behaviour at home, not to be confused with men’s glorious deeds on the front. But there is more to these stories than lion-like fearlessness expressed in a lower feminine form. For one thing, female daring is not always cruel. In Bacchae, Dionysus enjoins barbarian women stricken with fear to get up, take courage, and put a stop to their trembling (Euripides 1850, 604). In Hippolytus, Phaedra, agonising over her love for Hippolytus, is told by her nurse to show endurance and courage: “You will bear under your ailment more easily with calmness and nobility of mind.” “Mortals must endure trouble” (Euripides 1994d, 205). These milder forms of female courage hark back to the Odyssean scene, where Nausicaa shows courage by facing Ulysses instead of running away. Euripides’ female characters can show endurance and bravery in difficult circumstances. They can also demonstrate courage in the same way that men do, for a lofty purpose involving the greater good of Athens. Some heroines sacrifice their lives in order to save their beloved city and fatherland from the enemy. Macaria, one of the daughters of Heracles, sets the example as she learns from an oracle that Athens will be conquered unless she dies at the hands of Eurystheus. Her words to Iolaus, her father’s friend, speak of a noble woman’s courage in the face of a mighty enemy attacking Hellas. She tells him not to fear the Argive enemy’s spear and is willing to sacrifice herself to save the city. Were she to do nothing else but sit, whine, and pray to the gods, the woman would

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prove to be a coward, lack nobility, and deserve nothing but mockery (Euripides 1994a, 500–15). Iphigenia’s willingness to be killed by the goddess Artemis so that her father could win the war against Troy is equally uplifting and tragic. I have no right at all to cling too fondly to my life; for you did not bear me for myself alone, but as a public blessing to all Hellas. What! shall countless warriors, armed with shields, those myriads sitting at the oar, find courage to attack the foe and die for Hellas, because their fatherland is wronged, and my one life prevent all this? What kind of justice is that? could I find a word in answer? Now let us turn to that other point. It is not right that this man should enter into battle with all Argos or be slain for a woman’s sake. Better a single man should see the light than ten thousand women. If Artemis has decided to take my body, am I, a mortal, to thwart the goddess? no, that is impossible. I give my body to Hellas; sacrifice it and make an utter end of Troy. (Euripides 1891, 1385–1400)

Iphigenia goes on to describe her marriage and motherhood as an enduring monument to the victory and rule of the Hellenes over their barbarian enemy. Euripides thus introduces a new idea: a woman sets an example of courage through marriage, motherhood, and constant suffering. A person may be ready to die for reasons other than military honour. Women sacrifice themselves for others in everything they do and will lay down their lives to protect their loved ones. Some may surrender to death to redeem their husbands or children from Hades (Euripides 1994e, 455, 466, 645, 935). Others may welcome death out of unbearable grief following the loss of their children or their husbands. A woman joining her deceased husband can thus say that her victory lies “in courage; for I will lie down and die with my lord,” says Evadne (Euripides 1938a, 1031). When losing a loved one, a man may show courage by doing the opposite and choosing life over death. In Alcestis, Admetus grieves the loss of his beloved wife, Alcestis, who died in order to save him. At first, he decides he no longer wants to live (Euripides 1994e, 935–60). He is concerned that he will be shamed by his enemy because he lacked courage and let his wife die in his place. “What profit, then, my friends, for me in living since both my reputation and my fortunes are so ill?” All the same,

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Admetus decides to go on living. Heracles, dressed in his characteristic lion-skin, convinces him to overcome his grief and accept a veiled woman (earned in a competition) in marriage: “Have the courage to stretch out your hand and touch the stranger,” he tells him (Euripides 1994e, 1075–1115; see 477). After much discussion, Admetus agrees to take her by the hand, only to discover that the woman is his wife, brought back from the dead. A man shows courage by the way he faces terrible things and goes on living despite his feelings of despair. But women demonstrate greater courage in the face of danger and do so throughout their lives. Their valour surpasses that of soldiers on the battlefield. The following passage points out the gravity of the plight of women and is worth quoting at length: Of all creatures that have breath and sensation, we women are the most unfortunate. First at an exorbitant price we must buy a husband and master of our bodies. [This misfortune is more painful than misfortune.] And the outcome of our life’s striving hangs on this, whether we take a bad or a good husband. For divorce is discreditable for women and it is not possible to refuse wedlock. And when a woman comes into the new customs and practices of her husband’s house, she must somehow divine, since she has not learned it at home, how she shall best deal with her husband. If after we have spent great efforts on these tasks our husbands live with us without resenting the marriage-yoke, our life is enviable. Otherwise, death is preferable. A man, whenever he is annoyed with the company of those in the house, goes elsewhere and thus rids his soul of its boredom [turning to some male friend or age-mate]. But we must fix our gaze on one person only. Men say that we live a life free from danger at home while they fight with the spear. How wrong they are! I would rather stand three times with a shield in battle than give birth once. (Euripides 1994c, 230–250)

A woman is forced to marry, loses control over her body, and is subjected to the whims of her husband. She must find a way to please him or suffer his resentment. She cannot divorce him or turn to others if she gets bored, as men do. On top of that, she must endure the pain of giving birth. Man’s courage on the battlefield is nothing compared to her suffering.

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Euripides was reviled by other poets and colleagues of his time. He is said to have been exiled in old age for his decadent ideas and heresies, not to mention his occasional critique of Athenian imperialism. While innovative thinking was encouraged in classical Athens, the poet went so far as to imagine female models of courage facing the sufferings of life at home. Instead of emphasising the role of sound judgement and reasoning in all matters, he explored the inner motives and struggles of both men and women and allowed them to display unpredictable and irrational behaviour. He praised their mental worth and courage as opposed to their social standing and physical condition. Even though his work was full of contradictions, it did question the rationalism, sexism, and militarism of his time.

Sophocles Like Euripides, Sophocles (c. 497/96–406/5 BC) moves away from Homeric notions of courage. In his satyr play entitled Ichneutae, the tragedian from Attica casts Silenus as the brave father of the satyrs, male nature spirits with a strong penchant for wine and sex. Silenus criticises his goat-like offspring for running away at the sound of a mere noise coming from a shepherd. He reminds them of the many monuments celebrating his courage and adds that he was “never put to flight, never afraid.” Nor did he ever quiver at noises made by animals up on the mountains. Instead, I accomplished great things with my spear. That brilliant spear is now besmirched by you, because some new sound from the shepherds has frightened you, like the babies you are … making noises of your own for your cowardice. (Sophocles 2000, 145)

Silenus is a shining example of male courage and fearlessness in battle. In Electra, however, the tragedian takes a different view and describes women’s courage and fierceness in the face of tragic circumstances other than armed conflict. In Euripides’ contemporary version of the same story, Electra seeks revenge against her mother Clytemnestra, who,

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together with her lover Aegisthus, murdered Electra’s father Agamemnon and then married her off to a peasant of Mycenea. Electra’s brother Oreste seeks her out, and together they plan how to murder their homicidal mother and her lover. They carry out their plan successfully, with some hesitation on the part of Oreste, and are then filled with grief and guilt. By contrast, Sophocles’ Electra takes pride in plotting and achieving vengeance. Aware of her despair, the chorus advises her to show courage through moderation and confidence in the future: “Courage, my daughter, courage; Zeus in the sky is still mighty, and he sees and rules all.” “Leave your oversharp anger to him; be neither excessively hostile to those you hate, nor forgetful of them, since Time is a god who brings ease” (Sophocles 1894, 174–80). But later, Electra tries to convince her younger sister Chrysothemis to help her avenge their father. Her words leave no doubt as to what courageous women are capable of and the fame they deserve for their manly courage. Then do you not see what fair fame you will procure for yourself and for me, by obeying me? What citizen or stranger when he sees us will not greet us with praises such as these: “Behold these two sisters, my friends! They saved their father’s house, and at a time when their foes were firmly established, they took their lives in their hands and administered bloodshed! Worthy of love is this pair, worthy of reverence from all. At festivals, and wherever the citizenry is assembled, let these two be honored by all men for their manly courage.” Thus will every one speak of us, so that in life and in death our glory shall not fail. (Sophocles 1894, 947–89)

Sophocles frees courage from its soldierly tradition. He attributes the quality to characters that have no martial role to play, including women but also elderly men. Electra’s brother praises the courage of his ageing tutor, Paedagogus, who saved him and raised him to manhood so he could avenge his murdered father. “Just as a thoroughbred mount, even if advanced in years, does not lose courage in danger, but pricks up his ears, so you speed us forward and follow in the first ranks” (Sophocles 1894, 1–15, 25–30). While vengeance and loyalty are common themes, valour is not limited to heroic men who keep their post or die in battle.

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Euripides and Sophocles stray from prevailing notions of native Athenian courage displayed by noble warriors, a manly virtue enhanced through habituation and training. When closely examined, however, their understanding of courage still owes a great deal to mainstream Hellenic thinking. For one thing, their stories continue to extol the heroic deeds of generals and citizen soldiers. When the tale is not about men fighting on the front, it still revolves around the loyalty of women who inflict or suffer death to protect men fighting for them and their fatherland. Admittedly, some accounts of womanly courage do not involve any armed conflict, and the excesses of war and imperialism are frowned upon. But tragedians still need to draw the parallel between brave women and models of manly courage to make their case. While they sing about heroic women, they keep the deeds of mighty soldiers in the background.

Aristophanes Euripides and Sophocles hold on to the defining feature of a courageous soul: being able to fight back, endure terrible suffering, and face death. They acknowledge women’s fearless courage and resolve and generally leave out expressions of self-conscious wisdom, rational deliberation, and temperance from their poetry. The late fifth-century comedies of Aristophanes (c. 446–c. 386 BC) offer a somewhat different and more provocative formulation of proto-feminist thinking: they illustrate how men and women can meet halfway to reconcile courage and wisdom for the greater good of Athens. In Lysistrata, the playwright and Father of Comedy disrupts conventional gender attributions as he tells the story of women’s courageous and wise opposition to men’s endless wars. The main character is Lysistrata, a woman with both male and female characteristics, someone capable of leading an army and reputed to be “hard, shifting, clear, deceitful, noble, crafty, sweet, and stern” (Aristophanes 1930, 1108). Women rally behind her call to rescue their city and Greece from the dangers of war (Aristophanes 1930, 29–35, 39–41, 541–47). To stamp out the war and bring lasting peace between Athens and Sparta, older women agree to occupy the Acropolis, shutting men out of their hard-won public place.

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The younger women start a sexual strike (Aristophanes 1930, 99–106, 175–79). Their goal is to save men from themselves by all necessary means, including taking over public finances to “stop the war through the absence of gold” (Aristophanes 1930, 480–95, 506). Men denounce these acts of audacity and complain that their wives have turned into “witless fools” (Aristophanes 1930, 260, 318, 630–34). Seething with anger and hatred, they decide to build a pyre and burn them (Aristophanes 1930, 266–72). But women use water pitchers to put out the men’s fire and “quench their furies.” The gesture is also meant to bathe men, as if they were filthy children. Men must “grow up,” as it were, and come back home and attend to the needs of their wives and children (Aristophanes 1930, 384, 782–96, 882–83, 1018). The women’s heroic efforts are to no avail. Men simply refuse to discuss matters of war and foreign policy with their wives and do everything to silence them (Aristophanes 1930, 520–35, 675). The play ends on a reconciliatory note, with a joyful gathering on the Acropolis and a celebration of peace between Athens and Sparta. This illustrates Plato’s concept of unity, which resembles a woman weaving a “strong cloak of state” and packing hanks of wool “into one great common basket”: All who inside Athens’ walls have their dwelling into one great common basket we’ll pack. Disenfranchised or citizens, allies or aliens, pell-mell the lot of them in we will squeeze. Till they discover humanity’s meaning … As for disjointed and far colonies, Them you must never from this time imagine as scattered about just like lost hanks of wool. Each portion we’ll take and wind in to this centre, inward to Athens’ each loyalty pull, Till from the vast heap where all’s piled together at last can be woven a strong Cloak of State. (Aristophanes 1930, 567)

Men and women, disenfranchised people and full citizens, resident aliens and colonists, all are finally united and “discover humanity’s meaning.” The comedy is a strong condemnation of mainstream notions of aggressive manhood, where courage acts as a requirement of Athenian warlike behaviour and imperial greed. Aristophanes ridicules the

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belligerence of men who are so addicted to armed conflict that they become caricatures of themselves. He illustrates the courage of women who promote the wisdom of peace and challenge men’s way of thinking about the virtues of war. However, it should be stressed that the play is no more than a comedy. As biting as its humour may be, it ends in merry dancing and drinking rather than a roadmap for radical change in Athens’ culture and politics. Euripides and Sophocles distance themselves from contemporary norms by exploring women’s demonstrations of courage at home. Their efforts to change the Homeric narrative through poetry and theatre, however, are not as radical as they may seem. The stories told still revolve around terrible things that the main characters must suffer or inflict on the enemy. Also, they continue to praise the martial courage of heroic men or insist on using it as a benchmark for comparison. Through comedy, Aristophanes goes one step further and promotes the marriage of courage, wisdom, and self-restraint, a fundamental tenet of classical Greek thinking. This is what Lysistrata is essentially about: a play that subverts gender differences and reconciles wisdom and courage for the good of all.

References Aristophanes. 1930. Lysistrata. Trans. J. Lindsay. New York: Hartsdale House. Balot, Ryan K. 2014. Courage in the Democratic Polis: Ideology and Critique in Classical Athens. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Euripides. 1850. Bacchae. In The Tragedies of Euripides, Vol. 1, trans. T.A. Buckley. London: H.G. Bohn. ———. 1891. Iphigenia. In Aulis, The Plays of Euripides, Vol. 2, trans. E.P. Coleridge. London: George Bell. ———. 1938a. The Suppliants. In The Complete Greek Drama, Vol. 1, ed. W.J. Oates and E. O’Neill, trans. E.P. Coleridge. New York: Random. ———. 1938b. Orestes. In The Complete Greek Drama, Vol. 2, ed. W.J. Oates and E. O’Neill, trans. E.P. Coleridge. New York: Random. ———. 1938c. The Phoenissae. In The Complete Greek Drama, Vol. 2, ed. W.J. Oates and E. O’Neill, trans. E.P. Coleridge. New York: Random.

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———. 1938d. Electra. In The Complete Greek Drama, Vol. 2, ed. W.J. Oates and E. O’Neill, trans. E.P. Coleridge. New York: Random. ———. 1938e. Ion. In The Complete Greek Drama, Vol. 1, ed. W.J. Oates and E. O’Neill, trans. R. Potter. New York: Random House. ———. 1994a. Heracleidae. In Euripides, trans. D. Kovacs. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. ———. 1994b. Andromache. In Euripides, trans. D. Kovacs. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. ———. 1994c. Medea. In Euripides, trans. D.  Kovacs. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. ———. 1994d. Hippolytus. In Euripides, trans. D.  Kovacs. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. ———. 1994e. Alcestis. In Euripides, trans. D.  Kovacs. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Hesiod. 1914a. The Shield of Heracles. In The Homeric Hymns and Homerica, trans. H.G. Evelyn-White. London: William Heinemann. ———. 1914b. Theogony. In The Homeric Hymns and Homerica, trans. H.G. Evelyn-White. London: William Heinemann. Homer. 1900. The Odyssey. Ed. S. Butler. Rev. T. Power and G. Nagy. London: A.C. Fifield. ———. 1923. The Iliad. In Two Volumes. Trans. A.T. Murray. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. MacIntyre, Alasdair. 2007. After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory. Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press. Sophocles. 1894. The Electra of Sophocles. Rev. and ed. R.H. Mather. Boston: Allyn and Bacon. ———. 2000. Tracking Satyrs (Ichneutae). Trans. A. Mahoney. Perseus. Xenophon. 1914. Cyropaedia. In Two Volumes. Trans. W. Miller. Cambridge. MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. ———. 1918 and 1921. Hellenica. In Xenophon in Seven Volumes, Vol. 1 and 2, trans. C. Brownson. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. ———. 1923a. Memorabilia. In Xenophon in Seven Volumes, Vol. 4, trans. E.C. Marchant. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. ———. 1923b. Symposium. In Xenophon in Seven Volumes, Vol. 4, trans. O.J. Todd. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. ———. 1923c. Oeconomicus. In Xenophon in Seven Volumes, Vol. 4, trans. E.C. Marchant. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Zavaliy, Andrei G. 2020. Courage and Cowardice in Ancient Greece. Cham, Switzerland: Springer.

3 Soldierly Courage and Wisdom

In the Homeric era, “innate valour” refers to acts of military excellence and prowess performed by highborn men fulfilling their socially defined duties to family, friends, the city, its kings, and gods. Fabled lion-hearted warriors such as Heracles, Achilles, and Ulysses understand their lives are fated to bring them immortal fame but also suffering and death in a battle they are destined to lose. Their tales withstand the test of time. They are not, however, intended to advance any theory of courage that is based on clearly articulated conditions, such as practical wisdom or common-­sense reasoning (Zavaliy 2020, p. 29). Recklessness is at times condemned, yet excellence in war is the supreme virtue. A noble warrior’s duties include fighting until the end and not using intellect to control his thumos spirit or passions. In the words of Tyrtaeus, the mid-seventh-­ century poet from Sparta, Ay, this is valour, meed ’mongst men most high, The fairest gift for youthful pride to wear: A good alike to the community, The good alike city and people share.

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The poet adds that the beauty of valour is exemplified by young soldiers who face the carnage of war and bravely fall in the front ranks in defence of the fatherland. His children’s children, and the unborn race. Such honour waits the bold, the brave, the true, Who die for sacred hearths in duty’s place, Bright immortality their guerdon due. (Tyrtaeus 1862, p. 32)

The kind of hero that Tyrtaeus has in mind includes the ordinary foot soldiers of ancient Greece. While they emulate Achilles, hoplites are not members of the aristocracy or claim to have divine ancestors. Their deeds point instead to civic life and patriotism working their way through Hellenic society. Likewise, songs of the Greek lyric poet Simonides of Ceos (c. 556–c. 468 BC) give praise to Spartan warriors and their heroic battle against the Persians, waged in 480 BC, under the famed leadership of Leonidas. “These men having clothed their dear country in inextinguishable glory, donned the dark cloud of death; and having died, yet they are not dead, for their valour’s renown brings them up from the house of Hades” (Paton 1919, 7:251). Beyond the desire for personal fame, what drives them to sacrifice is the fight for freedom and the greater glory of their country. The age of lyric songs associated with the seventh and sixth centuries strays from the Homeric tradition in another important respect: they reinstate the pleasures and enjoyments of human existence in the here and now. Archilochos (c. 680–c. 645 BC) openly questions the cult of martial valour that has been passed down through the generations, preferring the blessings of life over the promises of future honours. As he puts it, No man dead Feels his fellows’ praise. We strive instead, Alive, for the living’s honor,

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And the neglected dead Can neither honor Nor glory in praise. (Archilochos 1964, 231)

Speaking one’s mind freely and daringly can also reach heroic proportions. In the preceding chapter, we saw how Aristophanes made fun of the military ethos of his age. The comic playwright fought political battles on the stage and claimed that by “holding his head, advancing to the front, and telling the truth,” he showed more courage than any soldier at war. Addressing the audience through the voice of Dikaiopolis in Acharnians, he incites his own soul to boldly speak out in defence of Spartan men: Forward, my soul, get on the mark. Right here. You’re standing still? Move out: you’ve had a shot of Euripides! That’s it! Come, foolish heart, go over there and offer them your head when you’ve told them how you think the matter stands. Be bold. Go on. Move out. I applaud my heart! (Aristophanes 1992, 480–89)

The lyric poets and playwrights of Athens break new ground by describing courage against the background of city-state polity, the joys of human existence, and the merits of standing up for the truth. The task is nonetheless left to the historians, scientists, and philosophers of classical Greece to explore the conceptual foundations of courage. This chapter focuses on two ancient streams of thought that stress the political and existential aspects of courage. One stream is reflected in the battles for freedom and justice recorded in the semi-Homeric writings of Herodotus, immediately followed by Thucydides’ more practical and rational accounts of history. Evocations of fabled heroes and reflections on the art of war merge a few centuries later, in the world history of Diodorus of Sicily. The other stream, represented by Hippocrates and, after him, Galen, proposes a medical and physiological perspective centred on matters of human existence and vitality.

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 he Invention of History: Herodotus T and Thucydides Initial efforts to explore the politics of courage from a historical perspective come from Herodotus and Thucydides. Both use real wars to rethink the weavings of Hellenic courage and wisdom in the service of Athens. In The Histories, Herodotus (c. 484–c. 425 BC) analyses the events of the Greco-Persian Wars against multiple causes and human passions, with an emphasis on sentiments of gratitude, loyalty, and revenge. Although a historian, he enjoys reporting tales where gods play an important role in human affairs, for “there are many clear indications of the divine ordering of things” (Herodotus 1920, 9:100). The Father of History does not hesitate to use oracles and animal imagery to embellish his stories of epic courage and tragic fate. Lions, real or fictive, appear in passages that evoke stories of Lacedaemon being mightier than a lion and Heracles covering himself with a lion’s skin (Herodotus 1920, 4:8; 7:220). Felines show up in oracles announcing the birth of the Greek statesman and general Pericles and the death of Hipparchus, the tyrant of Athens assassinated in 514 BC: “O lion, endure the unendurable with a lion’s heart.” “No man on Earth does wrong without paying the penalty” (Herodotus 1920, 5:56; see 5:92b; 6:131). One tale that stretches the imagination explains how Croesus captured the heights of Sardis. Instead of simply describing the battle, Herodotus reminisces about the legend of King Meles, who took a lion cub borne to him by his concubine and carried it around the walls of the Acropolis to make them impregnable. However, one wall in the southern section was so high that he avoided it. An enemy soldier managed to climb the unprotected wall, and many followed him and sacked the city (Herodotus 1920, 1:84). The Histories recycles older tropes of lion-like might displayed by warriors loyal to their loved ones, their fatherland, and their gods. They are heroes worthy of the highest honours and immortal glory. The terrible pain and suffering that brave souls are ready to endure is another familiar theme echoed in the writings of Herodotus (Herodotus 1920, 3:145; 5:124). While made prisoner by the Spartans, Hegesistratus, a Greek diviner in the army of the Persian noble Mardonius, showed such resolve

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and courage that he cut off a piece of his own foot in order to escape torture and certain death (Herodotus 1920, 9:37). Still, the historian thinks that a man’s dislike of the hardships of war is a better sign of human courage and heroism. Since they are an expression of human nature, heroic acts performed in combat may be observed in all nations. Accordingly, Herodotus shows interest in the different customs that are meant to celebrate valour. In his account of the Scythians, the historian reports that a man feuding with his own kinsman may defeat his enemy in mortal combat and then use his skull as a cup to serve someone whom he wishes to honour. The gesture points to the strength of man’s ferocious thumos; “this they call manly valor,” Herodotus says (1920, 4:65). Some women may show the same spirit and, therefore, exceptional courage at war. This is true of Artemisia, a queen of the city-state of Halicamassus, who fought as an ally of Xerxes I, King of Persia, against the independent Greek city-states during the second Persian invasion of Greece. But the exception only proves the rule: courage is a prerogative of men. Frustrated with the poor performance of his male troops, Xerxes complains: “My men (ἄνδρες) have become women, and my women men” (Herodotus 1920, 8:88). Likewise, the battle with the Spartans at Thermopylae made it clear to “the king himself, that among so many people there were few real men” (Herodotus 1920, 7:210). The author nonetheless distances himself from the Homeric tradition by focusing on real-life warriors and citizen soldiers who suffer and die while defending themselves from poverty and tyranny and upholding the wisdom of law and democracy in glorious Athens. The ancients thought that Homeric heroes had really existed, but they were now part of a distant poetic past. Herodotus moves away from the epic genre and well into the Age of Pericles. He recounts how the hoplites were brave enough to fight the Persians and avenge themselves on their enemy, even when far outnumbered and attacked by huge clouds of arrows hiding the sun (Herodotus 1920, 7:208–10, 226). They fought consciously and freely, out of honour and loyalty. The same cannot be said of Persian soldiers who went to war under duress, in fear of the whip and punishment from their ruler. They were no match for the Spartan warriors. In his speech to Xerxes, the king of Sparta commends his troops for being the best and

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bravest warriors on Earth. If they are not free, it is in one sense only: Spartans fear and respect the law that commands them to never flee the battlefield and to “abide at their post and there conquer or die” (Herodotus 1920, 7:102–4). Their inclination to follow the law and fight together for their country strays from the Homeric tradition. Nonetheless, Herodotus is hesitant to abandon the old ethos. In his discussion of the valour shown by the Lacedaemonians, the historian argues that Aristodemus showed raw courage and therefore more bravery than Posidonius, who fought with greater prudence. Aristodemus rushed to his death because of the rebuke he suffered for being the only Spartan soldier that came alive from the previous battle of Thermopylae. The Spartans who deliberated on the same matter disagreed with Herodotus’ assessment. They judged that Aristodemus, who plainly wished to die because of the reproach hanging over him and so rushed out and left the battle column behind, had achieved great deeds, but that Posidonius, who had no wish to die, proved himself a courageous fighter, and so in this way he was the better man. (Herodotus 1920, 9:71)

Unlike these judges, Herodotus clings to “the Homeric ideal of raging, animalistic drive that shuns all rational calculations and manifests the highest level of disregard for personal safety” (Zavaliy 2020, p.  280). Men’s fury (λύσσα) reflects the highest pursuit there is, which is glory in battle. Eurytus at Thermopylae, Aristodemus at Plataea, and the desperate commanders of the eleven Samian ships fighting with the Phoenician fleet are all praised for displaying this kind of valour (Herodotus 1920, 6:14; 7:229). Demaratus, the spokesman for the Greeks at Xerxes’ court, believed that “in Hellas poverty is always endemic, but courage is acquired as the fruit of wisdom and strong law; by use of this courage Hellas defends herself from poverty and tyranny” (Herodotus 1920, 7:102). Herodotus thought differently. Brave warriors demonstrate courage through personal deeds and impulse. Attributes of courage are strictly behavioural and do not hinge on men’s reasoning, their fear of being punished, the

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circumstances that force them to fight, or any other motive aside from the pursuit of immortal fame. In the writings of Herodotus, natural courage counts, and the gods continue to have a say in human affairs. However, the inborn valour of citizen soldiers struggling for the victory of democracy against hostile forces starts making its way into the master narrative, in keeping with the ethos of his time. The Athenian historian Thucydides (c. 460–c. 400 BC) tells a similar story but dithers less about the relationship between myth and reality. More importantly, he offers deeper insights into the relationship between native courage and other virtues, notably that of practical wisdom in the service of free men coping with the dangers of war. In his writings, he portrays natural courage as one asset on the battlefield but not the only one. Counting on practical wisdom and self-discipline is equally important. Behavioural courage without practical wisdom and dedication to a just cause should be recognised for what it is: reckless audacity and wanton cruelty, the opposite of virtue. If they are to be models of virtue, soldiers must exercise practical judgement and pursue a noble cause when engaging in war. Faint echoes of this line of thought—courage along with wisdom and other virtues—can be found in the Homeric tradition, where some men can be faulted for being “unwarlike and a weakling, neither to be counted in war nor in counsel” (Homer 1923, 1:288). Similar thinking is suggested in The Persians by the playwright Aeschylus (c. 525/524–c. 456/455 BC), where courage, freedom, public deliberation, and practical reasoning come together in defence of Athens against Persia (Balot 2014, p. 81). In this approach, all virtues are placed on the same footing and tied to each other, even though political considerations come first. In his History of the Peloponnese War, Thucydides recounts the fifth-­ century war between Sparta and Athens. As a general himself, his understanding of courage aligns with some key messages of the Homeric tales. Courage is an animal-like instinct associated with fearsome warriors holding their ground against external threats. Like Ulysses, heroic soldiers face great danger, exercise self-control and cleverness, and risk their lives in order to defend those they serve with unfaltering loyalty. But the similarity ends there. For one thing, his view shifts from the deeds of highborn warriors to those of brave citizen soldiers freely sacrificing their

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lives for their city-state. Thucydides also goes further than Herodotus in liberating history from the whims of the gods and the fabled deeds of Heracles, Achilles, and Ulysses. His narrative is primarily a chronology of events involving what are thought to be real people fighting for their freedom and their fatherland. What is also novel in his work is the reserve he expresses about what innate courage can accomplish on its own. In his view, bravery can be extolled only when combined with virtuous conduct in the business of war. In addition to being fearless, warriors must demonstrate other virtues such as practical wisdom, constant discipline, and patriotic honour when defending their city and freedom against external threats, no matter what the odds. As Balot remarks, they must deploy courage “at the right time, at the right place, and with the right intentions” (Balot 2014, p. 44). Freemen can influence their own destiny by turning Odyssean cleverness and self-restraint into the martial science and discipline of war in the service of Athenian democracy. Thucydides’ view of courage is reflected in his rendering of Pericles’ funeral oration, a speech coherent with the ideas of the time (Thucydides 1910, 2:34–46). The connection he makes between courage and deliberative wisdom is nonetheless shot through with ambiguity. Courage exists on its own as a habit “not of art but of nature” (Thucydides 1910, 2:39). Men are naturally prone to taking risks and running towards danger on impulse or by necessity (Thucydides 1910, 3:45). They do so because of poverty, greed, ambition, or sheer passion. Warlike people are naturally more fearless than others and pass on their innate courage from generation to generation (Thucydides 1910, 4:126). When at war, the Athenians can thus count on their “superior daring” (Thucydides 1910, 1:121; 2:6). The historian adds that being “ahead in courage” may compensate for the lack of experience and fewer troops deployed on the battleground. In frightening situations, valour and resolve can also help soldiers deploy martial skills and knowledge; “fear takes away presence of mind, and without valour art is useless.” Armies have been known to suffer defeat because they rely more on strength than resolve (Thucydides 1910, 2:89). In short, innate courage is a formidable asset, among others. Given this line of thought, it stands to reason that being ahead of the enemy in all existing resources—courage, experience, equipment, and numbers—provides greater hope for victory (Thucydides 1910, 2:62).

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And “where there is the greatest hope, there is also the greatest ardour for action” (Thucydides 1910, 7:67). At the same time, the historian considers the natural habit of courage to be a worthless asset if separated from other virtues. Left on its own, courage is no longer a virtue, and the asset may turn into a liability. Martial audacity is wasted if it is not accompanied by a good deal of practical knowledge and wisdom. Why? Because daring without deliberation is pure folly. The historian lauds the Athenians for presenting the singular spectacle of daring and deliberation, each carried to its highest point, and both united in the same persons; although usually decision is the fruit of ignorance, hesitation of reflection. But the palm of courage will surely be adjudged most justly to those, who best know the difference between hardship and pleasure and yet are never tempted to shrink from danger. (Thucydides 1910, 2:40)

Daring combined with deliberation—valour with intelligence— implies the knowledge of risks taken on the battlefield. It also means that when going to war, proper preparations will be made, for they give the surest promise of safety (Thucydides 1910, 6:34). Military plans and decisions must be based on sound calculations of key factors such as the experience and skills of armies on both sides. Inexperienced soldiers battling against the most experienced soldiers or sailors have reason to fear the worst. Whoever has more soldiers and better weapons should also be considered; “as a rule, numbers and equipment give victory” (Thucydides 1910, 2:87). Reckless conduct has no place in the art of war. For warriors to be truly courageous, they must be both warlike and wise (Thucydides 1910, 1:84). This requires that they master the science of war, an art based on deliberative thinking and planning. They must exercise moderation and sound judgement, see all sides of a question, seek good counsel, and then hope for the best. Examining the facts, weighing the available evidence, learning from past errors, and calculating the odds are all essential conditions for success. Brave warriors should also trust their enemies to engage in the same kind of preparations and calculations as their own. Presuming otherwise can be fatal. Military planning should start from the

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assumption that the enemy’s plans are good because there is not much “difference between man and man” in this regard (Thucydides 1910, 1:84). Thucydides is critical of empty words and rhetoric that put down rational action and justify its opposite: Reckless audacity came to be considered the courage of a loyal ally; prudent hesitation, specious cowardice; moderation was held to be a cloak for unmanliness; ability to see all sides of a question, inaptness to act on any. Frantic violence became the attribute of manliness; cautious plotting, a justifiable means of self-defence. The advocate of extreme measures was always trustworthy; his opponent a man to be suspected. (Thucydides 1910, 3:82)

Wartime decisions should never be taken out of exasperation, arrogance, or passion. They should not be based on delusions about what soldiers can achieve because of their good luck or collective strength. Good counsel does not go well with haste and folly, let alone with passion and “the coarseness and narrowness of mind” (Thucydides 1910, 3:42). Thucydides’ history of the Peloponnesian War shows that practical wisdom learned from military experience and past events is essential to effective displays of courage. The task, as he sees it, requires the historian to investigate truth impartially, without romance, poetry, or animal symbols that are designed to charm their audience and create impressions that “melt at the touch of fact” (Thucydides 1910, 1:22; 2:41). His examination of the “mighty proofs” of history resembles the critical, evidence-­ based reasoning that generals deploy when preparing for war. It is also analogous to the debate that city councillors go through when passing and enforcing laws that serve the pursuit of justice and the public good (Thucydides 1910, 3:38). Sound reasoning means thinking straight about the evidence at hand and applying the critical test of facts, as opposed to succumbing to unmanly compassion or fits of anger and vengeance, the kind displayed by the warmongering Athenian general Cleon (Thucydides 1910, 3:40). Most of all, wise deliberation should not be confused with intellectual battles based on hearsay and witty language. Poetry and clever arguments are no substitutes for paying attention to the facts and drawing out their likely implications. Intellectuals who engage in “wars of

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wits” have less to offer than men with common sense (Thucydides 1910, 3:37). Instead of being bold out of ignorance, heroes combine daring with proper deliberation and practical wisdom. But this is not enough to guarantee success. Some level of uncertainty always remains. Freaks of Nature, sudden events, and emergencies cannot be anticipated and planned for, which means that the outcome of any war is to some degree a matter of chance. The longer a war lasts, the greater the number of unknowns. Pericles’ remark is particularly relevant here: “the course of things is as arbitrary as the plans of man” (Thucydides 1910, 1:140). While fate does not predetermine the outcome of a battle, sheer chance by itself can play a decisive role. Great vigilance and self-discipline are even more important and can make the difference between victory and defeat (Thucydides 1910, 1:122; 2:11). This is the third pillar of the art of war, of equal importance when compared with daring and deliberation. Some armies are lacking in this respect. They do not have the self-­ discipline needed to prepare and train themselves for battle and follow plans and orders received from higher ranks. Courage and practical wisdom do not ensure victory if self-restraint, obedience, and “irrevocable resolve” are lacking (Thucydides 1910, 1:132; 6:72). Soldiers and sailors must obey orders, remain at their stations, and always attend to their duties. There is no excuse for misconduct, not even inexperience. But what are the reasons that will prompt soldiers to obey orders? Here again, Thucydides’ reasoning is two-sided. On the one hand, fear of reprimand may motivate discipline, which is perfectly normal even if it is not edifying. This line of thinking is reflected in a speech pronounced at the battle of Naupactus led by Cnemum, the Spartan fleet commander during the second and third years of the Archidamian War (430/29 BC). Spartan commanders preparing to fight the Athenians at sea worry that their troops will be deterred by the fear of losing another battle. To lift everyone’s spirits, they explain the previous defeat by blaming it on bad luck and the lack of naval experience; “the object of our voyage was not so much to fight at sea as an expedition by land.” To brighten the prospects for victory, they emphasise their superiority in numbers, knowing that “as a rule, numbers and equipment give victory.” Another factor working in their favour is their native valour, or “superior daring,” which

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more than compensates for their lack of sea experience. Warnings against misconduct are nonetheless in order. Commanders promise to prepare for the engagement and warn that they will not let any misconduct go unpunished. “Should any insist on doing so, he shall meet with the punishment he deserves, while the brave shall be honoured with the appropriate rewards of valour” (Thucydides 1910, 2:87). On the other hand, discipline is driven by the fear of losing a just war, which is nobler than the fear of punishment under military law or death inflicted by the enemy. If orders are to be obeyed with promptness, it is because “nothing contributes so much to the credit and safety of an army as the union of large bodies by a single discipline” (Thucydides 1910, 2:11). Enemies that lack discipline and succumb to fear are easily conquered. What is worse, they lack any sense of duty or feeling of honour in action (Thucydides 1910, 2:43). Brasidas, the Spartan officer sent to advise the admiral commanding the Peloponnesian fleet at Rhium, provides a telling commentary on honour-based discipline as a test of courage and the antidote to cowardly fear and desertion. He admits that the present enemy might terrify an inexperienced imagination; they are formidable in outward bulk, their loud yelling is unbearable, and the brandishing of their weapons in the air has a threatening appearance. But when it comes to real fighting with an opponent who stands his ground, they are not what they seemed; they have no regular order that they should be ashamed of deserting their positions when hard pressed; flight and attack are with them equally honorable, and afford no test of courage; their independent mode of fighting never leaving any one who wants to run away without a fair excuse for so doing. (Thucydides 1910, 4:126)

Soldiers found guilty of insubordination deserve to be punished. Those who are brave receive the honours of war. For them, war is never about the fear of reprimand or the natural thirst for power, money, land, or blood. If valiant men go to war willingly and meet danger face-to-face, without knowing the outcome and sometimes against all odds, it is because they value their freedom; they prefer to “die resisting, rather than to live submitting” (Thucydides 1910, 2:42–43). It is better for them to revolt and abandon their wealth and city rather than being reduced to

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slavery (Thucydides 1910, 6:82). These principles are a reminder that the path of justice and honour leading to happiness cannot be followed without danger. Heroes face the perils of war because they believe happiness comes from freedom, and freedom is the fruit of valour. Thucydides adds that self-discipline should not be confused with extreme self-renunciation. As Pericles remarks, Athenians cultivate “refinement without extravagance and knowledge without effeminacy; wealth we employ more for use than for show, and place the real disgrace of poverty not in owning to the fact but in declining the struggle against it” (Thucydides 1910, 2:40). Cultural achievements and prosperity are not incompatible with implanting the spirit of manly courage. However, people who indulge in the delights of comfort and peace at home and are unwilling to fight for their freedom are bound to lose everything. Unlike slaves, freemen have much to lose and everything to hope for, including the honour they derive from the fulfilment of patriotic duty, in defence of the rule of justice, freedom, and democracy, which is worth far more to them than life itself. What is at stake here is the Athenian way of life and democratic governance based on merit and the rule of freedom and justice. Our constitution does not copy the laws of neighboring states; we are rather a pattern to others than imitators ourselves. Its administration favors the many instead of the few; this is why it is called a democracy. If we look to the laws, they afford equal justice to all in their private differences; if to social standing, advancement in public life falls to reputation for capacity, class considerations not being allowed to interfere with merit; nor again does poverty bar the way, if a man is able to serve the state, he is not hindered by the obscurity of his condition. The freedom which we enjoy in our government extends also to our ordinary life. (Thucydides 1910, 2:37)

To preserve democracy, great battles must be fought and lead to victory. However, the rule of military might makes sense provided it serves a greater cause, guided by the principles of equality and freedom. After all, “right is only in question between equals in power, while the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must” (Thucydides 1910, 5:89; see 1:76). Disgrace in Athens is caused not by poverty but by

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abandoning the fight for democracy and the battle against inequality and poverty. To be sure, inequalities exist and persist. All the same, a man’s worth is judged not by his wealth or the class he belongs to but rather by his contribution to achieving the ideals of public life in his city-state, which is what matters most (Thucydides 1910, 2:40–42). Unlike Herodotus, Thucydides rejects stories designed to please his audience; science and poetry do not blend in well. While his accounts of war do not always follow reality, his commitment to the science of military history is clearly stated. The historian also applies fact-based reasoning and knowledge of final goals, such as freedom and democracy, to the actual conduct of war. In his view, displays of martial courage are exemplary when informed by effective learning, sound judgement, and logical calculations of effective means and noble ends. His understanding of manly courage assumes demonstrations of practical wisdom and rational discipline in the business of war. Daring, deliberation, and discipline are the three pillars of true courage. Thucydides nonetheless has some reservations about the principles of democracy and decisions based on majority rule, which do not always rhyme with rational thinking. Egalitarianism has its drawbacks. In the absence of wisdom, warmongering demagogues such as Cleon can lead Athens to wage wars that are motivated by the rule of might, greed, and hatred. Thucydides, aware of this, offers a critique of Athenian democracy and imperialism governed by a primitive form of courage, a “habit of nature” where men rush to danger without regard for the risk they take. This does not stop the historian from holding on to “lower” versions of courage and fear-based discipline that may constitute real assets on the battlefield. As already pointed out, those who possess natural courage are at an advantage over others even when it turns into “frantic violence,” and self-restraint can make a positive difference even when motivated by the fear of reprimand. Winning a war may still benefit from man’s irrational impulse to attack and fight back, his fear of punishment by law, and his thirst for vengeance and the spoils of war. Daring driven by wisdom and honour alone may not be enough after all. Not all people are on the same footing when it comes to natural courage. All citizens are said to stand equal before the law and may become heroes who

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have the whole Earth for their tomb; and in lands far from their own, where the column with its epitaph declares it, there is enshrined in every breast a record unwritten with no tablet to preserve it, except that of the heart. (Thucydides 110, 2:43)

These are noble sentiments. All the same, foot soldiers in Greece rank higher than galley rowers, slaves, women, and the old. They are naturally superior when it comes to demonstrations of lion-like courage. Likewise, the historian may entertain doubts about the value of courage as a separate quality, but not to the point of questioning the manly courage of the superior Hellenic race (Thucydides 1910, 1:1). All races are not created equal, and the rule of freedom and justice need not be extended to the whole world.

F acts and Fables of World History: Diodorus of Sicily Another three centuries will elapse before the Greek historian Diodorus of Sicily (c. 90–c. 30 BC) writes his monumental forty-book History, which covers three periods of world history: the Heroic Age up to the destruction of Troy, the time extending from the Trojan War to the death of Alexander the Great (323 BC), and the subsequent period to about 60 BC. His passing remarks on courage and valour are numerous, bridging the Homeric tradition with observations from political history. Overall, his work reiterates Thucydides’ understanding of courage, which can be summed up in five sets of propositions. Firstly, courage is a male animal-­ like impulse and disposition to attack, fight back, and subdue the enemy. This inborn strength, or “native toughness,” is unevenly distributed and can be passed on from a king to his offspring, or from one generation to the next. Given its physical expression, courage is best displayed in face-­ to-­face combat. Because they feared the valour of the Greek enemy, the Persians found it safer to keep their distance and shoot arrows and throw javelins at them (Diodorus 1933–1967, 11.10). Since courage is rooted in Nature, some animals may exemplify the quality more than others. Elephants, rhinoceroses, lions, wolves, and

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hunting dogs set examples in this regard (Diodorus 1933–1967, 1.18; 2.19; 3.31, 35; 5.82; 11.21; 17.84, 91). Barbarians are also brave. The Gauls living on the borders of Scythia, rumoured to eat humans and sacrifice their captives in honour of the gods, demonstrate remarkable bravery in conquering foreign lands and destroying large armies that stand in their way (Diodorus 1933–1967, 5.32). The two hundred thousand Egyptians that marched towards Ethiopia provide another telling and somewhat graphic example of courage grounded in the body and Nature. When King Psamtik asked them to turn back, all the soldiers started crying aloud and striking their spears against their shields, declared that so long as they had weapons in their hands they would easily find homelands; and lifting their garments and pointing to their genitals they said that so long as they had those they would never be in want either of wives or of children. After such a display of high courage and of utter disdain for what among other men is regarded as of the greatest consequence, they seized the best part of Ethiopia, and after apportioning much land among themselves they made their home there. (Diodorus 1933–1967, 1.67)

Secondly, courage can be raised to a higher level beyond its physical measure (Diodorus 1933–1967, 12.9). Kings, generals, and citizen soldiers demonstrate valour by fighting for their beloved country and precious freedom. They do so out of patriotic duty and respect for their own laws. This involves a collective struggle that requires “the spirits of all to endure the battles with courage”; all people contribute to war efforts, each in their own way (Diodorus 1933–1967, 20.84). Personal excellence and heroism must enhance the good and greater glory of a city or nation. Battles for a people’s liberty and honour are driven by a deep hatred for tyrants and, paradoxically, a strong resolve to conquer and enslave the enemy (Diodorus 1933–1967, 2.43; 4.31; 16.9). The conquering nation “loves freedom and under no circumstances submits to a foreign ruler” (Diodorus 1933–1967, 2.1; see 2.33). It will fight for laws that denounce tyranny and promote the common good, such as the Law of the Lion issued by the king of Lesbos—a law evoking the strength and courage of the beast (Diodorus 1933–1967, 5.82; 10.17; 11.5, 6, 11; 13.20; 14.65; 18.22). The brave will endure and sacrifice everything to safeguard their freedom of speech, among other rights. It follows that the

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goals that valiant men pursue matter more than the actual victory. “For judgement must be passed upon brave men, not by the outcome of their actions, but by their purpose” (Diodorus 1933–1967, 11.11). Thirdly, rulers, commanders, and soldiers at war have much to gain by combining natural courage with other virtues, notably practical wisdom. The latter goes by many names, ranging from prudence and genius to wits, cleverness, sagacity, cunning, shrewdness, astuteness, acumen, intelligence, reasoning powers, good judgement, and proper planning. Practical wisdom is reflected in the development of military skills, dexterity, strategic grasp, and generalship. In the writings of Diodorus, close connections between courage and the powers of the mind are a recurring theme. Exceptional leaders from all periods of history and corners of the world earn their reputation and victories by being both courageous and intelligent or skilled. The long list of characters that confirm the rule include Parsondes, Pelos, Ergamenes, Castor and Polydeuces, Mardonius, Leonidas, Cimon, Sitalces, Tiribazus, Timotheiis, Epameinondas, Jason, Chabrias, Alexander, Agesilaus, Philip, Nypsius, Memnon, Antiphilus, Evagoras, Tiberius Gracchus, Themistocles, Sulla, and Moses (Diodorus 1933–1967, 2.33; 3.6, 70; 4.73; 6.6; 11.1, 4, 62; 12.50; 15.10, 36, 39, 60, 69, 80, 92; 16.1, 3, 18, 95; 17.1, 7, 21; 18.13; 19.48; 21.17; 25.4; 29.26; 37.1, 25; 40.3). When enemies at sea show equal courage and have the same number of ships, victory goes to those who have greater navigation skills (Diodorus 1933–1967, 13.40). This is true of all wars. When courage is not a special asset, superior tactical skills can determine the outcome of a battle (Diodorus 1933–1967, 15.85). An interesting story told by Diodorus confirms the view that valour mixed with prudence is more commendable than courage alone. It involves a contest between Cleonnis and Aristomenes, both heroes in the struggle with the Spartans in the Second Messenian War (685–668 BC). Cleonnis kills a larger number of enemy soldiers, defends the king, and is gravely wounded in the process. By contrast, Aristomenes kills fewer, saves Cleonnis, and exposes his own body to less danger. In his mind, he should win the contest for being both courageous and cunning. “For the man who, while fighting desperately, meets the threatening danger with a calm mind, has a double claim to bravery, that of body and that of soul”

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(Diodorus 1933–1967, 8.12). The judges accept the reasoning and give their votes to Aristomenes. In History, several virtues and standards of excellence add moral value to people’s courage, especially in situations of war. Discipline, temperance, self-control, and the “courage to obey” play an important role. These qualities are acquired through fasting or lengthy periods of training, preferably starting at a young age, as among the Lacedaemonians and the Carthagenians under King Magon (Diodorus 1933–1967, 2.1; 8.13; 15.16; 19.40; 31.27; 33.18). Diodorous also applauds brave leaders who are loyal to their friends, demonstrate a sense of justice and fairness, and conduct themselves humanely towards the victims of war; only those who freely choose to pursue an unjust war deserve to be punished (Diodorus 1933–1967, 5.57; 9.24; 10.17; 11.67; 13.20, 29; 14.65, 112; 17.38; 31.3; 32.4, 33.17; 34–35.38). Lastly, virtuous rulers observe with the greatest care their obligations to the gods and show respect for people’s temples instead of plundering them. Rulers that combine piety with displays of courage are in a better position to receive assistance from the gods (Diodorus 1933–1967, 14.67; 16.79; 18.25, 28; 20.11). Past rulers who possessed all virtues are the most praiseworthy. Their manly spirit and skill as generals, and their justice and piety as well, have won them fame among practically all men, since they make their appearance as helpers of those who fall into unexpected perils. Moreover, because of their exceptional valour they have been judged to be sons of Zeus, and when they departed from among mankind they attained to immortal honours. (Diodorus 1933–1967, 6.6)

Mytilenean general Pittacus is remembered for being “perfect in respect of every virtue.” He distinguished himself in armed combat and showed statesmanship and prudence. He was a man of his word and had no trace of avarice (Diodorus 1933–1967, 9.11). Likewise, Viriathus, leader of the Lusitanian people, received a resplendent burial on account of his courage but also because he was sober, tireless, vigilant, and “superior to every pleasure.” He was kind and generous to ordinary soldiers and people in need (Diodorus 1933–1967, 33.21).

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Epameinondas is singled out as the one who surpassed all great leaders. The Thebans he led, reputed for their superior bodily strength and love of war, followed his example by constantly practising gymnastics. Epameinondas himself was endowed with great physical advantages and was known for his shrewdness in the art of war and his fairness and condemnation of greed. His moral excellence is attributable to his education, which benefited from his familiarity with Pythagorean philosophy (Diodorus 1933–1967, 12.70; 15.39, 50, 88). Diodorus concedes that inflicting terror and cruel treatment may be needed to protect a dominion against enemy attacks (Diodorus 1933–1967, 4.47). However, courage and intelligence are essential to protecting a people’s freedom and gaining dominion over others. Moderation and consideration for others will in turn contribute to its wider expansion (Diodorus 1933–1967, 32.2). This brings me to a fourth set of propositions and concerns that Diodorus shares with Thucydides: the just rewards of military courage, other than the preservation of freedom and the laws of the land. In History, honour and postmortem fame continue to rank highly on the list of the benefits of brave and heroic conduct. Soldiers risk and offer their lives on the battlefield because of their preference “to die bravely rather than to live shamefully” (Diodorus 1933–1967, 11.11). They will kill themselves and their families to avoid torture and a shameful execution at the hands of the enemy (Diodorus 1933–1967, 25.17; 37.28). For some, a display of manly courage may be a way of restoring the reputation they lost for deserting their post or disobeying orders. Dishonour is seen as the greatest evil and disgrace, a punishment worse than death (Diodorus 1933–1967, 1.78). Honour and glory are so valuable that people never fall so low as to trade proofs of an ancestor’s “undying fame” for money or sell their actual heads, as the Gauls did (Diodorus 1933–1967, 5.29; 13.15). Great heroes will compete for the rewards of fame (Diodorus 1933–1967, 11.27, 33, 55). In the presence of spectators, they are ready to endure everything for the sake of victory. They take risks in the hope that others will emulate their bravery in battle (Diodorus 1933–1967, 11.35; 13.72, 98; 15.80; 17.34; 19.83). Men compete for trophies and glory crowns. But there are more tangible incentives that drive men to act bravely. The Greeks learned from their forefathers that courage is needed to conquer lands. Likewise, money, riches, and wives can be gained by

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performing deeds of courage or winning a competition for bravery. Mercenaries will conduct themselves bravely provided that large sums are put aside for their wages. As for slaves, they can be rewarded and become free citizens after showing their courage in battle (Diodorus 1933–1967, 11.5, 76; 14.26, 53; 16.17; 20.100; 33.4). The last point of convergence between Diodorus and Thucydides relates to the role that fortune and chance events play in shaping human history. Diodorus remarks that his readers might with reason note the inconsistency of Fortune and the strange manner in which human events turn out contrary to expectation. For Agathocles, who was outstanding in courage and who had had a large army fighting in his support, not only was defeated decisively by the barbarians at the Himeras River, but he even lost the strongest and largest part of his army. (Diodorus 1933–1967, 20.30)

Naval battles are particularly difficult to predict. They are full of surprises and accidents that frustrate those who count on their prowess to gain victory (Diodorus 1933–1967, 20.51; 24.11). The uncertainty of Fortune is such that the bravest heroes can be defeated at war and turned into slaves (Diodorus 1933–1967, 14.67; 26.16). For “such is the inconstancy of Fortune and her power; unpredictably she brings about the collapse of all human pretensions” (Diodorus 1933–1967, 32.23; see 17.38). Although valour is essential to many victories, there are times when it is simply abandoned by Fortune (Diodorus 1933–1967, 3.18; 12.79). Retreat may be the only way out, and bad fortune must be endured with a noble spirit (Diodorus 1933–1967, 14.5). This raises a basic question that concerns the relative weight of martial courage in relation to Fortune and the many circumstances of history, notably the size of an army in battle. Thucydides addressed the same issue and concurred that an army is more likely to win if it is superior in more than one respect. Being well equipped with arms (such as large shields) can tip the balance (Diodorus 1933–1967, 11.7; 14.25; 15.85). Likewise, superior numbers can determine the outcome, especially when armies are equal in courage, as is often the case (Diodorus 1933–1967, 16.12, 85; 17.45; 18.21, 45; 11.13, 79; 12.74; 17.26). Logically, valour combined with numbers is the preferred scenario (Diodorus 1933–1967, 15.85; 16.35).

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At the risk of contradicting himself, Diodorus nonetheless insists that courage matters more than numbers, weapons, or the whims of Fortune (Diodorus 1933–1967, 15.54). His feeling of admiration for Homeric heroism echoes the sentiments of Herodotus and is expressed in different ways. Many great men in Diodorus’ account of world history follow Heracles’ example: they become generals or rulers primarily because of their valour (Diodorus 1933–1967, 4.41; 17.6; 20.22). Many people “choose for their kings men of unusual valour, judging that the most efficient in war are alone worthy to receive the meed of honour” (Diodorus 1933–1967, 3.9). The size of an army matters less than the courage of its soldiers and leaders; because of their fear, a multitude of doves cannot turn around and overcome the single hawk that pursues them (Diodorus 1933–1967, 9.30). Diodorus never tires of repeating that victory is won by courage and not by the superiority of numbers. Valour decides the issue of war and wins the approval of men (Diodorus 1933–1967, 10.34; 11.7, 11, 74, 77, 81; 12.41, 79, 80; 14.24, 60; 15.63, 93; 19.16, 30; 20.38; 37.21). It is because of their valour that people remain forever unconquered (Diodorus 1933–1967, 19.15; 27.111). To be sure, being superior in many respects is the preferred option, even more so as having many advantages will muster an army’s resolve and courage in battle. But even when the odds are clearly against them, courage can accomplish remarkable things. Diodorous calls this “desperate courage,” the kind that is most daring if not reckless, freeing a fury that wreaks vengeance and terrifies the enemy (Diodorus 1933–1967, 11.6; 12.43; 14.27; 16.15; 17.84; 18.22; 23.15; 30.12; 37.21). Inspired by the heroic age, Diodorus parts company with Thucydides in another important respect: the attention he pays to the deeds and characters of epic poetry. In the first section of his work, he tells the stories of the divine Dionysus and his valour in slaying the Earth-born monster Campé. “Over the monster which he had killed he also erected an enormous mound, wishing to leave behind him an immortal memorial of his personal bravery, and this mound remained until comparatively recent times” (Diodorus 1933–1967, 3.72). He also recalls the events that took place when Heracles fought on the side of the gods, slew most of the Giants, and received the honour of becoming an Olympian for his courage. He in turn crowned Telamon, the son of King Aeacus, because of his valour in being the first to force his way into the city of Troy. Young

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Meleager, the son of Oeneus, showed equal courage by slaying the gigantic Calydonian boar. He received a reward for his valour, which he gave to Atalanté, the woman he loved, much to the displeasure of the sons of Thestius (Diodorus 1933–1967, 4.14, 21, 31, 32, 34). Even though the historian is aware that there is “disagreement among the writers of myths,” he goes on to tell how a shepherd named Dracon bravely slew anyone who might threaten to carry off the sheep living in the Libyan garden of the Hesperides (Diodorus 1933–1967, 4.26). As in Greek mythology, History pays special attention to the valour and prowess of female warriors and rulers from various parts of the world. Zarina, ruler of the nomadic Sacae, is one of them. She “was devoted to warfare and was in daring and efficiency by far the foremost of the women of the Sacae,” women who shared with their husbands the dangers of war. She founded many cities and introduced civilised life into her realm (Diodorus 1933–1967, 2.33). Scythia was once ruled by women who were trained for war and endowed with exceptional valour and wisdom equal to men’s (Diodorus 1933–1967, 2.44). The Amazons also come to mind here. Their deeds and virtues are so remarkable that they resemble “a tale from mythology.” They developed a “superior race” where women held supreme power and fought wars side by side with men. Many cities founded by the Amazons were named after their most important female commanders, such as Cymé, Pitana, and Priené. One woman distinguished herself for her remarkable intelligence and ability as a general. Her strength and prowess on the battlefield led her to form an army of women and train them in the use of arms. She proclaimed herself the Daughter of Ares and subdued many cities and nations. She passed many laws, founded a great city named Themiscyra, and reduced men to slavery or relegated them to domestic duties such as spinning (Diodorus 1933–1967, 2.45; 3.53, 55). The Amazons followed in the footsteps of the great goddess Athena, who clung to her virginity, cultivated the arts of war, and used her intelligence and manly courage to slay the frightful monster Aegis. She also “excelled in virtue and invented most of the crafts, since she was exceedingly ready of wit” (Diodorus 1933–1967, 3.70–71). The Lybian Gorgons also had warlike women admired for their manly vigour. This is a far cry from “the nature of the women of our day”

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(Diodorus 1933–1967, 3.52). But there are some exceptions. The savage women of Gaul enjoy a similar reputation. They “are not only like the men in their great stature but they are a match for them in courage” (Diodorus 1933–1967, 5.32). The interest that Diodorus shows for exceptional women endowed with manly attributes was widespread in ancient Greece. One story told by the historian stands out. It centres on Heräis and his husband, Samiades, who goes on a long journey a year after the wedding. In the meantime, Heräis develops a tumour that grows and eventually bursts, revealing male genitalia hiding in the swelling. The mother and maidservants decide to keep this a secret and surmise that the husband has engaged in homosexual acts with his hermaphrodite wife. Upon his return, the husband pressures his wife to have sex with him, in vain. He asks Heräis’ father to intervene, but the father-in-law refuses because he is too embarrassed to tell the truth. Samiades brings a suit against his father-in-law, and, after hearing the case, the court decides that it is the woman’s duty to attend to her husband. Resolved to fight it out, Heräis finds the courage to undress herself and, despite her shame, argues that no one should require a man to cohabit with another man. The debate is resolved in her favour. Following this, Heräis dresses as a young man, has surgery to get “the male organ in decent shape,” takes the name Diophantus, and joins the cavalry. Diophantus accompanies Alexander in his withdrawal to Abae, which is where the king is later assassinated. According to Diodorus, this is the story of a woman who “took on man’s courage and renown” and a man who “proved to be less strong-minded than a woman” (Diodorus 1933–1967, 32.10). Like Herodotus, Diodorus blurs the distinction between history and mythology. When it comes to courage, he also blurs the division between genders and is open to the idea that women can conduct themselves as men. His perspective on gender roles is not, for all that, politically subversive. Manliness remains the standard of reference. Also, exceptional cases that deviate from the norm belong to the legendary past or characterise people who live in unusual circumstances or remote places. In their own way, they validate the reign of “manly men” that live in the homeland and in present times.

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The Laws of Physis: From Hippocrates to Galen Ancient historians examined how natural bravery, patriotism, rational thought, and the fight for freedom were all connected. Hippocrates (460–370 BC) also develops a proto-scientific approach to the subject, but with less emphasis on political struggles as a guiding principle and more on issues of human health and vitality based on racial differences and the laws of Nature. In Parallel between the Asiatics and the Europeans, the founder of the Hippocratic School of Medicine takes an interest in the issue of courage, viewing it as an object of factual investigation. True to his own world, he clings to the Homeric notion of martial courage, which comes naturally to some people but not to others. He nonetheless puts aside the literary epic genre and advances his own observations about some people’s natural inclination to fight with superior courage. His thinking revolves around the link between climate and temperament. His view is that regions of the world characterised by greater uniformity of seasons are bereft of the virtues of Greek life and excellence in character. Located somewhere between the extremes of hot and cold, Egypt, Lybia, and parts of Asia are blessed with an abundance of fine fruit, beautiful trees, rain and spring water, good soil, well-fed cattle, and men that grow fat. These are effects of good weather throughout the year. They account for the fact that people are more amiable, more peaceful, and less prone to anger. However, courage, patience, steady application, and firmness of mind, find no existence there, nor can the love of their own species predominate. Pleasure alone exerts an absolute control, and gives origin to the many monsters observable among brutes. (Hippocrates 1846, 3254)

The uniformity of seasons induces indolence and cowardice. Since they are not accustomed to facing danger and hardship, people grow up to be lazy, weak, mischievous, unskilled in the arts, and plainly unintelligent. Men are more effeminate and less fit for war. Instead of passing laws to their own advantage and becoming their own masters, they

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readily submit to regal authority and despotic rule. By contrast, “those who inhabit mountainous, barren, rough, and arid countries, with very variable seasons, are naturally tall, laborious, and brave; their character is wild and savage” (Hippocrates 1846, 3367). They have firm and robust bodies, they are strongly opinionated, and they are passionate about everything they do. In a twist of irony that should not be lost on modern readers, environmental factors cause the Greek man to be free-spirited and master of his own life. Outside forces compel him to be free. Natural hardships predispose him to courageously endure suffering and rebel against the imposition of despotic rule, whether it be a cruel master or pleasure exerting absolute control over his life. Weathering the difficulties of life also makes him more intelligent and prone to uphold the “love of his own species” and the passing of laws for the common good. Suffering, endurance, fitness for war, intelligence, self-control, loyalty, and freedom all happen to be central tenets of patriotic courage in classical Greece, themes reduced by Hippocrates to the influence of weather alone. Even when he acts freely, the brave man does not control his destiny. Variations in seasons and harsher surroundings make him what he is. For Hippocrates, medical thinking takes precedence over the poetic imagination. Natural science also dispenses with developing an abstract discourse on the wisdom of Greek virtue. The existential benefits of courage take precedence over the intrinsic merits of moral philosophy and the ideals of democracy. Instead of taking the high road of moral and political theory, Hippocrates attributes all the positive features of the Hellenic character to climatic hardships and the necessity to adapt. Having to brave the forces of Nature compels men to be smart, fight for their freedom, take justice into their own hands, and show discipline in the face of danger. Man’s vital strength and courage to survive in a harsh climate meet the criteria of an overarching principle. It is the footstool of all forms of excellence in life. The long-suffering ethos of Ulyssean inspiration is still maintained, but in scientific garb. While it leaves out the tyranny of fate and the tragedy of death, the approach harkens back to the Homeric theme of brave hearts that are courageous by nature and thrive as they meet adversity with remarkable confidence.

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Many centuries will pass before the natural science of courage is given serious consideration. The later writings of the Greek physician and philosopher Galen (129–c. 216 AD) will eventually serve as an important bridge by promoting medical theory and practice in mediaeval Europe up until the mid-seventeenth century. Galen has little to say about courage, yet his perspective on the subject is noteworthy for anticipating the modern notion of Homo faber—the idea that humans can control their fate and environment through the creation and use of hand-made tools. In his remarkable treatise On the Hand, Galen links courage to the human hand, an organ that predisposes humans to act boldly as opposed to being timid and running away swiftly, like the defenceless stag or hare. Arms and hands are for the bold. After Plato and Aristotle, the physician is nonetheless of the view that the human hand is above all the instrument of reason. The organ suits the anatomy of a wise animal, the only divine being on Earth. Because of it, a soldier can use hand-made or hand-held weapons such as darts and arrows, which are superior to hooves and horns. He can also mount a horse and easily escape the mighty lion. He is neither defenceless nor easily wounded. When necessary, he puts on a breastplate of iron, more impenetrable than any hide. Not the breastplate only, but houses, and walls, and castles, are all works of safety for man. If horns, or any other defensive weapon, had been placed by nature in his hand, he could not then have used his hands, to construct houses, erect forts, or forge a spear or breastplate, or other instruments. (Galen 1840, p. 6)

The hand is also directly involved in the production of writing and the many instruments of art. The argument is not that man is the wisest of all animals because he has hands, as Anaxagoras believed. Rather, it is “because he is the wisest animal he has a hand, as most truly Aristotle says.” “For the hands instruct not man in arts, but reason” (Galen 1840, p. 7). One immediate implication of this is that humans can learn through instruction, whereas animals do everything by instinct. The weapons and arts he uses do not come to him naturally because reason is given in their place. “For as the hand is not an

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instrument for any special purpose, because it can well perform the duties of all: it is an instrument for all instruments” (Galen 1840, p. 9). Courage is in the hands of martial heroes, but it is still guided by reason and the powers of the mind. Notwithstanding these remarks, courage is the attribute of men at war. Galen does not stray from a longstanding tradition that celebrates martial bravery grounded in the natural dispositions of the body and the world of physis. Courage may be guided and enhanced by the intellect and the exercise of practical reason, a point stressed in the writings of Thucydides and Diodorus. But the purpose it serves is essentially political and existential, not intellectual or philosophical. As discussed in the two chapters that follow, the Platonic approach to courage is radically different. It elevates the order of epistêmê above all political considerations and the pursuit of wellness in life. The value of wisdom does not reside in the instrumental role it plays in achieving power and well-being. It lies in the goodness of virtue and moral courage for their own sake.

References Archilochos. 1964. Carmina Archilochi: The Fragments of Archilochos. Trans. G. Davenport. Berkeley: University of California Press. Aristophanes. 1992. Aristophanes’ Acharnians. Trans. J.  Henderson. London: Duckworth. Balot, Ryan K. 2014. Courage in the Democratic Polis: Ideology and Critique in Classical Athens. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Diodorus of Sicily. 1933–1967. Diodorus of Sicily in Twelve Volumes. Trans. C.H.  Oldfather (Vol. 1–6), C.I.  Sherman (Vol. 7), C.B.  Welles (Vol. 8), R.M. Geer (Vol. 9–10), F.R. Walton (Vol. 11–12). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Galen. 1840. On the Hand. Trans. T. Bellott and J. Jordan. Publisher unknown. Herodotus. 1920. The Histories. Trans. A.D. Godley. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Hippocrates. 1846. Parallel between the Asiatics and the Europeans. In The Writings of Hippocrates and Galen, trans. J.R. Coxe. Philadephia: Lindsay and Blakiston.

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Homer. 1923. The Iliad. In two volumes. Trans. A.T. Murray. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Paton, W.R. 1919. The Greek Anthology. Vol. II. London: William Heineman. New York: Putnam’s Sons. Thucydides. 1910. The Peloponnesian War. Trans. R.  Crawley. London: J.M. Dent. New York: Dutton. Tyrtaeus. 1862. Martial Fragments of Tyrtaeus. Trans. J.W.  Bailey. London: Harrison. Zavaliy, Andrei G. 2020. Courage and Cowardice in Ancient Greece. Cham, Switzerland: Springer.

4 Wisdom Above Soldierly Courage

The Unity and Rank-ordering of Virtue: Plato Plato (c. 428–c. 348 BC) establishes the Akademia, the first institution of higher learning in the Western world. His teachings move away from the genre of epic poetry and instead focus on rational ways to prepare for war and remedy problems of tyranny and disharmony that undermine city-­ state politics. His overall approach is nonetheless more theoretical than practical. His commitment to the wisdom of philosophy thus departs from works of military history and studies of natural causation and vitality in the realm of physis. The philosopher addresses questions of polis and happiness as a core element of human existence. However, epistemic considerations—knowing the fundamentals and unchanging precepts of moral philosophy—take precedence over political and existential concerns. As a student of Socrates, Plato can be credited for raising a fundamental question that is picked up by many of his students, including Aristotle, and Plato’s detractors alike. The question is simple: What does the word “courage” mean, and how does it connect with other words in the moral domain? This is not the same as asking what courage does for human beings and society, or what causes people to be courageous in the first © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32739-1_4

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place. We know that water comes from the clouds in the sky, and we all agree that it is essential for most animal and plant life. But this tells us nothing about what water is or its actual composition. In Plato’s works, distinctions are made between courage and other virtues, all defining features are provided, and the state and its guardians are entrusted with the obligation to logically unite all expressions of moral goodness. In Statesman, Plato distinguishes courage from its opposite quality, decorum, also called temperance, gentleness, or self-restraint. Courageous behaviour implies quick action, energy, and acuteness of mind, body, and even voice, all of which deserve to be praised. By contrast, decorum means the body and the mind moving quietly and slowly, with restraint and a sense of rhythm; the voice is smooth and deep, almost musical. This is equally good. When left to itself, however, each virtue can have disastrous consequences. Courage without self-restraint leads to license, madness, and violence. Gentleness without courage invites sluggishness and cowardice. Reuniting these two virtues is essential but difficult. People have different inclinations. They tend to mix and marry people of their own kind and teach their children to become like them. Each class of people is prone to quarrelling with those of the opposite class. Some prefer “to live always a quiet and retired life and to mind their own business,” which means “keeping peace in some way or other with foreign states.” Since they are unwarlike, they are at the mercy of aggressors and become easy prey to slavery. The opposite class may be so warlike that they will provoke “hostilities with many powerful opponents and either utterly destroy their native lands or enslave and subject them to their foes” (Plato 1925, 306b–308e, 310d; see Plato 1926a, 696b). To protect itself and its people, the state must see to it that education combines natures with opposite tendencies and weaves them together into a single fabric. Proper teaching unites those natures which tend more towards courage, considering that their character is sturdier, like the warp in weaving, and those which incline towards decorum, for these, to continue the simile, are spun thick and soft like the threads of the woof. (Plato 1925, 309c–d)

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Through the wisdom of higher learning, the courageous soul becomes gentle and just rather than brutal and simple-minded. Reuniting the two virtues can also be obtained by mixing people of opposite kinds and producing an offspring that becomes both brave and self-restrained in the long run. In the end, both categories of people will have the same opinion about the honorable and the good. For indeed the whole business of the kingly weaving is comprised in this and this alone,—in never allowing the self-restrained characters to be separated from the courageous, but in weaving them together by common beliefs and honors and dishonors and opinions and interchanges of pledges, thus making of them a smooth and, as we say, well-woven fabric, and then entrusting to them in common for ever the offices of the state. (Plato 1925, 310e–311a)

State officials are expected to set the example and display both courage and self-restraint. Another option is to have men of each class among their ranks. For the characters of self-restrained officials are exceedingly careful and just and conservative, but they lack keenness and a certain quick and active boldness. The courageous natures, on the other hand, are deficient in justice and caution in comparison with the former, but excel in boldness of action; and unless both these qualities are present it is impossible for a state to be entirely prosperous in public and private matters. (Plato 1925, 311a)

The destiny of a state hinges on the interweaving of men of restrained and courageous characters. This is what holds the fabric of life in a society guided by the principles of wisdom and virtue “as a whole,” under the leadership of those deemed to be wise. On this issue of leadership, The Republic says more about the specific contributions that different classes of society make to promoting wisdom and virtue in social life. Generally speaking, interpreters, teachers, and lawgivers must be living examples of perfect goodness. They should excel in the art of instructing citizens on matters of vice and virtue and rendering justice when laws are broken. Given their expert understanding of all virtues and what unites them, they act as wardens of a state that is intelligent and wise in both words

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and deeds (Plato 1926a, 964b–965d). Wisdom and its teachings tie everything together. By contrast, the virtue of courage has a narrower meaning. It is best exemplified by the conduct of the warriors, or “the brave.” Plato singles out a particular class of brave soldiers, namely the well-to­do that fight on foot or on horseback, as in Homeric times. Unlike poorer rowers that jump off their ship and flee when attacked, foot soldiers and cavalrymen possess expert knowledge and preserve it through the training they receive (Plato 1926a, 4:706). They are educated about fearful things that threaten the city and its people and are responsible for the “unfailing conservation of right and lawful belief about things to be and not to be feared” (Plato 1930, 4:430b). Beasts, children, and slaves may act bravely, naturally, and without reasoning, but they do not possess the courage of free men and educated citizens, who act wisely and rationally by upholding the law and protecting it from external threats. The “perfect goodness” of brave men is such that people do not lightly provoke them to war. By preparing them for war, a “perfectly good state” is sure to display courage when fighting the enemy. This enables the city-state to secure a life of peace, “but if bad, a life of war both abroad and at home” (Plato 1926a, 829e, 963c). Courageous souls distinguish themselves from cowards and brutes in the way they face external dangers. They also have a different way of dealing with threats from within, i.e., by not becoming slaves to the lure of pleasures associated with the body. Those who fall prey to inward threats are in no position to keep guard against the enemy from without and, by their courage, execute the ruler’s designs. Brave, too, then, I take it, we call each individual by virtue of this part in him, when, namely, his high spirit preserves in the midst of pains and pleasures the rule handed down by the reason as to what is or is not to be feared. (Plato 1930, 442c)

Plato thus extends the notion of courage to include the capacity to endure fear and pain and to resist desires and pleasures, “with their dangerous enticements and flatteries, which melt men’s hearts like wax” (Plato 1926a, 633d). Courageous souls rise above both pains and

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pleasures and show resistance instead of being mastered by them. Failing this, they become “self-inferiors.” This does not mean that free men must abstain from all pleasures and amusements, fighting them stubbornly as if they were mortal enemies. Rather, while external aggressors must be fought in all possible ways, enemies from within the soul should be courted on occasion. After all, brave souls cannot display temperance and self-restraint if they are never tested. From early on in life, citizens must learn to conquer the fears that assail them, including the fear of death. But they must also know the pleasures they are expected to conquer. Drinking wine in moderation is a good place to start; the gesture is relatively harmless and cheap. People should not shun festive events either. Those who do become mean-spirited and misanthropic. The same reasoning applies to men who participate in sporting events but abstain from sex. If they never experience the greatest pleasures, they cannot be “trained in the duty of resisting them.” Like those whose lives are dominated by fear, they would become inferior to free men and brave souls who have learned to master their impulses. They also become easy prey for those who are wholly vicious and versed in the art of pleasure (Plato 1926a, 634b–c, 649–e, 791d, 816a, 839e, 959b). In short, it takes courage to practise temperance with moderation. Plato’s notion of brave resistance to the lure of pleasure blurs the line between courage and the opposite disposition, temperance. He also extends the virtue of courage to judges who discharge their duties through careful verdicts, doing so without yielding “to the uproar of the crowd or his own lack of education” (Plato 1926a, 659a). Courage gets entangled with expressions of temperance and justice. The unity of virtue is reinforced by confusing the knowledge of each disposition. This brings us to a fundamental problem with Plato’s theory of the interweaving of virtues. For all virtues to unite, they have to rally around a common vision of what the generic term means above all. Elucidating this higher notion of virtue is a conundrum: the task cannot be completed without using words and ideas that give greater weight to one moral quality over others. Plato’s solution to this problem revolves around the rank-ordering of virtues: one virtue pulls rank over others and takes on the task of achieving unity. Some offshoots of virtue stand tall and strong in the realm of platonic goodness. In the Laws, the philosopher

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makes it clear that virtues are distinct and form a hierarchy at the same time. Courage comes only fourth, after wisdom, rational temperance, and justice. This is because courage on its own is not as good as when it is properly mixed with higher-ranking virtues. Men going to war are expected to act bravely, but they also must be good in all other respects if they are to be noble soldiers and abide by the rule of loyalty in danger. Failing this, warriors will do things that are reckless, unjust, violent, and utterly foolish. Courage that fails to counter injustice is unwise and should never receive praise (Plato 1926a, 630a–c, 631d, 667a, 669b; 1926b, 413). Plato’s understanding of courage integrates the knowledge and practice of all virtues and subordinates them to the unifying rule of wisdom. The intellect comes first and guides all actions; logos rules, and the doing of ergon follows. Wisdom becomes synonymous with virtue in general and is “the greatest part of virtue as a whole” (Plato 1927, 977d; see 1926a, 963c, 965a; 1930, 429a). Without it, people cannot achieve the perfect goodness that leads to happiness in life. Wisdom as a whole resembles a golden ingot or alloy composed of different ingredients that mix intimately. Courage and self-restraint are part of the alloy. Wisdom dictates that all ingredients be appropriately balanced so that individual souls and the state can achieve complete goodness in everything they do. The logic Plato applies to courage and virtue as a whole is convoluted. In his defence, the strategy he uses, which consists of letting one part represent the whole, is not uncommon. Distinctions and connections between signs in language are never just horizontal, and they never act as equals in the mind. More often than not, they are plotted along a vertical axis where some are elevated above others, mostly for reasons that relate to conceptions of the good life. Examples of this, explored elsewhere (Chevalier 2002, pp.  63–64), are many. In the English language, the opposition between life and death is part of a broader noun category known as the “cycle of life.” The broader umbrella expression is a euphemism; the generic term gives preferential treatment to one lower-class term over its opposite. The cycle of life wishfully elevates life above death. It treats life as a higher-order idea that combines opposites without eliminating them.

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Higher-class terms do not simply represent shifts in levels of abstraction. They also propose shifts in attentionality, i.e., paying more attention and giving more weight to specific terms chosen from the rank and file. The superior value we grant to life over death is inscribed in the vernacular. Other illustrations of this abound. For instance, the one-day cycle is a higher-order measurement that conveys our preference for brightness and daytime over dimness and nighttime. Likewise, measures of height, length, breadth, and depth are logical categories that stand above and subsume the qualities of things classified as small, short, narrow, and shallow. Hierarchy in logic points to what matters most. The prefixes -un and -dis commonly used in the English language lend themselves to similar preferential treatments by marking the lack of what is deemed more desirable. By way of example, brave hearts reputed for their wisdom, courage, loyalty, and fairness do whatever it takes not to feel dis-couraged or tempted by what is considered un-wise, un-fair, dis-loyal, or dis-honourable. But rank-ordering in Plato’s discussion of courage and other virtues is not merely a matter of semantics and the framing of desire. The question is also deeply political. Those who possess greater wisdom, be they men or women, are in a better position to govern Athens (Plato 1930, 5:451c–457b). They stand above warriors and most people who may be inclined to commit acts of cruelty and go to war out of greed or sheer ignorance. In the end, philosophers are best qualified to become kings. Alternatively, kings and rulers should dedicate themselves to the pursuit of philosophical wisdom. In either case, political power and philosophy must merge seamlessly. Wise governance is an ideal that “the motley horde” of people of different natures and different classes cannot possibly reach (Plato 1930, 473d). Why? Because governing is like sailing and healing. Just as captains know how to navigate a vessel and doctors know how to instruct their patients on matters of health, philosopher kings are best qualified to run the affairs of the state. “For it is not the natural course of things that the pilot should beg the sailors to be ruled by him, or that wise men should go to the doors of the rich.” Nor does it make sense for the wise ruler to “implore his natural subjects to let themselves be ruled, if he is really good for anything” (Plato 1930, 6:489b).

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It follows from this that democracy is not the wisest form of government. Actually, as far as Plato is concerned, the fact that tyranny is an “outgrowth of democracy is fairly plain” (Plato 1930, 8:562a). Democratic man is essentially unruly. His actions are primarily driven by the satisfaction of unnecessary desires, such as acquiring all the things that can be bought with money and doing whatever he wants whenever he wants. He is an easy target for the wealthy would-be tyrant who offers himself as the protector of the people and manoeuvres his way into political office. It is the “way of a demos to put forward one man as its special champion and protector and cherish and magnify him” (Plato 1930, 8:565d). Philosopher kings, on the other hand, are fit for the throne because they live modest lives and have a passion for learning and wisdom that surpasses that of the common man. Plato’s brilliant writings set the stage for a long history of theories of courage. His stance on the subject is nonetheless riddled with problems. Is courage a civic disposition, or is it a virtue best shown by soldiers trained to wage war against external threats to the rule of law? Also, to what extent is courage distinct from wisdom, temperance, and justice? We are told that state guardians, soldiers, and citizens must be wise, brave, sober, and just. But being wise is synonymous with virtue, showing self-restraint is essential to any brave action, and being “reasonably sober” (in the enjoyment of food and sex) is a mark of wisdom and a sign of courage on its own. The four ingredients of Plato’s moral alloy are practically indistinguishable. The overall colour of the alloy is the only clear message: politics takes on the predominate hue of wisdom and the rule of the wise above everything else. Plato has little sympathy for the motley horde of people governing themselves through democracy. Nor is he fond of theories of goodness based on opinions and convictions devoid of logical harmony and hierarchy. Contemporary orators that share his predilection for well-founded laws of the intellect might reproach him for the confusion and riddles at the core of his thinking. Most would nonetheless share his propensity to cultivate perfect lines of logical thinking. This is what Isocrates seeks, if only modestly, by elevating wisdom to even greater heights and pushing courage lower in the layering of virtues. As I explain below, Lysias offers yet another vision of the order of virtue, one that stresses the interlacing

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of courage, wisdom, and justice, creating a system where, to paraphrase Anaxagoras (c. 500–c. 428 BC), “every good thing is in everything that is good.”

 ducation and Battles for Justice: Isocrates E and Lysias Isocrates (436–338 BC) is a contemporary of Plato and one of the most influential Greek orators of his time. When it comes to the subject of courage, his speeches do not diverge significantly from Plato’s eulogy of brave warriors. Courage is the virtue of kings and soldiers risking or losing their lives at war as they defend their fatherland and loved ones (Isocrates 1980, 1:3–5; 2:36; 4:71–73, 97; 6:60, 83; 9:23, 65; 10:31). However, his take on the interweavings of courage and wisdom achieved through education strays from Platonic philosophy. Whatever role it may play in the alloy or ingot of virtue, courage is always susceptible to corruption and abuse, he argues. It also matters less in the larger scheme of things. More interested in writing speeches and doing business than going to war, the orator is critical of the brutishness that resides in the souls of uneducated men. Education is the source of higher virtues. It is so powerful that it can be used to implant gentleness in wild beasts such as lions (Isocrates 1980, 15:213–14). In the end, courage has little weight in the balance of a gentleman’s intellectual education. What distinguishes good and noble souls lies not in courage, which is “shared by many among the base,” but rather other virtues such as justice and temperance, not to mention the intelligence of beautiful and artistic speech (Isocrates 1980, 3:43; 4:48–49). Isocrates is particularly critical of self-seeking men who are bent on war, letting oracles and depraved orators convince them that they will prevail easily over their foes. Men addicted to war plunge their fellow citizens, allied states, and the rest of the world into great disasters (Isocrates 1980, 8:8, 12–13, 97–100). Their folly is attributable to their greed and the illusion that injustice works to their advantage or that war is the best way to amass more wealth. In reality, the people of Athens stand to gain

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more by making peace and improving their reputation (Isocrates 1980, 8:17–18, 22–23, 26, 36–37; 12:242–43). Peace, justice, and self-restraint are more profitable in the long run. Of course, when threatened by potential invaders, Athenians must prepare for war instead of succumbing to laziness, indiscipline, and cowardice (Isocrates 1980, 7:76, 7:2). They must be the opposite of the Persians, “a mob without discipline or experience of dangers, which has lost all stamina for war and has been trained more effectively for servitude than are the slaves in our country” (Isocrates 1980, 4:150). But wisdom remains the ideal way to preserve their freedom and wealth. This is what the forefathers of Athens did. They remained steadfast in the character which they had because of the excellence of their government, taking more pride in their state of soul and in the quality of their minds than in the battles which had been fought, and being more admired by the rest of the world because of this self-control and moderation than because of the bravery displayed in their perils. (Isocrates 1980, 12:197)

Virtuous conduct is the source of all happiness and goodness in life. In the end, however, all virtues must be guided by the wisdom of knowing, which stands as the highest achievement in life. Those who have no care for their own state of mind rob themselves of the means needed to advance in wisdom and wellbeing (Isocrates 1980, 8:32). The speechwriter and orator Lysias (c. 445–c. 380 BC) also embraces the wisdom-based idea of courage. However, unlike Isocrates, he repeatedly extols deeds of military valour. He praises the worthiness of all men of noble stock and fallen soldiers who defeat the invaders and willingly choose death with freedom over life with slavery, in defence of the whole of Greece (Lysias 1930, 2:20, 50–53, 62, 69). These brave men fight out of anger against the enemy, preferring to die in their own country rather than live in a foreign land. They die not out of vengeance but rather for the sake of honour, which is every man’s envy. Their primary motivation is “not committing their career to chance, nor awaiting the death that comes of itself, but selecting the fairest one of all” (Lysias 1930, 2:79). In his speech on the fearless Amazons who rallied other tribes to march against Athens, Lysias makes it clear that martial courage is and will

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remain a prerogative of the male sex. The legendary daughters of Ares, known as the Amazons, had iron weapons, rode on horses, ruled over many races, and enslaved their neighbours. They were regarded as men for their high courage, not as women for their sex (Lysias 1930, 2:4). But the weakness of their sex caught up with them. They encountered brave men who brought back the true nature of their female spirit, matching it with their bodies and weaker sex. The female warriors lost the battle and their lives, leaving them no chance to learn from their mistakes. Instead, “they perished on the spot, and were punished for their folly, thus making our city’s memory imperishable for its valor.” The women, “by their unjust greed for others’ land, justly lost their own” (Lysias 1930, 2:6). By revisiting the memory of the mighty Amazons, Lysias does not wish to put women on the same footing as men. On the contrary, his purpose is to educate the living by recounting glorious events that all men ought to remember. As Balot puts it, his recollection of past ordeals reminds men of the importance of conquering and subordinating women in order to protect their own valour and freedom against all threats, real or imagined (Balot 2014, p. 257). The lesson is that “in manhood they preserved that ancient fame intact and displayed their own prowess” (Lysias 1930, 2:69). Lysias is committed to the ideals of rational thinking and deliberation based on the manly rule of law and justice. The latter rule, he points out, brings its own dangers, and requires as much courage and endurance as on the battlefield. The ethos of courage is thus enlarged to include the requirements of political office. In their own way, courtroom battles resemble scenes of armed conflict and military campaigns (Lysias 1930, 10:24–25). Citizens prove their worth as fighting men, and jurors as just men. They do so because they have “more reverence for their city’s laws than fear of their perils in face of the enemy” (Lysias 1930, 2:25; see 14:45). In keeping with these principles, men of valour are those who “surpass all mankind, whether in their counsels or in the perils of that war” (Lysias 1930, 2:40). Men seeking political office are aware of the courage required to exercise authority. In his public hearing, the aristocrat Mantitheus takes great pains to show a record of heroic service in the infantry and his unfaltering loyalty to Athens. This is the only way he can convince his fellow citizens of his worthiness and ability to counsel the city and manage the affairs of

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government. If he is to be trusted, he must prove that he does not run away from danger and can face the enemy at great risk to himself. In every other campaign or outpost I have never once failed in my duty, but have adhered throughout to my rule of marching out in the first rank and retreating in the last. Surely it is by such conduct that one ought to judge who are the aspiring and orderly subjects of the State. (Lysias 1930, 16:18)

Men may demonstrate courage in war and in politics on one condition: their words and deeds must consciously serve the rule of reason, law, and justice. Martial valour and the exercise of reason, according to Thucydides, are both required to protect democracy and the liberty of all against external oppression and injustice (Lysias 1930, 2:13–14, 17–19). The approach highlights the imperative of sound learning and reasoning in the service of noble political goals. The sentiments are coherent and a tribute to the ideals of the Age of Pericles. However, they return us to a fundamental puzzle: if being brave is being wise and being just, then all qualities are identical. We know what virtue does on the whole, but there is still a lack of clarity about what each component contributes. For the moment, courage is part of a fine exercise in tautology, not a lower-­quality metal that mixes with a more valuable one, namely wisdom, as Plato suggests. A framework for understanding the specific properties of courage is still missing. The great Aristotle, the founder of the Peripatetic school, was the first philosopher to provide a clear and practical answer to this puzzle.

Aristotle’s Happy Mean A member of Plato’s Academy in Athens, Aristotle (384–322 BC) continues to emphasise the intellectual foundations of wisdom-based virtue and their role in supporting the political struggles of free men. He nonetheless shifts the imperative of courage from Plato’s ideal city-state governed by philosophers to a practical and personal form of training in wisdom. In the face of grave danger, Aristotelian courage means using one’s intellect to find the “happy medium” between being too bold and being too

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fearful, always with an eye towards a noble goal within a wide range of possible outcomes. In Nicomachean Ethics, the philosopher addresses the formal features of courage, starting with the kind of situation that is consistent with its spirit (Aristotle 1934, 2:2, 7; 3:6–9). For someone to exhibit courage, the situation must involve two things: terrible danger and great suffering (see also Aristotle 1935, 3:1229b). Minor fears and pains, such as losing money or not being loved, do not qualify as terrible things, even when they are perceived as such. Situations involving great suffering and the loss of life, such as death on the battlefield, create the conditions for demonstrations of true courage. An act of courage may of course lead to great satisfaction or joy; a courageous soldier can rejoice if he wins the battle. This is only normal; after all, happiness attained through virtue is the ultimate goal in life. Unlike other virtues, however, having courage is painful while it lasts and may lead to the loss of life. Men with experience, skill, and knowledge in the art of war seem brave to less experienced soldiers. But appearances are deceiving. According to Aristotle, the situation they face poses no threat. If they are fearless, it is because the odds are in their favour. When the odds turn against them, their true character is revealed: “Professional soldiers prove cowards when the danger imposes too great a strain and when they are at a disadvantage in numbers and equipment; for they are the first to run away, while citizen troops stand their ground and die fighting” (Aristotle 1934, 3:8). Thus, the notion that courage is found in technical and tactical knowledge, an idea that Aristotle wrongly attributes to Socrates, is unfounded. Those who are fearless and “face dangers because of experience are not brave” (Aristotle 1935, 3:1230a). To be brave, one must experience fear and, most importantly, keep it under control. The proper character of a courageous man is, therefore, the middle state. The brave man is not so daring and out of his mind as to ignore the fear of danger. Nor is he so fearful and cowardly as to run away from everything, including those terrible things and sufferings that soldiers encounter when going to war (Aristotle 1935, 3:1228a–b). Facing fear and suffering is what brave men do, as they must. The definition is clear, and courage is well extracted from the alloy of virtue. Through another line of logic, however, Aristotle finds his way back to a

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wisdom-based understanding of courage. In his view, for people to display courage in situations of great danger, they must adopt a particular kind of response or stance. First of all, they must show a clear understanding of the danger that lies ahead. This is not the case for those who lack the information or knowledge needed to assess the situation and the risks involved. Boldness through ignorance is not a virtue. People who are so ignorant as to fear nothing cannot demonstrate courage. They are inclined to act without thinking, out of passion, a quest for vengeance, or a sanguine view of the situation and its probable outcome. Like animals and drunken men, they are driven by their instincts and act foolishly and rashly. They are not to be considered courageous for rushing upon danger when spurred by pain and anger, and blind to the dangers that await them; since on that reckoning even asses would be brave, when they are hungry, for no blows will make them stop grazing! And adulterers also are led to do many daring things by lust. (Aristotle 1934, 3:8)

Daredevils turn into cowards when the situation is no longer what it seems. They flee as soon as they become aware of the danger that threatens them. Secondly, to act courageously, people must choose to endure pain while they stand their ground and experience terrible things, knowingly and willingly. They decide not to run away from pain out of cowardice or despair. Nor do they rush into it out of passion or anger. Again, fearing everything and fearing nothing are two extremes that are equally reproachable. The virtue of courage provides the “happy medium” between dread and dare, i.e., between fear and confidence, or cowardice and rashness. Aristotle reiterates this view when he writes about those who go to battle because they fear the penalties imposed by law; they act out of fear, not courage. The same may be said of those who despair and prefer to die instead of facing poverty, sickness, or the loss of love: they lack the courage to endure the pains of life. Thirdly, like all other virtues, courage is a hard-won disposition acquired through training and habituation. It increases with repeated acts of courage in the face of terrible things; people become what they

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repeatedly do. “We become brave by training ourselves to despise and endure terrors, and we shall be best able to endure terrors when we have become brave” (Aristotle 1934, 2:2.9). This habituation process, however, can do no more than enhance the natural dispositions of select men and only men. Native courage expresses itself in different ways and to different degrees, depending on one’s race, gender, and station in life. For instance, the northern nations are brave but ignorant; they can protect their freedom but are unable to participate in political life (Aristotle 1932, 7:1327b). Aristotle applies the same judgement to subjects, slaves, women, and children: since they lack freedom, authority, wisdom, or maturity, they cannot display the same level of courage as masters and freemen who fulfil their higher duties. The glory in a woman who obeys and remains silent is not the same as courage in commanding, “for a man would be thought a coward if he were only as brave as a brave woman” (Aristotle 1932, 3:1277b). In the end, true courage is of no use in daily life and is needed only by some men and city-states engaging in war. Last but not least, for people to show courage in the face of terrible things, they must “endure them as principle dictates, for the sake of what is noble; for that is the end at which virtue aims” (Aristotle 1934, 3:7). The end goal of a courageous act must be honour and nothing else; it cannot be to make money or any other reward, for instance (Aristotle 1932, 2:1271b). Courage is following reason, and “reason bids us choose what is fine.” Men who run away from everything have this in common with those who constantly expose themselves to danger and fear nothing: they lack reason and fail to do what they ought to be doing. The coward, therefore, fears even things that he ought not to fear, and the daring man is bold even about things about which he ought not to be bold, but the brave man alone does both as he ought, and is intermediate in this respect, for he feels both confidence and fear about what ever things reason bids; but reason does not bid him endure things that are extremely painful and destructive, unless they are fine. (Aristotle 1935, 3:1229a)

True courage cannot be of the civic kind, i.e., motivated by the fear of being shamed or punished by the courts of law (Aristotle 1934, 3:8; 1935, 3:1230a). Nor should it be confused with the kind of daring that

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is shown by inexperienced youths or adults that trust their luck or are under the influence of alcohol, anger, or wild passion (Aristotle 1935, 3:1229a–b). These lower forms of courage are useful in situations of danger; anger may inspire courage. But they fall short of the standards of excellence expected of good men who care about few things and only “those great ones” that matter most in the end (Aristotle 1935, 3:1232b). The best examples of courage are deaths in battle motivated by a lofty goal. While courage may be inspired by natural anger and “high spirit,” it becomes noble only when reinforced by deliberate choice and a moral end. Getting “angry at things at which it is right to be angry” is essential, but the real motive of courageous men is the noble cause they serve (Aristotle 1934, 1116b–1117a, 1126a). Accordingly, brave soldiers who are willing to sacrifice their lives while fulfilling their patriotic duty and defending their city-state (Gr. polis) and friends (Gr. philoi) deserve the highest honours. Their sacrifice is essential to the well-being of the state and must be rewarded. Rulers are also expected to nobly serve their country. In Politics, Aristotle argues that a good ruler should not act as a tyrant who remains on “his guard against anything which is likely to inspire either courage or confidence among his subjects” (Aristotle 1932, 5:1314a). Nor should he condone a crass imperial policy that promotes war with no other view than conquering neighbouring people and lands (Aristotle 1932, 1333b). Noble daring assumes the exercise of virtue and sound judgement on the part of all citizens and rulers, a fundamental aspiration of Athenian democracy. Courage, a natural disposition characteristic of Athenian warriors, turns into “excellence of character” provided the latter are trained to face terrible danger and willingly choose to experience pain and fear for noble ends, acting out of duty. The choice made must be demonstrated through acts and deeds; knowledge of good and evil and the goodness of one’s soul must translate into action. Contrary to what Socrates teaches in the Laches, wisdom is not a guarantee of virtuous behaviour. The “aim is not to know what courage is but to be courageous, not to know what justice is but to be just, in the same way as we want to be healthy rather than to ascertain what health is” (Aristotle 1935, 1:1216b).

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Like Plato, Aristotle recognises that a regime governed by its people has basic flaws: most people’s emotions are never fully educated, and the fear of punishment must be maintained (Aristotle 1934, 1180a). As Lysias remarks, fearing the city’s laws more than the enemy is a good way to prevent soldiers from deserting their ranks (Lysias 1930, 14:15). All the same, there is an advantage in uniting all free citizens and trusting each to possess and contribute some portion of virtue and wisdom. The multitude can then act like a single man who has many feet, many hands, and many senses. The citizenry becomes one body, i.e., one personality as regards the moral and intellectual faculties. This is why the general public is a better judge of the works of music and those of the poets, because different men can judge a different part of the performance, and all of them all of it. (Aristotle 1932, 3:1281b)

This is Aristotle’s summation argument: summing up citizens and their virtues towards achieving a life of human flourishing for the good of all. While monarchy and aristocracy have certain advantages, in the end, “polity,” understood as rule by a majority, is the best form of government in the interests of all. Aristotle distinguishes himself from Plato by offering a practical view of courage and wisdom. His approach emphasises the role that clear understanding, prudent action, and effective learning and training play when soldiers face terrible danger and pain in pursuit of noble ends and the protection of Athenian democracy. While courage must be demonstrated in deeds, it must grow out of experience and repeated action through a process of habituation and become an art of living. Rational thinking guides the process through the application of prudence. This is phronetic wisdom: prudential reasoning is applied to concrete circumstances with the aim of finding the middle point between extremes, such as too much bravery and too little of it, or rashness and cowardice. The intellect thus plays a determining role in the moral determination of means and ends, based on training, experience, and deliberative thinking. All virtues must pass the same test of prudence. However, they do not depend on each other or form a perfect symbiosis. Also, prudential wisdom that goes beyond popular opinion should not be confused with

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Plato’s grasp of first principles and truths that always hold true regardless of the situation. Plato’s Academy was in a sacred grove. One can imagine generations of students sitting under its magnificent plane trees discussing the perfect wisdom of Athena and conceiving an ideal park with monuments to her fourfold virtue, her king philosopher, and heroic commanders under his rule. The vision comes true in the monumental gardens and parks that flourished in the Hellenistic period, inspired by the Near-Eastern tradition of gardening brought back by the armies of Alexander the Great. About seven kilometres away from Plato’s Academy, the followers of Aristotle would choose instead to walk through the Lyceum’s Garden and reflect on the actual practice of planting and growing olive trees. Work bears fruit as long as it is performed skillfully, never giving in to the lush and leafy or the rule of passion and extremes. But while seeking balance and harmony in all things, Aristotle’s Garden remains a bit untidy and messy. His cultivation of five intellectual virtues (wisdom, understanding, knowledge, craftsmanship, and prudence) and nine specific moral virtues lacks elegance. The system does not provide systematic refutations of competing views, like the Socratic Laches. Nor does it dwell on the tragedies of life. Aristotle and Plato would have reason to express doubt about goodness in this world. Plato was sold as a slave, and Aristotle feared that he would suffer the same fate as Socrates. All eventually died, and their gardens and schools withered away, as all do. Yet neither of them saw much point in underscoring or sublimating the darker aspects of human existence, let alone gushing about their passion for life. As we know, the question of whether their positive outlook on life demonstrates courage or a lack of it is still up for dispute.

The Art of Persuasion: Demosthenes In this study, I resist the temptation of drawing a logical tree of theories of courage. The exercise would be superficial, and the tree would be artificial. Instead, I examine a wide array of unique varieties, hybrid forms, and symbiotic associations of ideas. They are more representative of theories of courage than any Linnaean-like categorisation of systems of ethics.

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As an example, Vitruvius’ (c. 80/70–15 BC) brief commentary on courage is an offshoot of Hippocratic thinking planted in Aristotelian soil. In The Ten Books on Architecture, the first-century Roman architect and engineer depicts southern nations as having wits but no valour “because all manliness of spirit is sucked out of them by the sun.” By contrast, men born in cold countries are fearless, but “their wits are so slow that they will rush to the charge inconsiderately and inexpertly, thus defeating their own devices.” This is how the universe is built, with different nations lacking moderation in one virtue or another. The territory occupied by the Romans is a model of balance and perfection. Situated under the middle of the heaven, it brings together people from all climates and lands (Vitruvius 1914, 6:1.10). The views developed by Demosthenes (c. 384–c. 322 BC) point to another hybrid, symptomatic of the richness of moral thinking in classical Greece. Despite the speech impairment he had as a boy, this fourth-­ century statesman of Athens and son of a wealthy sword maker became a great orator remembered for his opposition to the growing power of King Philip II of Macedon. In his speeches, he adopts the classical Greek perspective on the role of martial courage in defending the freedom of Athens from external threats. In line with Aristotles understanding of virtue, he emphasises the importance of demonstrating courage beyond words, and thus the art of combining reason with bold action and finding a happy medium between extreme daring and extreme dreading. However, like Lysias, Demosthenes makes more room for displays of courage in the public arena and the use of noble speech to protect democracy from internal threats. The meaning of courage is extended to other virtues and battles, such as those of truth and justice, if only by metaphor. Also, to leverage the power of speech, the master of rhetoric taps into Homeric imagery and related evocations of the reign of gods over free men. As every skilled orator knows, there are advantages to mixing ideas and genres, however inconsistent they may be. A man of his time, Demosthenes emphasises the native, manly, and martial character of courage and the role it plays in protecting the freedom of the Athenian people from tyranny. Since unfettered freedom and courage may create problems, they must be combined with practical wisdom developed through proper training and education. With this in

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mind, the well-spoken orator makes a strong case for the critical role that practical wisdom plays in his understanding of all virtues. Virtue is an invitation “to display courage in the face of danger, and in deliberation to offer sounder advice than one’s fellows” (Demosthenes 1930g, 14:8). Ideally, courage and wisdom should be mixed and balanced. But summing up and weighing the two virtues is a secondary task. More fundamentally, courage and wisdom should always go hand in hand, because they complement each other. Reiterating a basic tenet of classical Greek thinking, Demosthenes warns men who are eager to wage war not to confuse valour with rashness in thinking. Like Aristotle, he is adamant that acts of valour follow sound thinking. This means that “you neither consider those who urge you to take the field to be for this reason brave, nor those who undertake to oppose them to be for this reason cowards.” The test of speech must be met, and the test of action must follow; “we must now show ourselves to have been wise in counsel and later, if in the end this proposal is adopted, display the deeds of courage” (Demosthenes 1949b, 50:1). Daring and deliberation are both essential to achieving victory. “For of all virtue, I say, and I repeat it, the beginning is understanding and the fulfilment is courage; by the one it is judged what ought to be done and by the other this is carried to success” (Demosthenes 1949a, 60:17). Courage led by wisdom enables men to be brave without being foolish and to be wise without running away from danger. This is the best safeguard against threats of invasion from outside and the preservation of freedom and democracy from within. Were it not for Greek soldiers and commanders displaying great courage on the battlefield, fellow citizens would not enjoy peace, freedom of speech, and deliberation at home. As the epitaph puts it, they die so that Greece might still be free. According to Demosthenes, noble warriors bring peace, if only because enemies are so “astounded at the valor of those who died” that they choose not to risk waging another war against Greece (Demosthenes 1949a, 60:20). But why are soldiers so courageous in the first place? It is because of the form of government they have that inspires them to sacrifice everything they have. In support of this view, Demosthenes points out that freemen accustomed to speaking the truth will publicly expose those who show signs of cowardice. Given their fear of condemnation and being shamed

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by others, all citizens are willing to face “the threat arising from our foes” and choose “a noble death in preference to life and disgrace” (Demosthenes 1949a, 60:26). Courage protects democracy, and democracy returns the favour by promoting courage on the battlefield and in the public sphere. However, whatever its merits, democracy does not always produce good men who are self-consciously courageous and wise. In keeping with Plato, the statesman complains that free citizens are easy prey for would-be tyrants whose actions are driven by greed and show no sense of patriotic duty. Stripped of wealth and “robbed of nerve and sinew,” citizens become lackeys who live content with a procession at the feast of Boedromia and free seats at public spectacles. Their manliness reaches its lowest level when they thank those in power for receiving what is theirs. Politicians have mewed you in the city and entice you with these baits, that they may keep you tame and subservient to the whip. You cannot, I suppose, have a proud and chivalrous spirit, if your conduct is mean and paltry; for whatever a man’s actions are, such must be his spirit. (Demosthenes 1930b, 3:31–32)

In this speech, Demosthenes exhorts the Athenians to wage war against Philip II of Macedon and face the growing crisis instead of staying home and enjoying the festivals. This means making better use of public money and redirecting it in support of armed expeditions against the enemy. While wary of its excesses and abuses, Demosthenes remains a staunch advocate of democracy, more so than Plato and Aristotle. He is also a stronger supporter of the wisdom of education. A statesman is neither a general nor a historian of war. He does not claim to have military power at his disposal. Instead, he is a public educator and orator known for his oratory skills, which makes him responsible “for discerning the trend of events at the outset, for forecasting results, for warning others.” “That I have always done” (Demosthenes 1939, 18:246). Demosthenes is particularly concerned about youths, fellow citizens, and future war heroes acquiring wisdom and developing the courage to act accordingly. This is where proper schooling comes into play, knowing that “all education

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consists in understanding something and then putting it into practice” (Demosthenes 1949c, 41; see 1949a, 60:16). The orator admits his bias towards the noble arts of speaking, educating, and deliberating. Unsurprisingly, courage takes second place to wisdom. “Now of the powers residing in human beings we shall find that intelligence leads all the rest, and that philosophy alone is capable of educating this rightly and training it” (Demosthenes 1949c, 61:37). His advice to the fictional youth named Epicrates is to place philosophical learning above all other pursuits. This is also the view of Hyperides (390–322 BC), who is said to have studied with Plato and Isocrates. Like Demosthenes, the wealthy Athenian speech writer emphasises the importance of training children into becoming valiant men capable of showing great endurance and boldness in action but also sound judgement and practical intelligence when engaging in war. Soldiers who meet danger gladly and willingly so as to safeguard the universal liberty of Greece can expect to obtain the unfading crown of glory (Hyperides 1962, 6:3, 8, 16–19, 23–24, 34, 38, 40). Demosthenes’ views on courage are consistent with Plato’s understanding of virtue in the ideal Republic and Aristotle’s plea for grounding the art of war in rational thinking. However, open as he is to the power of words, Demosthenes mentions in passing another function of courage that broadens its definition beyond its usual meaning: namely, what it can do to protect democracy from within through non-soldierly means. When pursued for the right reasons, engagement in the public arena is an act of bravery. In Against Timocrates, the orator praises the courage of a man who introduces a just law: namely an ordinance that punishes anyone found guilty of threatening to injure a one-eyed man and make him completely blind. The man who commits such a crime should suffer the same affliction and lose both eyes (Demosthenes 1935a, 24:142). In On the Chersonese, he extols the brave man who takes a stand on public matters despite the opposition and risks involved (Demosthenes 1930b, 8:68–70). Likewise, many of his speeches underscore the risks that citizens take when they dare speak freely and openly about issues of public concern (Demosthenes 1930a, 1:16; 1930b, 3:11–13, 31–32; 1930c, 8:71–72; 1930d, 4:51; 1930f, 10:70–72; 1935b, 23:5). To make this

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point clearer, he often applies military metaphors, such as “keeping and not deserting one’s post,” to instances of political engagement. For you ought to have the same feeling about the post a man occupies in politics as about the post he occupies in war. What feeling do I refer to? You consider that the man who deserts the post where his general has stationed him deserves to be disfranchised and deprived of his share in our common privileges. Then those who, by adopting oligarchical principles, abandon the post taken over by us from our ancestors, ought to be disqualified from ever giving you advice. (Demosthenes 1930h, 15:32–33)

A man who keeps silent when he should speak out abandons his post and ceases to act as a sentinel “guarding the democracy.” He is “a deserter from the cause of justice” (Demosthenes 1935c, 21:120). In On the False Embassy, the Greek statesman and orator Aeschines (389–314 BC) uses similar imagery to describe his bold speech before King Philip of Macedon, suggesting that his courage outshines the heroism of soldiers facing death at war (Aeschines 1919, 2:181–82). The language also echoes Lysias’ remarks on the obligations and dangers of participating in public debates. Demosthenes encourages his fellow citizens to fight for their homeland on the battlefield of words and serve the cause of justice at home. To achieve this, they must think independently and rationally, express their views frankly, debate them openly, and remain impartial. They must place the interests of the commonwealth well above their own, show prudence, support policies that pay off in the long run, and act bravely if and when duty calls (Demosthenes 1930c, 8:1, 71–72; 1930d, 4:51; 1930e, 6:24–27; 1930f, 10:75; 1935b, 23:5; 1949b, 10:1, 27:1, 50:3). The statesman uses his exceptional oratory skills to defend the ideals of his time. His contribution to rethinking the concept of courage beyond military duty is, however, limited. As an accomplished orator, he masters the art of using strong imagery, knowing at the same time that a metaphor is just a metaphor. Wise politicians and public speakers may resemble brave soldiers in some respects, but they do not set the standard for comparison. An act that resembles a courageous deed is not a benchmark by which other acts can be judged. In point of fact, Demosthenes never uses

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the word “courage” to describe the exercise of deliberative thinking and free speech, with one exception only (Demosthenes 1935a, 24:142). While he may say that one has to be brave to voice his views in public, he does not use the example of wise politicians to understand the nature of courage. Despite the parallels he draws, civic courage is not a fully developed concept in his speeches. In the end, courage expresses itself mostly through military activity. Athletic exercise is another option. According to Demosthenes, horse riding is the noblest of competitive sports and should be preferred over boxing or running. It approximates military activity and battles in the field, already made famous by Homer. Martial courage is of such importance that there are times when it must take precedence over all other considerations. For instance, when the enemy is preparing for war, there is no point in simply advocating what is right and doing nothing else: “For us to make profession of right, without engaging in any enterprise, seems to me not love of right but want of courage” (Demosthenes 1930h, 15:28). Even claims of lawful justice may have to take second place compared to seeking vengeance, which is a powerful motivation in the mustering of courage. Since those who have more power at their disposal have an easier time asserting their rights, courage is needed to do to the mighty enemy “what he would certainly do to you if he could” (Demosthenes 1930a, 1:24). Martial courage sets the standard. As already pointed out, this standard may be used as a figure of speech in the political arena, even if it means taking some liberties with philosophical rigour. A good orator avails himself of the powers of metaphor. He will also adapt old-style notions of valour that resonate well with his audience, if necessary. Demosthenes is no exception to the rule. He subscribes to the principles of practical reason and freedom of speech and thought. But he has no qualms about evoking the role of destiny in his exhortations of courage. His Homeric view on the roles of God and fate in people’s lives is summed up in a nicely translated epitaph to the Greek soldiers: Here lie the brave, who for their country’s right Drew sword, and put th’ insulting foe to flight. Their lives they spared not, bidding Death decide

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Who flinches and lived, and who with courage died. They fought and fell that Greece might still be free, Nor crouch beneath the yoke of slavery. Zeus spoke the word of doom; and now they rest Forspent with toil upon their country’s breast. God errs not, fails not; God alone is great; But man lies helpless in the hands of fate. (Demosthenes 1939, 18:289)

Many passages in On the Crown and other speeches honour soldiers whose acts of valour “leave behind them an ageless fame.” They live with lofty ideals, and they choose to die nobly, willingly bearing the brunt of all dangers and keeping their post in battle. They are deserving of lasting honours, including sacrifices and games for all future generations. All the same, if good men are just and courageous, it is by virtue of their noble descent and the fact that their fate is “decided as the deity disposes” (Demosthenes 1949a, 60:19; see 60:6–7, 17; 1939, 18:91). With Demosthenes, flights of rhetoric do not tie themselves to a single logic. With the art of persuasion, freedom and reason can coexist with a long history of lyrical poetry and tragedy.

Physis, Polis, and Logos This nearly completes my discussion of the history of the idea of courage in classical Greece. The topic was introduced with epic stories about gods and humans, war and death, nobles and heroes, loyalty and glory, as well as fearlessness and endurance. These are the narrative threads that stitch together lessons of lion-like courage and much-suffering handed down from the Homeric Age. The tales are remembered to this day, but the ethos that drives them does not go unchallenged in the Age of Pericles. In their own proto-feminist way, Euripides, Sophocles, and Aristophanes express misgivings about the male bias of legendary heroism handed down from the past. The founders of the sciences of medicine and history take a more radical position. They shift the focus away from the realm of mythos and towards studies of polis and physis. They use history and

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geography to explain how native courage relates to real-life problems of war, human hardships, and heroic death. Hippocrates argues that all the superior qualities of Greek men have a common cause: they imply courage in weathering harsh climatic conditions, a vital strength that accounts for their success at war, and their ability to confront existential threats of suffering and death. While he makes some concessions to Homeric tales, Herodotus is more concerned with the political motivations of courage. Despite his criticism of Athenian imperialism (Herodotus 1920, 8:3), the historian praises the patriotic struggle of nobles and free citizen soldiers in defending the law of freedom and democracy against hostile enemies. Thucydides goes a step further and abandons all considerations of fate governed by the whims of gods. More importantly, he adds a rational dimension to discussions of military history. As a historian, the statesman agrees that courage and vital strength come more naturally to some men than others. Still, the superior daring of Athenians is wasted if it is not enhanced through self-discipline, the exercise of practical wisdom, and the development of virtue in all its aspects. Native courage and rational thinking are both necessary for mastering the art of war in defence of the rule of justice, freedom, and democracy—themes also stressed in the writings of Lysias. The overall message is that nature needs to be perfected through the development of excellence in character. For inborn bravery to morph into true courage, it must be part of something larger than itself. However, his idea of manly courage places more emphasis on the politics of freedom and the struggle against hostile powers than it does on the use of reason. On this last point, Plato and Aristotle think differently: they subordinate physical and political considerations to the order of epistêmê and the rule of logos, which are at the heart of moral philosophy and the wisdom of knowledge. In addition to having intrinsic value, the rule of reason becomes the thread that holds the whole fabric of virtue and society together and protects its well-being against external enemies and the natural vices of men. Both philosophers advance a vision of courage where the knowledge of moral principles governs men’s ability to cope with danger, defeat the enemy, and master the inclinations of the senses. Like Lysias, they also stress the role of education. Isocrates insists on the

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importance of education as well, to the point where he separates wisdom from courage, a “base” quality that matters little in a nobleman’s overall education. Aristotle differs from Plato by delving deeper into the workings of the practical mind. He focuses on the task of judging and applying the “happy mean” between excessive daring and excessive dread in the face of terrible danger, towards a noble cause and the good of all. Demosthenes builds on this concept of courage as the middle road between extremes and a matter of “birth, education, habituation to high standards of conduct, and the underlying principles of our form of government” (Demosthenes 1949a, 60:27). Implicit here is his commitment to displays of courage in public deliberations and speeches that protect democracy against threats both from within and from outside (Demosthenes 1949a, 60:10–11). However, gifted as he is with the art of persuasion, he sees no problem in mixing his wisdom and thirst for freedom with flights of Homeric rhetoric and concessions to Fate. The history of classical Greek thinking on courage does not end here. The Laches, a Socratic dialogue that Plato wrote and which is entirely concerned with the issue of courage, is one final contribution that is of paramount importance to students of moral philosophy. Like Demosthenes, Plato’s Socrates acknowledges the merit of embracing reason and facing the fear of terrible danger in battles against the enemies of freedom and Athenian democracy. He too uses military metaphor to describe his decision to live as a philosopher, engage in the struggle for truth and the deliberations of wisdom, and never desert his post through fear of death (Plato 1914, 28e–29a). However, Plato’s teacher goes much further, calling into question fundamental assumptions about the nature of courage and rational wisdom itself. In the Laches, the undisputed rule of reason and wisdom fades into the background, giving way to an alternative understanding of the connection between courage and the search for knowledge and truth. Socrates is distrustful of clever rhetoric and prevailing opinions, as many are, but he also casts doubt on everlasting certainties in the moral domain. In his own dialectical way, he challenges any wisdom that fails to tolerate the fear of uncertainty and the unknown. The implications are farreaching: any theory of courage that is advanced without a shadow of

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doubt lacks credibility. It may even lack courage. The underlying message resonates to this day: thinking about courage and the courage of thinking are one and the same.

References Aeschines. 1919. Aeschines. Trans. C.D.  Adams. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. Aristotle. 1932. Politics. In Aristotle in 23 Volumes, Vol. 21, trans. H. Rackham. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. ———. 1934. Nicomachean Ethics. In Aristotle in 23 Volumes, Vol. 19, trans. H. Rackham. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. ———. 1935. Eudemian Ethics. In Aristotle in 23 Volumes, Vol. 20, trans. H. Rackham. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. Balot, Ryan K. 2014. Courage in the Democratic Polis: Ideology and Critique in Classical Athens. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Chevalier, Jacques M. 2002. The 3D Mind: The Corpus and the Cortex. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Demosthenes. 1930a. Olynthiac I. In Demosthenes, Vol. I, trans. J.H.  Vince. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London, William Heinemann. ———. 1930b. Olynthiac III. In Demosthenes, Vol. I, trans. J.H.  Vince. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London, William Heinemann. ———. 1930c. On the Chersonese. In Demosthenes, Vol. I, trans. J.H.  Vince. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London, William On the Chersonese. ———. 1930d. Philippic I. In Demosthenes, Vol. I, trans. J.H. Vince. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London, William Heinemann. ———. 1930e. Philippic II. In Demosthenes, Vol. I, trans. J.H.  Vince. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London, William Heinemann. ———. 1930f. Philippic IV. In Demosthenes, Vol. I, trans. J.H.  Vince. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London, William Heinemann. ———. 1930g. On the Navy-Boards. In Demosthenes, Vol. I, trans. J.H. Vince. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London, William Heinemann.

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———. 1930h. For the Liberty of the Rhodians. In Demosthenes, Vol. I, trans. J.H.  Vince. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London, William Heinemann. ———. 1935a. Against Timocrates. In Demosthenes, Vol. III, trans. J.H. Vince. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London, William Heinemann. ———. 1935b. Against Aristocrates. In Demosthenes, Vol. III, trans. J.H. Vince. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London, William Heinemann. ———. 1935c. Against Meidias. In Demosthenes, Vol. III, trans. J.H.  Vince. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London, William Heinemann. ———. 1939. On the Trierarchic Crown. In Demosthenes, Vol. VI, trans. A.T. Murray. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London, William Heinemann. ———. 1949a. Funeral Speech. In Demosthenes, Vol. VII, trans. N.W. DeWitt and N.J.  DeWitt. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London, William Heinemann. ———. 1949b. Exordia. In Demosthenes, Vol. VII, trans. N.W.  DeWitt and N.J. DeWitt. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London, William Heinemann. ———. 1949c. Erotic Essay. In Demosthenes, Vol. VII, trans. N.W. DeWitt and N.J. DeWitt. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London, William Heinemann. Herodotus. 1920. The Histories. Trans. A.D. Godley. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Hyperides. 1962. Hyperides. In Minor Attic Orators in Two Volumes, Vol. 2, trans. J.O.  Burtt. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. Isocrates. 1980. Isocrates. In Three Volumes. Trans. G. Norlin. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. Perseus Digital Library. Lysias. 1930. Lysias. Trans. W.R.M. Lamb. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. Plato. 1914. Apology. In Plato in Twelve Volumes, Vol. 1, trans. H.N.  Fowler. Cambridge. MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. ———. 1925. Statesman. In Plato in Twelve Volumes, Vol. 8, trans. H.N. Fowler. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. ———. 1926a. Laws. In Plato in Twelve Volumes, Vol. 10 and 11, trans. R.G.  Bury. Cambridge. MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann.

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———. 1926b. Cratylus. In Plato: Cratylus, Parmenides, Greater Hippias, Lesser Hippias, trans. H.N. Fowler. Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press. ———. 1927. Epinomis. In Plato in Twelve Volumes, Vol. 12, trans. W.R.M. Lamb. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. ———. 1930. The Republic. In Two Volumes. Trans. P.  Shorey. Cambridge. MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. Vitruvius. 1914. Vitruvius: The Ten Books on Architecture. Trans. M.H. Morgan. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: Oxford University Press.

5 Wisdom as Courage

Socrates Questioning What does our modern world need first and foremost? Is it more wisdom, of the philosophical or practical kind, or should we go for greater courage? If we decide to have both, as most would, how should we go about meshing the two? Should we start with education and learning to be wise in all matters, including those of war and self-discipline, and show courage in due time, mostly on the battlefield, as Plato prescribes? Or should we demonstrate boldness right from the outset, in our mode of thinking, by questioning the way we understand all that is good and evil, including the wars we have, the dangers we fear, and the pleasures we seek, as Socrates teaches? In classical Greece, the latter stance is clearly subversive: thinking about courage may be essential, but the courage of thinking is a new concept that undermines the principles at the core of Athenian morality and polity. Socrates’ way of thinking is mostly about epistemic questions, which he addresses against the backdrop of political and existential issues. The teachings of Socrates (c. 470–399 BC) are transmitted chiefly through the contemporary accounts of his students Plato and Xenophon and the plays of Aristophanes. In Plato’s rendering of the Laches, or © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32739-1_5

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Courage (380 BC), Socrates engages in a lengthy dialogue on notions of courage. The originality and controversial nature of his thinking can hardly be disputed. The Laches is a frontal attack against cherished beliefs and long-held traditions. As we know, the philosopher paid with his life for his freedom of thought. However, before I discuss the shift in thinking proposed by Socrates, it is important to note that many circumstantial elements and passing comments made throughout the dialogue align with core values in the Age of Pericles. They revolve around well-known contemporary principles, namely, loyalty to one’s nearest and dearest and to Athens; the role of free speech in a democratic society; a commitment to deliberative inquiry and wisdom; and guidance in the improvement of good men and the accomplishments of noble souls. While courage remains an open question throughout the dialogue, these principles are not called into question. They fill in the gaps of a long-winded conversation about courage that leaves most readers wanting more. Loyalty is the first key to understanding the Laches. Bonds of friendship and close family ties and the obligations they entail set the scene and are a recurrent theme throughout the dialogue. Lysimachus and Melesias are friends. They take their meals together with their beloved sons named after their grandfathers. Lysimachus and Melesias invite Nicias and Laches to become counsellors and partners in looking after their sons, taking care of their most precious of possessions. Nicias and Laches invite Socrates, in turn, to assist in finding the best way to educate their friends’ sons. Socrates happens to be Laches’ companion in arms. He treats all others as his friends and is treated in the same way. As he becomes one of them, he honours his own father’s long-standing friendship with Lysimachus (Plato 1955, 179a–e, 180e, 181c, 186b, 189c). Socrates’ questions and thoughts about courage are offered in a spirit of friendship with elderly fathers who seek expert advice on the best ways to look after their sons. The second key to understanding the Laches lies in the spirit of democratic freedom—the right and duty of freely and candidly expressing one’s thoughts when deliberating on a matter of personal and public concern. All parties expect views to be freely exchanged, regardless of the constraints based on traditional criteria of authority and deference such as age, wealth, or status (Plato 1955, 181d, 186c, 188b, 189a–b). “Declaring minds” is particularly important in deliberations

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among friends and allies. When speaking to each other, they should never say things that go against their better judgement, encourage “talking just for the sake of talking,” or indulge in clever rhetoric and useless sophistry (Plato 1955, 196c, 197d). Words freely spoken by friends matter more than “making the inquirer’s wishes their aim” or exposing sound advice to ridicule (Plato 1955, 178a–b, 179c, 186d, 187d, 188e). The third key to understanding the dialogue is the pursuit of wisdom and knowledge, guided by the rules of logic, truthfulness, and persuasion. In the Laches, the requirements of sound thinking must guide all expressions of democracy and loyalty to one’s family, friends, and Athens. Genuine friends are expected to be truthful, speak their minds, and seek consensus on issues that concern them. A majority view on how to answer a difficult question falls short of meeting these requirements. Relying on voting procedures to determine the best possible education for one’s sons is ill-advised. “For a question must be decided by knowledge, and not by numbers, if it is to have a right decision” (Plato 1955, 184e). To make the right decision and act on it, one must seek wisdom and guidance from those who have the right skills and can give proper advice (Plato 1955, 189d). Free citizens may be equal before the law, but they are not equal in regard to guiding and teaching others to learn an art and acquire related skills (Plato 1955, 185a–d). This applies to all forms of wisdom, including the art of healing and horseback riding but also arguing and debating a complex issue in the pursuit of sound judgement and truth. Socrates is “exquisitely skilled” in this respect. He is an expert in dialectical inquiry, a method that begins with a question and proceeds to a dialogue involving a series of hypotheses that can be examined, tested, and refuted based on contrary observations and errors in logic. Answers distilled from other parties to the discussion generate arguments and a “contest” of ideas that go “round and round” and take things in unexpected directions until a conclusion is reached, or not (Plato 1955, 185b, 187e–188c). In the Laches, minds speak freely as they debate and deliberate the issue of courage in pursuit of sound knowledge and wise decisions out of consideration for family, friends, and fellow citizens. While courage remains an enigma throughout the dialogue, the latter principles are givens. At first sight, assumptions about the virtues of free speech, logical

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deliberation, and loyalty to kith, kin, and country point to questions of setting, form, and purpose rather than content. In and of themselves, they do not tell us what courage is, one might say. What Socrates has to say about “guidance in the improvement of good men and the accomplishments of noble souls” comes later in the dialogue and aligns more closely with the subject matter and defining features of courage. Before I turn to the substance of Socrates’ ethics of courage, mention should be made of the many remarks made about the military deeds and reputations of the parties to the conversation (other than Melesias). They concern another familiar theme that sets the stage for the Laches. Both Laches and Nicias are famous Athenian generals and statesmen. Lysimachus is the son of the Athenian general and statesman, Aristides. Socrates himself participated in the Peloponnesian war and is said to have exhibited valour in the retreat from the disastrous battle at Delium, on the coast north of Attica (Plato 1955, 181b, 189b). People and men of great weight speak of him “in terms of the highest praise.” Socrates is a man who keeps his father’s name and the reputation of his country (Plato 1955, 180e, 181a–b). The accomplishments of men of military experience set an appropriate tone for a discussion about courage, which comes about halfway into the dialogue. Claims to honour, fame, and public esteem are initially reinforced by repeated evocations of a good family name and reputation, the importance of which is never called into question. In the words of Socrates, fathers want their sons to distinguish themselves and become accomplished so they can “be worthy of the names they bear” and win a reputation for themselves. They make sure they never disgrace their ancestors (Plato 1955, 180d, 181a, 187a, 189b). To this end, the young men must receive the best possible upbringing, i.e., an education that makes the best of them. Proper teaching and training, the kind that is not so tentative as to be tested on the “vile corpus” of Carian slaves, will help them achieve the highest level of excellence (Plato 1955, 179b–e, 187b). Socrates believes that a man’s character influences his entire family. “According as the sons turn out well or the opposite will the whole life of their father’s house be affected, depending for better or worse on their character” (Plato 1955, 185a).

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Character and the name-worthiness of a gentleman hinge on the accomplishment of noble deeds both in war and in peace. A man’s worth is defined by his military achievements or by his excellence in the management of public affairs (Plato 1955, 179c–d, 180b, 186c, 187a, 191d). The man’s ability to think and speak wisely matters equally, provided he makes “a true concord of his own life between his words and his deeds,” after the Dorian musical mode, reputed to be manly and stately. Because of his military service, Socrates sets an example by matching his conduct to his words. The teacher lives up to his fine words and is a shining example of harmony between speaker and speech (Plato 1955, 188d–e). Socrates’ understanding of virtue revolves around the principle of words tuning in with deeds in the service of noble ends. The focus is on excellence in achieving whatever is good for family, friends, and country, as opposed to words and deeds that bring shame because they are selfish, mischievous, or hurtful. Speech and action that freely meet on the path of goodness, informed by the knowledge of what is good and evil, are what noble souls seek above all (Plato 1955, 186d, 192d). However, young men cannot follow this path without a show of endurance and steadfastness. Youths must accept “taking due pains” in their sustained effort to acquire experience and achieve excellence over time. Lysimachus and Melesias are well aware of this. Anxious to give their sons the best possible upbringing, they are resolved to handle their concerns with due care and attention (Plato 1955, 179b, 180a–c). Their plan is to offer their sons expert guidance in achieving excellence for the sake of their own souls (Plato 1955, 185a, 185d–e, 186d, 189d, 190b). They know that without counsel, young men will indulge themselves, live frivolous lives, and never look after other people’s affairs (Plato 1955, 179a, 179d). They will be careless of themselves and spend “their time on the ordinary things to which young men usually give their hours of leisure” (Plato 1955, 181e). The Laches is committed to the enduring wisdom of words and deeds that promote military achievements and excellence in public life for the good of a noble man’s soul and the people and homeland he loves. These principles, dear to Periclean Athens, form the substance of a lengthy preamble and the background for what comes next. Socrates can then turn to the substance of the debate, this time by moving beyond conventional views on the subject at hand. He does this by addressing the four ways in

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which his friends struggle to answer the question posed at the beginning: What is the kind of upbringing that would make the best of young men and help them gain in courage (Plato 1955, 179b)? Briefly, courage is a virtue demonstrated in either • • • •

the art of fighting in armour; a man’s willingness to stay at his post and face the enemy; a certain endurance of the soul; or the knowledge of what is to be dreaded or dared, either in war or in anything else.

Only one of these four ways provides the key to the enigma posed by the Laches. The first response comes from Lysimachus, who brings everything back to conventional views and makes an argument for learning to fight in armour. Nicias agrees with Lysimachus that training of this kind is strenuous and keeps young men generally fit. Well-trained youths will use these skills when they go to war and fight either in the phalanx battle line or face-to-face with the enemy. They will also learn to ride, which is fitting for a free citizen. Those who eventually excel at fighting in armour can aspire to master the science of war and become generals in command of their own troops (Plato 1955, 181e–182d). Laches and Socrates raise several concerns, all of which tally with the virtue-based tenets of classical Greek morality. Laches challenges the notion that fighting in armour represents a noble accomplishment on the following grounds: teachers of this art have never actually distinguished themselves in war and may turn out to be cowards. The art they teach, demonstrate, and brag about does not involve deeds of military excellence on land or at sea (Plato 1955, 182b–184c). Instead of contributing to this conversation, Socrates prefers to question the purpose of fighting in armour. He suggests that acquiring such skills is merely one means among many to achieve a noble end, which consists in developing the virtue of courage. “Then let our first endeavor be, Laches, to say what courage is; after that we can proceed to inquire in what way our young men may obtain it” (Plato 1955, 190d).

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In response, Laches advances a new standard of courage, again of the military sort: “Anyone who is willing to stay at his post and face the enemy, and does not run away, you may be sure, is courageous” (Plato 1955, 190e). This is a statement that Hippocrates, Thucydides, Herodotus, and Demosthenes would endorse. Unconvinced that this is the right response, Socrates suggests that courage may be demonstrated in other circumstances. His reply represents a radical departure from traditional Greek thinking going back to Homer. For one thing, he points out that soldiers can show courage and win a war after a tactical withdrawal (Plato 1955, 191c). More importantly, he invites Laches not to confuse the ends of ethical conduct, such as winning a war, with the means to achieve them. Courage is a virtue that can be cultivated in many settings, beyond the battlefield. For I wanted to have your view not only of brave men-at-arms, but also of courage in cavalry and in the entire warrior class; and of the courageous not only in war but in the perils of the sea, and all who in disease and poverty, or again in public affairs, are courageous; and further, all who are not merely courageous against pain or fear, but doughty fighters against desires and pleasures, whether standing their ground or turning back upon the foe—for I take it, Laches, there are courageous people in all these kinds. (Plato 1955, 191d–e)

True to himself, Socrates converts his broader vision of courage into a philosophical question: “What is that common quality, which is the same in all these cases, and which is called courage?” Laches agrees with Socrates’ comments and attempts a third definition, in the hope that it will apply to all relevant situations: “Well then, I take it to be a certain endurance of the soul, if I am to speak of the natural quality that appears in them all” (Plato 1955, 192b). Socrates’ reply indicates that he is not satisfied with this notion of endurance reminiscent of the sufferings of Ulysses. Endurance on its own is not enough. For instance, a man who persists in his bold decision to dive into water without being able to swim is simply foolish. Soldiers who keep on fighting because they are certain to win are without merit. Nor is there anything admirable about a man’s decision to keep on spending money or

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practising the art of shooting. These examples go to show that “endurance” is not necessarily noble. It can even be mischievous or hurtful; a doctor who persists in refusing assistance to a patient acts wrongly (Plato 1955, 192c–193d). Laches’ position appears to be validated by Socrates’ passing reference to the suffering that men endure when fighting their own desires and selfish pleasures. The passage reads like a concession to the popular and long-­ standing doctrine of acrasia, or the weakness of will. Men are inclined to “run loose” and lack the courage to do what is right because of their weak nature, enslaved as they are by passions and the pursuit of pleasure. But this is not where the Laches is heading. As we shall see, Socrates takes the opposite stance: true wisdom and the courage inherent to it should not be pitted against the pursuit of pleasure and happiness in life. Quite the contrary, the two may be reconciled and reinforce each other. Socrates and Laches have not yet elucidated the meaning of courage. The teacher points out the irony of looking for missing words to explain deeds that are easy to identify. The usual tension between logos and ergon is turned upside down: while deeds usually present the greatest challenge, the words to make sense of them are still lacking and remain hard to find. You and I, Laches, are not tuned to the Dorian harmony: for our deeds do not accord with our words. By our deeds, most likely, the world might judge us to have our share of courage, but not by our words, I fancy, if they should hear the way we are talking now. (Plato 1955, 193e)

Walking the walk is easier than talking the talk and finding the truth. Nicias comes to the rescue with another definition. Drawing on his knowledge of Socrates’ teachings, he suggests that “every man is good in that in which he is wise, and bad in that in which he is unwise.” Thus, “if the brave man is good, he is also wise.” The implication here may be that the two virtues go hand in hand, which is nothing new. There is no true courage without goodness, and no true goodness without wisdom. Again, Socrates is not convinced and prefers to move away from this familiar idea that courage, goodness, and wisdom act as distinct elements in a composite substance named virtue. This is Plato’s solution. More to the point, “courage is a kind of wisdom,” Socrates says. But, he continues,

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what kind of wisdom is that? Nicias’ response represents a critical turning point in the Laches. In his words, courage is “the knowledge of what is to be dreaded or dared, either in war or in anything else” (Plato 1955, 194d–195a). Laches objects vigorously. In his view, wisdom is distinct from courage. Lumping knowledge and action into a single virtue makes no sense. Doctors are not courageous merely because they know the dangers they should fear when treating their patients. Nicias retorts that while doctors can anticipate outcomes, they cannot judge whether an outcome is to be feared or hoped for. Likewise, soothsayers may explain to a man the signs of things that have yet to come, but they are in no position to judge whether it is better for the man to be alive or dead. They do not have the expert knowledge needed to tell a man whether it is better for him to go on or cease living (Plato 1955, 195a–196a). Courageous individuals have expert knowledge of what is bad or good, worthy of fear or hope, to be feared or dared. Laches objects again. He doubts there is any person who fits this description other than some god (Plato 1955, 196a). Socrates concedes that few humans possess this kind of wisdom. Things that inspire fear or hope are very hard to see. Knowledge of this sort doesn’t come naturally and is not accessible to all living creatures; it is not the kind that every pig would know, as the expression goes. It follows that fearless animals and thoughtless children cannot qualify as models of courage (Plato 1955, 196d–197a). Nicias sums up this line of reasoning: I rather hold that the fearless and the courageous are not the same thing. In my opinion very few people are endowed with courage and forethought, while rashness, boldness, and fearlessness, with no forethought to guide it, are found in a great number of men, women, children, and animals. So you see, the acts that you and most people call courageous, I call rash, and it is the prudent acts which I speak of that are courageous. (Plato 1955, 197b–c)

To cool his own rhetoric, Nicias concedes that Laches and many other Athenians are courageous and therefore wise. The debate brings readers back to the conventional distinction between courage and wisdom and the necessary complementarity between the two. The notion that courage

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is pure folly when bereft of wisdom adds nothing new to fifth-century thinking on the subject. It is also one of the most recurrent themes in later discussions of courage. The idea that the two virtues may add up to the same thing is momentarily lost. Laches finds the discussion so twisted that he prefers to let Socrates continue the conversation with Nicias on his own. Instead of critiquing the knowledge-based view of courage, Socrates chooses to refine it by pushing the discussion in a new direction. He questions the forward-­ looking attitude of courage and its relationship with general knowledge. In his view, the notion of expert knowledge that pertains to future things does not hold. The science of health, farming, or war considers all occurrences that fall under its purview, be they past, present, or future. Expert knowledge of this nature is more reliable than soothsaying. It is because of their experience that generals are better equipped to anticipate and plan future events of war compared to fortune-tellers (Plato 1955, 198a–199b). This means that courage is “knowledge not merely of what is to be dreaded and what dared, but practically a knowledge concerning all goods and evils at every stage” (Plato 1955, 199c). But the argument raises a new problem: if a courageous man possesses thorough knowledge of good and evil, which is the source of all virtue, then he must be not only courageous but also a model of virtue, which includes justice, temperance, and holiness. Since a courageous soul is all virtuous, it cannot be distinguished from other souls demonstrating other virtues. Every good thing is in everything that is good, and one part of virtue disappears into the whole. The disappearing act brings us back to square one. The answer to the initial question about what makes courage stand out as one part of virtue remains a mystery. The inquiry fizzles out in failure. “Thus we have failed to discover, Nicias, what courage really is,” Socrates admits (Plato 1955, 199e). While he is forced to share with Laches his “ignorance of things whereof any self-respecting man ought to have knowledge,” Nicias still hopes he will be able to settle the matter and enlighten Laches at some point in the future (Plato 1955, 200a–b). In closing, Lysimachus reiterates his invitation to Socrates to take charge of the education of their sons (Plato 1955, 200d). True to himself, Socrates sees no reason why he should be the one

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to receive the invitation (Plato 1955, 200e). He then accepts the offer, but not without offering a final piece of advice: We ought all alike to seek out the best teacher we can find, first for ourselves—for we need one—and then for our boys, sparing neither expense nor anything else we can do: but to leave ourselves as we now are, this I do not advise. And if anyone makes fun of us for seeing fit to go to school at our time of life, I think we should appeal to Homer, who said that “shame is no good mate for a needy man.” So let us not mind what anyone may say, but join together in arranging for our own and the boys’ tuition. (Plato 1955, 200e–201a)

There is no shame in not knowing and in learning that never ends. The principle applies to all topics, courage included. The inconclusive character of the Laches must be viewed in light of the hopes and fears of Socratic wisdom. Two deep-seated fears keep Socrates, his friends, and his readers on their toes: the danger of not knowing and the illusion of knowing it all. One hope is key to keeping both fears at bay: the hope of learning that endures. Courage lies in the realisation of that wisdom, which means that modesty is required at all times. Socrates insists on showing humility when assisting his friends. Early in the dialogue, he questions his ability to offer wise counsel. He quickly acknowledges the fact that he is much younger and less experienced than his interlocutors and suggests that they lead the discussion (Plato 1955, 181d). Later, he admits that, unlike Laches and Nicias, he grew up without the means to secure a professional education in the art of “treating the soul” and is powerless to discover the art by himself (Plato 1955, 186c). He claims to have no understanding of the matter at hand and is not competent enough to provide insights into the nature of courage (Plato 1955, 186e). Given the confidence others have in his wisdom, Socrates finally decides to accept the invitation to provide further teaching, with the recognition that he is perplexed by the issue and that he and other teachers remain in the dark. He apologises for not expressing his thoughts clearly, thus leading others to provide wrong answers (Plato 1955, 190e, 191c). He also insists on maintaining a joint approach to the inquiry (Plato 1955, 187d, 189c, 194b, 197e). More importantly, he

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acknowledges the difficulty in finding the right answer and encourages others to show courage and endurance in pursuing the intellectual task at hand. They must not fail to be courageous in their enduring search for courage. And, if you please, let us too be steadfast and enduring in our inquiry, so as not to be ridiculed by courage herself for failing to be courageous in our search for her, when we might perchance find after all that this very endurance is courage. (Plato 1955, 194a)

At the risk of being laughed at, all teachers must continue their own schooling, irrespective of their status or age. In the pursuit of wisdom, they resemble the good hunter who follows the hounds and never gives up the chase (Plato 1955, 194b). Frustrated as they may be, inquisitive minds do not quit when faced with perplexity or “caught up in a storm of argument” (Plato 1955, 194c). The implication here is that while courage is a kind of wisdom, the search for wisdom is a proof of courage. Endurance in searching and learning must be sustained, knowing that no definitive answer will ever be found. Unlike contemporary statesmen, orators, and historians of war, Socrates does not simply argue for the necessity of balancing courage with wisdom in the pursuit of freedom from inside or outside threats. Instead, he incorporates courageous acts into the process of seeking knowledge and admitting defeat. In retrospect, Socrates had no choice but to skirt the ethics of courage. This explains a striking feature of the Laches, which is the lengthy preamble and the indirect pathways it offers towards alternative definitions of the idea of courage. More than half the conversation dances around the issue and touches on the circumstances of the inquiry and the way it is launched and carried out. They include who the parties are, what motivates them to engage in the dialogue, how they react to the conversation along the way, and how the whole conversation ends, inconclusively. The dialogue includes a long-winded examination of different possible answers to the question asked, an experiment that ends in failure. Socrates has the courage to conclude that he and his friends have failed to discover what courage really is (Plato 1955, 199e). And therein lies his understanding of courage, in his recognition of the endless character of

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knowing. When it comes to virtue, we know we do not know, which is a good thing, and we persist in our effort to know more, which is even better. Knowing all about courage is a form of ignorance and the greatest enemy of wisdom. It is cowardice of the living mind. Only death can put a stop to the lifelong wisdom of Socratic learning. Plato’s dialogue, named after Phaedo, one of Socrates’ pupils, speaks to this issue and the tragic death of Socrates himself. It also discusses the immortality of the soul. Given the circumstances of his trial and the death sentence he received, it is not surprising to see Socrates extol the courage and wisdom of those who liberate themselves from the grip of pleasure or fear, despise the body, and dedicate their lives to philosophy. They know better than to exchange the fear of pain or shame for the fear of death. Fear of one kind or another does not rule over their lives. Nor do philosophers refrain from some pleasures in the hope of obtaining greater pleasures, exercising self-restraint out of self-indulgence, as it were. Instead, true courage, which lies in wisdom and the purity of the soul, frees them from the sway of both pleasure and fear. Socrates’ courage is wise, and his wisdom is courageous. His soul was never of this Earth and is ready to join good friends and gods dwelling above, beyond the visible heaven (Plato 1966, 63e, 68c–69e, 100a). In the end, the Laches is more than a direct questioning of courage. It is also a statement about the courage required to question a particular virtue or anything else that matters. The dialogue remains enigmatic to this day, and it may be that the significance of Socrates’ study of one aspect of virtue lies in the philosopher’s observations on the virtue of all meaningful inquiry. When it comes to thinking through the virtue of courage, Socrates stands out like a beacon in the night sky, a wide-eyed owl gifted with a powerful night vision designed to overcome the darkness of ignorance. On this note, it bears mentioning that two animal metaphors dating back to Greek antiquity shed light on age-old notions of courage: the ferocious Lion of Nemea slaughtered by Heracles, on the one hand, and the Owl of Athena, a sign of war carried out with wisdom, on the other. In Birds, written by Aristophanes, Pisthetaerus claims that the best proof that birds are powerful is “that Zeus, who now reigns, is represented as standing with an eagle on his head as a symbol of his royalty; his daughter has an

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owl, and Phoebus, as his servant, has a hawk” (Aristophanes 1938a, 49; see also 1938b, 1060). The daughter is the Greek goddess Athena, known as Minerva to the Romans. She stands for wisdom, craft, and war. She is known to move slowly to anger, always with good reason. The powerfully clawed predator is her sacred creature (Aristophanes 1938a, 354, 550). Together, she and the owl stand for wisdom and foresight. Accordingly, Athenian coins dating from the fifth century BC feature a little owl (Aristophanes 1938a, 1102). In ancient Greece and Rome, signs of things to come included feathers of an owl placed near people sleeping, and the bird hooting or landing on rooftops. Owl imagery can be used to evoke secrets about to be revealed, an emperor about to die, an enemy about to be driven off, blood about to be sucked out, or the goddess about to make her home in the fleet of a general (Plutarch 1914, 12:1; Aristophanes 1938c, 1071; Maccius Plautus 1912, 3:2). The owl is “an ill omen of the night,” says Virgil, a nocturnal bird that stands for flights in darkness and the ability to see despite the absence of light (Virgil 1937, 8:219). Socratic philosophy takes its cue from the Owl of Athena and makes it soar to great philosophical heights. Much to his credit, the man Plato called the “gadfly of Athens” preserves the bird’s sense of foresight and wisdom and yet moves it out of the darkness of vengeance and the rule that “might is right.” Because it informs all noble pursuits, the wisdom sought by Socrates is of the highest possible form. But living up to the courage of thinking is no easy feat. While wisdom is the ultimate end, its pursuit has no end. Unlike other arts or sciences, Socratic wisdom is both the means and the goal of all things worth struggling for.

Questioning Socrates The Laches sheds a new light on the wisdom of courage in classical Greece. Instead of ranking wisdom above courage, Socrates treats the wisdom of learning as a courageous enterprise on its own. His search for truth and coherent thinking is even more daring as it is never entirely successful and knows no end. Courage is boldly fused into a single object, wisdom, that shines like a gold ingot. One virtue that coheres with other virtues is not like one part of a man’s face, each part having

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its own name and function. If so, a man could show great courage and yet do things that are unjust or utterly foolish (Plato 1967a, 329d–330a, 349b–d). Rather, all virtue is knowledge and therefore one, like a bar of gold. Words and deeds of wisdom, courage, and justice are inseparable. If people show boldness and behave wrongly at the same time, it is because they fail to understand the long-term consequences of their wrongdoing, which far outweigh the immediate gains. They misjudge the size of objects that are close by and think they are bigger than those that are far away. Because their calculations are rash, they act in ways that are harmful to others or to themselves (Plato 1967a, 357c–358d). They act stupidly out of ignorance and lack the courage of wisdom (Plato 1967a, 350b–351a, 360d). Thinking that is truly wise necessarily translates into deeds that are truly good. The Owl of Athena is undoubtedly wise. It may perceive the light while also doubting what remains in the dark. But its weaknesses should not go unnoticed. For one thing, the emblem of wisdom lacks the full strength of the human heart. In nature, the bird has a small stature, is vulnerable to wintry weather, and has an average life expectancy of barely three years. It tends to be monogamous, controls a very small territory, dwells in gardens and parks, and feeds on small creatures, insects, and worms. Although a predator, the little owl is not a model of wild and fearsome strength. Similar weaknesses are apparent in Socrates’ flights of wisdom. They lack the energy and strength necessary to deal with terrible pain, raw fear, strong emotions, and the rule of might. While inspiring, the Socratic courage to think is deprived of bodily energy and cut off from the many battles of life. It also downplays the work and risks involved in building hard skills. In the Laches, Socrates likens his own skills to expert counsel in technical matters (Plato 1955, 184e–185d). This seems to confirm Aristotle’s critique of the Laches. As he puts it, climbing the sails may be dangerous, but experienced sailors who know how to do it cannot be said to be brave (Aristotle 1935, 3:1230a). Socrates’ expert advice is pain-free. In his defence and contrary to what Aristotle claims, it must be said that Socrates’ position on the knowledge of good and evil is essentially philosophical and probingly ethical. All the same, his emphasis is on the garden variety of wisdom, mostly of the intellectual kind.

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Socratic wisdom underplays core emotions, skills, and learning grounded in the body. It is also timid in the way it addresses the “cordial” framing of life in society and the political body. The Laches advances a bold thesis, which lies in the courage of thinking. At first sight, this includes the “courage of thinking politically,” expressed through considerations of free speech, public deliberation, and loyalty to family, friends, and homeland. The point is made clear in The Republic, where Socrates recognises that guardians of the state must possess what may be called the “courage of a citizen.” By this he means “the conservation of the conviction which the law has created by education about fearful things—what and what sort of things are to be feared” (Plato 1930, 2:374b–e, 4:429.c, 430c). Civic engagement is knowledge of the wisdom of the law gained through proper education. Socrates’ lengthy preamble and exchanges recorded in the Laches speak to these issues. The politics of courage, however, gradually give way to a methodical critique of moral systems not founded on the supremacy and unity of wisdom. Socrates’ distrust of matters of government is at the heart of Isocrates’ incisive attack on the Laches. In Helen, he makes fun of those who, like Socrates, “speak on both sides of the same questions,” claiming that courage and wisdom are identical and that “there is one sort of knowledge concerned with them all; and still others waste their time in captious disputations that are not only entirely useless but are sure to make trouble for their disciples” (Isocrates 1980, 10:1–2). The orator goes on to make an argument for instructing pupils in the practical affairs of government, bearing in mind that “conjecture about useful things is far preferable to exact knowledge of the useless” (Isocrates 1980, 10:5). To the extent that it is of no practical service, Socratic wisdom is a cover for inaction and retreat from military action and civic duty in general. Its followers are speakers of words but not doers of deeds. Socrates invites us “to live up to our fine words” and bravely endure the knowledge of not knowing. The wise man’s steadfast struggle and resolve to learn, however, are strictly in the realm of thinking and speaking. His accomplishment is nothing more than a firm determination to investigate an important question and, if necessary, leave it unresolved. This is how he surpasses everyone else in enduring hardships—by persevering in his duty and struggling to answer a difficult question, as Alcibidiades puts

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it (Plato 1925, 219e, 220c; 1967b, 597b). The epistemic stance taken by Socrates is entirely at odds with Thucydides and Demosthenes’ plea for rational judgement and daring action on the battlefield and in politics. Both thought themselves “out of Achillean aggressiveness and into a reflective, though hardly inactive, Odyssean style of courage” (Balot 2014, p. 342). The wisdom extolled in the Laches does not translate into decisive actions pertaining to matters of public life. Socratic wisdom comprises the clear knowledge of not knowing, but no instruction with regard to the politics of endless learning. Balot comments: Socrates’ courage appears to be problematically inactive or withdrawn. Socrates wants to remain on the settled moral ground of avoiding harm. This is judicious but incomplete; perhaps it is even symptomatic of a lack of courage. For politics is always happening around us. Politics often demands decisive action in the midst of uncertainty, on pain at least of omitting to act when necessary in order to counteract evil. Politics often demands decisive action even when standing fast in practical deliberation has not yet yielded perfectly clear results. (Balot 2014, p. 339)

Socratic thinkers relinquish political engagement and clout. They may have the little owl’s night vision, but they face the same limitations as the real bird. The winged creature occupies a small territory, lives in pairs, and has no enemy that must be fought through organised social life. It is not an endangered species and remains to this day a bird of “little concern.” The same could be said of the lone philosopher who seeks the light of truth in one-on-one dialogues, at great distance from the turmoil of his times. His form of courage, which is “steadfastness to rational reflection and to a persistent search for the truth,” may end up being relatively harmless (Balot 2014, p. 338). But this assessment of Socratic wisdom is unfair. In reality, speaking out wisely has consequences. Words of truth can carry enormous weight, even when cut off from public battles and deliberations. The Socratic discourse on virtue is full of political implications. One immediate effect is to cast doubt on well-established divisions in both logic and social life. In Athens, slaves serve their masters, women obey their husbands, warriors are expected to be brave, teachers must be wise, and lawmakers need

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to be just so as to protect the ruling order. Each class embodies a different virtue. With a few notable exceptions, such as philosopher-king-warrior women in The Republic (Plato 1930, 5:451c–457b), this is how things are. The breakdown of categories in logic and social classes seems natural, obvious, and permanent. But then comes the annoying gadfly of classical Greece, a poorly schooled stonemason who leaves us no written words and yet marks the history of Western philosophy. Socrates has the gall to question everything and pursue learning and wisdom in all matters. He addresses the issue of courage by posing a simple riddle: could it be that wisdom and courage are one and the same? Could it be that our thinking about courage can be wise only if we have the courage to think about it wisely? The man is so daring as to proclaim himself the greatest of all warriors and statesmen. In his own words, he is “one of few, not to say the only one, in Athens who attempts the true art of statesmanship and the only man of the present time who manages affairs of state” (Plato 1967b, 521d). The statement does not err on the side of modesty, one might say. Yet his views do run counter to much Greek thinking in matters of virtue and political philosophy. They are so radical that most of those exposed to his teachings, Plato included, prefer to fall back on two core principles: the idea of courage as a “native” and manly response to terrible suffering and death, and the enhancement of all virtues through the wisdom of education and training. Plato agrees that philosophers should rule, but not because they possess a higher form of courage. More to the point, they are the knowers of truth. Socrates’ art of teaching and approach to knowing marked a major turning point in the history of the ethics of courage. While his owl-like vision is flawed in several respects, it does have the advantage of being remarkably thoughtful, reasonably skeptical, and logically compelling. It rings especially true for those who believe that the struggle for knowledge never ends and is worth the constant effort of challenging prevailing opinions and claims to authoritative knowledge and truth. Socrates’ struggle for greater wisdom in moral life for the good of all resonates to this day, where truth is hijacked by an elite of accredited knowledge holders serving the interests of the few or, what is equally disastrous, hordes of self-centred people free to express whatever personal opinions they may

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have and hold onto them as sacred truth. The Socratic duty to engage in reasoned discourse and to consider, discuss, and deliberate the ideals of our times is more pressing than ever. In summary, Socrates uses the method of cross-examination (elenchos) to think through the nature of courage and the higher pursuit of knowledge, going beyond conventional wisdom and the certainties of gullible patriotism and martial heroics. This leads him to choose an unorthodox path: wisdom is courage in striving to know what is good and evil in all spheres of life. The courage to doubt and think outranks the courage to fight all enemies, save the darkness of ignorance. The gadfly of Athens shakes the foundations of Greek thinking. But the founder of philosophy is still a man of his time. He is a war veteran willing to make room for the ethos of military patriotism, even if it is just in his opening remarks, expressions of protocol, and asides of his dialogue. Also, his intellectualism and elitist teachings can only go so far in challenging injustice and violence in social history. Despite its success in debunking historical clichés, the Laches is lacking in its understanding of the courage to think and act politically. While he is critical of the senseless wars wrought by Athenian imperialism (Plato 1967b, 518b–519a), he fails to develop a full theory of democratic courage and social living on all scales. He is not questioning the subordination of slaves, women, commoners, and foreigners to the Athenian way of life under the rule of men allegedly born to hold the reins of power. Full democracy and issues of human fellowship are simply not on his radar. His approach to virtue still belongs to a long history of profound inequalities in social life and the constant threat of foolish wars. It also ignores the powers and anxieties of the human body and their role in shaping our fate and courageous being in the world.

References Aristophanes. 1938a. Birds. In The Complete Greek Drama, Vol. 2, trans. E. O’Neill. New York: Random House. ———. 1938b. Knights. In The Complete Greek Drama, Vol. 2, trans. E. O’Neill. New York: Random House.

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———. 1938c. Wasps. In The Complete Greek Drama, Vol. 2, trans. E. O’Neill. New York: Random House. Aristotle. 1935. Eudemian Ethics. In Aristotle in 23 Volumes, Vol. 20, trans. H. Rackham. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. Balot, Ryan K. 2014. Courage in the Democratic Polis: Ideology and Critique in Classical Athens. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Isocrates. 1980. Helen. In Isocrates, In Three Volumes, trans. G. Norlin. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. Maccius Plautus. 1912. The Cheat. In The Comedies of Plautus, trans. H.T. Riley. London: G. Bell. Plato. 1925. Symposium. In Plato in Twelve Volumes, Vol. 9, trans. H.N. Fowler. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. ———. 1930. The Republic. In Two Volumes. Trans. P.  Shorey. Cambridge. MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. ———. 1955 [1924]. Laches. In Plato in Twelve Volumes, Vol. 8, trans. W.R.M. Lamb. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. ———. 1966. Phaedo. In Plato in Twelve Volumes, Vol. 1, trans. H.N. Fowler. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. ———. 1967a. Protagoras. In Plato in Twelve Volumes, Vol. 3, trans. W.R.M. Lamb. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. ———. 1967b. Gorgias. In Plato in Twelve Volumes, Vol. 3, trans. H.N. Fowler. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. Plutarch. 1914. Themistocles. In Plutarch’s Lives, Vol. 2, trans. B.  Perrin. Cambridge. MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. Virgil. 1937. Aeneid. The Harvard Classics, Vol 13, trans. J. Dryden. New York: P.F. Collier.

6 The Courage of Natural Living

The Wisdom of Simple Pleasures: Epicurus In the Age of Pericles, courage in the face of great danger was needed to achieve freedom, a pillar of the Athenian way of life. Natural courage perfected into a wise virtue is an integral part of the excellence of good men aspiring to achieve great things in life and holding on to them by all possible means. Speaking of the war dead, Pericles encourages his fellow citizens to follow their example. According to his own words as recorded by Thucydides, when esteeming courage to be freedom and freedom to be happiness, do not weigh too nicely the perils of war. The unfortunate who has no hope of a change for the better has less reason to throw away his life than the prosperous who, if he survives, is always liable to a change for the worse, and to whom any accidental fall makes the most serious difference. (Thucydides 1910, 2:43–45)

Striving for excellence and goodness in all aspects is an invitation for Athenians to live up to their ideals and find the highest level of well-being instead of leading ordinary lives. The stakes are high: moral living is key © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32739-1_6

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to promoting the rule of wisdom, courage, justice, and temperance. Deliberation, daring, democracy, and discipline play a central role in achieving eudemonia, understood as happiness, health, and prosperity brought about by an active, rational life. The road to human flourishing is nonetheless reserved for the few, and it is full of obstacles. Nothing is gained if nothing is ventured. But one might ask whether this is the right path to happiness. Would it not be wiser to focus on the end goal of individual well-being, as opposed to treating the means of achieving happiness and prosperity as ends in themselves? If so, should we not seek to eliminate all forms of anxiety and be simply happy, come what may? If we should worry about something, should it not be our inclination to worry about everything, including the achievement of perfection in all things, which is the surest way not to enjoy life to the fullest? This is the line of questioning that Epicureanism teaches. Epicurus (341–70 BC) was a major Greek philosopher of the Hellenistic period, the three centuries following the deaths of Alexander the Great (323 BC) and Aristotle (322 BC). In On the Ends of Good and Evil, Cicero provides a useful account of Epicurean views on courage as presented to him by the scholar Lucius Torquatus, a Consul of the Roman Republic in 65 BC (Cicero 1914, 1:9–21). According to Torquatus, Epicurus considers the fear of death to be the cause of many wrongdoings, leading men to suffer ruin, lose their freedom, and betray their friends, family, and country. Fear, according to contemporary philosophers, must likewise be kept under check, but for the wrong reasons. In the dominant Greek culture, noble generals and citizen soldiers show fearlessness and courage in the face of death on the battlefield so as to protect their loved ones, their country, and the rule of democracy. Epicurus offers a much simpler rationale for men’s noble conduct. Betraying one’s friends and country and refusing to die for their sake brings regrets for the rest of one’s life (Epicurus 1926, Frag. Vat. 56–57). His understanding of fearlessness starts from the following premise: what brave men must seek is happiness in every moment of their lives. They do not postpone happiness because they know they are fated to die; “as against death all of us mortals alike dwell in an unfortified city” (Epicurus 1926, Frag. Vat. 31). Eudemonic well-being is the only way to free oneself from the fear of death.

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The implications of this outlook on goodness in life are far-reaching. One direct consequence is that courage is not intrinsically worthy of praise because it serves noble ends. Courage is like work, perseverance, and the endurance of pain. There’s nothing inherently attractive about it. If the virtue is worth praising, it is only because of what it produces, namely, a life with as little anxiety as possible, free from pain of the mind and body. The same rule applies to all virtues. In the words of Epicurus, It is impossible to live a pleasant life without living wisely and honorably and justly, and it is impossible to live wisely and honorably and justly without living pleasantly. Whenever any one of these is lacking, when, for instance, the man is not able to live wisely, though he lives honorably and justly, it is impossible for him to live a pleasant life. (Epicurus 1926, Doctr. 5)

In and of themselves, courage and cowardice in the face of suffering and death are neither good nor bad. If courage and endurance should be encouraged, it is because they produce happiness and pleasure, understood as “neither pain of body nor of mind” (Epicurus 1926, Doctr. 3). Timidity and cowardice should be frowned upon because they bring pain. As with rashness and license, cowardice torments the mind continuously, awakening trouble and discord. The same reasoning applies to wartime fighting. Using power to defend oneself against external threats is key to securing peace and living “with one another most pleasantly” (Epicurus 1926, Doctr. 40). As for justice and freedom, they are good things only insofar as they satisfy the natural desire for “a pledge of mutual advantage to restrain men from harming one another and save them from being harmed” (Epicurus 1926, Doctr. 31). Laws that have the natural stamp of justice are mutually advantageous and are suited to the kind of life that people seek, according to circumstances (Epicurus 1926, Doctr. 3). If laws fail to achieve this goal, then they are unjust. Injustice and wrongdoing are even less desirable as they cause wicked people to live with the constant fear of being caught and judged (Epicurus 1926, Doctr. 17, 33–38). Living without fear so as to be happy causes men to be loyal, protect the rule of law, and fight for their freedom. When it comes to describing how men should conduct themselves, Epicurean philosophy does not

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necessarily contradict the teachings of Thucydides, Plato, Isocrates, Lysias, Xenophon, Demosthenes, Aristotle, and Aristophanes. When examined closely, however, the emphasis placed on the primary goal of living a pleasant life undermines all previous conceptions of courage and virtue in classical antiquity. Epicurus makes a radical move: he brings everything down to the core goals and necessities of life, in the realm of physis. His approach undercuts all the superlatives of heroic deeds that entail terrible sufferings and tragic deaths in the service of the noblest cause and with the hope of reaping immeasurable rewards: namely, immortal glory, imperial power, the spoils of war, and favour from the gods. In their place, he advocates the simplest expression of goodness in life and equally simple means to achieve it, based on elementary truths. Death is not tragic; sufferings can be avoided; the gods are figments of our imagination; and natural wants are easily satisfied. Accordingly, the words needed to express all of this can be simple and readily understood without going through the hoops and pains of convoluted poetry or philosophy. Aware of their mortal condition, strong souls make light of everything, including death. After all, the dead are just as they were before they were born. Epicurus reminds us that “death is nothing to us: for that which is dissolved is without sensation; and that which lacks sensation is nothing to us” (Epicurus 1926, Doctr. 2). We should also take comfort in knowing that death, whether natural or self-inflicted, can put an end to great pain and misery. As for other pains, we can bear with them because they are short-lived or because we can do something to alleviate them. “Pain does not last continuously in the flesh, but the acutest pain is there for a very short time, and even that which just exceeds the pleasure in the flesh does not continue for many days at once” (Epicurus 1926, Doctr. 4). The message is straightforward: Be happy. However radical his thinking may be, Epicurus still shares the ideals of wisdom and practical reason typical of the time. In fact, they are central to his view of a life well lived. Death, and anything else, for that matter, should be approached rationally. In order to achieve and enhance happiness in our lives, we must identify the right means to achieve our ends, such as acting courageously and serenely in the face of imminent danger or death. This means we must have compelling reasons to choose one way

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of thinking or behaving over another by trusting the evidence provided by our senses and relying on ourselves instead of praying to the gods (Epicurus 1926, Frag. Vat. 65). Reasoning and the appreciation of life help us cope with death, knowing that Fortune does not decide: I have anticipated thee, Fortune, and entrenched myself against all thy secret attacks. And I will not give myself up as captive to thee or to any other circumstance; but when it is time for me to go, spitting contempt on life and on those who vainly cling to it, I will leave life crying aloud a glorious triumph-song that I have lived well. (Epicurus 1926, Frag. Vat. 47)

Following the voice of reason and discerning truth from falsehood and religious beliefs is essential to enjoying a good life. Among other things, it helps us allay unfounded fears of everlasting or long-enduring evil after death. In the end, nothing we fear is eternal or even of long duration. Thus Natural Philosophy supplies courage to face the fear of death; resolution to resist the terrors of religion; peace of mind, for it removes all ignorance of the mysteries of nature; self-control, for it explains the nature of the desires and distinguishes their different kinds. (Epicurus 1926, Doctr. 12)

Reason enjoins us to free ourselves from fears of the mind concerning pain, death, or disaster caused by natural phenomena. But happiness also dictates that we give up wants that are superfluous, especially those that create troubles many times greater than the pleasures we seek (Epicurus 1926, Doctr. 8, 30). The good life depends more on good habits, like being thankful for what we have, keeping our wants in check, becoming self-sufficient, and being happy with meeting our basic needs (Epicurus 1926, Doctr. 15, Frag. Vat. 35, 45, 69). We assume that physical pleasure is unlimited, and that unlimited time is required to procure it. But through understanding the natural goals and limits of the body, and by dissolving the fear of eternity, we produce a complete life that has no need of infinite time. The wise man neither flees

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enjoyment, nor, when events cause him to exit from life, does he look back as if he has missed any essential aspect of life. (Epicurus 1926, Doctr. 20)

Some are cursed with the idea that nothing will ever be enough (Epicurus 1926, Frag. Vat. 68). They constantly desire what they do not have, fall prey to the craving for unlimited food, money, or sex, and suffer harm as a result. For want of boundless wealth, they remain forever poor. For want of liberation from all constraints, they are never free. By contrast, happy men know that “the wealth required by nature is limited and is easy to procure” (Epicurus 1926, Frag. Vat. 8). Poverty, understood as simple living measured by the satisfaction of natural needs, is great wealth. But simple living should not be taken too far. If a man happens to achieve great wealth beyond what he actually needs, he can share it with others so as to gain their goodwill (Epicurus 1926, Frag. Vat. 25, 35, 43, 51, 63, 67, 77, 81). The message is simple and clear: desires that predictably lead to pain when left unfulfilled are not worth pursuing. They may be natural but not necessary, or they are neither natural nor necessary. Friendship is the example par excellence of a desire that is both natural and necessary. Despite the risks taken, it is mutually beneficial, especially in times of need, and the best means to obtain protection from harm (Epicurus 1926, Frag. Vat. 26–29, 34, 39). In his Letters to Lucilius, Seneca quotes Epicurus as saying, “You should be more concerned about inspecting whom you eat and drink with, than what you eat and drink.” “For feeding without a friend is the life of a lion and a wolf ” (Seneca 1917, 19:10). The pursuit of philosophical learning is almost equally worthwhile. It procures pleasure provided it is done and shared for everyone’s own good as opposed to doing it for the sake of Greece, to win a debate, or to impress the crowds (Epicurus 1926, Frag. Vat. 27, 74, 76, 81). People should laugh as often as they can, whether they are carrying out domestic chores or transmitting the teachings of true philosophy (Epicurus 1926, Frag. Vat. 41). Like Socrates and many thinkers of his time, Epicurus is suspicious of any statement of truth that does not amount to a reasoned argument, backed up by sensory, emotional, or intuitive experience. Too many well-­ established beliefs and morals are based on groundless opinions. But he is

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not all that inclined to see “equal reasons to doubt the truth and falsehood of everything” (Epicurus 1926, Doctr. 24). He has no penchant for Socrates’ convoluted wisdom of not knowing, let alone his resolve to leave important matters unresolved, as in the Laches. In the Epicurean tradition, showing steadfast dedication to constant arguing and doubting is no substitute for expressing our grasp of life and the universe through short, pithy sayings and certainties readily accessible to everyone. In line with its values, Natural Philosophy replaces the puzzlements and impasses of dialectical thinking with simple and self-evident aphorisms. Epicurean wisdom is the science of voluntary simplicity, well ahead of its time. It is utilitarianism with a strong dose of Zen wisdom, as it were. It prescribes the exercise of reason, self-control, and simple living as the best way to meet all basic needs and overcome all fears. This coherent stance on the good life is visionary. The natural philosophy it proposes uses inspiring aphorisms to shake the foundations of elitist, militaristic, heroic, tragic, and religious thinking in ancient Greece. It also questions the primacy of intellectual wisdom over all other natural and necessary expressions of the enjoyment of life. In the end, wisdom matters only insofar as it contributes to enjoying all the prizes of simple living. Courage is needed to achieve man’s core existential goal, which is to free himself from any fear or anxiety about whatever the future may bring. The Epicurean stance on courage, based on a hedonistic version of eudemonia, runs counter to the classical rule of wisdom and virtue for its own sake. Courage guided by reason is commendable on one condition: it must help the individual achieve personal happiness, which is the only thing that truly counts. People can live good lives if they develop natural wisdom and avoid unnecessary desires and annoyances. They should free themselves from religious anxieties and beliefs that mystify the real world. To be happy, people must avoid strenuous mental activity as well, which includes painstaking efforts to achieve intellectual and moral wisdom. Elaborate formulations of philosophical truths are no substitute for short and well-inspired maxims that bring pleasure to the mind. Being wise and courageous is not any different from social living: the simpler, the better. Simplicity is the seal of truth and happiness in all aspects of one’s life.

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In 307/306 BC, Epicurus bought a house with a garden just outside Athens. This is where his hedonistic philosophy grew and flourished, in the privately owned groves of a school known as the Garden. The site lent itself to a way of thinking and living detached from the disturbances of politics and city life. Women were admitted as a rule, students discussed a wide range of subjects, and all enjoyed simple meals. The meeting place was real and inhabited by mortals, unlike the unearthly grove of the Phæacian King Alcinous, described in some detail by Homer. It never pretended to be a paradise on Earth, designed for immortals. Nor was it palatial, worthy of a great nation and its powerful rulers. Instead, the Garden was a pleasant place for learning and simple living. Epicurus apparently never married and had no children. While he died a slow and painful death caused by a stone blockage of his urinary tract, he is said to have remained cheerful until the very end. This may be the case, but it may also be that his followers chose not to remember or dwell on his suffering or anxiety in the face of death. The sentiment is understandable and admirable. Those who make it their mission to tend gardens of simple delights teach us how kernels of truth can bring us back to the roots of life on Earth and the value of natural living. The global age is very much in need of their earthly wisdom. But those who find everything in their gardens to be rosy can also be suspected of silencing several anxieties and thus amplifying them unknowingly: namely, the meaninglessness of inevitable suffering, the vexations of political and social life, and all those doubts and unknowns that weigh heavy on our minds. In doing so, they get themselves into a tight corner over what life entails and has to offer. Isolated in a small grove, they miss out on many fundamental pleasures and challenges that come with knowing and doubting, loving and fighting, as well as living and dying.

Freedom from Irrational Passions: Stoicism Epicureanism delivers certainties about how the mind can help eliminate all fears and useless desires and achieve a state of happiness that comes as close as possible to natural living. This is what men and women from all nations and walks of life must do if they are to lead and enjoy simple and

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happy lives. At first sight, Stoicism takes the same approach: courage is part of a moral system that is in tune with the laws of Nature and leads to essential pleasures that are more personal than political. The commitment is to wage a successful battle against the inward dangers of fear, not against hostile enemies that bring fear. Both philosophies thus emphasise the development of proper habits. While wedded to the exercise of reason, they pay attention to the inevitability of suffering and death; all human beings naturally share the same destiny, which is to live mortal lives. Death awaits them from the moment of their birth, and they have no choice but to judge and choose the best way to achieve happiness in this world. Important points of convergence between the two philosophies include showing wisdom, following the laws of Nature, coping with anxieties about suffering and death, and staying away from politics. Still, the differences outweigh the similarities. As I explain below, Stoic thinkers restore the intrinsic value and primacy of intellectual activity and prudential wisdom. Accordingly, their thinking about the defining aspects of courage and how they connect with other virtues and the workings of the mind is discussed in greater detail. Equally important, Stoics display courage by “wisely living with necessary suffering” rather than wisely and freely enjoying the natural and necessary pleasures of life. Their existential fear of inevitable pain, sorrow, and death is never obliterated by the cultivation of virtue. Instead, the exercise of reason and the principle of voluntary assent are reconciled with the sombre twists and dictates of fate. Lastly, Stoicism shifts attention from the dangers of war and tyranny to the inward battle against passions of the body and “inner enemies” of the soul. In short, fate undermines the capacities of free will, and the intellectual dimension of courage takes control. Fear of the enemy is transferred to lower parts of the self, and the basic worries of life in this world continue to plague the soul. Founded by Zeno of Citium in the early third century BC, Stoicism is a philosophy that had an astonishing impact on the cultural and intellectual history of the Greco-Roman world. The philosophical movement lasted until Christianity became the state religion, six centuries later. The focus is on courage as a primary virtue expressed through the wisdom of endurance. This is a central leitmotif of Stoic philosophy as taught by

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Cicero (Marcus Tullius, 106–103 BC), Seneca the Younger (c. 4 BC–65 AD), Musonius Rufus (c. 20/30–101 AD), Plutarch (c. 46–120 AD), Epitectus (c. 55–135 AD), Marcus Aurelius Antonius (121–180 AD), Diogenes Laërtius (third century AD), and Joannes Stobaeus (fifth century AD). It should be said at the outset that there is nothing inherently original about the Stoic idea of bravely coping with suffering and death and trying to be wise and rational about it. Nor is there much new in the notion that courage has intrinsic value and is an integral part of the pursuit of moral happiness. In classical Greek culture, virtue is essential to all things that are truly good in life. What makes the Stoic approach so different from mainstream thinking lies elsewhere: in the way courage links to other core issues of Greco-Roman polity, those of military activity, and related themes of patriotic loyalty and freedom from tyranny. For the Stoics, facing danger and death on the battlefield is no longer the preferred means of expressing courage. Instead, every challenge presents a chance to demonstrate tenacity and develop virtue and goodness in one’s life. Accordingly, the idea of freedom takes a new turn. In classical Greece, freedom, the opposite of slavery, is in constant need of protection against external threats, mostly enemies seeking to conquer Athens. Stoicism changes the focus from an outward struggle against foreign states and tyrants to an inner battle of a moral nature that is universal in scope. Losing self-control and being a slave to one’s fears and desires becomes the greatest danger. What wise souls seek above all is freedom from the irrational passions, namely pleasure, pain, fear, and desire. Outward loyalty to family, friends, and country still matters, and men must still be brave in war. But the ultimate goal of moral conduct is to master oneself and practise virtue. The battle is against letting passion triumph over reason and soul (Plutarch 1878, 6). The Stoic attitude towards fate and faith in God also moves away from classical Greek thinking. The ethics of courage are fully reconciled with our knowledge of what is natural and cannot be otherwise, as decreed by Zeus himself and the cosmic logos. A philosophy dedicated to the inherent goodness of the soul brings together the highest standards of ethics, natural science, and belief in logic and the laws of the universe.

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As in the Age of Pericles, developing a life of unwavering virtue hinges on what Cicero calls a steady preference for what is naturally good (Cicero 2008a, Text 103, 3:20). Courage remains one of the primary virtues, along with prudence, justice, and temperance. All virtues express excellence in human conduct and involve honourable action that is intrinsically good and worth praising (Diogenes Laërtius 2008, Text 101, 7:100). What is good leads to happiness, and what is evil leads to unhappiness. However, whether good and evil coincide with things that fulfil or contradict natural wants and desires is another matter. For instance, health is something we may prefer to have, and sickness is something we may wish to avoid. But neither state is inherently good or evil. Everything depends on the purpose they serve and the way they contribute or do not contribute to our moral existence and flourishing. As Diogenes Laërtius explains, neither good nor bad are those things which neither benefit nor harm, such as life, health, pleasure, beauty, strength, wealth, good reputation, noble birth, and their opposites death, disease, pain, ugliness, weakness, poverty, bad reputation, low birth … For these things are not good, but things indifferent in the category of preferred things. (Diogenes Laërtius 2008, Text 101, 7:102)

Even though they may be desired, indifferent things make no difference in the pursuit of moral happiness. When it comes to courage, Stoics are clear about its inherent goodness, provided it is an expression of virtue. The latter proviso deserves comment. A close reading of the Stoics points to a longstanding problem with regard to a competing idea of courage, of an inferior kind. Writings on this issue indicate that courage can be observed in a natural, animal-like state, at some risk to the exercise of reason and the virtuous soul. In his discussion of things that lie outside the realm of moral goodness, Diogenes Laërtius remarks that indifferent things such as strength or health do not require an act of assent that gives approval to what is perceived by the senses. They simply exist and may be generally preferred, without people having to agree or commit themselves to upholding some truth or doing what is thought to be right. Things that do not require moral reflection

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and assent, he continues to say, “supervene in base people, as health and courage do” (Diogenes Laërtius 2008, Text 101, 7:91). For instance, courage expressed through fits of anger is neither an indifferent matter nor an expression of virtue. From a moral standpoint, it is rather a sign of weakness and an inferior manifestation of the human soul. Far from being a simple matter—and a good one at that—the idea of courage straddles separate divisions of a man’s soul. In the words of Diogenes, the soul has three divisions. One part of it is rational, another appetitive, and a third irascible. Of these the rational part is the cause of purpose, reflection, understanding and the like. The appetitive part of the soul is the cause of desire of eating, sexual indulgence and the like, while the irascible part is the cause of courage, of pleasure and pain, and of anger. (Diogenes 1925, 3:1)

In this passage, inferior courage belongs to the irascible part of the human soul. For reasons that Stoics do not explore, courage admits to a range of contradictory definitions, and no clear definition of the term seems necessary. Courage may refer to a thing that is indifferent by nature, an expression of virtue, or something toxic to the soul. The conundrum echoes classical Greek thinking where courage is “true” only when mixed with higher-ranking virtues such as prudence, justice, and wisdom most of all, as in Plato (1926a, 630a–c, 631d, 667a, 669b; 1926b, 413). Seneca makes the same point in his description of how superior courage incorporates elements of composure, quietness, graciousness, and even gentleness. Otherwise, anger driven by excessive pride and impudence takes over. Anger, he says, is but a wild impetuous blast, an empty tumor, the very infirmity of woman and children; a brawling, clamorous evil: and the more noise the less courage; as we find it commonly, that the boldest tongues have the faintest hearts. (Seneca 1882a, Ch. 4)

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Anger can make a man fight better, but the same can be said of wine, madness, and fear itself. When in great despair, even the coward can do great wonders, if only by accident. They are cowards nonetheless. Superior courage, the virtuous kind, dispenses with bursts of anger. Even if effective in some respects, using anger to attain a goal is ultimately unhealthy, a bit like welcoming a disease for its positive consequences. “How many men have been preserved by poison; by a fall from a precipice; by a shipwreck; by a tempest! does it therefore follow that we are to recommend the practice of these experiments?” (Seneca 1882a, Ch. 5). Marcus Aurelius is equally critical of the “excitement of anger.” In his view, being moved by passion is not a manly thing to do. Anger is like an overwhelming pain; it is characteristic of weakness. Anyone who yields to it is wounded and submits. Mildness and gentleness are more appropriate. “He who possesses these qualities possesses strength, nerves and courage, and not the man who is subject to fits of passion and discontent” (Marcus Aurelius 1889, Book 11). Freedom from passion is the source of true strength. Desire, fear, and anger are natural emotions that can be indifferent or lead to evil. If controlled by reason, however, they can serve a moral purpose. Seneca uses child-rearing practices to illustrate the point. While removing the seeds of anger is an important part of educating a child, parents must not dampen a child’s natural passions. A wise approach to child-rearing consists in finding the middle ground between “license and severity, that he be neither too much emboldened nor depressed. Commendation gives him courage and confidence; but then the danger is, of blowing him up into insolence and wrath” (Seneca 1882a, Ch. 9). In and of itself, anger is indifferent and simply exists. While it may be toxic if left unchecked, it can become a virtue by serving moral ends. Parents should thus ensure that children temper and channel their anger and develop the ability to “die and to endure fierce, untiring labours” so that their actions can serve a higher purpose (Diogenes Laërtius 1925, 5:1). Diogenes thus defines courage as being concerned with what should be endured (Diogenes Laërtius 2008, 7:25; see 7:92). Likewise, Seneca equates this virtue with maintaining one’s post in the face of adversity, or standing upright where other men are beaten down.

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The great evil is the want of courage, the bowing and submitting to them, which can never happen to a wise man; for he stands upright under any weight; nothing that is to be borne displeases him; he knows his strength, and whatsoever may be any man’s lot, he never complains of, if it be his own. (Seneca 1845, Ch. 16)

The message seems clear. In the Stoic tradition, however, a wide range of concepts can be used to interpret the latter statement. They include endurance, the term most often used, but also confidence, great-­ heartedness, stoutheartedness, and the love of work (Stobaeus 2008, Text 102, 5b2). Similarly, in Book 2 of On Invention, Cicero uses the word “fortitude” to signify “a deliberate encountering of danger and enduring of labour,” and then goes on to explore different parts of the primary virtue, namely magnificence, confidence, patience, and perseverance. Definitions are provided for each concept. Magnificence is the consideration and management of important and sublime matters with a certain wide seeing and splendid determination of mind. Confidence is that feeling by which the mind embarks in great and honourable courses with a sure hope and trust in itself. Patience is a voluntary and sustained endurance, for the sake of what is honourable or advantageous, of difficult and painful labours. Perseverance is a steady and lasting persistence in a well-considered principle. (Cicero 1851, 2:53)

This Stoic framing of higher and lower-level virtues will be further developed in the twelfth- and thirteenth-century writings of Philip the Chancellor, Albert the Great, and Thomas Aquinas, among others. Philosophically speaking, the Stoic distinction between primary and subordinate qualities, also found in the teachings of Chrysippus, is not without consequence. It avoids oversimplifying ethical considerations by reducing all virtues to four dispositions only, as in the Platonic tradition. But it also avoids the confusion created by Aristotle’s “swarm of virtues,” an approach denounced by Plutarch in his critique of Chrysippus (Plutarch 1878, 2). As Houser points out, the two-tiered position advanced by Cicero eventually prevails among Christian virtue theorists (Houser 2004, p. 25). Interestingly, Seneca uses it for political ends, by

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inviting emperors and rulers to set the example when it comes to the four chief virtues. By doing this, they can find “peace of mind” when they are in power, “consolation” when deprived of it, and “resolution” when they are faced with “the shortness of life.” Some of the titles he chose for his letters and essays reflect these themes. The idea of “courage” thus covers many aspects of morally driven endurance, extending well beyond the military domain. Since they can endure everything, courageous souls do not fear anything, whether it be danger on the battlefield or anywhere else. Above all, they have no fear of death, no matter what the cause. Seneca warns us that “the fear of death is a continual slavery, as the contempt of it is certain liberty” (Seneca 1845, Ch. 17). The same applies to all the afflictions that torment human beings. Perfect souls show patience and display courage by laughing at all kinds of suffering, including sickness, persecution, and torture (Seneca 1845, Ch. 24). In the end, the only dreadful thing about death is our fear of it (Seneca 2008, 120:3–14). However horrible the circumstances of death may be, those who fortify themselves against them are in a better position to face all the hardships that life may bring. They develop the courage to live, which may be harder than dying. Those who ignore death are like children and madmen. Instead of preparing themselves for it, they worry about all possible dangers and irritants, including those that are relatively minor and even trivial. By running away from pain and displeasure, they end up depriving themselves of true happiness throughout their lives and at the moment of dying. For the sake of keeping a sad carcass alive, they betray their country and friends and prostitute their wives and daughters. They fail to live happily right to the very end, i.e., honourably and thoughtfully, with due consideration for others and themselves. In the absence of virtue, their lives are “irksome, and only eating and drinking in a circle” (Seneca 1845, Ch. 21). In the face of death, a man’s physical appearance, wealth, and good fortune have no significance. They are absolutely indifferent. When the curtain drops, even powerful kings are just ordinary men. They too must decide whether they will assent to what is right based on compelling reasons or yield to falsehood and fear. The rule is simple and universal: everyone is “compounded of body and soul; the body is irrational, and

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may be galled, burnt, tortured; but the rational part is fearless, invincible, and not to be shaken” (Seneca 1845, Ch. 16). Human nature gives everyone an equal chance of developing a perfectly good soul, so courageous and immovable that it can see a naked sword without so much as winking. Anyone can thus learn the secret of happiness, which consists in having nothing to fear or complain about, not even exile, torture, or some horrible death. The Stoic notion that moral courage applies to all spheres of life and segments of society is radically new. The same cannot be said of happiness, which calls for courage and endurance in the face of adversity. This is a relatively old mantra. Likewise, the close connection that courage must entertain with other virtues governed by reason and wisdom is a legacy of classical Greece. Stoics are committed to weaving all virtues into a single fabric, with rational thinking as the common thread running through it. As Diogenes puts it, “They say that the virtues follow on each other and that he who has one has them all” (Diogenes Laërtius 2008, 7:25; see 7:92). Stobaeus concurs: “All the virtues which are forms of knowledge and crafts have common theorems and the same goal, as was said, and consequently they are inseparable; for he who has one has them all, and he who acts with one virtue acts with all” (Stobaeus 2008, Text 102, 5b5). Knowledge is at the heart of virtue. The four virtues are united; they depend on each other and are generally on the same footing. Yet prudence has a special status: it ties everything together, as in Aristotelian ethics. This means that justice is prudence in distributions, temperance is prudence in choices, and courage is prudence in endurance. Logically, what is true for virtue in general holds true for subordinate dispositions. Thus, all aspects of courage are expressions of practical wisdom. More specifically, endurance is knowledge that stands by correct decisions with respect to things that are terrible, to be avoided or chosen (or neither). Confidence is knowledge of things to come that are not terrible. And stoutheartedness is knowledge in a soul that makes it invincible. By contrast, cowardice, which is not the same as powerlessness or weakness, is shameful ignorance of all the above (Stobaeus 2008, Text 102, 5b, 5b1–2). To counter the threat of shame and ignorance, humans must bravely acknowledge and prepare for death and the many afflictions of

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life. Only then will they be able to understand and determine what is truly good in the pursuit of happiness, as opposed to things that may be preferred (such as health) but are indifferent. The relationship between freedom and Nature is another important key to understanding courage from a Stoic perspective. In the age of Pericles, freedom is what men seek in their political and military struggle against tyranny. Outward deeds must conform to the wisdom of knowledge and reason, and good things are bound to follow. In the modern age, while still political, the idea of freedom is extended to include science, distancing itself from the tyranny of faith and fate. Rational thinking enables human beings to overcome the limitations imposed by God, the church, and the forces of Nature. Stoics take a very different view. Unlike classical Greek intellectuals, their sense of freedom is based on a personal approach to ethics, mostly inward-looking, and with a pantheistic view of Nature. And, contrary to the modern view of Nature, morality coincides perfectly with the scientific knowledge of what God and the laws of Nature ordain and cannot be otherwise. The fundamental goal of knowledge and moral goodness is to live in accordance with Nature, not to dominate it. This is the aim inscribed in every human soul, which is naturally inclined to be prudent, temperate, courageous, and just. Accordingly, the Stoic man seeks to rationally investigate and “discover what is appropriate and to stabilise his impulses and to stand firm and to distribute [fairly]” (Stobaeus 2008, Text 102, 5b3; see Musonius Rufus 2008, Text 128 Frag. 14). Stobaeus writes: So, it is clear from this that [these expressions] are equivalent: “living according to nature” and “living honorably” and “living well” and again “the honorable and good” and “virtue and what participates in virtue”; and that every good thing is honorable and similarly that every shameful thing is bad. That is also why the Stoic goal is equivalent to the life according to virtue. (Stobaeus 2008, Text 102, 6e)

In classical Greece, loyalty to Athens and the rule of democracy gave men the courage to fight and endure suffering in the service of family, friends, and country. Stoicism also emphasises the notion of duty and calls for men’s allegiance and obedience to existing laws. But the laws that

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rule supreme and dictate everything are those of Nature and the whole cosmos, which is the dwelling place of both humans and gods. In the words of Cicero, the cosmos is like a city or state shared by gods and humans … From which it naturally follows that we put the common advantage ahead of our own. For just as the laws put the well-being of all ahead of the well-being of individuals, so too the good and wise man, who is obedient to the laws and not unaware of his civic duty, looks out for the advantage of all more than for that of any one person or his own. (Cicero 2008b, Text 103, 3:64)

In short, happiness is measured by the extent to which individuals follow the laws of the universe and are true to their own nature. Well-being draws on the contributions of all good souls meeting the general target of virtue, each in their own way. According to Panaetius (c. 185–c. 110/109 BC), as interpreted by Stobaeus, all virtues interact as if there were one target set up for many archers and this target had on it lines that differed in color … For just as these [archers] make their highest goal the hitting of the target, but each sets before himself a different manner of hitting it, in the same way too all the virtues make being happy their goal (and this lies in living in agreement with nature) but each [virtue] achieves this in a different manner. (Stobaeus 2008, Text 102, 5b5)

The soul is called upon to live in agreement with Nature. This does not mean that all things that happen in our lives are independent of our will. There are situations where we can exercise choice. Good souls must then act according to their nature by choosing what reason dictates and acting cautiously in the process. But it may be that no choice exists, as when death is imminent. Even so, showing courage is an option that can be exercised. As Epictetus puts it, be “courageous in that which does not depend on your will; cautious in that which does depend on it” (Epictetus 1890, 2:1). Instead of running away, perfectly good humans display patience and confidence in the face of hardships they cannot escape. When they can exercise choice, they show caution and do whatever reason dictates to allay their natural fears, including the threat of death. In

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both cases, the mind elevates itself above fortune (Seneca 1845, Ch. 16). Human beings can do this because they have been given the faculties needed to bear everything that happens to them, including great pain and sorrow. Those who honour the gifts of Nature display greatness of soul in lieu of lamenting over their misfortune. It is the part of a cowardly soldier to follow his commander groaning: but a generous man delivers himself up to God without struggling; and it is only for a narrow mind to condemn the order of the world, and to propound rather the mending of Nature than of himself. No man has any cause of complaint against Providence, if that which is right pleases him. (Seneca 1882b, Ch. 9)

Zeus made humans capable of endurance, among other things. In appreciation of that gift, humans are obliged to tap into their wisdom and power to behave honourably and remain happy even while they suffer (Epictetus 1890, Disc. 3:8; Ench. 10). Where virtue is the rule, good passions prevail. Unrestrained pleasure gives way to joy, understood as “rational elation” achieved through delight, mirth, and cheerfulness. “Rational avoidance,” based on reverence and modesty, eliminates excessive fear. Likewise, craving is overcome by “rational wishing” involving benevolence, friendliness, respect, and affection (Diogenes Laërtius 1925, 7:116). Morality is a gift of Nature, God, and the universe. All souls receive it, regardless of differences based on nationality, lineage, wealth, profession, or sex. The chauvinist view of courage prevalent in classical Greece no longer holds. As Epictetus remarks, “Never in reply to the question, to what country you belong, say that you are an Athenian or a Corinthian, but that you are a citizen of the world” (Epictetus 1890, Disc. 1:9). The principle is clear. Admittedly, not all Stoics adhere consistently to an egalitarian view of men’s and women’s ability to become models of moral courage; hints and expressions of misogyny are common. Some influential philosophers are nonetheless adamant about women’s equal courage. Musonius Rufus is worth quoting here:

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It is appropriate that the educated woman is more courageous than the uneducated, and the philosophical woman more so than the non-­ philosopher; and she will not endure anything shameful owing to fear of death or reluctance to work hard, nor will she cower before anyone on the grounds that he is wellborn, powerful, wealthy, or even, by Zeus, that he is a tyrant. She has the trait of having trained herself to think lofty thoughts, to hold that death is not a bad thing, and that life is not a good thing, and similarly trained herself not to avoid hard work and not to pursue freedom from hard work at all costs. Hence it is likely that this woman will be industrious and tough, able to nurse at her own breast any children she bears and to serve her husband with her own hands. She will do without hesitation jobs that some regard as servile. (Musonius Rufus 2008, Text 126, Fragment 3)

Through education and the practice of philosophy, women have an equal chance of showing perfect courage and freeing themselves from the fear of hard work, death, and the wrath of men in positions of power. Courage is no longer a prerogative of male aristocrats and citizen soldiers nobly serving their country against enemy states and tyrants. Rather, virtue belongs to all people who live their daily lives with acts of piety, reason, and fearless courage. In summary, Stoic courage is one of the four chief virtues arising from the goodness of human nature and forming part of the divine in us. It is universal in scope and applicable to all citizens around the world. This virtue is inseparable from other virtues. All are governed by the higher faculty of reason and the use of phronetic wisdom (prudence) and voluntary assent, which is the ability to accept or reject “presentations” and inclinations of the senses. The Stoic idea of fortitude thus shifts the attention from the politics of fear and war to existential tensions between the body and higher parts of the soul. Fortitude helps liberate the soul or mind from inferior kinds of courage expressed through fits of anger and uncontrolled fear. While they may be natural, passions triggered by animal-­like impulses are fundamentally irrational. They enslave the soul and unleash evil in the human mind. On their own, they cannot elevate the soul and personal character above things that may be preferred but matter little. Most of all, they do not enable humans to overcome the

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hardships of life. This idea is reflected in Stoic discussions of the secondary aspects of fortitude, which vary from one thinker to another. For Cicero, they include magnificence, confidence, patience, and perseverance; for Seneca, composure, quietness, graciousness, and gentleness; and for Stobaeus, endurance, confidence, and stoutheartedness. Different terms are used to spell out the finer aspects of courage. However, every list emphasises the wisdom of perseverance and steady strength in overcoming barriers to moral behaviour and personal fulfilment. With Stoicism, prudential wisdom rules, fear is redirected towards lower parts of the soul, and the existential prospect of suffering and death looms large in the workings of the mind. Seeds of rational thinking and orderly conduct are planted on the battlefields of the soul. These are not seeds meant to grow in savage lands, a remark that brings us back to the garden metaphor introduced at the beginning of this chapter. Unlike ancient Greece, the Roman civilisation developed a rich tradition of domestic, villa, and palatial gardens designed for balance and symmetry. Inspired by the Persian tradition, gardens were tended to grow as places of decorative beauty, tranquillity, and leisurely activity, secluded from the bustle of city commerce and politics. Many well-to-do families took pleasure in planting trees, flowers, herbs, and vegetables in an interior courtyard surrounded by a porch and rows of columns, with a path going through the garden and connecting the house to the outside world. Sculptures, frescoes, and sundials depicted scenes of Nature and were added to shrines dedicated to the gods and creatures of Roman mythology. In its own abstract form, the Stoic understanding of courage was modelled on the same view of the world. Cultivating divine beauty and order in Nature and maintaining inward composure were key landmarks of Stoic philosophy. This involved showing decorum and civility when connecting to the outside world and, most of all, remaining indifferent to the scurry of human emotions and afflictions originating from the body, the forces of Nature, and the turmoil of Roman politics. Traditionally, Persian gardens were enclosed for protection against the threat of drought in the barren wilderness. The gardens of Stoic wisdom grew in similar conditions, but they did so at the cost of man’s free will and the entanglements of Nature and social life on Earth.

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References Cicero. 1851. On Invention. Trans. C.D. Yonge. London: Henry G. Bohn. ———. 1914. De Finibus Bonorum et Malorum. In Cicero, Vol. XVII, trans. H.H.  Rackham. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. ———. 2008a. The Account in Cicero on Goals. In The Stoics Reader: Selected Writings and Testimonia, trans. B.  Inwood and L.P.  Gerson. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett. ———. 2008b. On Goals. In The Stoics Reader: Selected Writings and Testimonia, trans. B. Inwood and L.P. Gerson. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett. Diogenes Laërtius. 1925. Lives of Eminent Philosophers. Trans. R.D.  Hicks. London: William Heinemann. New York: G.P. Putnam. ———. 2008. The General Account in Diogenes Laërtius. In The Stoics Reader: Selected Writings and Testimonia, trans. B.  Inwood and L.P.  Gerson. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett. Epictetus. 1890. The Discourses of Epictetus; with the Encheridion and Fragments. Trans. G. Long. London: G. Bell. Epicurus. 1926. The Extant Remains. Trans. C. Bailey. Oxford, UK: Clarendon. Houser, R.E. 2004. Introduction. In The Cardinal Virtues. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies. Marcus Aurelius Antonius. 1889. The Thoughts of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius. Trans. G. Long. Boston: Little, Brown, and Company. Musonius Rufus. 2008. In The Stoics Reader: Selected Writings and Testimonia, trans. B. Inwood and L.P. Gerson. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett. Plato. 1926a. Laws. In Plato in Twelve Volumes, Vol. 10 and 11, trans. R.G. Bury. Cambridge. MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. ———. 1926b. Cratylus. In Plato: Cratylus, Parmenides, Greater Hippias, Lesser Hippias, trans. H.N. Fowler. Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press. Plutarch. 1878. Of Moral Virtue. In Plutarch’s Morals, Vol. 3, trans. by several hands, corr. and rev. W.W. Goodwin. Boston: Little, Brown, and Company. Seneca. 1845. Seneca’s Morals. Trans. R.  L’Estrange. Philadelphia: Grigg and Elliot. ———. 1882a. Of Anger. In Seneca’s Morals of Happy Life, Benefits, Anger and Clemency, trans. R. L’Estrange. Chicago: Belford, Clarke & Company.

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———. 1882b. Of a Happy Life. In Seneca’s Morals of Happy Life, Benefits, Anger and Clemency, trans. R.  L’Estrange. Chicago: Belford, Clarke & Company. ———. 1917. Ad Lucilium Epistulae Morales. 3 vols. Trans. R.M. Gummere. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. ———. 2008. Letters on Ethics. In The Stoics Reader: Selected Writings and Testimonia, trans. B. Inwood and L.P. Gerson. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett. Stobaeus. 2008. The Account Preserved by Stobaeus. In The Stoics Reader: Selected Writings and Testimonia, trans. B.  Inwood and L.P.  Gerson. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett. Thucydides. 1910. The Peloponnesian War. Trans. R.  Crawley. London: J.M. Dent. New York: Dutton.

7 Courage, Wisdom, and Mysticism

In classical antiquity, deities and evocations of the divine have a direct bearing on politics, knowledge, human existence, and the universe. Hippocrates and Epicurus are among the few who feel no need to acknowledge and address the influence of heavenly hosts and celestial principles. Others pay due respect to the gods. However, when it comes to grasping the properties of moral life, they do not necessarily call upon godly powers to resolve the question of courage. Their outlook on the ethics of courage pushes religious matters into the background, even as they continue to matter. Apart from the Homeric tradition, all approaches examined thus far have this in common: their immediate focus is not the divine. Aristotle’s thinking about God confirms the rule. In his discussion of metaphysics, he argues that rational thought reaches perfection in its active realisation. Intellectual contemplation is the source of great happiness, the kind that God enjoys, for he is the actuality of thought in life. “We hold, then, that God is a living being, eternal, most good; and therefore life and a continuous eternal existence belong to God; for that is what God is” (Aristotle 1933, 12:1072b). This is an important passage in Metaphysics. However, unlike the Nicomachean Ethics, the book as a whole remains silent on the question of valour and fortitude. It shows no © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32739-1_7

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interest in establishing direct linkages between the author’s view of the divine and the ethics of courage or the implications of virtue, for that matter. Students of philosophy could always speculate about those linkages and make them explicit, with the idea that Aristotelianism is a fully integrated theory where all things fit together. Inconsistencies, partial explanations, and loose ends could then be conveniently removed from consideration. This history of the ethics of courage adopts a wholly different premise and follows the limits, whether conscious or not, established by each philosopher. It assumes that silences and missing links are an integral part of every system of thought. Whole systems are systems with holes. This brings me to one stream of thought that thinks through the relationship between ethics and metaphysics, an approach that wields influence in the history of moral philosophy, including the later developments of Christian theology. Views that bring rational ethics together with mysticism can be traced back to the pre-Socratic teachings of Pythagoras. The founder of the Pythagorean brotherhood stresses the intellectual and divine foundations of fortitude and reconciles the ascetic life with the wisdom of virtue and the struggle for justice. The pre-Socratic tenets of mysticism and asceticism are further explored in the later writings of Plotinus and Porphyry. Both understand fortitude as the divine energy needed for the intellect to commune with its own eternal principles. At the moral level, courageous detachment from the senses and the anxieties of life and death is part of the mind’s effort to fully grasp the essence of courage. Philo of Alexandria, a contemporary of Jesus of Nazareth, is also interested in making courage more intellectual and spiritual. However, his focus is on the canons of Jewish piety and God’s promises for heaven.

Ascending to the Divine: Pythagoreanism The Greek philosopher and mathematician Pythagoras (c. 570–c. 490 AD) was born in Samos a century before Socrates. The author of The Life of Pythagoras, Iamblichus (c. 245–c. 325 AD), dedicates a full chapter to fortitude in the man’s life and his teaching. Using a narrative style, the Syrian Neoplatonist portrays Pythagoras as an exceptional man capable

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of hard work, facing terrible dangers, helping those who are just and humble, and making great sacrifices in his fight to protect the law and liberate Sicily from tyranny. He showed unusual courage by speaking his mind and telling the truth to Phalaris, the tyrant who detained him in captivity and sentenced him to death. Under divine inspiration, the philosopher spoke boldly and convincingly on many controversial issues, much to the discontent of Phalaris. The topics he covered included the power of sacred rites but also the role of divine providence in bringing about events that humans cannot control. Calamities include immense wars, or incurable diseases, or the corruption of fruits, or the incursions of pestilence, or certain other things of the like kind, which are most difficult to be borne, and deplorable, arising from the energies of certain daemoniacal and divine powers. (Iamblichus 1818, 32)

All things happening on Earth are governed by the heavens. However, Pythagoras never saw himself as a passive spectator or victim of the Cosmos. According to Iamblichus, he knowingly possessed the capacity to summon the gods to bring down evil men and save his student Epimenides from their clutches. More importantly, he saw how the soul’s deliberative power possesses freedom of will, the kind that is based on the “perfect energy of reason and intellect.” Thus, in his teachings, the determinations of Fate do not preclude the exercise of “right reason,” which justifies legal punishments for wrongdoing and the condemnation of tyranny, injustice, and avarice. In this perspective, fortitude is “according to the decision of right reason, the science of things which are to be avoided and endured” (Iamblichus 1818, 31). The philosopher embraced this view in the most difficult circumstances and did so by setting his mind on what matters most: the immortality of the soul (Iamblichus 1818, 30). He believed that the intellect could see and hear all things, while everything else that exists is deaf and blind. The mind is so powerful that it can grasp the idea of immortality. By understanding the mathematics of incorporeal forms, man can overcome the fear of the soul leaving the body. Intemperance and luxury are obstacles on the way to the divine. To see the light, the soul must be

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untamed by all those passions which are the progeny of the realms of generation, and which draw it to an inferior condition of being. For the exercise and ascent through all these, is the study of the most perfect fortitude. And such are the instances adduced by us of the fortitude of Pythagoras, and the Pythagoreans. (Iamblichus 1818, 32)

The passion for pleasure offends the rational mind and is at the root of human diseases and ailments. Death is preferable to transgressing the precepts and laws of temperance. Anger and rage can also undermine the rule of reason. Melodies offer some assistance in this regard. The disciples of Pythagoras used them against rage and anger, through which they gave intension and remission to these passions, till they reduced them to moderation, and rendered them commensurate with fortitude. That, however, which afforded them the greatest support in generous endurance, was the persuasion that no human casualties ought to be unexpected by men who are in the possession of intellect, but that all things ought to be expected by them, over which they have no absolute power. (Iamblichus 1818, 32)

Temperance and fortitude are best acquired through ascetic practices. When overwhelmed by anger or grief, Pythagorean disciples sought solitude and lived in silence, which helped them to “digest and heal the passion” (Iamblichus 1818, 31). They dedicated themselves to studies and hard labour, abstained from sleep, wine, and food (especially animal meat), and used fire and the sword to rid themselves of greediness and intemperance. They believed that this constant education in fortitude should begin in childhood. This helps children control whining, tears, and the effeminate habits of supplication and flattery. Long periods of silence must also be observed. While Pythagoras showed courage by speaking the truth, his teachings required that he and his disciples refrain from putting the mysteries of God in writing or divulging their secret knowledge to strangers. Their arcana were to be communicated obscurely, through symbols and precepts that sounded like old wives’ tales. For instance, one precept states that one should not assist a man in laying down a burden. Iamblichus explains how the metaphor is meant to show

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the difference between fortitude and laziness, indolence, or effeminacy, and celebrate the deployment of herculean efforts and energy in life (Iamblichus 1818, note p. 61). In his treatise entitled “The Good and Happy Man,” the scientist Archytas (c. 435–c. 347 AD) outlines the metaphysical and ethical foundations of Pythagoreanism. A basic premise is that the intellect or rational soul acts as the servant or satellite of God, the supreme master that stands above all souls. The intellect in turn seeks goodness through its four servants, namely, prudence, fortitude, temperance, and justice. As for the body, it is subservient to the soul and must obey the rule of prudence, which is the “science of the happy”—knowledge that helps find goodness in beauty, healthy habits, and the perfection of the senses. Friendship, wealth, glory, and nobility are superfluous and rank the lowest in the chain of command (Iamblichus 1818, Achytas). Some virtues and parts of the soul and the cosmos lead, and others follow. The contemporary philosopher Theages (fifth century BC) has more to say about the leading role of prudence and justice in relation to other virtues and human passions. In his treatise On the Virtues, the intellect has the power to investigate and seek excellence and the divine through the quest for truth. For prudence consists in judging and contemplating forms. The knowledge of things divine and most honorable is the principle, cause, and rule of human blessedness. (Iamblichus 1818, Theages)

Theages defines fortitude as the ability to endure terrible things. It calls for the reasoning part of the soul to govern the irascible part and related passions, namely ambition, ferocity, and anger. The latter are meant to protect the body but can go wild and give free rein to “the ardent impulses of the soul.” As for justice, it plays a unifying role. Abstaining from gain and from injuring one’s neighbour is the highest virtue that combines prudence, fortitude, and temperance in one act. Justice is a certain established order of the apt conjunction of the parts of the soul, and perfect and supreme virtue. For every good is contained in this; but the other goods of the soul cannot subsist without this. Hence justice possesses

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great strength both among Gods and men. For this virtue contains the bond by which the whole and the universe are held together, and also by which Gods and men are connected. (Iamblichus 1818, From Theages)

Like Iamblichus, Theages associates irrational conduct with effeminacy in fleeing from pain. It also causes incontinence, which occurs when the intellect loses control of the soul’s appetitive part and its craving for pleasure. An echo of this view is found in the fragments of the Pythagorean philosopher Phintys (third century BC), daughter of Callicrates. According to Phintys, both men and women should look after their bodies, minds, and souls and develop the virtues of fortitude, justice, and prudence. Virtue is part of the Law of God and is the only thing that is strong. However, women continue to play a distinct role. They stay at home and attend to the needs of their husbands, who in turn are responsible for leading armies and governing. It follows that women need to be temperate, whereas men need to be brave and wise (Stobaeus 1822, Phintys).

 he All-Soul and the Divine Intellect: Porphyry T and Plotinus Similar teachings are advanced by Porphyry and Plotinus. Both prepared the ground for Christianity’s protracted effort to interweave the teachings of reason and wisdom with its own faith in the courage of religious fear and love. While he did not embrace the Christian faith, the Egyptian Plotinus (205–270 AD) was a student of Persian and Indian philosophies and a central figure in the development of Neoplatonism throughout the Christian era. Without embracing extreme asceticism, the man lived a simple life and taught the Romans the way of contemplative thought. The Enneads, edited by his student Porphyry (c. 232–c. 304 AD), outlines a remarkable synthesis of seemingly contradictory ideas. They include Aristotle’s idea of the moderation of passions; the Stoic faith in Nature and indifference towards suffering and death; Plato’s vision of ideal forms of the intellect; and gnostic hopes of enlightenment and full transcendence from the existing world. His understanding of ethics revolves

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around human beings’ ascent from what he calls the All-Soul to the realm of Reason and Intelligence, towards man’s likeness and communion with the Supreme One, or Intellectual Cosmos. In his discussion of the four cardinal virtues, the Hellenic philosopher outlines the upward path that connects the different levels of man’s moral and intellectual life, moving bravely towards the highest likeness and communion with Reason and the pure Intellect. The first movement on this moral path takes place at the lower level of the All-Soul, or Psyche. This is where the virtues, social and political in nature, are expected to govern all aspects of man’s life, in accordance with Nature. The All-Soul has two interrelated parts: the higher human Soul and the lower physical and material world. Even though the two engage with each other, the human Soul must never surrender to the animated body. This would be tantamount to a gardener finding an insect in rotten wood and letting it destroy the whole tree. The Soul is the gardener, who is concerned about the insect and working anxiously to heal the tree. Good health is achieved and maintained by cultivating all virtues and caring for others’ lives. By contrast, the sick man looks after himself only and has no concern other than his own body. He is “body-bound” (Plotinus 1917, IV 3:4). The human Soul can avoid its own decay by showing fortitude, which means caring for others and keeping emotions and passions of the body in check instead of being at their mercy. Unlike the body, the Soul never perishes. Accordingly, it has the power to remain impassive and detach itself from every feeling, including pain, grief, and the fear of danger. Rectitude in the application of virtue is the bending of life and action towards the Intellectual Principle, using fortitude to keep its immateriality free from everything that is foreign to it. Fortitude is when the soul shows apathy and remains naturally “impassive in the likeness of that towards which its gaze is set” (Plotinus 1917, I 2:6; see Porphyry 1823, 3:4). Social and political virtues illuminate the world like the moon. They keep the All-Soul from being consumed by the darkness of its earthly existence. For the All-Soul to shine fully, however, it must return to the sun that sheds light on the moon, i.e., the divine Mind, Intelligence, Reason, or Thought from which it emanates. Plotinus likens the Intellect

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to the sun or demiurge that possesses the energy to create and maintain the material universe. To progress in this direction, the human Soul must have the courage to free itself from the grip of passions and material things, as well as the courage to die and take leave from the body. While restraint [sophrosyne] helps to resist the pleasures of the flesh and keep the Soul clean and pure, courage is being fearless of the death which is but the parting of the Soul from the body, an event which no one can dread whose delight is to be his unmingled self. And Magnanimity is but disregard for the lure of things here. And Wisdom is but the Act of the Intellectual-Principle withdrawn from the lower places and leading the Soul to the Above. (Plotinus 1917, I 6:6)

To live in the likeness of the Intellect, the human Soul must escape evil, ignore the moods of the body, become just and holy, follow the fourfold wisdom of Virtue, and live in the spirit of human fellowship. In addition to being immune to passion, it must have no fear of the body dissolving into non-existence and the void (Plotinus 1917, I 2:3). Purified from what lies outside, the Soul can find its true self in Wisdom and Intellect. As Porphyry explains, the political virtues “adorn the mortal man, and are the forerunners of purifications” (Porphyry 1823, 2:34). When it reaches the contemplative level, the soul is energised intellectually. Its focus can then turn to “paradigms subsisting in the intellect,” knowing that political virtues are made in their likeness. By taking a rest from all physical activity and the worries of living in the body, the soul can use scientific knowledge and wisdom to rise to its true self. Paradoxically, since passions of the body no longer affect the soul, demonstrations of courage are no longer needed (Plotinus 1917, I 1.2). When seen from a “theoretic” perspective, political dispositions are held in apathy. The only thing that matters is their ultimate purpose or end, which is to draw closer to the divine. For the scope of the political virtues, is to give measure to the passions in their practical energies according to nature. But the scope of the cathartic virtues, is entirely to obliterate the remembrance of the passions. (Porphyry 1823, 2:234)

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Instead of being practised, virtue is then contemplated as part of the intelligible world. Courage in oneself or in others is admired on its own, like a beautiful or splendorous form descending from heaven. It is an Idea that has no colour or shape and is separate from everything that is foreign to it. It cannot associate with anything that is subordinate to it, including terrestrial things and the excess of passion. Seen in this light, courage cannot be understood as resisting power lodged in a healthy blending of blood or the vital breath and wind of the body (Plotinus 1917, IV 7:8). Nor can it be a habitual inclination to seek the practical middle ground between ferocity and faintheartedness (Plotinus 1917, II 3:11). Rather, courage is seen for what it is: a power rooted in the moral wisdom of the Soul, a vital energy that shines down on humans as “the light of god-like Intellection” (Plotinus 1917, I 6:5–6). In it lies a pure potentiality, or the power to bring something into existence, as when the idea of courage manifests itself through a courageous deed (Plotinus 1917, II 5.2). As a principle born of the Intellect, Fortitude dissolves the body and becomes “the abiding with purity itself, through an abundance of power” (Porphyry 1823, 2:34). Moral discipline, courage, and virtue are all seen for what they are: as part of the same process of purifying and enlightening the soul. Plotinus uses Plato’s metaphor of the divine garden from Phaedrus to explain what the soul’s contemplation of the Intellect signifies. Zeus is the great god of Reason dwelling in a mythical garden that stands for the overabundance of Ideas streaming from his Mighty Intellect. As Lord of the Garden, he is the chief principle and manly cause of all that grows and comes into being. To the extent that he exists in his own self-­presence, he does not let anything enter from without. As soon as Zeus enters the garden, however, he is united with Aphrodite, the daughter he loves. She is the Soul of Zeus, his Love, and therefore the offspring of Reason and the Mind. Since she is his progeny and dwells in his garden, the daughter is touched and penetrated by the radiant beauty of Reason. Her glorious Soul is the feminine emanation, or external manifestation, of her father’s Supreme Intellect. In her company, Zeus derives satisfaction from giving birth to such beauty, which he savours like the nectar of the gods. But this comes at some cost. The father sees his daughter as a distinct being in a living form, filled with his eternal splendour while also breaking away

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from pure Intellect. Zeus takes delight in the “Reason pouring down from the Divine Mind” and the love of life born at the eternal banquet of the gods. Yet he gives birth to an essence less lofty than his own (Plotinus 1917, III 5:8–9). Like the Supreme Intellect, the Soul or Love emanating from Zeus is eternal. It “has of necessity been eternally in existence, for it springs from the intention of the Soul towards its Best, towards the Good; as long as Soul has been, Love has been” (Plotinus 1917, III 5:10). A direct implication of this is that the Soul does not exist in time and never goes to sleep, so to speak. It is unchangeable and remains noble even when the person is asleep. Thus, a feat of courage can be performed unconsciously, with “no sense either of the brave action or of the fact that all that is done conforms to the rules of courage” (Plotinus 1917, I 4:10). The human Soul remains an emanation of the Supreme Intellect. It emanates from the One, also known as the Intellect-Cosmos, and is the pure potentiality that gives all beings life. While the All-Soul is the Moon, the pure Intellect is the Sun or Light that shines over the Cosmos and never diminishes, even when actively shedding its beauty on the world. The human Soul exists in the divine Intellect, but the Cosmos, or ruling principle of the universe, has no immanent need of its virtues, whether it be prudence or the reasoning faculty. Nor does it need fortitude, for there is no alien body that can endanger it (Plotinus 1917, I 1:2). The Supreme One ignores all soul-virtues and lower-level distinctions as well, such as between Thinker and Thought (Plotinus 1917, I 2:6). Porphyry portrays the “worthy man” as someone who knows how to deal with emotions in the present life and draws energy from the practical or political virtues. However, someone who is energised according to the cathartic virtues—going through the soul’s initial purification and departure from the body—is an “angelic man,” or a good daemon. The man who ascends to the next level, energised by contemplating the higher, intelligible world, is “a God,” and his Soul contemplates the Forms using science. But the highest level is reached when the Soul enjoys being in its own presence, in the pure light, beauty, and perfect goodness of the paradigmatic forms. “He who energizes according to the paradigmatic virtues, is the father of the Gods” (Porphyry 1823, 2:34).

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J ewish Piety and Perfection of the Soul: Philo of Alexandria In the writings of Plotinus and Porphyry, the intellectual foundations of fortitude are discussed at two levels: the moral and the spiritual. Morally speaking, fortitude is the wisdom to care for others and keep bodily passions in check. From a spiritual point of view, it is the divine energy that the Intellect needs to commune with its own eternal principles. At this higher level, pure thought ceases to concern itself with political and moral issues and abandons all existential anxieties about life and death. Courageous detachment from the senses is part of the mind’s effort to fully grasp the very essence of courage. Similar views are found in the writings of Philo of Alexandria, a contemporary of Jesus of Nazareth (c. 25 BC–c. 45 AD). He too commits to the intellectualisation and spiritualisation of fortitude. However, in his teachings, the foundations of courage are viewed from the perspective of the Jewish faith, with an emphasis on religious piety as the guiding principle. Understanding the essence of virtue supports religious beliefs in the existence and promises of God in heaven. Philo is a major influence behind the Hellenistic reinterpretation of the Hebrew messianic tradition and the later teachings of Clement of Alexandria and Christian apologists such as Athenagoras, Theophilus, Justin Martyr, Tertullian, and Origen. In keeping with Plato, Philo describes the mind and reason as the abode of virtue, goodness, and the wisdom of courage. It is also the dwelling place of vice, evil, and the folly of cowardice. Only the intellect can perceive and comprehend these divine things and principles that govern the universe (Philo 2017a, 73; 2017b, 43:209). Allegorical thinking can help in this regard. The four virtues of prudence, courage, temperance, and justice are likened to the four branches of the Euphrates. The river stands for generic virtue and the goodness that springs from the doctrine and the infinite wisdom of God. The Lord “irrigates the virtues” through his word, which goes out of Eden to water Paradise (Philo 2017c, 37:127). His river nourishes the souls of those who love him and “waters all the good actions of each, with an abundant stream of benefits” (Philo 2017a, 61:64).

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The first river branching out from the Euphrates is Pheison. It stands for prudence, which is man’s reasoning soul and rational knowledge of what is right and wrong. This uppermost virtue resides in man’s head and represents his most precious possession, like gold. Prudence relies on a man’s acute eyesight and ability to “go with promptness and courage to what is seen.” While hearing is slow and more effeminate, the eyes are more closely connected with the soul (Philo 2017d, 29:150; 2017e, 2:7). Courage comes second and flows out of Eden, just like the river Gihon encircling the land of Ethiopia. Appropriately enough, Gihon means chest or an animal attacking with its horns. The chest is the proper place for the passionate part of the soul. Nature has fortified this region of the body “with a dense and strong defence of closely conjoined bones, as though she had been arming a valiant soldier with a breastplate and shield to defend himself against his enemies” (Philo 2017f, 38:115). It contains the heart and the blood of the soul, feeding that warm and fiery virtue called courage (Philo 2017g, II 59). Given the primacy of the intellect in all moral struggles, courage is best understood as wisdom with respect to terrible things and whatever ought to be endured or dared. It involves a happy philosophical confidence that does not shrink from danger and frees itself from the fear of death and the excessive desire of living (Philo 2017d, 2:37; 2017h, III 27:145; 2017i, 3:22; 18:124). The power of courage is the most useful to life and is superior to strength in the body, numbers, and the means of war (Philo 2017e, 8:48; 2017h, III 27:143; 2017j, 1 40:225; 42:234). Like Hercules, a man well trained to be brave can endure great suffering (Philo 2017i, 18:120; 2017k, 56). He has a warlike disposition, but he does not have a quarrelsome or brutal character. If he goes to war, it is for the sake of a lasting peace, otherwise destroyed by the madness of his enemy (Philo 2017d, 39:225; 2017e, 8:47). Philo adds that some men become models of fortitude without ever going to war. Instead, they provide sound reasoning and counsel for the good of their country when it is in danger (Philo 2017e, 1:1–2). Men who are strong, think high, and have a strong spirit can overcome any obstacle, be it poverty, disease, suffering, mutilation, the threat of torture, or attacks on their reputation (Philo 2017i, 16:108; 19:144).

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The virtue of temperance is ranked third. It controls the stomach and the liver, which is where the irrational desires and appetites of the body reside (Philo 2017a, 22:70–71). The lack of temperance causes the soul to experience fits of anger prompted by the frustration of pleasure (Philo 2017e, 3:14; 2017l, 31:122). Alternatively, the soul may lose its vitality, energy, and health by becoming a willing slave to drunkenness, laziness, and luxury. The intemperate man falls on his belly like “a reptile creeping upon the Earth, and greedily licking up earthly things, closing his life without ever tasting of that heavenly food which the souls which are desirous of wisdom receive” (Philo 2017g, II 59). In contrast, a wise man is more difficult to enslave than a lion (Philo 2017i, 6:40). He despises “all food, and every pleasure of the belly, and of those parts which are below the belly” (Philo 2017g, II 59). Instead, he is content with little and appreciates the truly abundant wealth that lies in Nature, i.e., in the air that all people breathe, the water they drink, and the food they eat (Philo 2017e, 2:6). The battle against sexual appetites and effeminacy plays an important role here. Those with manly courage and vigour resist the temptations of promiscuous love and protect themselves from women’s immodest looks and allures (Philo 2017e, 7:42). They do not mingle with adulterous women for fear of being accused of effeminacy and being deprived of the most useful portion of the soul, “the one that hates iniquity” (Philo 2017h, III 5:31). Nor do they wear female attire, which do not suit men’s political duties, let alone indulge in the love of boys, a sign of weakness that undermines their own fertility and deprives young men of their beauty and the teachings of courage and manly vigour (Philo 2017e, 4:18–21; 2017h, III 7:39; 2017m, 7:60). Philo goes on to explain that effeminate and cowardly men may be exempted from the duties of war as they are likely to be taken prisoners and cause fear among those fighting by their side. Their vice is like a disease of the soul that spreads and that only God can cure (Philo 2017e, 5:23–26). Accordingly, when recruiting a man for war, it is important to examine his soul “to see whether it is full of confidence and proper courage, whether it is intrepid, fearless, and inspired with a noble spirit, whether it is eager for honour and inclined to prefer death with glory to an inglorious life” (Philo 2017e, 6:32). In a similar vein, a man who holds the office of a judge must have the courage

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to impose just sentences, as opposed to showing softheartedness and feelings of compassion (Philo 2017h, IV 9:57). The mind’s rational devotion to fortitude and self-denial is the source of great strength and power. It entitles man to strike terror into the hearts of savage beasts and subdue them by his will. His intellect enables him to rule over all flying fowl otherwise armed with false courage and empty pride. It can also overcome the evil serpent cursed by God and condemned to crawl on its breast and belly (Philo 2017j, I 14:77–78). The rational man reigns over all creeping things, which are the symbols of destructive vices, for they creep through the whole soul, namely, concupiscence, desire, sadness, and cowardice, striking and goading; as also they are indicated by the fishes, which eagerly cultivate a moist and delicate life, but one which is far from being sober, wise, or lasting. (Philo 2017g, II 56)

But the dominion of reason cannot be achieved without suffering hardship and even death (Philo 2017n, 7:48). The science of manly courage is a work of art, a difficult undertaking that has its own rules. The philosopher must proceed with wisdom and caution, as opposed to being rash and showing haste in understanding the object of his attention (Philo 2017o, 7:18). A lofty soul that aims for perfection and is in tune with God will spare no pains to find the middle road between cowardice and temerity or rashness, thereby avoiding deviations on either side (Philo 2017d, 39:220; 2017e, 1:4; 2017p, 164–66). When the outcome is successful, it is music to the ears, like a well-arranged melody where “all the tones of courage and of every virtue are well united and combined together” (Philo 2017l, 30:116). Souls that receive the precious gifts of virtue from God become chiefs and leaders of the chorus. They show the way to immortality in heaven (Philo 2017h, IV 20:112). In contrast to the common herd of men, they shun the objects of human desire and withstand the winds of vain opinion. They are best poised to protect each of the four branches of virtue or, what is even better, the whole tree of true knowledge and wisdom (Philo 2017q, 37:214; 40:224–25). Paradoxically, courage is needed to achieve a proper understanding of courage and gain insights into those invisible things and principles that

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govern the universe. When undertaking this great task, the philosophical soul must dispense with sleep and remain constantly vigilant. It surrounds itself with light that has no darkness. This is God’s light guiding and leading us (Philo 2017g, III 43). The intellect, the chief part of the whole soul, is like an older man uniting himself to every thought it fathers and uses in his battle against ignorance, vain opinions, and the forces of evil. To gain victory over the enemy, the father and his sons must maintain order, gather strength, and not capitulate to the outward senses, which are female in nature and vulnerable to confusion. As in Noah’s ark, men and women need to come together if they are to be fruitful and multiply. But they must do so under the guidance of male counsel with respect to “sentiments of wisdom, and honour, and justice, and courage, and, in one word, of virtue” (Philo 2017g, II 49). While they can perish in any man’s mind or soul, virtues exist forever. They form part of the immortal universe (Philo 2017o, 21:75). They matter more than men’s lower-ranking dispositions towards honour, wealth, authority, status, or military glory (Philo 2017d, 38:219; 2017e, 1:2). Nonetheless, faith and deep feelings of piety towards God are what inspire higher dispositions of the soul. In the end, the piety shown by the prophet Moses is the chief disposition that leads the quartet chorus of virtues (Philo 2017r, 9:53). Philo’s outlook on courage is Platonic and Aristotelian wisdom seen through the lens of Jewish mysticism. The intellect and its eternal certainties reign over all expressions of moral goodness. Courage and other virtues, however, are gifts from the divine Spirit. Given their origin, they are subject to the higher rule of piety and holiness of the soul. The existential concerns of life in the body are downplayed in favour of the promises of heaven delivered through death. As we know, these ideas resonate throughout the history of Christianity. They are nonetheless a far cry from the approach to courage put forward in the Scriptures. The Old and New Testaments steer the conversation away from intellectual speculations and towards lessons about faith and holy fear. At the outset of this study, I suggested that evocations of life, power, and truth lie at the origin of the idea of courage and are key to understanding its history. The challenge, as I see it, is to unlock the full potential of this root system of courage and use it as a lever to affirm the whole

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of life (physis), a commitment to democracy and human fellowship on a global scale (polis), and the pursuit of genuine dialogue and faith in the advancement of learning and knowledge (epistêmê). In this endeavour, the contemplative and ascetic take on rationalism dating back to Pythagoras may offer some insights, notably the possibility of reconciling the ideals of rational wisdom, freedom, and justice with a vision of an infinite universe that transcends us. Given the current state of our world, perhaps it is time for us to draw lessons from this tradition and use them to question the deep divide between science and spirituality that is characteristic of our age. But the limits of rational mysticism and asceticism are many and cannot be easily dismissed. Overall, it is difficult to shake off the impression that invitations to ascend to the divine in heaven lack courage in “vital” respects. An intellect that seeks above all to commune with itself fails to give us a full appreciation of the problems and blessings of human existence in the here and now. It misses out on a life that is active, rooted in the body, and steeped in natural and social history. As the next chapter shows, the same criticism has been levied against the teachings of early Christianity, i.e., a belief system that compounds the problem by abandoning all lessons of intellectual wisdom and generating worldly anxieties of truly biblical proportions.

References Aristotle. 1933. Metaphysics. In Aristotle in 23 Volumes, Vol. 21, trans. H. Tredennick. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. Iamblichus. 1818. The Life of Pythagoras. Trans. T. Taylor. London: A.J. Valpy. Philo of Alexandria. 2017a. On the Creation. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D. Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics. ———. 2017b. Who Is the Heir of Divine Things. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D. Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics. ———. 2017c. On the Posterity of Cain and His Exile. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D. Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics.

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———. 2017d. On Abraham. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D. Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics. ———. 2017e. On the Virtues. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D. Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics. ———. 2017f. Allegorical Interpretation, III. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D. Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics. ———. 2017g. Questions and Answers on Genesis, I and II. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D. Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics. ———. 2017h. The Special Laws, I, II, III and IV. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D. Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics. ———. 2017i. Every Good Man is Free, in The Complete Works of Philo. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D.  Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics. ———. 2017j. On the Life of Moses, I and II. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D. Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics. ———. 2017k. On Providence: Fragment, I and II. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D. Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics. ———. 2017l. On Drunkenness. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D. Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics. ———. 2017m. On the Contemplative Life. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D. Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics. ———. 2017n. On the Birth of Abel. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D. Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics. ———. 2017o. Worse is Wont to Attack Better. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D. Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics. ———. 2017p. On the Unchangeableness of God. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D. Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics. ———. 2017q. On the Change of Names. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D. Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics. ———. 2017r. On Rewards and Punishments. In The Complete Works of Philo, trans. C.D. Duke Yonge. Hastings UK: Delphi Classics. Plotinus. 1917. The Enneads. In The Ethical Treatises, trans. by S.  Mackenna. London: P.L. Warner. Porphyry. 1823. Auxiliaries to the Perception of Intelligible Natures. In Select Works of Porphyry, trans. T. Taylor. London: T. Rodd. Stobaeus, Joannes. 1822. Political and Ethical Fragments. Trans. T.  Taylor. Walworth: Whittingham.

8 Fear and Love in Early Christianity

In the Homeric tradition, the politics of war and defeat at the hands of fate and the enemy take centre stage and grow to epic proportions. The human imagination is haunted by the existential spectre of long suffering and tragic death. Hostile and deadly forces are the triggers and levers of heroic action on a sublime scale, in no need of practical logic or abstract metaphysics. Ethical systems developed throughout classical antiquity draw attention away from these ancient flights of Homeric poetry and rhetoric. Philosophers, physicians, historians, statesmen, and orators redirect discussions of bravery and fortitude towards claims on knowledge and rational thinking. The wisdom of virtue, led by the virtue of wisdom, presides over two kinds of battles: wars against outside forces and enemies of freedom and inward struggles against suffering and vice. A few notable exceptions stand out in this philosophical landscape: Hippocrates, for whom courage drives the struggle for existence in harsh climates, and Epicurus, for whom courage is needed to achieve the wisdom of a joyful existence and natural living. Socrates should also be singled out for his advocacy of the courage of thinking, which matters more than conventional thinking on courage. In classical antiquity, putting one’s faith in the existence of divine principles and the teachings of one or many gods was not, in and of itself, a © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32739-1_8

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sign of courage. While religious beliefs find their way into the writings of most philosophers, they are directly tied to the ideals of intellectual wisdom and play only a secondary role on their own. They do not provide self-contained and well-developed arguments for upholding and cultivating virtue. Showing devotion, faithfulness, and loyalty to the ancient gods or the divine Cosmos without the full development of the human intellect is unessential or remains in the background. In the eyes of Thucydides, Socrates, and Epicurus, religion becomes an obstacle to understanding the actual history and true nature of courage. The virtue of courage requires rational understanding, not religious conviction. As I explain below, early Jewish and Christian thinking prior to the Council of Nicaea, held in 32 AD, is a total reversal of this approach: confessions of faith and devotion to God are the cornerstones of courage and moral doctrine. The certainties of science and philosophy that govern this world give way to what Jerome calls “the courage of convictions”— the chosen people’s “creed” and faith in divine truth (St. Jerome 1893, 22). The Lord is the source of all definitive knowledge. The logic of right and wrong as conceived by the philosophical mind loses all relevance. Accordingly, considerations of power, fate, and life in society are religiously based and affect all immediate and long-term affairs on Earth and in heaven. Men’s unshakeable devotion to the almighty God, who expects to be revered and worshipped, is the ruling principle. The difference in perspective is fundamental: the triangular relationship between God, self, and others is at the heart of all that is good and evil. Faith in politics and wisdom gives way to the wisdom and politics of faith. The order of epistêmê founded on the human intellect is overthrown by spirits in heaven. At first glance, the politics of courage based on religious certainties are Janus-faced. On one side lies men’s fear of all the dangers that come with God’s wrath and the meanness and heartlessness of “miscreants” and unbelievers, who spread their evil all over the world. On the other side lies faith combined with the spirit of kindness. Love, benevolence, good will, trust, confidence, and allegiance all bind God and his people together. The “cordial fellowship” of the faithful proceeds from joyful hearts that are pure and sincere, without malice (Jer. 9:8; Ps. 28:3). Good sentiments may even incite the chosen to show fairness, grant other people’s requests, and extend them a heartfelt welcome, thus

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turning them into loyal subjects (2Chr. 10:7). The antidote to the rule of fear and “discord” imposed by cold-hearted men lies in expressions of pious faith and “cordial” living, from the root cor, one might say. But such is not the case, at least not from a biblical perspective. On a closer reading of the Scriptures, we find a more subtle and sobering story: while religious faith condemns the infidels to everlasting torment, it also instils fear in the hearts of the faithful, a pious fear that is fundamentally different. It is a virtue, like faith itself. Actually, it is a gift from above, a blessing that the chosen must receive with humility and confidence in its future rewards, those of heaven at the end of time. This chapter begins with the paradox of fear and faith-based courage in biblical and early Christian times. It dwells on the biblical vision of blind faith and martyrdom that comes with the fear of God and the denial of life in the body. The analysis then considers the various ways in which Church Fathers start downplaying the significance of devotional fear and the spirit of sacrifice as drivers of courage. The difficult circumstances and progressive gains of the church lead some apologists to make important and sometimes contradictory allowances for two things: the requirements of reason and wisdom-based virtue in Christian ethics and the spirit of Gnostic communion with God—a love that absolves mystics of the obligation to show courage in their daily lives.

Strength in Fear and Faith in the Holy Writ In the formative Judeo-Christian tradition, the “chosen of God” live in exile on Earth, uprooted from the lush Garden of Eden. The Almighty is on their side, and he expects them to bravely endure their fallen state and journey across the barren lands of earthly life to the heavenly Jerusalem. Believers are like herders, shepherds who live nomadic lives and have no time for garden-variety philosophy. Unlike the gentiles, they do not fight the battles of reason against obstacles to achieving freedom and the good life in this world. Only faint biblical traces remain of the moral wisdom and combative mood of classical antiquity. The Wisdom of Solomon, written in the late first century BC, evokes the four virtues of a good soul. Courage is one of

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them. “And if anyone loves righteousness, her labors are virtues; for she teaches self-control and prudence, justice and courage; nothing in life is more profitable for mortals than these” (Wisdom 8:7). Courage is even more profitable as it allows the righteous to stand boldly, show their strength before their wicked enemies, and make them tremble with fear (Wisdom 4:20, 5:1–2, 11:20, 12:7, 17:1–18). As in ancient Greece, courage is key to protecting people’s freedom and pursuing their struggle against slavery: “Take courage and be men, Philistines, or you will become slaves to the Hebrews, as they have been slaves to you; so be men and fight!” (1 Sam. 4:9). The idea that succumbing to fear is reproachable is confirmed by Paul when he states, “For God has not given us a spirit of timidity, but of power and love and discipline” (2 Tim. 1:7). The same reasoning applies to suffering, which should not be feared. In Romans, the apostle insists that “we also celebrate in our tribulations, knowing that tribulation brings about perseverance; and perseverance, proven character; and proven character, hope [of salvation]” (Rom. 5:3–4). Fearless courage and perseverance in the face of hardship are essential for defending a people’s freedom against all enemies, including those that lurk within a man’s inner self and soul. These are familiar themes in the Greco-Roman world and throughout the imperial era. The Scriptures, however, do not consider the feeling of fear to be a fact of Nature or a synonym of cowardice. Nor is being afflicted with fear always a consequence of man’s exile from paradise and punishment for wicked behaviour. In many ways, the experience of fear may be positive and even a requirement of virtue, i.e., a sign of faith in God’s infinite power, which vastly outweighs all insights of the human intellect. The importance of faith-based courage in Western history cannot be overstated. Good souls must dread God if they are to count on his blessings, which include the gift of courage and confidence in the ways of God and his providence. Also, to the extent that they live in the fear of God, the faithful can trust him to make sinners and enemies tremble with fright. At first glance, biblical linkages between feeling fear and not feeling it, being meek and being bold, or dreading and daring, seem convoluted. The Greco-Roman precepts of noble courage based on patriotic sentiments and the exercise of reason are easier to grasp. The logic is nonetheless simple and boils down to three interrelated rules. The first rule is that

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believers must think of themselves as both humble servants and mighty warriors. Devout worshippers tremble before the Almighty, but they also act as his bold advocates and messengers. The second rule spells out the rewards promised to those who meet the twofold expectations: God answers his followers’ prayers with all the protection, reassurances, and confidence they can hope for. He frees them from their weaknesses and infirmities and gives them the strength, self-discipline, boldness, and fearlessness they need to battle the forces of evil. Armed with courage, they can achieve victory over the world and the many blessings that follow, including peace and prosperity, the promised land, and eternal salvation. The third rule applies to those who fail to live up to God’s expectations of humbleness and fearless devotion. Unfaithful servants acting like cowards in the face of evil can expect all their fears to be borne out by the hand of God, including humiliation at the hands of the enemy. Acts of excessive pride and boldness are even more offensive, entailing grave consequences for sinners and infidels. The Scriptures explain why they have every reason to worry and no means to overcome their worst possible fears. The reasoning behind the first rule is two-sided: biblical writings underscore the need to combine fearlessness and fearfulness in pursuit of God’s will. On the one hand, fear that smacks of cowardice in the face of God’s enemy is reproachable. The Book of Proverbs associates fear with the wicked and the cowardly, the opposite of lion-like souls: “The wicked flee when no one is pursuing, but the righteous are bold as a lion” (Prov. 28:1). God expects his followers to show fearlessness and courage when performing his works and enduring the many afflictions that follow. Examples of courage stemming from piety have already been cited. Other Old Testament examples include David instructing Solomon to be strong, and prove yourself a man. Do your duty to the Lord your God, to walk in His ways, to keep His statutes, His commandments, His ordinances, and His testimonies, according to what is written in the Law of Moses, so that you may succeed in all that you do and wherever you turn. (1 Kings 2:2–3; see 1 Chron. 22:13; 2 Chr. 28:20; Ezra 10:4)

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When obeying commands, men are expected to be strong and “of good courage,” especially in days of trouble (Prov. 24:10). They must show martial strength and fight the enemy bravely in defence of their people and the cities of God (2 Sam. 10:12; see 2 Chron. 23:1, 25:11, 32:5–7; Daniel 11:25). Similarly, the New Testament calls upon believers not to lose courage and to maintain patience and confidence in the Lord at all times, even when he reprimands them (Gal. 6:9; Heb. 3:6, 12:5; James 5:8). Followers of Christ “have far more courage to speak the word of God without fear” (Phil. 1:14, see also 1:28). They are fearless in proclaiming his message and boldly preach the good news in places such as Philippi and Rome, at their own risk and peril (Acts 4:29, 23:11; 1 Cor. 16:13; 1 Thess. 2:2). On the other hand, the New Testament repeatedly portrays the blessed as lambs sent to the slaughter, the opposite of the devil prowling around like a roaring lion (1 Pet. 5:8–9). The Lord himself is willing to act as a sacrificial lamb and humbly die for sinners, which makes him the perfect model of courage (Rom. 5:7). In the Christian world, the message resonates to this day: “blessed are the meek, for they will prevail and inherit the Earth” (Mat. 5:5). Paradoxically, what believers fear and condemn most is a life that is not empowered by the fear of God. This is completely antithetical to much of the thinking of ancient philosophers. They start from the premise that fear is what good souls must master above all by showing prudence at war and rational wisdom in every aspect of life. True believers must square the circle. They must behave as god-fearing children and, at the same time, demonstrate their fealty to God through acts of manly courage and perseverance. Provided they step up to the challenge, God can be counted on to give them the confidence and strength they need to show boldness despite, or rather because of, their humility. It is precisely because they fear and tremble before the Lord that the faithful can venture to be bold, with God’s help. This brings us to the second rule: God is the one who gives courage in the first place. Ultimately, every expression of true courage is God’s answer to a brave prayer: “On the day I called, You answered me; You made me bold with strength in my soul” (Ps. 138:3; see Eph. 6:19–20; Acts 4:29–31). In the words of Matthew and Mark, those who fear the Lord are encouraged to trust him and not to be afraid: “They all saw Him and were terrified.” “But

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immediately He spoke to them and said to them, ‘Take courage; it is I; do not be afraid’” (Mark 6:50; see Mat. 14:27). Christ reassures his followers, not because they are mistaken in fearing him. On the contrary, they are told to trust him because they experience fear in his presence, as they should. In the words of Paul, “His affection abounds all the more toward you, as he remembers the obedience of you all, how you received him with fear and trembling.” “I rejoice that in everything I have confidence in you” (2 Cor. 7:15–16). The faithful must fear God, obey his command, accomplish his work, and remain faithful despite their sufferings. In return, they can count on God to care for them and answer their humble prayers. He gives his children the courage, the boldness, and the confidence they need to cope with all the dangers that await them, including perils at sea (1 Pet. 5:8–9; Ps. 56:3; Dan 3:17–18; Acts 27:22, 25). Those who fear and tremble in his presence are released from their anxiety and fear. They can put their trust in God, their helper, and remain confident and hopeful that he is wherever they go (2 Cor. 5:6–8; Josh. 1:9; Deut. 31:6–7; Ps. 27:14; Heb. 13:6). The Lord empowers them to be bold and courageous in carrying out his work. With his help, they can encourage each other in all their undertakings (Deut. 1:38, 3:28; 2 Cor. 13:11; Phil. 1:20; Acts 28:15; Heb. 10:24). As Jesus says to his disciples, “These things I have spoken to you so that in Me you may have peace.” “In the world you have tribulation, but take courage; I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). Courage in adversity is strengthened by God through his promise of hope and victory over the world (Ps. 31:24). The confidence, encouragement, protection, and hope that God offers go a long way towards counterbalancing and rewarding the image of meekness that lamb-like children and servants of God must cultivate. Humbleness ends up being the source of great power. The Scriptures convert weakness into strength through a process that resembles healing. Thus, it is because of their loyalty that the limp hands, feeble knees, and fearful hearts of God’s followers are healed (Isa. 35:4). Jesus has the power to restore the health of those who trust him and repent from their sin, be they wicked, blind, or paralysed: “Take courage, son; your sins are forgiven” (Mat. 9:2; see 9:22; Luke 8:48). The spirit of God goes even further and grants them the power and the self-discipline they require to

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face the enemy and avoid being devoured by temptation (2 Tim. 1:7; Rom. 5:3–5). As they are healed and gain strength, God-fearing souls have nothing to fear from anyone, not even themselves (Dan. 10:19; Ezra 7:28). The Lord is on their side. He gives them the courage needed to win battles over the enemy (2 Chr. 32:7–8; 2 Sam. 10:12; John 16:33). Because they are filled with power and courage by the Spirit of the Lord, the faithful can confront the enemy. They can follow the example of the prophet Micah and be bold enough to confront Jacob and Israel with their sins (Mic. 3:8). Like Paul, they can wage a fearless war against all those who disobey the Lord. Their victory hinges on foregoing the weapons of the world and instead using their power to destroy “arguments and all arrogance raised against the knowledge of God.” The goal is to take “every thought captive to the obedience of Christ” (2 Cor. 10:5). God promises everything to those who have the courage to obey and fear him. Men who take courage in the ways of Jehovah remain strong, knowing that their work will be rewarded (2 Chr. 15:7–8, 17:6). Because they find the courage to offer a prayer to their Comforter, they can trust that many rewards will follow, including the building of a house and a safe journey to the inherited land (2 Sam. 7:27; 1 Chr. 17:25, 19:13; 22:13; Lam. 1:16; Deut. 31:23). Rewards for meekness include fearlessness, strength, hope in adversity, and blessings of the promised land. Courage is thus founded on a paradox: it is an invitation to act meekly and boldly at the same time. Fearlessness and fearfulness must be kept in balance and serve God’s will in all circumstances. Nonetheless, the balance clearly tips towards the rule of fear. The dynamic tension between the two poles is not symmetrical and dialectical: the fear of God takes precedence and comes before all expressions of confidence and strength. This is reflected in the number of times the word “fear” is used in the Scriptures. There are 970 occurrences of the word, about 300 of which are in reference to God. In the Old Testament, true piety is expressed through fear of the Lord (Pr. 1:7; John 28:28; Ps. 19:9). In Genesis, God is called the Fear of Isaac (Gen. 31:42, 53c). Likewise, the New Testament keeps encouraging the faithful to obey God and his commands, express penitence for their sins, and live in fear of his punishment. “And do not be afraid of those who kill the body but are unable to kill the soul; but rather fear Him who is able to destroy

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both soul and body in hell,” says Matthew (Mat. 10:28; see 2 Cor. 5:11, 7:1; Phil. 2:12; Eph. 5:21; Heb. 12:28–29). This brings us to the last rule, which points to the sinners’ fear of God’s wrath. The Lord punishes all wicked men who fail to act boldly in God’s name. The Book of Revelation condemns the cowardice of sinners in no uncertain terms: But for the cowardly, and unbelieving, and abominable, and murderers, and sexually immoral persons, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, their part will be in the lake that burns with fire and brimstone, which is the second death. (Rev. 21:8)

The faithful who fail to be courageous in days of trouble will not prosper and may be put to death (Joshua 1:18). Those who are so unfearing as to worship other gods have greater reason to tremble and fear for their lives. The elect can count on Yahweh of Armies to sow panic among these enemies of God. However powerful they may be, they will incur the vengeance of God (Hag. 2:4). While the Lord tells Israel, “Do not fear, for I am with you” (Isa. 41:10), he has no mercy for his people’s enemies. He punishes sinners and idol worshippers with such calamities that their courage melts away in their evil plight (Ps. 55:19, 107:26; Isa. 41:6; Rom. 3:18). But the warning also applies to the chosen. They too can be deprived of the strength and courage needed to withstand punishment for their sinful ways (Eze. 22:14; Jer. 4:9; Josh. 2:11). The faithful know that when retribution comes, “even the bravest among the warriors will flee naked on that day” (Amos 2:16). In the Scriptures, the courage of believing leaves no room for intellectual speculations about eternal truths. Nor does the courage of convictions allow any Socratic doubt to emerge or persist in one’s heart or mind. On the political plane, faith expresses itself through signs of fear before God combined with fearlessness in respecting his will and facing his enemies. Immediate rewards for men’s humble prayers and bold service revolve around the gift of courage and all the comforts that come with it: namely the confidence, strength, and self-discipline the faithful need to deal with suffering and death. Existential promises of peace and prosperity carry little weight compared with the latter rewards and, most of all,

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the blessings of the hereafter. Those who are accused of acting like cowards or having the audacity to stand against God’s will can expect the opposite. On the Day of Judgement, they will lose and suffer more than they could have ever imagined.

Fear of God and Fearless Martyrdom To mortals who embrace the fear of God and faithfully obey his command, the Lord grants fearlessness and the promise of everlasting peace in the heavenly Eden. The Church Fathers, authoritative scholars who lay down the theological foundations of the Christian faith, have professed these beliefs for nearly seven consecutive centuries. At first, Christianity and Greco-Roman philosophers could not be further apart in their approaches to questions of fear and courage. Most church figures of the first three centuries are openly hostile to the tenets of philosophical rationalism and all hopes of power and personal wellness in this life. Despite harsh criticism, persecution from outside, and internal sectarian strife, they continue to uphold the Christian message of faith and rewards in heaven. Modest efforts are nonetheless made to tone down the message of fear, using one of three methods. Clement of Rome, Tertullian, and Cyprian of Carthage push their zealous confession of faith to the point of glorifying martyrdom. They do not allow themselves to feel the anxiety that even Jesus felt in the garden of Gethsemane the night before his crucifixion (see Chap. 12). While discussions of fear never lose their salience, the boldness of faith helps overcome the terror of horrible suffering and death. However, Tatian the Assyrian takes a different approach to countering the spirit of fear. His work involves preaching Gnostic love and mystic communion with God, with the result that political and existential anxieties experienced in the material world lose all relevance. The order of love in the spiritual realm dispels fear and removes all expectations of courage and intellectual wisdom as well. Clement of Alexandria follows yet another path. The Athenian-born theologian seeks to bridge the gap between Gnosticism and fear-based Christianity, to which he adds some elements of Stoic fortitude and intellectual wisdom. His

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syncretism of traditions is a precursor to many subsequent developments in theology. It is not without contradictions and ambiguities, though, leaving many issues open to debate for generations to come. The Apostolic Fathers left a few traces of their thinking on courage. Their beliefs may have been influenced by their alleged contact with the apostles or apostolic community, as well as the persecutions they endured under Roman rule until the Edict of Milan in 313 AD. When they raise the subject of courage, they abide by the letter and the spirit of the Scriptures. They continue to emphasise the fitting sense of humility and meekness that characterises Christian faith. This was the case with Clement of Rome (c. 35–99 AD). According to tradition, he was Peter’s immediate successor, imprisoned under Emperor Trajan, and executed at sea in the year 99 AD. In his First Epistle, he reminds his followers that “boldness, and arrogance, and audacity belong to those that are accursed of God; but moderation, humility, and meekness to such as are blessed by Him” (Clement of Rome 1896, 30). Far from being a weakness that humans can master on their own through knowledge and the exercise of reason, fear of the Most High is a sign of piety that deserves to be extolled. God-fearing humility is rewarded by the hope of salvation and the gift of courage from God, both of which are essential to overcoming desires of the flesh, facing persecution, and enduring terrible suffering. In writings that may not be his, Clement invites the pious to bear with fortitude the wrongdoings of others and show goodness instead of giving in to anger and revenge (Clement of Rome 1886a, 3:49). Because of their fear of God, they “strive to run straight forward and boldly, not with fear, but with courage, relying on the promise of your Lord, that you shall obtain the victor-crown of your calling on high” (Clement of Rome 1886b, 5; see 1885, 13:20). Their loyalty will be rewarded in heaven, a promise that led Saint Polycarp (69–155 AD) to boldly declare, “I am a Christian,” embracing martyrdom as he refused to burn incense to the Roman Emperor. Tertullian (c. 155–c. 240 AD) was a convert from Carthage in the Roman province of Africa. Called by some the Father of Western Theology, he is remembered for his vigorous and conservative defence of Christianity against “heathen” beliefs. He condemns the heretics for taking the easy way out and swearing by a plurality of gods (Tertullian

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1885d, 13). Those who refuse to confess their love for God out of fear may succeed in avoiding suffering on Earth, but they will not escape punishment in hell (Tertullian 1885e, 12). In his view, the Christian approach to courage—worshippers fearing God and nothing else—is also at odds with Hellenistic thought based on the wisdom of virtue and the virtue of wisdom. Cicero, Seneca, Diogenes, and others may have had fine words to say about the courage it takes to bear pain and death. However, much more can be learned from Christians who inspire and teach not by words but rather by deeds, willing as they are to suffer horrible torments such as burning at the stake and torture on the cross (Tertullian 1885a, 50; 1885b, 1:18; 1885c). It takes great courage to embrace perfect knowledge, worship the Holy Trinity as one God, and endure martyrdom as a result. Christian martyrs follow in the footstep of Jesus, who had the courage to embrace human suffering so that man could in turn find the courage to abandon idolatry and profess his faith in the true God without shame. Christ inspires those who choose to lay down their lives for their brethren and confess their faith, knowing that “there is no fear in love.” Those who are meek and obedient develop strong souls and rise to heaven. They are never so bold as to elevate themselves above others, like the Pharisees. Instead, they bow down and pray with Christian modesty and humility (Tertullian 1885f, 17). The holy will even accept punishment from the devil because they know that suffering and weakness help people learn to persevere and be strong (Tertullian 1885g, 3). Cyprian of Carthage (c. 200/210–258 AD) and his contemporary Dionysius of Alexandria (bishop from 247/248 to 264/265 AD), the two most eminent bishops of the third century, are generally of the same view. They speak of human courage mostly in the context of the relentless persecution endured at the hands of Roman emperors. Less inclined to debate questions of philosophy and theology, they build on the scriptural tradition of god-fearing men acting boldly in the service of God. Dionysius emphasises the trials and tribulations of the glorious soldiers of God. They confess their faith with such boldness as to make governors, judges, and their associates tremble with fear (Dionysius 1886, 8). Likewise, Cyprian invites the soldiers of God to use Zacharias as a model of faith and courage. The priest and father of John the Baptist was not

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frightened by threats of stoning and promised to confront his enemies with God’s wrath (Cyprian 1886a, 54:17). The following passage paints a vivid picture of the struggle that all Christians must embrace throughout their entire lives in order to attain eternal salvation. The struggle is one, but it is crowded with a manifold multitude of contests; you conquer hunger, and despise thirst, and tread under foot the squalor of the dungeon, and the horror of the very abode of punishment, by the vigour of your courage. Punishment is there subdued; torture is worn out; death is not feared but desired, being overcome by the reward of immortality, so that he who has conquered is crowned with eternity of life. What now must be the mind in you, how elevated, how large the heart, when such and so great things are resolved, when nothing but the precepts of God and the rewards of Christ are considered! The will is then only God’s will; and although you are still placed in the flesh, it is the life not of the present world, but of the future, that you now live. (Cyprian 1886a, 15:3)

Cyprian condemns in no uncertain terms the “lapsed,” i.e., the cowardly, who avoided persecution by swearing to have made sacrificial offerings to the Roman gods. They must repent, undergo public penance, and regain salvation through confession and the glory of martyrdom (Cyprian 1886a, 51:4). The bishop offers peace to these unfaithful “adulterers” and proposes to pardon them on condition that they fear and love God with their whole hearts. This includes obeying his command and showing “full observance of fear.” Provided they show contempt for the present world and purge all sins through suffering, God may grant them “the wages of faith and courage” (Cyprian 1886a, 51:20; 67:8). They must demonstrate an immoveable strength of faith; “a steady and unshaken courage should plant itself as with the fortitude and mass of a resisting rock.” Facing terrors and dangers will make their courage even more glorious and deserving of heavenly rewards (Cyprian 1886a, 54:2). Christians must continue to resist temptations. But they must also demonstrate patience, courage, and faith while being persecuted, losing money, going to prison, and confronting other threats such as swords, wild animals, fire, and crucifixion (Cyprian 1886b, 9:12).

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In his Epistles, Cyprian harps on these conventional Christian themes. Recurring tropes include faithful soldiers of Christ and combatants struggling steadfastly for the Lord, obeying his commands, being faithful to his camp, and never murmuring in adversity. Christians resist the world, take up the arms of devotion and faith, and wage war against evil and the devil. They face the threat of torture and prepare for being thrown into the dungeon while showing contempt for death. By drinking the cup of martyrdom, they receive a death precious in the sight of the Lord, anticipating the day of future vengeance and hoping to wear a crown of heavenly glory (Cyprian 1886a, 8; 15:2, 4; 32:1; 35:2; 38:7; 63:1; 66:4; 76:6; 1886b, 3:2, 13; 7:11, 14–17; 9:13; 9:21; 10:6; 11:13; 12:17). The holy man’s body may yield, but his mind stands firm, and so does his faith in God. My mind stood firm, and my faith was strong, and my soul struggled long, unshaken with the torturing pains; but when, with the renewed barbarity of the most cruel judge, wearied out as I was, the scourges were now tearing me, the clubs bruised me, the rack strained me, the claw dug into me, the fire roasted me; my flesh deserted me in the struggle, the weakness of my bodily frame gave way—not my mind, but my body, yielded in the suffering. (Cyprian 1886b, 3:13)

The bishop exhorts the faithful to show fearlessness when persecuted. But he also stresses the importance of meekness and humility, which are the surest ways to maintain strength in the face of adversity and tribulation. Cyprian thus portrays the faithful as “steadfast in faith, humble in fear, brave to all suffering, meek to sustain wrong, easy to show mercy, of one mind and one heart in fraternal peace.” Those whose hearts become contrite and humbly fear the Lord demonstrate what it means to live a spiritual life by patiently enduring trials and God’s rebuke (Cyprian 1886b, 2:23; 3:7; 3:19; 7:11). Their fear of God and submission to suffering in his service make them braver for the holy battle (Cyprian 1886b, 3:36). In the year 258 BC, because of his refusal to recant his faith and offer sacrifices to the ancient gods of Rome, Cyprian was beheaded. Dionysius of Alexandria evaded persecution for a short while by running away to

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the Libyan desert. Later, the Roman Emperor Valerian put him in jail and exiled him for several years.

Gnostic Love and the Futility of Courage With the notable exception of Lactantius, the apostolic and apologetic writings of the first three centuries reiterate the scriptural understanding of god-fearing courage. Because they live in the fear of God and obey his command, the faithful can rely on the Almighty to grant them the spiritual fortitude they need to withstand the temptations of this world, sow fear and panic among their enemies, and be rewarded for the suffering they endure with the blessings of eternal life in heaven. Given their beliefs about life after death, early church leaders are wary of philosophical notions of natural wisdom and virtue competing with the canons of Christian faith. Nonetheless, some explore the Gnostic ideas that flourished in Jewish-Christian communities and Alexandria, primarily between the late second and early fourth centuries. Gnostic sects emphasise expressions of mystic piety that enable the devout to commune directly with God and experience his love without having to patiently wait for life after death or redemption at the end of time. Feelings of fear are replaced with the higher spirit of love. This theological shift has the immediate effect of rendering irrelevant all discussions of courage based on religious or philosophical considerations. The Gnostic tradition reinterprets Christianity by disparaging the material world (physis) as the evil creation of an inferior demiurge. It offers salvation not to brave souls but rather to a spiritual elite possessing esoteric knowledge acquired through mystical experience and enlightenment. Given the strong opposition between body and spirit, calls to endure suffering for the love of God, in return for the martyrdom of Christ and the promise of bodily resurrection, find no resonance in Gnostic writings. Likewise, souls that seek to free themselves from the flesh do not see the value in incorporating virtue and wisdom-based ethics into their daily existence. Words such as courage, fortitude, bravery, and boldness have little currency in the Gnostic Christian teachings of the second century. The

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writings of Tatian the Assyrian (c. 120–c. 180 AD), who studied Greek philosophy and became a Gnostic of the Encratite sect around the age of fifty, are an excellent illustration of how believers can lose interest in and even question the value of fortitude. Resolved to resist all desires of the flesh, the Christian apologist refrained from the use of wine, animal food, sexuality, and marriage. This was not so much an act of courage or temperance as it was the only way for his fallen soul to return to the cosmic pneuma or spiritual garden from which it had fallen. If Tatian paid any heed to the concepts of virtue and courage, it was primarily to condemn the paganism of Greek philosophy and ethics. In his Address to the Greeks, written at the time of his Gnostic conversion, he turns to ridicule philosophers for their wasted efforts to practise what they preach and assist others in doing the same. He misinterprets Aristotle’s teachings to imply that happiness is achieving whatever gives us delight in life, including showing courage and manliness to attain worldly goals. It is because of these teachings that the young Alexander the Great killed his close friend Cleitus the Black, an officer in the Macedonian army. Angered by his friend’s refusal to worship him, Alexander shut him up and and carried him about like a bear or a leopard. He in fact obeyed strictly the precepts of his teacher in displaying manliness and courage by feasting, and transfixing with his spear his intimate and most beloved friend and then, under a semblance of grief, weeping and starving himself, that he might not incur the hatred of his friends. (Tatian 1885, 2)

Tatian also disagrees with Aristotle’s notion that sublunary events revolve around people seeking happiness through their possession of beauty, riches, physical strength, or high birth. Gnostic ideas, more welcoming of Greek philosophy than the original Christian creed, find their way into the speculations of St. Clement (c. 150–c. 215 AD), an early Greek theologian at the head of the influential catechetical school of Alexandria. In Book 6 of The Stromata (Chapter 9), Clement adopts a Gnostic view of all virtues, including courage. He supports the precepts of freedom from all perturbations of the soul, which include anger, fear, and lust, as well as feelings of courage, zeal, and desire. He cites the example of Christ and the apostles, who never let human

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passions affect their steady minds and pure souls. They were so perfect that they never needed to demonstrate courage. The perfect man is “incapable of exercising courage: for neither does he meet what inspires fear, as he regards none of the things that occur in life as to be dreaded; nor can anything dislodge him from this—the love he has towards God” (Clement of Alexandria 1885a, 6:9). Impassibility guides the perfect man’s conduct at all times. Like their teacher in heaven, true Christian Gnostics do not experience joy, pain, anger, hate, or envy. They possess knowledge (gnosis) and exercise Gnostic love, which is everything they may wish for. Fully immersed in God’s love, their souls withdraw from all passions. “What more need of courage and of desire to him, who has obtained the affinity to the impassible God which arises from love, and by love has enrolled himself among the friends of God?” (Clement of Alexandria 1885a, 6:9). Since they have nothing to fear and confront no danger, faultless souls cannot commit acts of cowardice and are not expected to demonstrate courage. They have no desire to struggle for a better life; the future is already present in the souls of those who have faith and partake in God’s infinite love. Through the “mystic habit,” they can maintain and enhance their constant communion with the divine. Elsewhere, Clement adopts a somewhat different approach, opting instead for a qualified incorporation of “pagan” philosophy, derived from classical antiquity, into Christian faith and the fear of God. In The Instructor, he calls on all Christians to abide by the Scriptures, fear God, and avoid sin so as to be near him. These precepts are reconciled with the wisdom of Greek virtue. In the best Hellenic tradition, the theologian advises men of faith to develop courageous souls through gymnastics. Women can do the same, but they should avoid smearing their faces and choose instead to inspire others with the “radiant charms” of the Holy Spirit, those of “righteousness, wisdom, fortitude, temperance, love of the good, modesty” (Clement of Alexandria 1885b, 1:8, 3:10–11). Book 7 of The Stromata (Chapter 11) provides more guidance on how to reconcile Gnosticism and moral philosophy with scriptural notions of devotional fear and rewards in heaven. Some comments support the Gnostic belief that good souls transcend the realm of passion, have no dread of suffering or death, and cannot fear evil because it is alien to them. They despise both the pains of this world and its pleasures.

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Contradicting himself once more, he then invokes lessons from the Scriptures, where it is the hope of another life, conjugated in the future tense, and not in the mystic present, that enables the “faultless man” to cope with life in the material world. So then he undergoes toils, and trials, and afflictions, not as those among the philosophers who are endowed with manliness, in the hope of present troubles ceasing, and of sharing again in what is pleasant; but knowledge has inspired him with the firmest persuasion of receiving the hopes of the future. Wherefore he contemns not alone the pains of this world, but all its pleasures. (Clement of Alexandria 1885a, 7:11)

Clement expands on this analysis by drawing on the teachings of the Stoa and the idea that the perfection of habit comes from wise instruction and constant discipline. Christian courage is a primary virtue that is used “not only in the endurance of circumstances, but also in restraining pleasure and desire, grief and anger; and, in general, to withstand everything which either by any force or fraud entices us.” In this syncretism of Christian faith and Greek philosophy, suffering in life becomes inevitable. Without pain, there would be no need for healing, discipline, or punishment, all of which can serve to improve human life and behaviour. Being able to bear things that inspire fear is a requirement of faith. The apologist adds that Christian Gnostics are models of virtue, purity, and perfection. But they also set an example by acting wisely and rationally. This means being “prudent in human affairs, in judging what ought to be done by the just man; having obtained the principles from God from above, and having acquired, in order to the divine resemblance, moderation in bodily pains and pleasures.” True Christians are “rationally brave,” which means they do not rush into danger out of ignorance like children do. As in the Laches, cowardice arises from ignorance. The only man of courage is the Gnostic, who knows both present and future good things; along with these, knowing, as I have said, also the things which are in reality not to be dreaded. Because, knowing vice alone to be hateful, and destructive of what contributes to knowledge, protected by the armour of the Lord, he makes war against it. (Clement of Alexandria 1885a, 7:11)

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The theologian adapts the Stoic notion of rational fortitude to meet the requirements of Christian hope and faith, thus providing the foundation of all knowledge and the four virtues, as communicated by the Hebrews to the Greeks (Clement of Alexandria 1885a, 6:11). He describes the different forms of fortitude as endurance, magnanimity, high spirit, liberality, and grandeur (Clement of Alexandria 1885a, 7:3). These can be extolled provided they are deployed for the right reason or cause, namely the love of God (Clement of Alexandria 1885a, 7:10). In the absence of faith and devotional love, acts of bravery are simply irrational, based on ignorance of what should be feared. “No one, then, who is irrationally brave is a Gnostic,” at least not in the Christian way (Clement of Alexandria 1885a, 7:11). Children, animals, or valiant men that rush into danger do not exemplify “true rational fortitude” and are not designed to please God. In contrast, the Gnostic soul struggles against pain boldly, trusting in God, in keeping with principles handed down through the Word of God. Adorned with perfect virtue, the pure soul rules over his irrational desires. He is unconquered by pleasure and “withstands all fear of everything terrible, not only of death, but also poverty and disease, and ignominy, and things akin to these” (Clement of Alexandria 1885a, 7:11). True to his philosophical leanings, Clement warns Christians against basing their courage on the fear of God’s punishment or on his promise of heavenly blessings. The virtue must be chosen solely for its own sake. Like knowledge and the control of human emotions, fortitude is something that is learned and developed through the discipline of life; it is more than a means to avoid punishment or gain the crown of glory and rewards of the hereafter. At the beginning of Book 1 of The Stromata, Clement cites Gorgias Leontinus’ call for the combination of “boldness to undergo danger” and “wisdom to understand the enigma,” by which he means the mysteries of Christian faith (Clement of Alexandria 1885a, 1:1). Once more, the goal is to reconcile Gnostic love with Christian and Stoic notions of fortitude. Other early patristic fathers preferred to use the wisdom of philosophy for the opposite purpose, namely to criticise Gnostic dualism, which opposes soul against body and holds that each exists by itself. The Athenian philosopher and Christian convert Athenagoras (c. 133–c. 190

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AD) thus asks, “How can any one have even the notion of courage or fortitude as existing in the soul alone, when it has no fear of death, or wounds, or maiming, or loss, or maltreatment, or of the pain connected with these, or the suffering resulting from them?” (Athenagoras 1885, 22). If anything, the virtue of courage illustrates the unity of body and soul in man. In the Scriptures, the connection between the teachings of love and courage inspired by the fear of God is poorly developed. The Gnostic teachings of early Christian sects confirm the disconnect: the direct experience of divine love eliminates the need for courage and virtue. Later developments in Christian theology abandon Gnostic views on the futility of reason, courage, and fear. However, the Christian idea that pure souls can commune with God in the here and now gains ground; courage is no longer solely motivated by fear and the pursuit of eternal salvation. Church leaders such as Augustine, Ambrose, and Chrysostom take important steps towards reconciling the Christian faith with the experience of God’s infinite love, to which they add support for the exercise of reason and the practice of virtue. Faith, reason, fear, and love all undertake a long journey towards Christianity’s reappropriation of the insights of moral philosophy, leading to radical shifts in conceptions of courage. But before I embark on this journey, I examine earlier concessions to existential and political goals in the material world. The courage they convey is in living instead of dying and fighting for the rise of church power instead of giving in to persecution and martyrdom.

References Athenagoras. 1885. The Resurrection of the Dead. Trans. B.P. Pratten. In Ante-­ Nicene Fathers, Vol. 2. Rev. and ed. K. Knight for New Advent. Buffalo, NY. Clement of Alexandria. 1885a. The Stromata, or Miscellanies. Trans. W. Wilson. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 2. Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing.

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———. 1885b. The Instructor. Trans. W. Wilson. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 2. Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Clement of Rome. 1885. Clementine Homilies. Trans. S.  Thelwall. In Ante-­ Nicene Fathers, Vol. 3. Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K.  Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1886a. Recognitions. Trans. T. Smith. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 8. Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1886b. Two Epistles Concerning Virginity. Trans. B.P. Pratten. In Ante-­ Nicene Fathers, Vol. 8. Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K.  Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1896. First Epistle. Trans. J. Keith. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 9. Ed. A. Menzies. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Cyprian of Carthage. 1886a. The Epistles of Cyprian. Trans. R.E. Wallis. In Ante-­ Nicene Fathers, Vol. 5. Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K.  Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1886b. The Treatises of Cyprian. Trans. R.E.  Wallis. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 5. Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Dionysius the Great. 1886. Epistles, and Fragments of Epistles, of Dionysius. Trans. S.D.F. Salmond. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 6. Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A.  Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K.  Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. St. Jerome. 1893. To Pammachius Against John of Jerusalem. Trans. W.H.  Fremantle, G.  Lewis and W.G.  Martley. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 6. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Tatian. 1885. Address to the Greeks. Trans. J.E. Ryland. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 2. Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Tertullian. 1885a. The Apology. Trans. S. Thelwall. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 3. Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing.

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———. 1885b. Ad Nationes. Trans. P. Holmes. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 3. Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1885c. Ad Martyras. Trans. P. Holmes. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 3. Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1885d. Against Praxeas. Trans. P.  Holmes. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 3. Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1885e. Scorpiace. Trans. S. Thelwall. Trans. P. Holmes. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 3. Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1885f. On Prayer. Trans. S. Thelwall. Trans. P. Holmes. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 3. Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1885g. De Fuga in Perscutione. Trans. S.  Thelwall. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 4. Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing.

9 Living, Conquering, and Ruling

Homeric courage is the attribute of ruling kings and semi-divine heroes who are constantly at war, vulnerable to the tyranny of fate and the prospect of long suffering and a tragic death. Classical antiquity revisits these ancient themes and exploits them in completely different ways. One radical change is driven by studies of history and medicine and the pursuit of freedom and eudemonic well-being in people’s lives. Historians bring stories of political turmoil and war down to earth, with a focus on the native courage and other qualities that free men need to defeat the forces of tyranny. Hippocrates chooses instead to emphasise the vital struggles of free men battling for survival in harsh climates. A century later, Epicurus explores again what courage can do to help humans face existential threats of suffering and death, but this time with the simple teachings of natural living. A more radical change is driven by the growth of philosophy in favour of the supremacy of man’s intellect and the wisdom of virtue. Throughout classical antiquity, theoretical and practical reason presides over major debates concerning the role of courage in ascending to the divine Intellect (Pythagoreanism), pursuing wisdom on its own (Socrates), thinking through and creating the ideal city-state (Platonism), and training the mind to overcome the existential fear of suffering and death (Stoicism). The influence of rationalism and intellectualism is so © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32739-1_9

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strong that it will be a thousand years before intellectuals think about courage in terms that are primarily existential, secular, and political. The Christian politics of fear and faith clash with classical Greek and Hellenistic rationalism. The Scriptures and Church Fathers of the first two centuries reject the idea that wellness in life and the pursuit of rational wisdom can provide meaningful guidance in ethical matters. The notion that the intellect can achieve its own moral objectives and marshal enough authority and strength to overcome the anxieties of life and fears of the enemy is a non-starter. Early patristic Fathers do not bolster the spirit of reason and free will in human affairs. Nor do they extol courage and other virtues as means to secure the blessings and goodness of life on Earth. Their outlook on faith is neither intellectual nor existential. Instead, the faithful must submit to the will of God, and they must fear him if they wish to receive the gift of fearless strength from heaven. Only then can they face external and internal enemies of the soul. Absolute faith, the spirit of fear, meekness and obedience to God’s will, suffering, and death—these are the initial markers of Christian courage. The single most essential thing that Christianity and Hellenic philosophy have in common lies in the war against vice, or the battle against unbridled appetites of the heart and senses. Faith-based politics are at odds with the epistêmê of classical philosophy and related ideals of eudemonic physis and state-centred polis. As explained in the preceding chapter, efforts to heal this rift start with the Gnostics, who stray from the path of pious fear and opt instead to create a parallel world of mystical love where questions of courage and life in the flesh lose all relevance. But this is only one step in a long journey of reconciliation between competing systems of ethics. This chapter and the remainder of this volume describe a protracted period of church-led struggles to tame and co-opt “pagan” ideals to serve the higher rule of the Almighty. The overall goal is to tone down the rhetoric of fear and meekness by showing some appreciation for the benefits of intellectual activity, the goodness and just rewards of material life, the use of military strength and authority, the power of free will, and the sharing of God’s love in this world. These advances are defining moments in the history of Western thought. Still, moral psychology and theology will take a long time to fully embrace the Christianisation of previous philosophical thinking.

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The two centuries that follow the First Council of Nicea (325 AD) and the conversion of Constantine I to the Christian faith (337 AD) introduce some new ideas in this regard, mostly by acknowledging the powers of the warriors of Christ. Theological literature and thinking flourish as the church gains a privileged status in Roman culture, enabling it to further develop its authority structure and power throughout the world. Conflicts arise between the Nicene doctrine of Christ’s essential unity with the Father and the nontrinitarian Arian heresy, which holds that the Son of God is not co-eternal with God the Father and the Holy Spirit. These developments in church doctrine and its overall status vis-à-vis Rome lead to important shifts in teachings concerning the merits of clinging to life and the existential relationship of body and spirit. They also raise political expectations of “overcoming the world” through real military victory and the exercise of power. Some concessions to the virtue-­ based wisdom of courage are also made, if only rhetorically. The Bible and historical incidents are thus used to defend slightly more secular notions of courage. Church leaders who contribute to this trend include Athanasius, Eusebius of Caesarea, Gregory of Nazianzen, Sulpitius Severus, Sozomen, Socrates Scholasticus, Theodoret, and Jerome.

 elf-killing and Martyrdom: Clement of Rome S and Athanasius For early Christians, true happiness could not be found in this life. This begs the question: since life on Earth is a pale reflection of the blessings found in a heavenly garden, should we not embrace death sooner rather than later? Should we not condone suicide instead of prolonging the agony of miserable living? We know that philosophers of classical antiquity generally viewed self-killing as cowardice. Still, there were situations where it was acceptable. They include, according to Plato, suicide by judicial order, as in the case of Socrates, or self-killing motivated by terrible shame or personal hardships that are extreme and unavoidable. The Stoics are also open to the idea of bringing one’s life to an end where circumstances warrant. Cicero remarks that “when a man’s circumstances

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contain a preponderance of things in accordance with Nature, it is appropriate for him to remain alive; when he possesses or sees in prospect a majority of the contrary things, it is appropriate for him to depart from life” (Cicero 2008, III 60–61). Putting it more bluntly, Seneca writes to Lucilius that a wise person “lives as long as he ought, not as long as he can” (Seneca 1917, 70:4). Epicurus agreed that suicide might be the only way out of unbearable pain, although he thought it to be a foolish action. Suicide is more strongly condemned in Christian doctrine. Self-killing demonstrates an easy way out of suffering and a lack of courage and faith in God. Clement of Rome offers a more nuanced view. Committing suicide out of despair may be wrong, but it takes a lot of courage to carry out the act. In Recognitions, probably written in the later part of the second century, he provides a poignant example of this. Book 7 tells the story of Clement of Rome’s mother, who leaves Rome with him and two other sons to protect her husband’s family reputation and her own chastity against sexual advances from her husband’s brother. Shipwrecked on her way to Athens, the poor woman is saved from drowning but loses her three children and assumes they are dead. The apostle Peter crosses her path some years later, a beggar on the shores of the island of Aradus. He wonders why she prostrates herself to beg for alms. This is where the woman tells her story and explains her hand paralysis and her lack of courage: “For if I had had any bravery in me,” she says, “I could either have thrown myself from a precipice, or cast myself into the depths of the sea, and so ended my griefs” (Clement of Rome 1886, 7:13). She adds that she would not hesitate to suffer the penalty of suicide and see her soul burn in hell if that meant she could see her children, if only for an hour. The narrative goes on to explain how Peter reunites the woman with her sons, who are still alive and happen to be his disciples travelling with him. Peter then baptises the woman and brings the story to closure with the following words: “But so well pleasing, said he, is chastity to God, that it confers some grace in the present life even upon those who are in error” (Clement of Rome 1886, 7:38). While she loses faith in God and wishes to die, the suffering mother is deemed “not brave enough” to take her own life. But her virtue is so edifying that she deserves to find happiness in this world and regain her faith. This tragic story and its happy ending are noteworthy for the lesson

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they offer about the earthly incentives of virtue, those that drive people to do the right thing for the sake of their loved ones and be rewarded for it in this life. The plot runs counter to a Christian doctrine centred on the fear of God and the hope of an immortal life in heaven. Chastity is part of a story about love lost and found in this world, not about rewards in heaven for bearing hardship on Earth in fear of God. Another core existential theme, closer to the pre-Nicene tradition, concerns the conduct of believers in the face of persecution and suffering. Should the faithful embrace torture and martyrdom with zeal, or should they flee from it when they can? In Apologia de Fuga, Athanasius (c. 293–373 AD) addresses the question at some length and recognises the merits of clinging to life and all it has to offer. He cites a long list of saints and prophets, including Elijah, Isaiah, Jacob, David, Moses, Peter, and Paul, who displayed fortitude by fleeing and hiding when persecuted rather than allowing themselves to be tortured and killed. They did so in order that they could continue preaching the gospel and, if discovered, submit to martyrdom as God commands (Athanasius 1892, 22). The Bishop of Alexandria insists that the blessed Fathers showed no cowardice in fleeing from the persecutor, but rather manifested their fortitude of soul in shutting themselves up in close and dark places, and living a hard life. Yet did they not desire to avoid the time of death when it arrived; for their concern was neither to shrink from it when it came, nor to forestall the sentence determined by Providence. (Athanasius 1892, 17)

The saints who fled had no death wish and were not cowards. Instead of running away to their own deaths, they persisted and kept themselves alive to the end. Since their escape was according to the Lord’s dispensation, they won God’s favour and left behind a glorious testimony of righteous fortitude (Athanasius 1892, 19). Interestingly, Athanasius’ commentary is less about fortitude and more about false accusations of cowardice levelled against him. His trinitarian stance and unwavering opposition to Arianism cost him five periods of exile imposed by four different Roman emperors until he was about seventy years old and returned to Alexandria. Throughout the forty-five

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years he served as Bishop of Alexandria, he vehemently opposed the prevailing idea that, since “there was a time when the Son was not,” Jesus must have a distinct substance from God, the eternal Father. For him, God must become flesh and dwell among human beings if he is to atone for their sins. In the Apologia de Fuga, Athanasius makes it abundantly clear that accusations of heresy and cowardice should thus be turned against his persecutors. They pretend to reproach me with cowardice, not perceiving that by thus murmuring against me, they rather turn the blame upon themselves. For if it be a bad thing to flee, it is much worse to persecute; for the one party hides himself to escape death, the other persecutes with a desire to kill; and it is written in the Scriptures that we ought to flee; but he that seeks to destroy transgresses the law, nay, and is himself the occasion of the other’s flight. If then they reproach me with my flight, let them be more ashamed of their own persecution … For no man flees from the gentle and the humane, but from the cruel and the evil-minded. (Athanasius 1892, 8)

The bishop adds that his detractors do not really care about his conduct or his escape from death. What concerns them is the fact that he is free, and what they wish above all is to destroy him. In doing so, they conduct themselves like cowardly rabbits.

Victorious Rulers and Soldiers of Christ Eusebius of Caesarea (c. 265–c. 340 AD) prefers to stress the political gains that the church can legitimately pursue in the present world. He disagrees with Athanasius that the Son and the Father are one and the same; Christ in the flesh cannot be co-eternal with the Almighty in heaven. Yet life in the here and now is worth fighting for. While his views on courage seem conservative, at least from a Christian perspective, he insists on the power of god-fearing faith in achieving victory over the world through martyrdom. Chiefly known as a historian, Eusebius provides graphic stories of torture and accounts of heroic acts designed to glorify “the bravery of the

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God-beloved martyr” and “fortitude of the whole race of Christians,” as opposed to the boldness of restless, reckless, greedy, and blood-thirsty men of war (Eusebius 1890a, I 20:2, 23:21; III 11:23; IV 15:6; VI 3:4; VIII 2:3, 6:1, 8:2, 6, 9:4, 10:1, 4, 11:19; 1890b, 7:7–8). Thus, his Church History is intended to record the most peaceful wars waged in behalf of the peace of the soul, and will tell of men doing brave deeds for truth rather than country, and for piety rather than dearest friends. It will hand down to imperishable remembrance the discipline and the much-tried fortitude of the athletes of religion, the trophies won from demons, the victories over invisible enemies, and the crowns placed upon all their heads. (Eusebius 1890a, V, Intro. 4)

The motivation for deeds that are truly noble, brave, and even superhuman, performed by male and female athletes of religion, lies in the fear of God and obedience to his will (Eusebius 1890a, V 24:2; VIII 4:7; IX 1:10). Despite their demonstration of prowess, God’s athletes must nonetheless show humility at all times. Since God is the one who gives his followers the strength to persist and the desire to fulfil his commands, brave souls never boast about their accomplishments (Eusebius 1890c, 12). The soldiers of Christ do not prevail over invisible foes alone. They also conquer historic enemies on real battlefields. Their piety is the source of “brave deeds, victories in war, and triumphs over conquered foes,” causing them to tremble with fear (Eusebius 1890c, 22; see 1890a, VI 41:22). Pious souls are well armed to face adversity. They know that their zeal and bold devotion to Christ’s words can give military rewards in addition to ensuring their immortality. Soldiers of the Almighty Sovereign can thus use the sign of the cross as a military standard to evoke the bravery of Christ and the invincible power of God. While it bears witness to the courage of Christ’s disciples, who deserve a glorious death, the cross is also a weapon that saved Rome from the yoke of tyranny (Eusebius 1890a, IX 1:11; 10:4; 1890b, 7:7; 1890c, 12). Constantine the Great, the first Roman emperor (306–312 AD) to convert to Christianity, used it to inspire his troops in battle and defeat his enemy. Also, Jesus forgave Christians who did not fight but instead showed spiritual endurance and

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patience in their dedication to the Word of the Cross (Eusebius 1890c, 2:7, 20; 3:9). Probably born into an influential family himself, Eusebius portrays Constantine as the earthly counterpart to the heavenly Sovereign. In a passage worth quoting in full, the historian portrays the emperor as someone who is dear to the Supreme Sovereign himself; who alone is free, nay, who is truly lord: above the thirst of wealth, superior to sexual desire; victorious even over natural pleasures; controlling, not controlled by, anger and passion. He is indeed an emperor, and bears a title corresponding to his deeds; a Victor in truth, who has gained the victory over those passions which overmaster the rest of men: whose character is formed after the Divine original of the Supreme Sovereign, and whose mind reflects, as in a mirror, the radiance of his virtues. Hence is our emperor perfect in discretion, in goodness, in justice, in courage, in piety, in devotion to God: he truly and only is a philosopher, since he knows himself, and is fully aware that supplies of every blessing are showered on him from a source quite external to himself, even from heaven itself. Declaring the august title of supreme authority by the splendor of his vesture, he alone worthily wears that imperial purple which so well becomes him. (Eusebius 1890c, 5:4)

Faith combined with philosophy, piety with virtue, religious devotion with the exercise of imperial power—all come together in this flowery Oration in Praise of Constantine. Unlike other passages that speak of Christian fortitude, the language used here owes a debt to Greco-Roman philosophy and wisdom-based ethics. Similar concessions to moral philosophy can be found in the fourth-century writings of Gregory Nazianzen (c. 329–390 AD). In his Letters and Orations, the Archbishop of Constantinople reflects on the role of wisdom in discovering what is to be done and manly courage in carrying out what has been discovered, which includes fighting for the church (Gregory Nazianzen 1894a, XVIII, CXL). He also mentions the training that is needed to tell the difference between virtue and vice, i.e., between bravery and rashness, caution and cowardice, temperance and misanthropy, or justice and illiberality (Gregory Nazianzen 1894b, Oration XLIII). These observations, however, are only made in passing. They fall far short of what is needed to

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adapt Christian theology to older conceptions of heroic behaviour, human flourishing, and military victory. The same general observation can be made of the monastic literature that begins in the late third century and flourishes throughout church history. Writings by monks and literature about them and the monastic movement, mostly biographical, introduce a new genre in the patristic epoch. But they pay little attention to non-Christian insights concerning the blessings of life in the material world. Few of the writings from this movement look at the roots of Christian virtue, and monks are not interested in philosophical and theological discussions of courage. Sulpitius Severus (c. 363–c. 420 AD) is an exception to the rule. Born of noble descent, he abandoned his work as a jurist and embraced the monastic life after his wife’s premature death. His Sacred History speaks to the courage that men and women of faith demonstrate when engaging in military battles (Sulpitius 1894a, 2:16, 21, 30). He depicts them as struggling against idolatry and heresy and showing fearlessness in the face of death (Sulpitius 1894a, 1:26; 2:16, 20–21, 30, 45). His chronicle also confirms the notion that the Almighty rewards genuine courage and piety with success on the battlefield (Sulpitius 1894a, 1:25; 33; 2:1). In On the Life of St. Martin, the first Western biography of a monastic hero, Severus describes the exemplary conduct of his friend following his retirement from military service. The narrative follows the model of holy men who perform miracles after converting themselves into brave soldiers of Christ. The monk narrates the story of Martin telling Julian Caesar that he cannot join his army at the city of the Vaugiones. His decision not to fight is religiously motivated: “Hitherto I have served you as a soldier: allow me now to become a soldier to God: let the man who is to serve you receive your donative: I am the soldier of Christ: it is not lawful for me to fight” (Sulpitius 1894b, 4). Furious, the tyrant casts doubt on Martin’s religious motivation and accuses him of cowardice. The saint, full of courage, responds that he is willing to go to battle unarmed, using the sign of the cross instead of a shield or helmet to penetrate the ranks of the enemy, in the name of the Lord Jesus. The saint is then thrown into prison, but the enemies surrender on the following day. Severus credits the victory to Martin and God’s decision to send the saintly man to fight armed only with a cross. Other stories include Martin

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confronting the devil himself and boldly confessing his faith in God’s mercy. In another scene, God protects the holy man bravely standing below an idolised pine tree about to fall before a crowd of heathens. The gesture demonstrates his unwavering confidence in the Lord (Sulpitius 1894b, 13, 22). Martin showed “fortitude in conquering, patience in waiting, and placidity in enduring” (Sulpitius 1894c, 2). Not even Socrates is braver (Sulpitius 1894d, 3:17). Because of their faith and courage, and despite the harshness of the world, holy men such as Martin can resist all temptations. They can endure and overcome all trials and sufferings, in the hope of eternal life. But they can also hope for protection in this life and victory over real enemies. Men of true faith can remain forever victorious (Sulpitius 1894c, 1). As long as they do not associate with evil men and their lack of fear is not tainted by arrogance, pious men like Martin can make their foes lose courage and tremble with fear (Sulpitius 1894a, 2:50; 1894d, 3:13). Similar concessions to courage that can protect life and serve the ruling order can be found in the writings of Sozomen (c. 375–c. 447 AD), a famous historian of the early church. Dedicated to Theodosius II, the monk’s Ecclesiastical History starts with an address to the emperor, a ruler who has “gathered together all the virtues, and hast excelled every one in piety, philanthropy, courage, prudence, justice, munificence, and a magnanimity befitting royal dignity” (Sozomen 1890, Address). Rulers can remain in power and at the same time be models of Christian virtue. On the existential plane, the faithful can hold on to their lives as opposed to seeking martyrdom and the consolation of rewards in the afterlife. Sozomen extols the courage of pious men and women who lead ascetic lives, lose their possessions unjustly, denounce all acts of injustice, and suffer or die defending their purity and faith (Sozomen 1890, 5:11, 6:28, 32; 7:28; 8:2, 23; 9:11, 13). But he finds no fault in St. Hilarion’s decision to escape “martyrdom by flight; for he fled in compliance with the Divine precept which commands us not to expose ourselves to persecution” (Sozomen 1890, 5:10). The historian also absolves soldiers who make offerings to the Roman gods out of habit; they do not imagine that they are committing sin (Sozomen 1890, 5:15). What is more, Sozomen recognises that real gains may be obtained through confessions of faith.

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Emperor Julian was so impressed with Christian demonstrations of fortitude that he decided to treat all Catholics with greater humanity (Sozomen 1890, 5:4). Likewise, Roman prefect Modestus had such admiration for the woman running to join other Catholics about to die that he convinced the emperor to spare her and her fellow Christians from death. The whole city of Edessa proclaimed its faith as a result (Sozomen 1890, 6:18). Confessions of faith can deliver existential gains to followers of Christ. Socrates Scholasticus (c. 379–c. 450 AD), another early Christian Church historian, pays tribute to the singular virtues shown by Theodosius II, including fortitude and the struggle for truth. He defines fortitude as adhering to the truth against all opposition and never turning aside “to that which is unreal” (Socrates Scholasticus 1890, 4:23). However, when praising the emperor, the historian reverts to a more conventional definition of courage as the capacity to endure suffering in the name of God. The emperor sets an example in this regard. He is well educated but not effeminate. He exercises prudence and shows fortitude in enduring hardships. He performs religious observances, fasts frequently, and courageously endures both heat and cold (Socrates Scholasticus 1890, 7:22). But suffering is not without tangible rewards. Roman soldiers at war against the Persian army take courage when they learn that angels of God have been sent to protect them (Socrates Scholasticus 1890, 7:18). When under God’s protection, men of virtue can achieve victory over the world in this life. Likewise, Theodoret (c. 393–c. 457 AD) uses Christian virtue-based rhetoric to commend holders of power. The theologian of the School of Antioch extols the virtues of Emperor Constantine, notably his piety and his courage, which are celebrated throughout the world (Theodoret 1854, 1:23). Emperor Valentinian was also known for his greatness of mind and “was not only possessed of courage, but was also prudent, temperate, and just” (Theodoret 1854, 4:6). As for Emperor Theodosius, his courage in battle was mustered by his vision of John the Evangelist and the Apostle Philip, both clothed in white and mounted on white horses (Theodoret 1854, 5:24). Theodoret also holds Zeno, a Roman general of 448 AD, in high regard. His wealth of virtue earns him all kinds of prizes, not only in heaven but also on earth. The man is a model of fortitude combined with

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kindness, fairness, meekness, self-control, and prudence. His courage is tempered by gentleness and meekness, and exhibited to your household in kindliness, to your foes in boldness. These qualities indicate an admirable general. In a soldier’s character the main ornament is bravery, but in a commander prudence takes precedence of bravery; after these come self-­ control and fairness, whereby a wealth of virtue is gathered … For to virtue’s athletes the God of all, like some great giver of games, has offered prizes, some in this life, and some in that life beyond which has no end. Those in this present life your excellency has already enjoyed, and you have achieved the highest honour. (Theodoret 1892, 71)

Interestingly, Theodoret redirects notions of courage to address internal battles and divisions within the church. Soldiers at war with wolf-like enemies that undermine the true Christian creed possess the same virtues as Zeno. Their “piety for endurance and courage” is bound to be rewarded by the Lord of the Flock and Supreme Ruler. On the Day of Judgement, they will be able to “shine by worthiness of life,” because the Lord is bountiful and generous (Theodoret 1892, 131). Those who feign piety and wander away from the path of truth will be found guilty of cowardice. Cyril of Alexandria is a case in point. He erred in attacking Nestorius for his insistence on the full humanity of Christ and his refusal to portray Mary as the Mother of God (Theodoret 1892, 122, 130, 141, 157). In his defence of Antiochene Christology, Theodoret redefines fortitude in a way that lends support to his own battle for doctrinal authority within the church. In his history of the church from 322 to 427 AD, Theodoret writes that Jovian became emperor not only because he was brave in battle but also because he dared speak out against Emperor Julian’s cruelty and impiety. Jovian displayed “as much courage as was displayed by the martyrs of our Saviour” (Theodoret 1854, 4:1). Many bishops faithful to the true Christian creed also set an example of courage and wisdom by risking their lives and suffering torture at the hands of their enemies. Marcus, Bishop of Arethusa, was tortured for bravely refusing to rebuild the idolatrous temple he destroyed (Theodoret 1854, 3.7). Eusebius, Bishop of

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Caesarea, was willing to be maimed and lose both his hands rather than sign a document supporting the tenets of Arianism (Theodoret 1854, 2:32, 4:14). Likewise, Flavian, Bishop of Antioch, and Diodorus, Bishop of Tarsus, deserved great admiration for defending their flocks against the persecution led by Arian heretics (Theodoret 1854, 5:23, 4:25). Because of their bravery in opposing the emperor’s impiety and injustice in supporting the Arian doctrine, several bishops were expelled from the church and banished during Constantius’ rule (Theodoret 1854, 2:15, 25, 27). Theodoret also tells the stories of lesser-known church members, some unnamed, who demonstrated remarkable courage in the face of religious persecution. One story is about a Christian youth named Theodore who was condemned by Emperor Julian to be “stretched on the rack in the presence of all the people, and ordered his shoulders to be torn with scourging, and his sides with nails” (Theodoret 1854, 3:11). When asked what he felt while being tortured, the young man answered that his anguish faded after someone used soft linen to wipe off his face and encouraged him to be brave. When the torture ceased, he did not rejoice but instead grieved that the person had stopped offering him solace and comfort in his suffering (Theodoret 1854, 3:12). Another poignant story is about a young Christian woman who rushed with her infant in her arms to join other inhabitants of Edessa who were about to be slaughtered, as instructed by Emperor Theodosius. She wanted her infant to die with her “in this blessed cause” (Theodoret 1854, 4:17). Other zealous Christians demanded to be cleansed by fire for having been tricked into idolatry by Emperor Julian. Crowds of people witnessed their fortitude and boldness in defending religion, as well as their determination to achieve the glory of martyrdom; their only wish was to be worthy of being called the martyrs of Christ (Theodoret 1854, 3:17). Hormisdas, the son of a prefect, showed the same resolve. He would sooner suffer “the death which leads to immortal life” than renounce his faith in God (Theodoret 1854, 5:39). Christians who fought the Arian heresy showed no fear when sent to prison by Emperor Magnus Maximus. Like brave fighters in the stadium, they

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threw aside all fear, and, encouraged by the achievements of their fathers, they, through Divine grace, looked with contempt upon the menaces of the tyrant, and welcomed tortures as being the trial of their virtue. All the inhabitants of the city ran out to see these soldiers of Christ, who were made, as the blessed Paul wrote, a spectacle for angels and for men; and who triumphed over tortures and scourging by their fortitude, erected trophies of victory over impiety by their patience, and obtained a complete triumph over the Arians. (Theodoret 1854, 4:22)

Jerome (c. 340/42–420 AD), the protégé of Pope Damasus I, is also remembered for his vivid portrayal of the brave warriors of Christ: Just as in the legions of the army there are generals, tribunes, centurions, javelin-men, and light-armed troops, common soldiers, and companies, but once the battle begins, all distinctions of rank are dropped, and the one thing looked for is valour: so too in this camp and in this battle, in which we contend against devils, not names but deeds are needed: and under the true commander, Christ, not the man who has the highest title has the greatest fame, but he who is the bravest warrior. (Jerome 1883a, 1:35)

Soldiers of Christ follow the example of the apostle Paul, the bravest of generals (Jerome 1883a, 1:6), and of St. Hilarion, who armed himself with the sign of the cross on his forehead. They are paragons of wisdom-­ based virtue fighting on behalf of the Almighty. In his Letter to Nepotian, Jerome compares prudence, justice, temperance, and fortitude to a four-­ horse team being led by the obedient charioteer of Christ racing at full speed towards his destination (Jerome 1883b, 52:13; see also 66:3). A counterexample of true Christian courage is Samson. Although braver than a lion and tougher than a rock, he succumbed to the feminine charm of Delilah (Jerome 1883a, 22:12). This is not to say that women are the source of evil. They too can conquer the “inner enemy” by living a life of celibacy and frugality and avoiding the “bravery of dress and ornament” (Jerome 1883c, 1:29). Jerome has nothing but praise for Demetrias, one of the most noble and wealthy people in the early fifth-­ century Roman world. The young woman refused to marry and preferred to vow herself to a life of chastity and severe fasting (Jerome 1883b, 130:5). Interestingly, the biblical scholar acknowledges that a woman’s

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chastity can be rewarded with great wealth in this life. On a similar note, Teuta, queen of the Illyrians, is said to owe her victories over Rome and her sway over brave warriors to her exemplary chastity (Jerome 1883a, 1:44). Provided they follow Christ and resist the temptations of the flesh, people of faith can amass wealth, wield imperial power, defeat their enemies, and take over the world. In a letter to Heliodorus, written around 396 AD, Jerome reflects on our common fate as he laments the death of a young priest. After Plato, he reminds his reader that the entire life of a wise man should be a meditation on death. The sentiment is shared by most philosophers, he points out. But the Apostle Paul demonstrates more courage when he remarks, “I die daily through your glory” (1Cor. 15:31). The faithful do not live in order to die. Instead, they die in order to live, forever. “The sage and Christian must both of them die: but the one always dies out of his glory, the other into it” (Jerome 1883b, 60:14).

Beyond Fear and Faith-based Courage According to Athanasius, saints and prophets display fortitude by fleeing martyrdom, enduring persecution, and living hard lives in exile and seclusion. Eusebius of Caesarea and many others after him also set a new standard in moral strength and virtue. They commend athletes and soldiers of Christ who achieve real gains in life, including hegemonic power and victories at war. This more combative mood strays from the foundational spirit of God-fearing meekness and exemplary martyrdom, driven by hopes of redemption in heaven. The overall approach to moral goodness is, however, in line with the political ethos of early Christianity. The focus is on expressions and denials of fear, mostly based on religious ideas and power relations between heaven and earth. Future developments in mediaeval church thinking maintain this focus and revive it in various ways. Nevertheless, evolving ideas about Christian fortitude give scope for greater fellowship in public life and enhanced sensitivity to epistemic and existential concerns in their own right. Taking their cue from Origen and Lactantius, leading theologians show more openness to the teachings of moral philosophy. Over time,

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the twin rules of fear and faith are increasingly combined with other parts of the root system of courage. These include the value of “credible” thinking and reasoning in the pursuit of truth, as well as the “core” virtues of heartfelt love and human fellowship—a theme that is only tangentially related to biblical evocations of courage. A few centuries later, the Scholastic movement brings these two ideas to the fore. In hindsight, early Christian views of fearful and fearsome courage rely on the biblical narrative to legitimise and strengthen the authority of the church in all spheres of life, including the exercise of secular power. Profound insights continue to be woven into descriptions of the frailty of the human condition and the role that hope and blind faith can play in our lives. The impact of early church thinking on Western history cannot be understated. The perspective taken is nonetheless limited with respect to the merits of intellectual activity, battles for human fellowship and justice, and the pursuit of wellness in this world. On their own, biblical lessons of fortitude do not consider the unity of physis, polis, and epistêmê to be a source of enrichment for the whole of humanity. The vitality, power, and wisdom that lie at the heart of courage remain largely untapped.

References Athanasius. 1892. Apologia de Fuga. Trans. M. Atkinson and A. Robertson. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 4. Ed. P.  Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Cicero. 2008. On Goals. In The Stoics Reader: Selected Writings and Testimonia, trans. B. Inwood and L.P. Gerson. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett. Clement of Rome. 1886. Recognitions. Trans. T. Smith. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 8. Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Eusebius of Caesarea. 1890a. Church History. Trans. A. Cushman McGiffert. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 1. Ed. P.  Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing.

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———. 1890b. Oration in Praise of Constantine. Trans. A.C.  McGiffert. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 1. Ed. P.  Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1890c. Oration of Constantine “to the Assembly of the Saints.” Trans. E.C. Richardson. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 1. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Gregory Nazianzen. 1894a. Letters. Trans. C.G. Browne and J.E. Swallow. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 7. Ed. P.  Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1894b. Orations. Trans. C.G. Browne and J.E. Swallow. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 7. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K.  Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Jerome. 1883a. Against Jovivianus. Trans. W.H.  Fremantle, G.  Lewis, and W.G. Martley. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 7. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1883b. Letters. Trans. W.H. Fremantle, G. Lewis, and W.G. Martley. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 6. Ed. P.  Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1883c. Against the Pelagians. Trans. W.H.  Fremantle, G.  Lewis, and W.G. Martley. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 6. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Seneca. 1917. Ad Lucilium Epistulae Morales. 3 vols. Trans. R.M.  Gummere. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann. Socrates Scholasticus. 1890. Church History. Trans. A.C. Zenos. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 2. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K.  Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Sozomen. 1890. Ecclesiastical History. Trans. C.D. Hartranft. In Nicene and Post-­ Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 2. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing.

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Sulpitius Severus. 1894a. Sacred History. Trans. A. Roberts. In Nicene and Post-­ Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 7. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1894b. On the Life of St. Martin. Trans. A. Roberts. In Nicene and Post-­ Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 11. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1894c. Letters. Trans. A.  Roberts. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 11. Ed. P.  Schaff and H.  Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1894d. Dialogues. Trans. A. Roberts. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 11. Ed. P.  Schaff and H.  Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Theodoret. 1854. History of the Church, from A.D. 322 to the Death of Theodore of Mopsuestia, A.D. 427. Trans. E. Walford. London: H.D. Bohn. ———. 1892. Letters. Trans. B. Jackson. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 3. Ed. P.  Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing.

10 Overtures to Reason and the Gift of Love

Early Christians suffered persecution and a long history of martyrdom under the iron rule of Rome. Apologists and theologians are defensive and hold on to the courage of devotional fear and self-denial. Their battle is with pagan philosophers and external critics, Jewish and non-Jewish. The fight is also directed against heretics from within, those who fully embrace Gnostic mysticism and the ecstatic revelations and prophecies of the Montanist movement. Adjustments that soften the biblical message of courage are nonetheless proposed by Athanasius, Eusebius of Caesarea, Gregory of Nazianzen, Sulpitius Severus, Sozomen, Socrates Scholasticus, Theodoret, and Jerome. They adapt their teachings to the changing circumstances and needs of the church. This includes making allowances for existential and political goals, i.e., the merits of clinging to life and the pursuit of military victories and gains in authority and power. Elements of the combative politics of classical antiquity make their way into church doctrine. Some Church Fathers show no hesitation in invoking the wisdom of virtue-based ethics, if only rhetorically. This chapter explains how leading figures of the Nicene and post-­ Nicene churches, especially Gregory of Nyssa and Augustine of Hippo, helped establish clearer connections between the ethics of courage and the spirit of divine love, which is a central theme in the Scriptures and the © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32739-1_10

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Gnostic tradition. The apologetics of Origen and Lactantius have been particularly influential in reframing moral thinking along several dimensions. This and other shifts in discussions of courage represent an ambitious undertaking that will reach its full scope much later, with the scholastic movement in the high Middle Ages. Church Fathers spanning many centuries keep revisiting the ways in which religious doctrine can accommodate the virtue of fortitude guided by the intellect, expressions of power and authority, the exercise of free will, the teachings of love in the here and now, and the pursuit of wellness in life. On the whole, the foundational principles of blind faith, godly fear, and rewards mostly from heaven are more nuanced, if not directly contested.

 avering Between Reason and Religion: W Origen and Lactantius Echoing Aristotelian wisdom, Hippolytus of Rome (c. 170–35 AD) remarks that virtues deemed “right by nature” occupy the middle position between boldness and cowardice (Hippolytus 1886). Traces of Hellenic thinking in patristic literature can also be found in the writings of Gregory Thaumaturgus (c. 213–270 AD), in his discussion of the four heavenly virtues “ripening in the soul.” According to Gregory, fortitude is the virtue that expresses the doctrine of prudence and temperance based on the knowledge of good and evil, using the example of Christ the teacher. Jesus proclaimed the truth of these virtues in more than mere words. Instead, “he incited us much more to the practice of virtue, and stimulated us by the deed he did more than by the doctrines he taught.” Fortitude thus plays a key supporting role and acts “as a kind of preserver, maintainer, and guardian” of other virtues (Gregory Thaumaturgus 1886, 9, 11). In a similar vein, the Christian bishop and martyr Methodius of Olympus (died c. 311) describes brave endurance as the strength of virtue, which perseveres against base desires and is fortified by them. Armed with moral strength and the helmet of salvation, the faithful can face the apocalyptic battle against the Beast (Methodius 1886, 12). In his Commentary on the Apocalypse of the Blessed John, the ecclesiastical writer

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Victorinus Petravionensis, martyred around 303 AD, ventures to portray the gates evoked by John (Chapters 21 and 22) as representations of the four virtues, i.e., “prudence, fortitude, justice, temperance, which are associated with one another.” “And, being involved together, they make the number twelve” (Victorinus 1886). Origen (c. 185–c. 254 AD) also explores, again timidly and with many reservations, what Christianity can borrow and adapt from Hellenistic views on courage. Instead of interpreting the Scriptures literally, he takes the liberty of combining theology and philosophy to make sense of the biblical narrative. In Against Celsus, the influential apologist and stern ascetic, persecuted and tortured under Emperor Decius, extols the courage of Christ; Jesus grew up in humble circumstances and yet achieved fame and accomplished great deeds (Origen 1885, 1:29). While they initially fled from persecution, the apostles eventually set an example as well. They showed contempt for their own lives and took joy in being worthy to suffer death for the doctrine of Jesus, surpassing many demonstrations of fortitude by Greek philosophers (Origen 1885, 2:45; 3:8; 8:65). The faithful followed in their footsteps. They spread the word of Jesus and helped converts abandon their habits of cowardice, meanness, and timidity and display courage in defending their religion and God, the Creator of all things (Origen 1885, 2:79). He adds that their ability to persuade others and convert sinners is not like that found among those who profess the philosophy of Plato, or of any other merely human philosopher, which possesses no other qualities than those of human nature. But the demonstration which followed the words of the apostles of Jesus was given from God, and was accredited by the Spirit and by power. (Origen 1885, 3:68)

Origen concurs with philosophers who condemn weakness and cowardly fear (Origen 1885, 2:39). In his view, patience and fortitude are the highest virtues deployed by brave and high-principled men (Origen 1885, 8:65). But while manly courage and magnanimity are signs of virtue, they must be expressed in a spirit of Christian humility and meekness. This means, among other things, that the ultimate goal of a brave soul is to achieve happiness not in this life but rather in the coming world

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(Origen 1885, 2:42; 8:43; 1896, 10:23). True fortitude opens the gate of Zion, unlike cowardice, which opens the gate of death (Origen 1896, 12:13). Epicurus, Plato, and the Stoics all promoted natural knowledge. What they failed to understand is that only through God and in accordance with his laws can someone do brave things and be rewarded in heaven (Origen 1896, 2:7). And so also the courage of Epicures is one thing, who would undergo some labours in order to escape from a greater number; and a different thing that of the philosopher of the Porch, who would choose all virtue for its own sake; and a different thing still that of Plato, who maintains that virtue itself is the act of the irascible part of the soul, and who assigns it to a place about the breast. (Origen 1885, 5:47)

True wisdom based on an understanding of God is the source of Christian fortitude. This is knowledge that transcends each people’s or country’s laws and notions of courage (Origen 1885, 1:31; 5:28). Tyrannius Rufinus (c. 345–c. 411 AD), the monk historian and theologian who translated Origen’s De principiis into Latin, reinforces this point. In his Commentary on the Creed of Aquileia, he portrays Christ as being at one with God as thought is to the mind, as wisdom is to the wise, as a word is to the understanding, as valour is to the brave. For as the Father is said by the Apostle to be alone wise, so likewise the Son alone is called wisdom. (Tyrannius Rufinus 1892)

The teachings of Lactantius (c. 250–c. 325 AD), also known as the Christian Cicero and tutor to the son of Emperor Constantine, go further in folding Greek wisdom into a Christian understanding of fortitude. In fact, much of what he has to say about strength in the face of suffering and the immortality of the soul as its reward could be accommodated within a Christianised blending of Stoicism and Platonic philosophy. Stoic courage is an attribute of rational souls that display self-control in their natural wants and passions and demonstrate fearlessness in the face of suffering and death. In this perspective, the deeds

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of mythical heroes performed on legendary battlefields provide little inspiration. Lactantius concurs with this Stoic assessment of Homeric tales. However brave Hercules or the heroes and founders of a nation may be, they do not measure up to church standards. Nor should they ever be treated like gods (Lactantius 1886a, 1:15). Hercules should not be worshipped as a divinity simply on account of his strength, an ephemeral quality that can be attributed to animals such as cattle and has little to do with the goodness of the soul. Because the Greeks regarded the most trivial things as having high significance, they foolishly imagined that brave and warlike generals are admitted to the assembly of the gods, and that there is no other way to immortality than to lead armies, to lay waste the territory of others, to destroy cities, to overthrow towns, to put to death or enslave free peoples. Truly the greater number of men they have cast down, plundered, and slain, so much the more noble and distinguished do they think themselves; and ensnared by the show of empty glory, they give to their crimes the name of virtue. (Lactantius 1886a, 1:18)

Lactantius is not impressed by men who accomplish remarkable deeds, such as using strength and iron to conquer a lion or a wild boar. Their strength is nowhere near the virtue of godly men capable of conquering the mind and restraining their anger and desires of the flesh, which “is the part of the bravest man.” Only those who are temperate, moderate, and just ought to be judged as brave (Lactantius 1886a, 1:9). Fortitude cannot implicate the body alone. In his view, the body, because it is solid, and capable of being grasped, must contend with objects which are solid and can be grasped; but the soul, on the other hand, because it is slight and subtle, and invisible, contends with those enemies who cannot be seen and touched. But what are the enemies of the soul, but lusts, vices, and sins? (Lactantius 1886a, 3:12)

Brave souls that overcome desires, vices, and sins are pure and free from stain. They have the strength to resist evil, whose purpose is to test men of faith (Lactantius 1886a, 5:7). Teaching discipline is particularly

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important here and should start early in life. On this matter, Lactantius points out that unless the young are restrained by fear and anger is directed at them, licence will lead to boldness and disgraceful action. When they err, the young should be corrected and whipped. Excessive love and indulgence incite evil and vice (Lactantius 1886a, 6:19). Well-trained souls possess the fortitude needed to remain happy in all circumstances, even under torture. But this is not to say that Christians should take pleasure in suffering that threatens their well-being and lives (Lactantius 1886a, 3:17, 27; 4:24). Nor does it mean that wants and passions are intrinsically evil. Like Aristotle and his followers, Lactantius recognises that it is quite normal for humans to seek things that are necessary for life and to engage in sex and procreate. The same reasoning applies to other passions. Anger can be used for good reasons, for instance, to overthrow tyrants and punish those who commit serious crimes. Otherwise, “the boldness of the wicked will increase, and go on to deeds of greater daring” (Lactantius 1886b, 61). In the same way, people who use their physical courage to defend their country may be deserving of a military victory. But there are limits that should be respected when pursuing existential and political goals. Anger does not justify vengeful or greedy wars that are contrary to justice. Amassing riches is a vice, especially if they are obtained through fraud and robbery. Lust that gives rise to debauchery and adultery is no less reproachable. Instead of being patient, brave, and just, those who are ignorant of God exceed the limits by converting passions into vices (Lactantius 1886a, 6:19; 1886b, 38; 1886c, 16). In keeping with the Stoic tradition, the virtuous must display courage by controlling their “affections” or “passions,” such as anger, greed, and hunger for pleasure. But Lactantius is not a Stoic. He explains that spiritual fortitude is rewarded not with happiness on Earth but with eternal salvation in heaven. Immortality is the ultimate goal of Christian endurance and suffering. If, therefore, virtue is not happy by itself, since its whole force consists, as I have said, in the enduring of evils; if it neglects all things which are desired

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as goods; if in its highest condition it is exposed to death, inasmuch as it often refuses life, which is desired by others, and bravely undergoes death, which others fear; if it must necessarily produce some great good from itself, because labours, endured and overcome even until death, cannot fail of obtaining a reward; if no reward, such as it deserves, is found on Earth, inasmuch as it despises all things which are frail and transitory, what else remains but that it may effect some heavenly reward, since it treats with contempt all earthly things, and may aim at higher things, since it despises things that are humble? And this reward can be nothing else but immortality. (Lactantius 1886a, 3:12; see 166:14)

Instead of dreading pain or death, the brave welcome the promise of immortality—a key Christian belief based on Plato’s concept of the everlasting soul. Compared with Origen, Lactantius has more faith in the wisdom of virtue, under the general proviso that it serves God and the pursuit of immortality in heaven. He also allows for existential and political gains to be achieved through the courage of religious conviction. His approach fails nonetheless to provide a solid synthesis of religious and philosophical ideas on the subject of courage. This is not surprising, given his attacks against Christian Gnostics and his reluctance to acknowledge any direct inspiration from Philo of Alexandria or Plotinus, the founder of Neoplatonism. We know that Neoplatonism contributed significantly to the evolution of church doctrine with respect to the integration of reason and faith, based on sentiments of fear and love, in the service of moral goodness. Plotinus created fertile ground for reconciling different traditions towards a multilayered view of the soul and the cosmos. However, his contribution to shaping the rich syntheses of theology and philosophy is better reflected in the writings of Gregory of Nyssa, Ambrose, Augustine, Cassian, and Chrysostom, among others. In the rest of this chapter, I discuss how Neoplatonism influenced these Church Fathers and helped them make clearer connections between the teachings of love and calls for God-fearing courage.

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 irtue Received from God: Gregory of Nyssa V and Augustine of Hippo In the post-Nicene period, Church Fathers pay more attention to lessons of love, of biblical and gnostic inspiration, and to the Hellenic and Neoplatonic ideals of fortitude. In this regard, Augustine of Hippo and Gregory of Nyssa make significant contributions. At the same time, both hold on to a fundamental tenet of the Scriptures and the pre-Nicene creed: the strength to endure great suffering towards the redemption of the soul can only come from God, not from the natural wisdom or the rational will of men. The wisdom of fortitude falls under the rule of faith and the power of fate, as dictated by God’s will. Gregory of Nyssa (c. 335–c. 395 AD) is an erudite theologian from Cappadocia, born of a deeply religious family. He makes a significant contribution to the doctrine of the Holy Trinity, along with his brother Basil of Caesarea and lifelong friend Gregory of Nazianzus. The Bishop of Nyssa also sheds new light on the relationship between the human soul and the emotion of courage. In On the Soul and the Resurrection, Gregory discusses with his dying sister, St. Macrina, the loss of their brother Basil. The conversation is modelled on the deathbed dialogue of Socrates in Plato’s Phaedo. It includes several enlightening passages where emotions that lie on the boundaries of the soul are said not to be evil, but neither are they good, at least from a moral perspective. In Gregory’s view, the likeness of God cannot be found in anger or pleasure. Cowardice, boldness, the desire for gain, and the dislike of loss all lack the stamp of divinity (Gregory of Nyssa 1893a, 18:1). Even though these conditions touch on the life of the soul, “they are not the soul, but only like warts growing out of the soul’s thinking part, which are reckoned as parts of it because they adhere to it, and yet are not that actual thing which the soul is in its essence” (Gregory of Nyssa 1893b). To understand the moral implications of an emotion, we must know the purpose it serves and the extent to which it is guided by reason. Thus, if reason instead assumes sway over such emotions, each of them is transmuted to a form of virtue; for anger produces courage, terror caution, fear

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obedience, hatred aversion from vice, the power of love the desire for what is truly beautiful; high spirit in our character raises our thought above the passions, and keeps it from bondage to what is base. (Gregory of Nyssa 1893a, 18:5)

Intellectual wisdom is needed for godliness to prevail over animal instincts, beastly passions, and irrational behaviour. Emotions and dispositions of the character, freely expressed in dreams, are elevated by the rational mind, which resembles the divine (Gregory of Nyssa 1893a, 13:17; 18:5). This is a radical departure from scriptural and early patristic evocations of courage. The emotion of fear no longer plays a pivotal role. It is honourable only when it is transformed into religious obedience and practised out of concern for one’s soul, not out of fear of dying. Anger that turns into courage illustrates the overall line of reasoning, which takes its inspiration from Greek wisdom. According to Gregory, courage lies between two vices, which are cowardice and audacity; “the one the defect, the other the excess of confidence” (Gregory of Nyssa 1893c, 8). Confidence and courage may serve as powerful weapons against attacks from the wicked. By contrast, cowardice and fear exhibit a weakening of the impulse to anger, causing a powerlessness to obtain things that give pleasure or punish those who inflict pain. God stands above all these emotions, including those that are balanced and well-­ tempered. He is neither pain nor pleasure. He is neither cowardly nor bold. “He is not fear, nor anger, nor any other emotion which sways the untutored soul, but, as the Apostle says, He is Very Wisdom and Sanctification, Truth and Joy and Peace” (Gregory of Nyssa 1893a, 16). While Platonic, Gregory’s notion of the courage to believe wisely and practise virtue is given a Christian twist: the virtue does not come naturally to man, and God must intervene. He is the only one who can implant courage in the fearful (Gregory of Nyssa 1893d, 134). This is also the view of Augustine of Hippo (354–430 AD), who delves deeper into the implications of virtue-based ethics for church doctrine. At first sight, many ideas recurring in his work confirm and reinforce key themes laid out by the Scriptures. The flesh is inherently weak, life is full of terrible suffering, and death looms large in the lives of the chosen. Cruel enemies are never too far away, and evil is defeated and severely punished

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at the end of time. The Lord himself must be feared and will inspire terror when betrayed. Also, the strength needed to face the trials of life and God’s rebuke hinges on the hope of redemption in a heavenly paradise. Another theme that adds to his sobering message revolves around the idea of man’s preordained fate. Unlike Ambrose, his teacher, Augustine emphasises the role of God’s will in demonstrations of virtue and moral strength. In his mind, fortitude can only come from above, i.e., from Divine Providence and the grace of God, and not from philosophical wisdom, the goodness of human nature, or the use of free will. He concedes that men and women have the power to show fortitude by not consenting to evil (Augustine 1887d, 1:18). Believers can consent to endure inevitable suffering, in the service of God. His belief in the predestination of the elect is nonetheless clearly stated. The position he takes on the matter is well known and has far-reaching consequences for the history of church doctrine. For all his faith in the early Christian creed, Augustine is still a major figure in rethinking both the role of reason and the politics of fear and love in the advancement of Christianity. Like Ambrose, the Church Father steers clear of fear as the sole principle that guides the ethics of courage. Fear must not be separated from the practice of wisdom-based virtue and the feeling of love for God and fellow humans. His formative years and early career prepared him for this reframing of church doctrine. Educated as a Christian, young Augustine succumbs to the many temptations of ambition and a licentious life in the city of Carthage. At the age of nineteen, he embraces and furiously defends Manichean dualism and the Gnostic teachings of mystic love. However, greatly impressed by the eloquence of Cicero, he resolves to practise rhetoric as a profession. Nine years later, Augustine decides to repudiate Manicheism because of its lack of ethics and its pseudo-scientific claims. He then leaves for Italy, where he explores the teachings of the Sceptics and neo-Platonic philosophers. Baptised at the age of thirty-three, he chooses to dedicate his life to the pursuit of true philosophy, redirecting it towards the promotion of Christian fellowship and the love of God. In his writings, Augustine is generally in agreement with Ambrose’s ideas regarding fortitude. In his letter to Jerome, he takes inspiration from the wisdom-based ethics of his spiritual father. He also endorses the

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theory of the unity of virtue handed down from Plato. In his view, where one virtue exists, the others likewise exist. Thus, “courage cannot be imprudent, or intemperate, or unjust” (Augustine 1887b, 167:5–8). In the City of God, he portrays courage as one of the four rivers that flow through paradise. The other three rivers are Prudence, Temperance, and Justice. All trees stand for useful knowledge, and the tree of life represents “wisdom herself, the mother of all good; and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, the experience of a broken commandment” (Augustine 1887d, 13:21). Courage of the mind or soul, far superior to physical strength, cannot exist on its own (Augustine 1887h, 6:4). When isolated from other virtues, it becomes a pale shadow of itself and an expression of recklessness, pride, and arrogance (Augustine 1887b, 167:6; 1887l, 22:18; 1887n, 2.16; 1887o, 12). Left to its own devices, courage turns into ferocious violence and the arrogance of a roaring, lion-like devil (Augustine 1887b, 133:1; see also 1887a, 6:8; 1888g, 50:29). Augustine synthesises Christian precepts with Platonic philosophy and ethics. Unlike Ambrose, however, he devotes considerable attention to the limitations of virtue ethics on their own, unenlightened by the principles of faith. His main criticism is that Greco-Roman philosophy makes virtue a goddess. It gives the same status to all virtues and their many forms or aspects, including fortitude and faith, which is an example of justice. Each virtue receives a dedicated altar and temple (Augustine 1887d, 4:20). In Christian doctrine, the unity of virtue points rather to the existence of an undivided spirit that embodies and brings together all that is good. The human spirit is made in the likeness of the Holy Trinity, forming a single divinity. For God, to be “is the same as to be strong, or to be just, or to be wise, or whatever is said of that simple multiplicity, or multifold simplicity, whereby to signify His substance” (Augustine 1887h, 6:4). Pleasure cannot be the final aim of virtue, as Epicurus believes. But neither can virtue be the ultimate goal of moral life, as taught by the Stoics. These false gods are offensive to the Lord, who is the only god who “ought to be believed, without constraint, with firmness, constancy, and fortitude” (Augustine 1888f, 106; see 1887d, 5:20). In the City of God, Augustine criticises the Stoic pursuit of goodness on earth in this life. Humans cannot overcome suffering, evil, or sin by themselves through the practice of reason and wisdom. Full of pride,

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philosophers deceive themselves into thinking they can achieve happiness without the assistance of God. Avoiding evil and desiring what is good in this life motivates everything they do, leading each adept to boast that he can live as he wishes. Following the advice of the Roman playwright Terence (c. 195/185–c. 159 BC), the philosopher thinks he can prevent suffering from happening or, if that is not possible, choose to bear the inevitable willingly so as not to be crushed by it. “Then he only wills what he can, because he cannot have what he wills” (Augustine 1887h, 13:7). The Stoic wills freely what he can and remains indifferent towards what is impossible and cannot be. According to Augustine, the latter principle is laughable. Men do not achieve fortitude or grace by the exercise of free will; freedom itself is obtained by grace, not the other way around (Augustine 1888d, 17). Moreover, all appeals for souls to be courageous prove that evil and tribulations cannot be removed from our lives. This is so true that adepts of the Stoa condone suicide as a legitimate means to avoid intolerable suffering. To Augustine, the contradiction is glaring. Then that virtue which goes by the name of fortitude is the plainest proof of the ills of life, for it is these ills which it is compelled to bear patiently. And this holds good, no matter though the ripest wisdom co-exists with it. And I am at a loss to understand how the Stoic philosophers can presume to say that these are no ills, though at the same time they allow the wise man to commit suicide and pass out of this life if they become so grievous that he cannot or ought not to endure them. (Augustine 1887d, 19:4)

The Bishop of Hippo acknowledges that some good men show courage by allowing themselves to die. But the perfect man is the one who stays strong until the end, knowing that spending eternity with Christ is far better than living a mortal life (Augustine 1888e, 9:2). It makes no sense to think that humans can find happiness and the supreme good in this world using all wise means at their disposal, including showing courage and committing suicide, if necessary. Why should we flee from our mortal bodies if happiness is always within our reach? Augustine’s stance is firm and sombre: evil and misery cannot be removed from our existence, and no man can escape this reality by ending it all in

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the vain hope of achieving happiness because it is a brief misery. Far from being a sign of fortitude, taking one’s life away assumes wrongly that felicity can be found in this life through virtue until the last breath. In reality, true virtue rests in the hope of a future life, one that is not “miserably involved in the many and great evils of this world” (Augustine 1887d, 19:4; see 1888c, 69:4). Final happiness comes from bearing hardship in the hope of salvation and with the knowledge that there will be no suffering in the afterlife. To practise the Christian virtue of courage, followers of God must bravely endure pain and hardship, cope with poverty, false accusations, and persecution, and be ready to face all tribulations, including death. Equally important, they must resist earthly pursuits, irascible impulses, and temptations of the flesh (Augustine 1887b, 77:1; 1887c, 4:42, 47; 1887d, 1:13; 1887e, 10; 1887f, 5; 1887g, 17:26; 1887h, 13:7; 1887m, 2:45; 1888b, 1:13, 18; 2:11; 1888f, 94; 104.17:1; 1888g, 84:11; 91:2). Strong souls bear all the evils of this life. They learn to tame the body and keep their carnal appetites in check so as to attain immortality in heaven (Augustine 1887a, 9:14; 1887d, 18:4). Concessions can be made to the bodily senses so long as they meet the necessities of life and the performance of duty. But the devout must show patience and fortitude when they bear the many troubles that come with proclaiming God’s truth and seeking their own and others’ eternal welfare (Augustine 1887b, 95:6). Augustine uses the human bone metaphor to describe the inner strength of a Christian soul, which is hidden from others, makes the flesh stronger, and cannot be broken: “Whatever tortures, whatever tribulations, whatever adversities rage around, that which God has made strong in secret in us, cannot be broken, yields not.” “For by God is made a certain strength of patience” (Augustine 1888g, 139:15; see 102:4). Another trope that speaks of Christian courage is the manly beard, which is more visible than bones. While he acknowledges that saintly women can set an example of courage in the face of death, Augustine chooses the beard worn by grown men, those who are energetic and vigorous, as a symbol of fortitude (Augustine 1888g, 133:6; see 1887a, 9:28). But the brave “soldier of Christ” imagery goes even further in conveying the importance of souls struggling against all enemies of the Lord, marching fearlessly against the devil (Augustine 1888c, 78:11; 1888g, 98:5;

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119:165). Winning real wars is not the goal here, and the manly bones and beards of brave soldiers are not meant to glorify outward physical strength either. In keeping with the early Christian ethos, Augustine stresses instead that losing one’s life to the enemy and wearing the crown of martyrdom is a better way of achieving victory (Augustine 1887j, 1:18; see 1888g, 44:3). If martyrs deserve the highest rewards, be they young or old, men or women, it is because they show exceptional fortitude in confessing and professing their love of God, despite the terrible punishment and suffering that await them (Augustine 1887b, 40:7; 1887d, 8:19; 30:13; 1887k, 43; 1888f, 113). For the human soul to express boldness and gain in courage on Judgement Day, it must long for the coming of Christ. Instead of dying a shameful death, the soul can then hope to be crowned by the Lord (Augustine 1888e, 9:2; 1888g, 119:92). Augustine insists that fleeing from suffering is a sign of cowardice, the behaviour of a poltroon who trembles with fear in the face of hardship (Augustine 1888c, 89:4). But showing fearlessness is not always a sign of virtue. Boldness may be just another vice, motivated by human pride and stubbornness in the pursuit of happiness on Earth (Augustine 1887b, 167:4–9; 1888a, 39). Actually, the worst form of pride is when men take credit for their own courage. True fortitude cannot be driven by the lust for life and the confidence that the Lord is always on one’s side (Augustine 1887d, 5:22; 1887i, 14). Perfect courage does not come from man’s willingness to pursue goodness on his own and using his own strength to overcome the forces of evil (Augustine 1888g, 98:5). Rather, the capacity to show patience and endure all things bravely comes from God and the Christian promise of an afterlife. “Attribute not your courage to yourselves.” “If it is yours, He says, and not Mine, it is obstinacy, not courage” (Augustine 1888g, 104:42; see 67.10:14–21). Patience of the soul is a gift from the Holy Spirit, obtained through prayer (Augustine 1887d, 4:20; 1887i, 22; 1887m, 2:18; 1887p, 77; 1888f, 13). The Father of Lights grants the human spirit the strength needed to die for Christ and his brethren, battling the devil without fear (Augustine 1888f, 47). If they are to show courage in the face of evil and adversity, human souls must “dwell under the defence of the Most High.” Those who forego the help of the Almighty are bound to fall (Augustine 1888g, 91:1).

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The notion that courage is a gift from God is in keeping with Augustine’s views on the predestination of the elect. In his own words, the elect did not choose Him that He should choose them, but He chose them that they might choose Him; because His mercy preceded them according to grace, not according to debt. Therefore He chose them out of the world while He was wearing flesh, but as those who were already chosen in Himself before the foundation of the world. This is the changeless truth concerning predestination and grace. (Augustine 1887q, 1:34)

Augustine’s stance on the divine source of courage is not shared by all contemporary Fathers of the Church. In his Nine Homilies of Hexaemeron, Basil the Great (329/330–379 AD) argues that virtues come to us quite naturally, as confirmed by the teachings of philosophy. Men and women do not have to be taught to hate illness, which includes spiritual sickness and vice that hinder the soul from fulfilling its natural function. This explains the fact that “temperance everywhere is praised, justice is in honour, courage admired, and prudence the object of all aims” (Basil 1895, 9:4). Likewise, it is natural for children to love their parents and for parents not to excite their children’s anger. This is what Paul teaches, which is not new: “He only tightens the links of nature.” Lions love their cubs, and she-wolves protect their little ones. Christians are expected to do the same by not violating the precepts of Nature. Augustine is less inclined to find seeds of goodness and wisdom in human nature. He shows sensitivity to philosophical ponderings on the unity of virtue and the role of loyalty and courage in upholding everything that is worth fighting for. But he is a strong opponent of all moral systems that support the independent use of free will and rational thought. Augustine’s defence of the suffering and inner struggle of the elect against sins of the flesh, using strength that can only come from God’s grace, is eloquently argued. Still, the message is not new and echoes the views already expressed in the Scriptures. In hindsight, his contribution to a rethinking of courage lies elsewhere. Like Ambrose, the Bishop of Hippo shifts the discourse from religious fear to faith in the love of God, the true source of Christian fortitude. The argument makes explicit

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connections between expressions of fortitude and love as an overarching principle of Christian faith. As in the New Testament, the fear of death and eternal damnation continues to be a powerful motivation for the faithful to endure terrible suffering (Augustine 1887m, 2:50, 54). However, Christian caution and wisdom must prevail over fear (Augustine 1887l, 22:18). Even more important, faith must be grounded in love and hope, not in fear and torment. Herein is love made perfect in us, that we may have boldness in the day of judgment: because as He is, so are we in this world. There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear: because fear has torment. He that fears is not made perfect in love. Let us love Him, because He first loved us. (Augustine 1888e, 9:1)

The love of God is so fundamental that it must be extended to one’s enemies and replace the fear or anger they provoke. This is what Christ did by making the sun rise on good and evil and giving them both light and rain. Accordingly, his followers shed tears and pray for their enemies (Augustine 1888e, 9:3). “For He, in bearing witness Himself, and inspiring such witnesses with invincible courage, divested Christ’s friends of their fear, and transformed into love the hatred of His enemies” (Augustine 1888f, 92). Fear is normal and even beneficial for those who see the Day of Judgment approaching. Wisdom begins with the fear of the Lord. It compels man to be on the watch against sin and wickedness. If he has offended God, as Adam did, man has every reason to feel terror, lose courage, and flee and hide in shame (Augustine 1888g, 38:14). All the same, loving hope is more powerful than fear. Troubled by the death of Lazarus, whom he loved, God raised him from the dead. In doing so, he set an example that surpassed the whole human race in fortitude of mind. His love was so strong that he became fully human, and “by that very power He awoke in Himself our human feelings whenever He judged it becoming” (Augustine 1888f, 60). When fully examined, loving fear and fearless love are two sides of the same virtue. Fear without trust or compassion invites cowardice. But where there is too much confidence, arrogance creeps in. In On the

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Catechising of the Uninstructed, Augustine states that while the severity of God causes men to fear him, men should rejoice that they are loved by the One they fear, and they should be bold enough to love him in return. Failing this, they should dread the consequences of being unfaithful to God’s love and displeasing the one who loves them (Augustine 1887g, 5:9). In the end, fortitude is a double-edged sword. It makes people feel love and selflessness, and it makes them shiver when they are near the Almighty. The same logic applies to the meshing of meekness and strength. It is normal for men to fear those who are stronger, especially those they have wronged. Expressing fear towards more powerful forces may bring some benefits. Demonstrations of submission and loyalty can remove fear from the relationship, help obtain protection from the powerful, and gain courage in the process. Also, those who admit their wrongdoing can be lauded and rewarded for showing courage. Augustine explains that great fortitude is expressed through one’s confession of faith in Christ, bearing witness to his truth as martyrs do. Admissions of weakness may thus express the fortitude of pious trust (Augustine 1887d, 1:1). This means that men of true courage confide in the Lord, humbly acknowledge their weaknesses and sins, and accept the reprimands they deserve. Instead of being silent about their sins, strong souls confess them willingly, knowing they deserve to be brought low (Augustine 1887b, 111:3; 1887f, 10; 1887p, 25). The apostle Peter himself “received, with the holy and loving humility which became him, the rebuke which Paul, in the interests of truth, and with the boldness of love, administered” (Augustine 1887b, 82:22). Those who follow his example bravely endure fatherly correction for their sins (Augustine 1888g, 79:8). The reasoning echoes the Old Testament proverb, “The Lord reproves the one he loves” (Pr. 3:12). In the end, humans owe everything that is good about their souls to God’s love and their love of God. Without his love expressed through the promise of salvation, the human will cannot bear the wounds and sufferings of life (Augustine 1887i, 14). God grants the power to fight evil and to know and embrace what is good (Augustine 1887d, 22:24). He alone can strengthen the hearts of those who take courage, spread their love for God, and show devotion in his service (Augustine 1887b, 64:1).“Fortitude

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is love bearing everything readily for the sake of God,” knowing that to love God with all one’s heart is the only way to live well (Augustine 1887k, 25; see 46).

References Augustine. 1887a. Confessions. Trans. J.G. Pilkington. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 1. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1887b. Letters. Trans. J.G.  Cunningham. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 1. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1887c. Christian Doctrine. Trans. J. Shaw. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 2. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1887d. City of God. Trans. M. Dods. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 2. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1887e. A Sermon to Catechumens of the Creed. Trans. H. Browne. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 3. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1887f. On Care to be Had For the Dead. Trans. H. Browne. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 3. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K.  Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1887g. On the Catechising of the Uninstructed. Trans. S.D.F. Salmond. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 3. Ed. P.  Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1887h. On the Holy Trinity. Trans. A.W. Haddan. In Nicene and Post-­ Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 3. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1887i. On Patience. Trans. H.  Browne. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 3. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing.

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———. 1887j. On Baptism, Against the Donatists. Trans. J.R.  King and rev. C.D. Hartranft. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 4. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1887k. On the Morals of the Catholic Church. Trans. R.  Stothert. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 4. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1887l. Reply to Faustus the Manichean. Trans. R. Stothert. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 4. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1887m. Merits and Remission of Sin, and the Baptism of Infants. Trans. P. Holmes and R.E. Wallis and rev. B. Warfield. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 5. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1887n. On the Soul and its Origin. Trans. P. Holmes and R.E. Wallis and rev. B. Warfield. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 5. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1887o. On the Spirit and the Letter. Trans. P. Holmes and R.E. Wallis and rev. B. Warfield. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 5. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1887p. On Nature and Grace. Trans. P. Holmes and R.E. Wallis and rev. B.  Warfield. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 5. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1887q. On the Predestination of the Saints. Trans. P.  Holmes and R.E.  Wallis and rev. B.  Warfield. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 5. Ed. P.  Schaff and H.  Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1888a. Against the Fundamental Epistle of Manichaeus. Trans. R.  Stothert, In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 6. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1888b. Our Lord’s Sermon on the Mount. Trans. W. Findlay. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 6. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K.  Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing.

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———. 1888c. Sermons on Selected Lessons of the New Testament. Trans. R.G. MacMullen. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 6. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1888d. On Rebuke and Grace. Trans. P. Holmes and R.E. Wallis and rev. B.B. Warfield. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 7. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1888e. Homilies on the First Epistle of John. Trans. H. Browne. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 7. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K.  Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1888f. Tractates on the Gospel of John. Trans. J.  Gibb. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 7. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1888g. The Enarrations, or Expositions, on the Psalms. Trans. J.E. Tweed. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 8. Ed. P.  Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Basil the Great. 1895. Nine Homilies of Hexaemeron. Trans. B. Jackson. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 8. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Gregory of Nyssa. 1893a. On the Making of Man. Trans. H.A. Wilson. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 5. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1893b. On the Soul and the Resurrection. Trans. W. Moore and H. Austin Wilson. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 5. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1893c. On Virginity. Trans. W. Moore and H. Austin Wilson. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 5. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1893d. Letters. Trans. H.C.  Ogle, H.A.  Wilson, and W.  Moore. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 5. Ed. P.  Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing.

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Gregory Thaumaturgus. 1886. Oration and Panegyric Addressed to Origen. Trans. S.D.F. Salmond. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 6, Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A.  Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K.  Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Hippolytus of Rome. 1886. Fragments from the Scriptural Commentaries of Hippolytus. Trans. S.D.F.  Salmond. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 5, Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Lactantius. 1886a. Divine Institutes. Trans. W. Fletcher. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 7, Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1886b. The Epitome of the Divine Institutes. Trans. W. Fletcher. In Ante-­ Nicene Fathers, Vol. 7, Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K.  Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1886c. Of the Matter in Which the Persecutors Died. Trans. W. Fletcher. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 7, Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Methodius of Olympius. 1886. Banquet of the Ten Virgins. Trans. W.R. Clark. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 6, Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Origen. 1885. Against Celsus. Trans. F. Crombie. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 4, Ed. A. Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1896. Commentary on the Gospel of Matthew. Trans. J. Patrick. In Ante-­ Nicene Fathers, Vol. 9, Ed. A.  Menzies. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Tyrannius Rufinus. 1892. Commentary on the Apostles’ Creed. Trans. W.H. Fremantle. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 3. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Victorinus Petravionensis. 1886. Commentary on the Apocalypse of the Blessed John. Trans. R.E.  Wallis. In Ante-Nicene Fathers, Vol. 7. Ed. A.  Roberts, J. Donaldson, and A. Cleveland. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing.

11 Freedom and the Wisdom of Love and Fortitude

Augustine’s perspective on Christian fortitude tips the scales of fear and love in favour of divine love and human fellowship. While some weight is given to virtue-based wisdom, little allowance is made for securing existential or political goals through religious obedience and battles of the soul. Similar views are found in the sermons of Pope Leo the Great (c. 395–461 AD). He views martyrs as models of virtue, adding that their righteousness reflects their love for God and neighbour. God gave martyrs the boldness they needed to emulate the Lord, who died on the cross to save others, laying down his life to redeem not only the faithful but also the wicked (Leo the Great 1895, 85:1). When it comes to the nature and implications of courage, the teachings of Ambrose, John Chrysostom, and John Cassian generally align with those of Augustine. They too stress the flaws of moral philosophy, driven by the sole aim of wellness in this life and the achievements of political gains. As they see it, suffering is inevitable and must be endured through humble expressions of love for God and neighbour. Also, they downplay scriptural evocations of the fear of God and everlasting punishment as the driving force of fortitude. These prominent Fathers of the Church nonetheless dissociate themselves from Augustine in three important areas: the intellectual exercise of reason and free will, the existential © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32739-1_11

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value of life, and the justified use of power in this world. The notion that courage is a gift from God to those who are destined to pass the test of faith is toned down through the practise of “voluntary love,” guided by one’s conscience. Given their concern with restoring the human dimension of faith, Ambrose, Chrysostom, and Cassian also explore such themes as the goodness of the soul and moderation in the renunciation of material life. Chrysostom adds another important theme: how wealth and authority can be used to good ends in a Christian spirit. In conjunction with Augustine’s teachings, their efforts to harmonise the canons of faith with Hellenic wisdom paved the way for later developments in Christian ethics.

Paradise and Fortitude of the Mind: Ambrose Under the guidance of Origen, Ambrose (340–397 AD) breaks with the Gnostic mysticism of Valentinus (c. 100–c. 160 AD) and helps his student Augustine go through the same conversion. He also asserts the superiority of Christian faith over the intellectual wisdom of moral philosophy. Ambrose has nonetheless a debt towards the heresies he condemns. Like Augustine, he shifts the attention from the politics of fear to the Christian spirit of mystic love. He also allows room for the politics of war and the struggles of human existence on Earth. But most importantly, he integrates the Christian ethics of courage with his own blend of Stoic and Neoplatonic thinking. In several of his works, the Bishop of Milan speaks of prudence, justice, temperance, and fortitude as the chief virtues that form an integral part of virtue as a whole (Ambrose 1896a, 1:115, 120). As in classical Greece, fortitude is a disposition of the soul that cannot stand alone. The virtue brings political gains to the faithful and is needed in times of war to protect one’s country from barbarian invasions. When mixed with justice, it can prevent unjust wars where friends and the weak suffer at the hands of wicked and cruel men (Ambrose 1896a, 1:126, 129, 172, 176, 180). This means that manly strength and the power of weapons can be used in the service of God (Ambrose 1896a, 1:115).

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The point is well illustrated in his wartime stories of Joshua, Judas Maccabæus, and Jonathan, all of whom fought and died to avoid slavery and disgrace (Ambrose 1896a, 1:205, 209–11). The military overtones of these stories highlight the benefits of God’s faithfulness for both men and women. On the question of gender, Ambrose nonetheless comments that fortitude and other virtues such as chastity, patience, wisdom, temperance, and justice are the preserve of men. Women are more vulnerable to malice, petulance, sensuality, self-indulgence, immodesty, and other vices (Ambrose 1961a, 1:24). Judith is an exception. She is a model of soldierly excellence. The beautiful widow who beheaded the Assyrian general Holofernes prepared for war and trained her own son to become a military leader. Because she showed how brave and fearless women can be, she deserves praise as much as any man or general who saves a great nation and refuses to flee from death (Ambrose 1896b, 37, 41, 45, 46, 51). Courage is a virtue of universal scope, with a direct bearing on our understanding of human ethics and world history. In his description of the four great ages of the world, fortitude marks the third age, a period where men of faith achieve victory over God’s enemies (Ambrose 1961b, pp.  299–300). These men were “types of fortitudes” in that they conquered kingdoms and promoted justice at the same time as they “stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the violence of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, recovered strength from weakness, became valiant in battle and captured the camps of aliens.” But they were also tempted, suffered hardships, and died by the sword. “They went about in goatskins, destitute, distressed, afflicted—of whom the world was not worthy— wandering in deserts, mountains, caves and holes in the earth” (Ambrose 1961b, pp. 299–300). Regardless of what he says about the third age, Ambrose believes that bodily and military strength is secondary to a more glorious expression of fortitude, which lies in the greatness of the mind and battling against the inner enemy of vice and passion (Ambrose 1896a, 1:179). The concerns of war and the mastery of weapons are foreign to the duties of his own office, which pertain to the soul and the affairs of peace. Recognising this higher notion of fortitude is even more important as it represents a loftier virtue than the rest (Ambrose 1896a, 1:175–76). This is because it affects

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every part of life and is needed to bring all virtues together into a “large-­ hearted” view of our moral existence (Ambrose 1896a, 1:129). Fortitude of soul, then, is not an unimportant thing, nor is it cut off from the other virtues, for it wages war in conjunction with the virtues, and alone defends the beauty of all the virtues, and guards their powers of discernment, and fights against all vices with implacable hate. It is unconquerable as regards labours, brave to endure dangers, stern as against pleasures, hardened against allurements, to which it knows not how to lend an ear, nor, so to speak, to give a greeting. It cares not for money, and flies from avarice as from a plague that destroys all virtue. (Ambrose 1896a, 1:202)

Strength of the soul or mind is essential for anyone who wants to promote the beauty of all virtues and strive for higher things in life. Strong souls that put moral values at the centre show contempt for earthly things such as riches, pleasures, honours, and physical safety at home. Their spirits are never broken by their failure to secure unimportant things (Ambrose 1896a, 1:182, 184). Fortitude of the mind means they will not let their souls be governed by human passions and appetites. As in the Stoic tradition, a man is spiritually strong and brave when he conquers himself, restrains his anger, yields and gives way to no allurements, is not put out by misfortunes, nor gets elated by good success, and does not get carried away by every varying change as by some chance wind. But what is more noble and splendid than to train the mind, keep down the flesh, and reduce it to subjection, so that it may obey commands, listen to reason, and in undergoing labours readily carry out the intention and wish of the mind? (Ambrose 1896a, 1:181)

Anger is particularly dangerous, like a severe illness that deprives the mind of the benefit of wisdom and good counsel. Fortitude helps overcome it, restrain feelings of indignation, and strengthen the soul and the body so they are not disturbed by any fear or pain (Ambrose 1887, 6:12–49). Seeking adulation and flattery is also reproachable. A man’s need for it is a sign of cowardice. The same warning applies to the temptation of human desire, the pursuit of gain, the fear of want, and the

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slavery of fear. Strong souls keep them at bay (Ambrose 1896a, 1:185, 203, 218). Ambrose teaches the wisdom and strength of the Christian faith, i.e., fearlessness in the face of suffering, death, and the tyranny of vice and passion threatening the soul and the intellect. Stories of martyrdom allow him to convey this overall message by showing how men and women in the service of God have willingly undergone torture in order to protect their faith and chastity in exchange for immortality. A source of inspiration in this regard is St. Lawrence, who begged God to make him a martyr (Ambrose 1896a, 1:211–14). However, it is important to note that Ambrose is a practical thinker who is not inclined to promote suffering needlessly, irrespective of the circumstances. Room must be made for the value of human existence. He quotes Matthew, who says, “No one, while longing for the crown of martyrdom, may put himself in the way of dangers which possibly the weak flesh or a mind indulged could not bear and endure” (Ambrose 1896a, 1:187). Ambrose’s stance on fortitude confirms his mastery of the philosophical literature, which is more thorough than Augustine’s. At times, his views seem to align more with Platonism and Stoicism than the Scriptures. The Church Father thus argues that passions need to be controlled by reason so that desires may be satisfied with moderation. Everything should be done at the right time and in the proper order (Ambrose 1896a, 1:24). On every point, Stoics would agree. However, Ambrose goes on to claim that the holy men of the Old Testament exemplify these precepts better than others, a point made clear in his funeral oration for his brother (Ambrose 1896c, 1:57). The holy men were given what he calls the “cardinal virtues,” an expression he uses to reinterpret Greek ethics from a Christian perspective. The original term “cardinal” is particularly rich in meaning. Derived from the noun cardo, it denotes either a door hinge, the tenon and mortise dovetailing together in a door’s frame, a surveyor’s baseline used for measuring a field, or a geographical region and boundary. For Ambrose, the term goes beyond these conventional meanings to evoke the Earth’s four poles, winds, and seasons. In On Paradise, the Bishop of Milan uses a Neoplatonic allegory of heaven to enhance his rational approach to virtue. He compares the soul to Paradise and the cardinal virtues to the four trees and rivers of the Garden of Eden

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(Ambrose 1961b, pp. 295–300). The Tigris, the river that comes third, represents fortitude, the opposite of irascibility. It is the swiftest of all rivers and overcomes all obstacles in its path. The river is an apt metaphor for those who resist temptations of the body and devote themselves to greater things. Fortitude shown by the faithful in times of trials and persecution, prevalent in the third age of the world, takes on a cosmic dimension. In On Cain and Abel, Ambrose reiterates his devotional and mystical interpretation of “the grace that proceeds from that choral band of virtues: namely, Prudence, Temperance, Fortitude, and Justice” (Ambrose 1961a, 24). All four virtues are fragrances that emanate from the fervour of religious piety. Instead of seeking pleasure, the mind displays fortitude through the works of prayer, without letting itself be interrupted by fear, weariness, or adversity (see also Ambrose 1896c, 1:44). Fortitude of mind is best achieved through faith in God. The same may be said of rational thinking and wisdom. All virtues are worth developing provided they draw on the Lord’s counsel, which is needed before doing important things, including going to war and bearing, braving, and overcoming attacks of the devil (Ambrose 1896a, 1:177–80). Faith in the Lord is the source of true strength and moral goodness. “Exercise yourself unto godliness, for bodily exercise profits a little, but godliness is profitable unto all things” (Ambrose 1896a, 1:184). Those who display this kind of strength are not simply men of virtue. More importantly, they are Christ’s warriors. The martial imagery used here is strong, if not aggressive. Evocations of wartime valour, however, are attenuated through the language of metaphor. The idea that faithful Christians are like soldiers implies that battles of the soul matter more than military activity and victory (Ambrose 1896d, 63:68). Also, knowing and overcoming enemies of the soul is key to reaping the benefits of spiritual victory, not to be confused with the spoils of war (Ambrose 1896a, 1:202). Strengthened by their faith, God’s soldiers are faced with “affliction on all sides, fighting without and fears within” (Ambrose 1896a, 1:183). Their contempt for earthly things and sins of the flesh allows them to rise with Christ and achieve a new life on Earth and in heaven for all eternity. Merging Christian faith with Stoic virtue and Neoplatonic mysticism significantly alters the original message of the Scriptures concerning the

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properties of courage. One direct consequence is that fear of the Lord is no longer the guiding principle. For Ambrose, fear is a mark of reverence for God but nothing more (Ambrose 1896a, 1:1). His main goal in preaching courage is to elevate love above everything else, after the example of King David, who wished to be loved rather than feared by his subjects. Protection based on fear does not last (Ambrose 1896a, 2:38). The “good fight of faith” inspires strong souls not only to suffer and prevail but also to exercise justice, continence, and gentleness above all (Ambrose 1896a, 1:184–86). Less coloured by the spirit of meekness and fear, fortitude promotes fearlessness in the face of suffering and confidence in the love of God. The Ambrosian blending of virtue-based ethics and lessons of Christian faithfulness and love is a milestone in the history of church theology. Throughout his life, Ambrose practised what he preached and was universally popular. He gave his property to the poor and showed kindness when offering advice to those who sought it, including high state officials. He also stood up against those in power, notably when he refused to celebrate Mass in the presence of Theodosius until the Roman emperor repented for the massacre of Thessalonica carried out by Gothic troops under his rule. Theodosius did feel remorse, and Ambrose expressed love for the emperor on his deathbed. Ambrosian theology nonetheless falls short of developing a coherent system of ethics fully devoted to the spirit of Christian love and charity. One major problem revolves around the way fortitude is logically defined and connected with other virtues. Ambrose’s thinking in this regard is somewhat muddled. Fortitude in resisting the pleasures of the flesh is so intertwined with temperance that it becomes difficult to tell the two virtues apart. More generally, the way the virtues are named, listed, and read into other lists is inconsistent and confusing. In On the Sacraments, the seven virtues given by the Spirit, all emanating from God’s wisdom, include wisdom, understanding, and godliness, to which he adds the four principal virtues of counsel, strength, knowledge, and the fear of God, not to be confused with the fear of the world (Ambrose 1919, 2). The “choral of cardinal virtues,” featuring Prudence, Temperance, Fortitude, and Justice, seems to have been forgotten. Likewise, in An Exposition of the Gospel of St. Luke, Ambrose creates an intellectual puzzle and attempts

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to resolve it, with questionable results: how to establish correspondences between the cardinal virtues, the four beatitudes of Luke, and the four beatitudes of Matthew, knowing that “if you have one, you will have several” (Ambrose 1887, 6:12–49). Another source of confusion is that virtues are allegedly chained to each other, yet they are subject to the rule of gradual progression from the lowest to the highest level of moral goodness and holiness. The conundrum echoes Jerome’s hesitation about the overall logic of Virtue. While the four virtues are “so closely related and mutually coherent that he who lacks one lacks all,” Jerome also recognises that one person may be a paragon of virtue in one respect but not in all four (Jerome 1883, 66:3). In hindsight, more thought is required to develop a cogent hierarchy of well-defined virtues subordinated to wisdom and the principle of devotional love.

 onscience, Fear, and Love: John Cassian C and John Chrysostom Key debates in early Christian theology revolve around foundational issues, including the humanity of Christ. The Chalcedonian Creed, adopted in 451 AD, addresses the latter issue. It maintains the two distinct natures of Christ: perfectly human and perfectly divine at the same time. Prominent Church Fathers who contributed to developing this approach include Pope Leo and John Cassian (c. 360–c. 435 AD), a monk and ascetic writer of southern Gaul and a disciple of John Chrysostom. Although less controversial, questions of virtue are also discussed. On the matter of courage, Cassian further develops the familiar “soldier of Christ” imagery. He portrays saints as athletes fighting evil foes in violent games presided over by Christ himself. The Lord acts as a merciful judge, imposing rules on the games and testing the athlete for his capacity to resist temptation, as Job did, and show progress as he confronts greater enemies over time (Cassian 1894a, 6:9; 7:20). To become a true friend of God, the athlete must welcome temptation, deprivation, misfortune, suffering, and persecution, knowing that eternal life will be his reward. As he fights the Lord’s battles, the saintly centurion takes

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delight in his own “infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ.” “For when I am weak, then I am strong, for power is made perfect in infirmity” (Cassian 1894a, 6:3). As he gains strength out of weakness, the perfect man stands faithfully and courageously at the ramparts of God (Cassian 1894a, 24:25). Afflictions wrought by evil forces become part of the armour of righteousness and steadfastness required to conquer the enemy. The sufferer thus becomes a warrior and triumphant conqueror “in the land of thoughts” (Cassian 1894a, 7:5). He is steadfast, shows exemplary calmness, and never gets overjoyed by success or depressed by failure. He stays on track and does not let himself be overwhelmed by the fortunes or misfortunes of life. He remains moderate in prosperity and bears sorrows bravely (Cassian 1894a, 6:9). In short, the saint never gives in to temptation and shows the strength of unwavering faith in the face of persecution and terrible adversity (Cassian 1894a, 18:13; 1894b, 7:24). Cassian nonetheless explores other paths that clearly intersect with notions of virtue and goodness in life handed down from classical antiquity. For one thing, the monk argues that virtues such as justice, prudence, fortitude, and temperance are naturally good, while their opposites are inherently bad. The goodness or badness of all other things depends entirely on the circumstances and the mind of the doer (Cassian 1894a, 21:12). From an ethical standpoint, marrying, farming, becoming wealthy, retiring into the desert, and meditating on the Holy Scriptures are all indifferent things, as the Stoics believe. The same can be said of fasting. Too much of it is simply foolish and hurtful, causing the man to become “a cruel murderer of his own body.” A man who fasts strictly in times of festivity, refusing to enjoy good food and a generous meal, “must be considered as not religious so much as boorish and unreasonable” (Cassian 1894a, 21:14). Cassian may be an ascetic monk, but he does not consider abstinence from eating to be inherently good. In fact, there are situations where fasting may be the wrong thing to do, such as when someone wants to impress others, gain credit for his show of sanctity, or ensure that his prayers are heard. It is normal for humans to eat food and thank God for it; “every creature of God is good, and nothing to be refused if it is partaken of with thanksgiving” (Cassian 1894a, 21:13). Fasting is acceptable to the Lord when done for the right reasons, as when

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giving bread to the hungry. It must be practised not for its own sake but rather for the sake of pity, patience, and love. Cassian insists that fasting and resistance to temptation are virtuous only when motivated by the exercise of voluntary love, as opposed to the fear of hell or the hope of a future reward. Perfect souls long for the purity and goodness of virtue in the here and now. What they dread above all is the present loss of virtue, not future punishment. This means that abstinence from food or sex is commendable only when done for good reasons and voluntarily. The same may be said of evil: it should not be suppressed for the wrong reason. Virtuous behaviour cannot be “forced out of a reluctant party either by fear of punishment or by greed of reward” (Cassian 1894a, 11:8). Unlike virtue, which is exercised steadily and for its own sake, fear is a weak motivation that tends to be short-lived. When it goes away, man is bound to lower his guard and fall prey to temptation and sin. A man’s moral conscience must serve as a judge of both his actions and thoughts, knowing that “it cannot be cheated nor deceived, and that he cannot escape” (Cassian 1894a, 11:8). Cassian reiterates this point elsewhere, in his acknowledgement of the power of man’s will, assisted by God’s grace. Divine assistance is needed to moderate the violence of temptations imposed on men of faith and prevent them from being tempted beyond what they can bear. But grace is never extended to the point of protecting man’s will in all things. Instead of always relying on divine protection, the faithful must place equal hope in their own courage and the strength of their own will when confronting spiritual enemies. When learning to walk, an infant requires assistance from his nurse, but it must eventually assume the responsibilities of adulthood—“burdens or labours by which it may be not overwhelmed but exercised” (Cassian 1894a, 13:14). Cassian acknowledges the natural goodness of man and virtue, moderation in the renunciation of material life, the practise of voluntary love, and the exercise of free will guided by man’s conscience. All these ideas have in common that they downplay scriptural evocations of the fear of God and everlasting punishment as the driving forces behind expressions of true courage. John Chrysostom (347–407 AD), Archbishop of Constantinople, has even more to say on how faith-based courage links

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up with virtue, love, reason, and freedom, to which he adds the proper use of wealth and power. The Antiochene preacher is well remembered for his zeal in defending the completeness of Christ’s humanity and his literal interpretation of biblical accounts of the historical Jesus. The School of Alexandria, on the other hand, emphasised the divinity of Christ and the use of allegory in the Scriptures. Many consider John’s contribution to the development of Western Christian theology to be limited. His literalism limits the exploration of possible meanings, and his criticism of competing religions and deviations from strict moral codes suggests a doctrinaire approach to issues of faith. All the same, his thinking on the ethics of courage is more advanced compared with most theologians of his time. In his prolific homilies, the preacher insists on showing how the historical Christ and his disciples set examples of human perfection in everyday life. The many examples and powerful imagery he uses to flesh out the implications of “good courage” in real settings make him a key figure in bridging the gap between Christian pastoralism and Greco-Roman philosophy and promoting the boldness of faith in Jesus, the Son of God, and the Son of Man. Many of the precepts and tropes used by John to promote Christian courage are consistent with the long-held doctrine of God-fearing and suffering endured through fearless battles against evil and worldly temptations, all of which are duly rewarded in the future life in heaven. As in the Scriptures, confessing and preaching one’s faith in Jesus Christ is a bold act and the source of superior forms of courage and fearlessness (Chrysostom 1889u, 3). John denounces the cowardice of those who refuse to speak out and defend the cause of true religion out of fear (Chrysostom 1889g, 16:8). By contrast, he eulogises the apostles and others “from the whole human race” who have the boldness to believe. They confess their faith in the Lord and his teachings to all nations. They also face the terrible suffering that non-believers and tyrants cause as a result (Chrysostom 1888, 75:3; 1889m, 2, 16; 1889x, 17). Like other Church Fathers, the pastor has much praise for demonstrations of courage in the face of persecution. He portrays the disciples of Christ as soldiers of “good courage” facing death while fighting the good fight of faith (Chrysostom 1889o, 10; 1889r, 17). Brave soldiers gird their spiritual loins with truth and stand up even when wounded

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(Chrysostom 1889k, 2:1; 1889q, 23; 1889v, 3). They face the burning furnace without trembling and are never disturbed by insults, not even from men in power (Chrysostom 1889c, 4:8; 1889i, 12; 1889x, 58). They always maintain perfect composure and are impervious to fear (Chrysostom 1889b, 3; 1889c, 16:7). Whatever the circumstances, they never lose courage or leave the helm of obedience and fortitude (Chrysostom 1889o, 3; 1889x, 78, 86). Unlike those who dread everything and run away like hares, brave souls welcome the afflictions sent by God, for the benefit of their souls (Chrysostom 1889c, 16:1, 4; 1889l, 54). They rejoice in Christ’s suffering as well as their own, knowing that battling Satan and evil foes allows them to display boldness and strengthen their courage (Chrysostom 1889b, 3; 1889c, 4:4; 1889j, 3:1–2; 2:4; 1889l, 30). Courageous souls are unafraid of death and welcome it. Soldiers of Christ seek to conquer the kingdom of heaven through spiritual force. To achieve victory, they remain on guard and keep exercising, as if they were constantly at war (Chrysostom 1889s, 10; 1889v, 3). Through suffering, they “prepare for the exercise of a wise fortitude” (Chrysostom 1889c, 13:6). Training helps them gather the strength they need to endure suffering and bear all forms of persecution and trials with exemplary fortitude and patience, for God’s sake (Chrysostom 1889c, 1:19, 14:9; 1889l, 11; 1889s, 4, 8, 10). Vigils, fasting, and curbing all extravagant desires and pleasures are critical in this regard (Chrysostom 1889c, 6:6–7,16). If they are to be at home with the Lord, brave souls cannot take advantage of their worldly possessions or be “at home in the body” (Chrysostom 1889n, 6). Instead, they must be “absent from the body” and accept to walk by faith, not by sight (Chrysostom 1889o, 10). This means showing contempt for all worldly things and material wealth. Like Job, robust souls never lose courage, even when they lose everything they own and the people they love (Chrysostom 1889g, 8; 1889v, 1, 3). Better still, they willingly free themselves from material possessions and choose instead a life of “voluntary simplicity” (Chrysostom 1888, 8–9, 44–45; 1889q, 14). The priest who dedicates his life to the Lord acts as a role model. In addition to being courageous like a soldier, hardworking like a farmer, and careful like a shepherd, he seeks nothing more than the necessities of life (Chrysostom 1889n, 21).

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Those who are blessed because they are poor endure infirmity and loneliness. They are ignored by rich neighbours who see them every day (Chrysostom 1889i, 11). Wealthy businessmen may look courageous and daring when it comes to making money. Still, they are like tightrope walkers who put their lives at risk for no good reason. Since it is not of the spiritual kind, their business is fruitless (Chrysostom 1888, 20). Their refusal to share what they possess is bound to ruin them. After all, “good things are multiplied on being possessed by many, but earthly goods are rather diminished by seizing” (Chrysostom 1889s, 10). Those who accumulate and store up treasures may not know it, but the wild beasts they hold in captivity know how to inflict wounds and destroy those who own them (Chrysostom 1889n, 35). They are living in prisons, in the constant fear of no longer living in luxury. They may have money, but they cannot buy happiness with it, far from it (Chrysostom 1889c, 18:4). Unlike the poor man, who fears nothing, the rich man is an easy prey; he “is a slave, being subject to loss, and in the power of every one wishing to do him hurt” (Chrysostom 1889w, 18). The rich would be better off imitating the athlete who frees himself from his garment when fighting the adversary (Chrysostom 1889c, 1:18; 1889h, 4). If they wish to wear the crown of victory, they must remember that a horse is never made strong by a bridle studded with gold. The courage of a well-bred horse hinges rather on the swiftness and strength of its legs and its ability to withstand long journeys and warfare (Chrysostom 1889i, 3). Likewise, martyrs do not deck themselves with trinkets of gold, as frivolous women do. Rather, they wear iron chains like crowns on their heads (Chrysostom 1889p, 10). Another theme in line with these ascetic teachings is John’s repeated promise of heavenly rewards for confessing one’s faith and braving the many sufferings and temptations of this world. There are times when declarations of faith may be rewarded in this life by the grace of God through healing miracles (Chrysostom 1889g, 5). However, those who go through life with Christian boldness count mostly on being freed from the bonds of evil and meeting their Lord in his heavenly kingdom (Chrysostom 1888, 27; 1889l, 26; 1889q, 8; 1889v, 1). Like the wrestler who bravely sustains the blows, they deserve the blessings of salvation and everlasting life (Chrysostom 1889c, 4:4, 16:11–12; 1889i, 17). John

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adds that the promises of happiness in the here and now made by unbelieving rulers, orators, and philosophers pale in comparison to assurances of eternal life in the hereafter. For the noble things which publicans and fishermen were able to effect by the grace of God, these, philosophers, and rhetoricians, and tyrants, and in short the whole world, running ten thousand ways here and there, could not even form a notion of. For what did not the Cross introduce? The doctrine concerning the Immortality of the Soul; that concerning the Resurrection of the Body; that concerning the contempt of things present; that concerning the desire of things future. Yea, angels it has made of men, and all, every where, practice self-denial, (φιλοσοφοῦσι) and show forth all kinds of fortitude. (Chrysostom 1889n, 4)

Teachers of the Christian faith have more to offer compared to peddlers of philosophical wisdom. Christians who follow what they preach have no fear of death and demonstrate exceptional courage, the kind that no philosopher has ever paralleled, not even Socrates. He was forced to drink hemlock against his will and did so at an advanced age. By contrast, thousands of martyrs endured terrible sufferings of their own free will, many at a young age (Chrysostom 1889n, 4, 7). The courage displayed by martyrs is even more outstanding as their enemies are invisible and commanded by evil powers and the Devil himself. To defeat these forces, greater fortitude and wrathful actions on a larger scale are required, along with assistance from the invincible Lord (Chrysostom 1889q, 22). This brings us to the final recurring motif in John’s homilies, which is the expression of divine wrath that God’s enemies have reason to fear, both on Earth and in heaven. Unlike the faithful, who “quench the flame of lust,” the wicked are fated to suffer the fire of hell (Chrysostom 1889e, 3; see 1889h, 1:5). They can anticipate punishment from the faithful, who will mock and torment those who offend and harm them (Chrysostom 1889x, 58). For so he that smites adamant, is himself the one smitten; and he that kicks against the pricks, is himself the one pricked, the one on whom the severe wounds fall: and he who is forming plots against the virtuous, is himself

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the one in jeopardy. For wickedness becomes so much the weaker, the more it sets itself in array against virtue. (Chrysostom 1888, 24)

The same retributive measures apply to acts of boldness that offend the Christian faith (Chrysostom 1889c, 20:21). Women who “walk tall” and show no shame are bound to lose their bravery. They also spell ruin for the wealthy men who fall under their spell (Chrysostom 1888, 33, 89). Sins of the flesh turn against those who commit them. They can cause an entire army to lose a battle despite the superiority of its weapons. Knowing this, the Midianites having decked out handsome virgins, and set them in the array, excited the soldiers to lasciviousness, endeavouring by means of fornication to deprive them of God’s assistance; which accordingly happened. For when they had fallen into sin, they became an easy prey to all; and those whom weapons, and horses, and soldiers, and so many engines availed not to capture, sin by its nature delivered over bound to their enemies. Shields, and spears, and darts were all alike found useless; but beauty of visage and wantonness of soul overpowered these brave men. (Chrysostom 1889c, 14:9)

John’s understanding of courage is true to key messages in the Scriptures and early Christianity. His critique of Socrates and rhetoricians leaves no doubt as to what he thinks of philosophers compared to martyrs who are not “merely philosophizing” (Chrysostom 1889m, 15). Greek philosophers are also faulted for conveying their teachings in writing through fables, stage plays, and false stories. By contrast, the Church Fathers describe facts of real Christian history and deeds that speak for themselves (Chrysostom 1889c, 17:7). On closer examination of his homilies, however, we find that the virtue-­based wisdom of classical antiquity is not explicitly condemned. More to the point, John chooses to subordinate philosophy to the Christian faith. The Archbishop of Constantinople has no qualms about thinking philosophically so long as it aids him in preaching God’s word. In his view, robust spirits that bear trials with great joy are in fact “the proof of the most finished philosophy” (Chrysostom 1889b, 3). When persecuted or losing their possessions, pure souls remain fearless and

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“take things philosophically,” with fortitude. They avoid punishment for wickedness and seek the rewards of philosophy instead (Chrysostom 1889c, 18:4; 1889i, 2). To the extent that they practise philosophy, they are models of virtue in every respect. Those who follow God “show forth not fortitude only, such as is exercised in our calamities, but temperance also, and moderation, and all self-restraint” (Chrysostom 1888, 55). John’s grasp of philosophy is of course different from Plato’s view, premised on the notion that rational wisdom is the supreme good (Plato 1926, 631a). From a Christian perspective, virtues must be reshuffled so that piety always comes first (Chrysostom 1889n, 33). A man of virtue is not merely rational. Rather, he is a man of faith who practises piety and virtue with boldness (Chrysostom 1889h, 2:1). This makes him a whole man, and everything else that is good and virtuous in him follows. Faith is the source of boldness, confidence, and cheerful trust, all of which are needed when it comes to preaching God’s word without fear (Chrysostom 1889q, 7; 1889u, 2). Even though “ignorance makes the soul timid and unmanly,” learning about divine doctrine goes farther by making the soul great and sublime (Chrysostom 1889x, 76). Even when defending the Christian creed, John finds a way to apply philosophy, especially the laws of human nature and free will, to matters of religious knowledge and fortitude in the confession of faith. In his Homily on the Paralytic, the Church Father suggests that the only choice available to the faithful is to submit or not to submit, hoping that God will give those who obey him the patience and fortitude they need to overcome temptations and dangers (Chrysostom 1889d, 4). God gives courage to those who surrender to his will. In his Homilies on the Gospel of John, however, John clarifies that a human soul is not cowardly by nature but rather by will. “For when I see the man who once was brave, now become a coward, I say that this latter feeling no longer belongs to nature, for what is natural is immutable” (Chrysostom 1889x, 76). Likewise, in No One Can Harm the Man Who Does Not Injure Himself, he explains that men are primarily responsible for achieving good things, knowingly and purposefully. For it was not God’s doing only that they achieved those things for the sake of which they were to receive a reward, but the beginning and starting

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point was from their own purpose, and having manifested that to be noble and brave, they won for themselves the help of God, and so accomplished their aim. (Chrysostom 1889i, 15)

To win God’s favour and assistance, the faithful must actively protect their souls from the corruption of sin. Their souls must remain healthy and therefore courageous and prudent, unlike the foolish, who are cowardly and sick (Chrysostom 1889q, 24). Whereas the body is corruptible, the soul can and must stay in good health and never be touched by sin. It must never lose its proper tone, its greatness of nature, and its powers of self-consciousness (Chrysostom 1889m, 20). Pious fear and the grace of God do not obliterate the natural goodness of man; his soul is good because it hates evil, not because it resists it (Chrysostom 1889m, 21). Nor do they exempt human beings from exercising their free will and practising virtue and philosophy in the name of God. Accordingly, John tones down early church sentiments of wrath, fear, and terror and places the spirit of devotional humility and love at the heart of Christian fortitude. Those who face terrible deaths show courage but also humility by not affronting the powers that persecute them and by enduring calamities like servants do (Chrysostom 1888, 4; 1889g, 1). In a letter to the deaconess Olympias, John argues that patient enduring through illness is the highest expression of faith; it is “the queen of virtues, and the perfection of crowns” (Chrysostom 1889b, 2). Elsewhere, however, he portrays humility as the head of virtue and the mother of wisdom; the meek of the Earth can expect to gain God’s favour because of their spiritual beauty. Like children, they are “possessed of the greatest of virtues, simplicity, and whatever is artless and lowly” (Chrysostom 1888, 58, see also 47). Instead of showing boldness, they go to church to humble themselves in prayer, which is the surest way to conquer and chase evil and cruel spirits (Chrysostom 1889c, 4:5). As in the Scriptures, haughtiness, arrogance, and insolence are reproachable in the eyes of God. Pious men obey the Lord in the same way that women keep silent in reverence for their husbands (Chrysostom 1889q, 20). “There is nothing so foreign to a Christian soul than haughtiness,” says John (Chrysostom 1889t, 7). The same can be said of pride fed by flattery and adulation: it is the antithesis of wholesome courage

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and boldness (Chrysostom 1889n, 11; 1889t, 5, 7). Only a foolish and feeble mind cultivates an overinflated sense of self-worth. Men of pride cower in fear of the slightest attack, in the same manner as bubbles burst and fibre on fire crumbles with a slight touch of the hand (Chrysostom 1889m, 20; 1889o, 25). Pious souls are like Elias. They dress in sheepskin, not in garments coloured royal purple (Chrysostom 1889c, 8:3; 1889m, 14). This is what gives them the courage to stand up against powerful kings, with the boldness of a lion that shows restraint. Their humility places them in a position to inspire such fear that wild beasts flee without a single roar (Chrysostom 1889l, 53). But John is not of the view that great wrath should be unleashed against haughty men. Given his emphasis on lessons of meekness and humility, expressions of holy vengeance are difficult to justify, even if they are commonly evoked in the Scriptures and early Christian texts. In fact, the preacher frowns on the culture of fear in all its forms, whether it is driven by God or his enemies. He denounces the thirst for revenge and outbursts of anger in the name of God. His teachings abandon the beaten path of severe punishment and eternal damnation inflicted on enemies of the Lord. Audacity, anger, and vengeance do not express courage. Rather, they are improper ways of responding to danger, insult, and persecution (Chrysostom 1888, 60; 1889t, 5). As in Stoicism, they are passions that should never be quenched (Chrysostom 1888, 54; 1889l, 17; 1889m, 15). While the brave make the sign of the cross and emulate the sheep sent to the slaughter, haughty souls never free themselves from anger and behave like shameless beasts rather than men. They are bitter and wrathful, relying on their earthly strength to harm others. They are no better than godless kings, foolish robbers, gladiators, and wild boars (Chrysostom 1889c, 4:9; 1889f, 1; 1889t, 7). Pious souls show courage in the practice of humility and meekness, not in venting their anger. Bearing the insult of a servant or an equal in silence is a demonstration of the highest philosophy (Chrysostom 1889q, 15). When martyrs boldly laid down their own lives for the sake of God, they kissed the feet of those who judged them; “kissing their hands, they gave an exceeding proof of either virtue, of liberty and meekness” (Chrysostom 1889c, 17:8). They went into the fire with calm and

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fortitude, without expressing anger or insulting the king (Chrysostom 1888, 4; 1889n, 18). Meekness is not the only virtue that runs counter to fits of anger and wrath. When in positions of power, strength, and confidence, pure souls have the courage to show restraint in punishing the enemy (Chrysostom 1889o, 21). They are humane and merciful (Chrysostom 1889c, 4:9). They act as vessels of mercy, not of wrath (Chrysostom 1889m, 16; 1889k, 1). As always, the Lord sets the example. He may chastise men for their wrongdoings, but not without patience and wisdom (Chrysostom 1889g, 3). John is open to expressions of divine wrath in human lives, provided they are understood in a positive light, in the spirit of gentle rebuke and punishment that God imposes on those who err in their beliefs and conduct. In his letter to Pope Innocent I, he is also open to using courage in the exercise of power and political rule, but only to put an end to lawlessness within the Church. Meekness and mercy are expressions of Christian boldness. The same can be said of gentleness and kindness, virtues that run counter to the spirit of fear and revenge (Chrysostom 1889l, 17). Echoing Aristotle’s discussion of virtue as occupying the middle ground between extreme states, John reminds us that a vice or selfish passion can easily pass off as a virtue. Brazenness is mistaken for boldness and cowardice for gentleness, for instance. Brazenness and cowardice are very much alike: in both cases, the person does not have the strength to stand up for others. True gentleness is “when we are the persons ill-treated, and we bear it” out of strength. “It betokens great strength, this gentleness; it needs a generous and a gallant soul, and one of exceeding loftiness, this gentleness” (Chrysostom 1889l, 48). Men who act timidly and refrain from committing any wrongdoing will not be accused of anything (Chrysostom 1889n, 33). But those who act rashly to defend their own interests and fail to protect those who are ill-treated are cowards. They let passion rule over their lives. Unlike them, noble souls show their manly strength and virtue by standing up for their neighbours. Through generosity and gentleness, they overcome the passions of anger and cowardice and get the better of fear. John distances himself from the older discourse on the fear and wrath of God. He chooses instead to think philosophically about the rewards of

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“courageous trust.” A man of God shows boldness in meeting danger but also voluntary simplicity in his living and heartfelt sympathy towards those under his rule (Chrysostom 1889l, 45). The meek that follow in the footsteps of Christ and endure persecution achieve many great things: “first and greatest, deliverance from sins; secondly, fortitude and patience; thirdly, mildness and benevolence” (Chrysostom 1888, 61). “Such is philosophy!” exclaims John. Perplexity gives way to gladness, excessive shame to boldness, and fear to confidence (Chrysostom 1889l, 10–11). John’s approach to Christian boldness and fortitude is based on the following core messages: humility and simplicity, the use of free will, the natural goodness of the soul, gentleness and mercy, and exercising authority with virtue. Expressions of love, kindheartedness, and tender care add yet another layer to his pastoral homilies. In a letter to his friend Theodore, John revisits the older theme of divine wrath and seeks to remove any trace of enmity or cruelty from the Christian creed. If God takes vengeance and pours his wrath on evil men, it is not out of passion, he argues, but rather out of “tender care, and much loving-kindness.” Punishment is not carried out for its own sake, “for no harm can traverse that divine nature.” Instead, the Lord invites those he punishes to “take courage” and repent (Chrysostom 1889k, 1:4). Examples of Christian love and courage include Paul preventing his prison guard from killing himself (Chrysostom 1889l, 36). The sharing and redistribution of wealth through the giving of alms and “love to man” is another sign of kindness. Quoting Corinthians 2, John advises those who prosper to be generous towards those who live in the boldness of faith: “Give ye to them, therefore, of the money which you abound in but they have not; that you may receive of that boldness wherein they are rich and you are lacking” (Chrysostom 1889o, 14, 16). The implication here is that possessing wealth is not necessarily a problem, contrary to what John says in many of his homilies. As in Stoicism, poverty and wealth are indifferent things; their goodness depends entirely on one’s response to either state. Speaking of poverty and riches as weapons, John says of the courageous soldier that he shows proof of virtue using whatever weapon is at hand (Chrysostom 1889c, 15:10). Courage may be shown when falling from plenty into poverty or being deprived of something by others (Chrysostom 1889c, 1:26, 28; 1889m,

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14). But there is no greater courage than laying down one’s life for the neighbour, out of love, after the example of Christ’s disciples (Chrysostom 1889m, 30). Every blessing in the next world comes from love. The soul wrestling with all sorts of losses and trials is even more courageous when heartened by the spirit of brotherly or neighbourly love and good hope in the future life (Chrysostom 1889l, 54; 1889m, 20–21). Love conquers everything. To illustrate this point, John argues that it was because of love that Jacob conquered his fear of Esau and became bolder than a lion. To those who wish to learn the power of love, he has this to say: And if you would learn her power, bring me a man timid and fearful of every sound, and trembling at shadows; or passionate, and harsh, and a wild beast rather than a man; or wanton and licentious; or wholly given to wickedness; and deliver him into the hands of love, and introduce him into this school; and you will speedily see that cowardly and timid creature made brave and magnanimous, and venturing upon all things cheerfully. (Chrysostom 1889n, 33)

To a Christian, being of good courage means declaring one’s faith, speaking humbly, obeying the laws of God, showing mercy, and suffering all imaginable trials with fortitude. But goodness, almsgiving, love, and heavenly wisdom practised with zeal are equally important (Chrysostom 1889o, 16). So is the compassion that brave women feel for the suffering of other women in labour (Chrysostom 1888, 18). There are many ways of being confident and bold in the love of Christ, demonstrating Christian affection, and spreading it across the world (Chrysostom 1889a, 1; 1889c, 17:10; 1889t, 1; 1889x, 33). The ungodly soul, on the other hand, is “offensive and impudent, shameless and bold, villainous and wicked, ungrateful, unfeeling, unfriendly, faithless, devoid of affection, a parricide, a beast rather than a man” (Chrysostom 1889r, 18). The glorious bond of love ties the faithful to God and to one another, uniting the strong and the weak in a powerful and prosperous city faithful to its king. It creates one soul and sets it free (Chrysostom 1889f, 5; 1889q, 9). Countless blessings follow.

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Such ought the faithful to be. Neither fear, nor threats, nor disgrace, should deter them from assisting one another, standing by them and succoring them as in war. For they do not so much benefit those who are in danger, as themselves, by the service they render to them, making themselves partakers of the crowns due to them. (Chrysostom 1889s, 3)

The courageous love and neighbourly assistance that John has in mind are of the kind that should never be dissimulated (Chrysostom 1889m, 21). It should be firm and inflexible, as hard as the fabled adamant stone—but not so hard as to conceal a man’s tears when facing the grief or suffering of his loved ones. The heart and soul of an “adamantine man” remain human and can be broken (Chrysostom 1889v, 4). The brave women accompanying the apostles set a good example in this regard. They sat at the tomb of Christ, showed their love by mourning his death, took care of his body, and lamented the cruelty of his enemies (Chrysostom 1888, 73; 88). John adds that Christian virtue should be sought for its own sake. Fortitude and gentleness must be shown without expecting anything in return other. The only thing one should hope for is to be kept from sin and to feel the grace and love of Christ (Chrysostom 1889n, 18). Ambrose died in 397 AD, John Chrysostom in 407 AD, and Cassian in 435 AD. Christianity was legalised by Constantine the Great and, in 380 AD, became the official religion of Rome under Theodosius I. Another century will pass before the Visigoths attack Rome and the Western Roman Empire collapses. In the early fifth century, Augustine wrote the City of God refuting allegations that Christianity should be held responsible for the decline of Rome. Europe was on the eve of a new era now known as the “Dark Ages,” which began around the year 500 AD. As the next chapter shows, what follows is a long hiatus in conversations about the ethics of courage, with sporadic commentaries on the subject. Significant advances in moral philosophy will not be made until the twelfth century. The first steps in this direction are Peter Abelard’s methodical use of reason in matters of faith, as discussed in Chap. 15, and Averroes’ blending of Islamic thought with Greek wisdom, the subject of the next chapter.

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References Ambrose. 1887. An exposition of the Gospel of St. Luke. Trans. Rev. Dr. MacEvilly, 2nd edition. Dublin: Gill & Son. ———. 1896a. On the Duties of the Clergy. Trans. H. de Romestin, E. de Romestin and H.T.F. Duckworth. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 10. Ed. P.  Schaff and H.  Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1896b. Concerning Widows. Trans. H. de Romestin, E. de Romestin and H.T.F.  Duckworth. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 10. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1896c. On the Death of Satyrus. Trans. H. de Romestin, E. de Romestin and H.T.F.  Duckworth. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 10. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1896d. Letters. Trans. H. de Romestin, E. de Romestin and H.T.F. Duckworth. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 10. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1919. On the Mysteries and the Treatise on the Sacraments by an Unknown Author. Trans. T.  Thompson. Ed. with Intro. and Notes J.H.  Strawley. Macmillan: New York. ———. 1961a. On Cain and Abel. In The Fathers of the Church, Vol. 42. Trans. J.J. Savage. New York: Fathers of the Church. ———. 1961b. On Paradise. In The Fathers of the Church, Vol. 42. Trans. J.J. Savage. New York: Fathers of the Church. Cassian, John. 1894a. Conferences. Trans. C.S.  Gibson. In Nicene and Post-­ Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 11. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1894b. On the Incarnation of the Lord. Trans. C.S. Gibson. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 11. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Chrysostom, John. 1888. Homilies on the Gospel of St. Matthew. Trans. G. Prevost and rev. M.B. Riddle. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 10. Ed. P.  Schaff and H.  Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K.  Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing.

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———. 1889a. Correspondence with Pope Innocent I. Trans. W.R.W. Stephens. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 9. Ed. P.  Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889b. Four Letters to Olympias. Trans. W.R.W. Stephens. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 9. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K.  Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889c. Homilies on the Statues. Trans. W.R.W. Stephens. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 9. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889d. Homily on “Father, if it be possible…”. Trans. W.R.W. Stephens. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 9. Ed. P.  Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889e. Homily on St. Babylas. Trans. T.P. Brandram. In Nicene and Post-­ Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 9. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889f. Homily on St. Ignatius. Trans. T.P. Brandram. In Nicene and Post-­ Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 9. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889g. Homily on the Paralytic Lowered Through the Roof. Trans. W.R.W. Stephens. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 9. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889h. Instructions to the Catechumens. Trans. T.P. Brandram. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 9. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K.  Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889i. No One Can Harm the Man Who Does Not Injure Himself. Trans. W.R.W. Stephens. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 9. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889j. Three Homilies on the Power of Satan. Trans. T.P. Brandram. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 9. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing.

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———. 1889k. Two letters to Theodore After His Fall. Trans. W.R.W. Stephens. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 9. Ed. P.  Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889l. Homilies on Acts. Trans. J. Walker, J. Sheppard and H. Browne, and rev. G.B. Stevens. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 11. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889m. Homilies on Romans. Trans. J.  Walker, J.  Sheppard and H. Browne, and rev. G.B. Stevens. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 11. Ed. P.  Schaff and H.  Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889n. Homilies on First Corinthians. Trans. T.W. Chambers. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 12. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K.  Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889o. Homilies on Second Corinthians. Trans. T.W.  Chambers. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 12. Ed. P.  Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889p. Homilies on Colossians. Trans. John A. Broadus. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 13. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889q. Homilies on Ephesians. Trans. G. Alexander. In Nicene and Post-­ Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 13. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889r. Homilies on First Timothy. Trans. P. Schaff. In Nicene and Post-­ Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 13. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889s. Homilies on Second Timothy. Trans. P. Schaff. In Nicene and Post-­ Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 13. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889t. Homilies on Philemon. Trans. P.  Schaff. In Nicene and Post-­ Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 13. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889u. Homilies on Philippians. Trans. J.A.  Broadus. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 13. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing.

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———. 1889v. On First Thessalonians. Trans. J.A. Broadus. In Nicene and Post-­ Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 13. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889w. Homilies on the Epistles to the Hebrews. Trans. F. Gardiner. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 14. Ed. P.  Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1889x. Homilies on the Gospel of John. Trans. C. Marriott. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 14. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Jerome. 1883. Letters. Trans. W.H. Fremantle, G. Lewis and W.G. Martley. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 6. Ed. P.  Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Leo the Great. 1895. Sermons. Trans. C.L.  Feltoe. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 12. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Plato. 1926. Laws. In Plato in Twelve Volumes, Vol. 10 and 11, trans. R.G. Bury. Cambridge. MA: Harvard University Press. London: William Heinemann.

12 Courage in the Early Middle Ages and Islam

In this chapter, I take a step back and provide a synthesis of the many varieties of courage proposed in the Scriptures and the pastoral and theological teachings of early Christianity. I use the scene of Jesus undergoing agony in the garden of Gethsemane to imagine how leading figures of the church would revisit and adjust this scene to match their own understanding of fortitude. Despite differences in stances, the general movement is towards accommodating some of the intellectual, political, and existential concerns of Greco-Roman philosophy. Then I turn to the centuries that followed the fall of the Roman Empire, a long period of sporadic commentaries on the ethics of courage prior to the rise of Scholasticism. A few theologians, notably Pope Gregory the Great, play an important role in passing down early church efforts to align the insights of Hellenic philosophy with the canons of the Christian creed. Others take inspiration from the Third Council of Constantinople and limit themselves to removing excessive fear from the church and securing its hegemony in the material world. Issues of power and war figure prominently in this literature. However, for the most part, efforts to incorporate Hellenic wisdom into Christian doctrine are no longer a priority. A few centuries must pass before the politics of devotional love takes direct © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32739-1_12

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inspiration from the rational mind, the exercise of free will, and the existential goals of life on Earth. In the second part of the chapter, I examine Averroes’ twelfth-century contribution in this respect. While maintaining a military view of courage, his reinterpretation of Plato and Aristotle from a Muslim perspective strengthens religious interest in the intellectualism of classical antiquity.

Varieties of Courage in Gethsemane In the Scriptures, spiritual gardens are sights of otherworldly joy and splendour. Real gardens attract less attention unless they are places to meditate on suffering and death. The agony that Christ felt in the Garden of Gethsemane, at the foot of the Mount of Olives, is a case in point. The scene is a lasting reminder of what it means to “take heart” in a heartless world. Jesus went there after he ate his last supper and said farewell to the world, vanquished by human betrayal and the cruelty of Rome. He was overwhelmed with sadness and anguish, knowing that the flesh is weak even when the spirit is willing. The Gethsemane scene includes drops of blood falling on the ground in lieu of water that feeds the Earth and olive trees growing in fertile soil. The only courage that can be mustered under such conditions is submission to God’s powerful will and the strength bestowed by an angel appearing from heaven. Jesus’ agony is a telling illustration of what life has in store for mortals, from a scriptural perspective. It is a reminder that the human heart is weak and not meant to last, that real men are heartless, and that the mind has no reason to philosophise about the natural goodness of life and humanity. Nor is there much point in counting on the powers of free will or the wisdom of virtue in order to survive, overcome the enemy, and eliminate vice from the lives of men. The only thing that saves the soul from despair is the courage to face and embrace fear with religious fervour, for the sake of God, in the hope of achieving immortality in heaven. The lone agony of the Son of Man, coupled with memories of Eden and hopes of blessings in Paradise, erases all traces of courage grown in ancient gardens of wisdom. The scene at the foot of Mount Olive owes little to the famous Garden founded by Epicurus. While holy, Gethsemane

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does not carry the legacy of the sacred bushes of Plato’s Academy and Aristotle’s School. Nor does it bear any resemblance to Cicero’s ideal garden, a place of relaxation and beauty equipped with a library and the teachings of the Stoa to make it complete (as Cicero recommends to his friend Varro). To be sure, the founders of philosophy have fears that resonate well with the Church Fathers. They too dread the natural inclinations of the body that go wild and take over men’s minds. Also, they are haunted by the threat of enemies and foreign powers imposing their will through violent means. Classical philosophers advocate for courage and other virtues in guarding their sacred bushes and gardens against bodily passions, errors of the mind, and the cruelty of men. Some also believe that the fate of human souls is dictated by higher forces in the universe. But despite these worries and fears, life on Earth is still worth cultivating and fighting for, wisely and happily. Early Christianity commits to a darker ethos, centred on the future life and God’s gift of strength in the face of persecution and uncontrollable forces. Believers go through life like foreigners seeking temporary refuge in a forsaken land. Faith and the fear of God, his evil enemies, temptations of the flesh and this world are all denials of courage rooted in this life. In their summons to courage, the Church Fathers choose not to cultivate the “core” energy of our natural existence, the “credible” workings of our intellect, and the “cordial” relations that are inherent in our social lives. But while this is true for the most part, one should not tar all early Christian views of moral goodness with the same brush. The ethics of courage developed during this formative period have many shades, and the devil is in the details of each vision. When closely studied, most Church Fathers depart from the biblical spirit of fear, each in their own manner. They calm the fears of Agony in the Garden and wipe the bloody sweat from Christ’s face. They question how much help is needed from the angel sent from above and seek ways to defeat the enemy. They also debate how love and the wisdom of virtue can help deal with human despair and wrongdoing. These represent important forays into competing systems of faith-based ethics and claims about life in this world and the next. To grasp the breadth of early Christian stances on courage, one might imagine how each Church Father would handle his personal agony in the

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garden of Gethsemane, the night before dying on the cross, hypothetically speaking. A prototypical scene of agony haunted by the “power of darkness” (Luke 22:53) lends itself remarkably well to projections of the moral foundations and meaning of life. How would apostolic teachers such as Clement of Rome, Tertullian, and Cyprian of Carthage, for instance, respond to the situation? Based on their writings (see Chap. 8), we would expect them to show courage by expressing contempt for life in the body and accepting their cruel fate with meekness and fearful obedience to God. However, instead of feeling anguish and asking God the Father to spare them suffering, as Jesus did, they would hope to leave Gethsemane and meet their glorious fate sooner rather than later. They would not hesitate to sip the cup of martyrdom knowing that the gesture will be rewarded with crowns of glory in heaven. Also, instead of healing the wound of a Roman soldier enemy, as Jesus did, they would feel justified in acting as soldiers of Christ and threatening the enemy with God’s wrath and eternal damnation in hell. All in all, they would remove their own fear from the scene and turn it against the enemy through severe condemnation. Choosing a very different response, Tatian the Assyrian and Clement of Alexandria, to a lesser extent, would tone down evocations of fear suffered by them or inflicted on their enemies and show impatience with a doctrine that promises rewards only after death. Their preference would be to elevate themselves above their present circumstances and ascend immediately to a spiritual garden no longer filled with anger or anguish, at a distance from the world of human passions and politics. To achieve this, they would take time in the garden to commune with their loving God in heaven and redeem human life from its lowly existence. This is the approach they would adopt, rather than praying for his intercession, worrying about the next day, caring for others, or trying to be brave. Also, instead of hoping for an angel to come down from heaven and make them stronger, they would rely on God’s emanations to quickly enlighten them on the mysteries of divine wisdom. At the other end of the spectrum, Athanasius, Eusebius, Severus, Sozomen, Socrates Scholasticus, Theodoret, and Jerome would allow themselves to experience the same anguish that Jesus felt on the eve of his crucifixion (see Chap. 9). Unlike him, however, they would prefer to face

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fear head-on and rebel against it. They would do this by fleeing Gethsemane and going to live a hard and humble life elsewhere, in the hope of finding safety and pursuing their evangelical mission. Giving up living and waiting to be crucified would no longer be the only option. Alternatively, they would attempt to defeat the enemy by combining the sword with the power of wisdom-based virtue. While Jesus insisted that he was not leading an armed rebellion, they would use their training to fight the enemy and support Christian world rulers. At some point, victorious athletes and soldiers of Christ would return to Gethsemane and transform it into a palace garden dedicated to their King in heaven and his representatives on Earth. Submissive piety and joyful martyrdom would not appeal to Lactantius (see Chap. 10). Unlike Tatian, he would not attempt to appease his torment by directly communing with God. Neither would he attempt to escape the enemy or vent his anger against him and defeat him. Instead, he would imitate Origen and spend his precious time in the garden reflecting on the teachings of Plato and the Stoics, with the aim of borrowing some nuggets of philosophical wisdom, such as their spirit of strength and moderation in all things. Rather than behaving like a willing martyr, he would also envisage ways of staying alive and using his own power to overcome the enemy, given the right circumstances. Failing this, wisdom would help him control his natural feelings and response to persecution. Whatever the outcome, he would hold on to the hope of finding immortality in a future paradise, the mirror image of Gethsemane. Faced with their last agony in Gethsemane, Augustine and Gregory of Nyssa would opt for a stronger mix of wisdom and love (see Chap. 11). In keeping with the early Christian ethos, they would behave as soldiers of Christ, submit to suffering and death, and threaten their enemies with eternal damnation. They would fear God and confess their meekness before him. They would put their fate in his hands, knowing that God elects those souls destined to receive the gift of strength through his grace. As Jesus says to his Father, “Yet, not my will but yours be done” (Luke 22:42). However, Augustine and Gregory would also explore what the wisdom of virtue and the spirit of love might do to alleviate their torment and fear. They would calm their anxiety by embracing the wisdom of the four cardinal virtues and showing others what it means to be wise, brave,

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sober, and just, as Plato recommends. Their response to treason and persecution would be guided by reason and piety, using them to rise above desires of the flesh and human passions, including anger. Inspired by the metaphysics of Plato and Plotinus, they would take comfort in contemplating the four rivers of a heavenly Eden running through their minds, in “the land of thought” and the immortal soul. These sentiments would help them express their loving fear and fearless love for God and show compassion for the soldiers appearing on the scene. Their wisdom and affection for God and fellow men might improve their fate. But most of all, a good measure of devotional love would enable them to better express their faith and cope with their own fear and fate at the hands of the enemy. By and large, Ambrose, Cassian, and Chrysostom would express many of the sentiments of the early church concerning the trials and struggles of the soldiers of Christ. Resisting temptations of the flesh and remaining meek and humble before God would be particularly important to them. They would nonetheless adopt a large-hearted approach to their own hardships and plant some seeds of wisdom, love, strength, freedom, and life in their immediate surroundings. Again, the wisdom of philosophy would help them in their plight and guide them on how to become models of virtue and counter their feelings of fear and anger. They would also join the Augustinians in extending their love and providing neighbourly assistance to those in need, including wounded enemies. However, unlike Augustinians, they would make allowances for the natural goodness of life and the human soul and take time to thank God for the goodness of the fruit growing in the Garden of Gethsemane. They would also explore how to use their own strength and authority for good, such as protecting themselves and others from evil and violence. Last but not least, they would give themselves greater credit for acts of virtue and “voluntary love,” acknowledging that it was their choice to be wise, loving, and brave in the face of terrible suffering and death. The original Gethsemane scene reflects the scriptural view of courage, which sends a message of fate, faith, fear, meekness, and mortal flesh. Clement of Rome, Tertullian, and Cyprian embrace this vision with such zeal that they no longer anguish over trials and tribulations that await them. Fear is boldly removed from the equation. Other Church Fathers opt instead to tone down the overall message by planting seeds of

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wisdom, love, power, freedom, and life. For some, the task consists in introducing one counterbalancing principle, namely intellectual wisdom in the case of Origen; mystic love in the case of Tatian and Clement of Alexandria; affirmations of life in the case of Athanasius and Clement of Rome; and real power in the case of Eusebius, Severus, Theodoret, and Jerome. In his discussions of courage, Lactantius combines expressions of wisdom with the exercise of power and the pursuit of wellness in life. Augustine and Gregory of Nyssa expand the offer by incorporating the teachings of charitable love into church doctrine. Ambrose, Cassian, and Chrysostom propose an even more integrated approach. They investigate all possible ways to spread Christian doctrine and develop a faith-based understanding of the wisdom of philosophy, the value of life, the spirit of love, the just use of power and authority, and what the free will and intentionality bring to the ethics of courage. They set the stage for the authoritative lessons on courage that the schoolmen, or “members of the Dove,” would impart centuries later. The history of signs of courage point to political considerations of freedom and fate, love and fear, might and meekness. It also interweaves issues of existential wellness and suffering with discussions of truth based on rational knowledge or beliefs justified by faith. The Church Fathers touch on all these issues, i.e., political, existential, and epistemic, and generally react to contending views of courage in one of two ways. Either they restate the foundational ethos of sacrifice and fear of an all-powerful God, or they use the teachings of Greek wisdom to soften the message, with varying degrees of coherence and openness to non-Christian views of moral life.

Courage in the Early Middle Ages Augustine died in 430 AD. The Roman senator Boetius (c. 477–524 AD) was born some 47 years later, shortly after the last Western Roman Emperor was deposed. His translation of Aristotle made him a key figure in transmitting the wisdom of classical antiquity to mediaeval church theologians and philosophers. He was thrown into prison by Theodoric the Great, who accused him of treason and had him executed in 524

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AD. While in prison, Boetius wrote his Consolation of Philosophy, a popular treatise read throughout the Middle Ages. Issues of death and fortune are central to this five-book dialogue between himself and an allegorical figure named “Lady Philosophy.” Still, despite the circumstances of his death, the author shows little interest in issues of courage and fortitude. A century after the Fall of Constantinople (453 AD), Pope St. Gregory I (c. 540–604 AD) reflects on the teachings of Ambrose and Augustine concerning the wisdom of virtue. He describes fortitude as one of the four cardinal virtues (together with prudence, temperance, and justice) and insists that one virtue without another is imperfect at best. Moral strength cannot be separated from other habits of the mind, notably the exercise of reason. Counsel is worthless, when the strength of fortitude is lacking thereto, since what it finds out by turning the thing over, from want of strength it never carries on so far as to the perfecting in deed; and fortitude is very much broken down, if it be not supported by counsel, since the greater the power which it perceives itself to have, so much the more miserably does this virtue rush headlong into ruin, without the governance of reason. (Gregory 1844, 1:45)

Since virtues entail each other, “each separate virtue is of less worth in proportion as the others are wanting” (Gregory 1844, 22:2). The cardinal virtues are like the four sons of a family that support each other and feast together (Gregory 1844, 2:77). However, Gregory adds three sisters to the family and explains that all seven siblings are born of the Holy Spirit. They are his gifts to God’s church. Together, they enable the faithful to resist every kind of assault. To be more precise, wisdom protects the soul against folly; understanding against dullness; counsel against rashness; courage against fear; knowledge against ignorance; piety against hardness of heart; and fear against pride. Courage is to be celebrated like every other virtue and day of the week: “Fortitude gives a feast in its day, in that whereas it has no fear of adversity, it sets the viands of confidence before the alarmed soul” (Gregory 1844, 1:44). Basically, Gregory’s sevenfold framing of virtue combines the faith-­ based politics of piety and fear with epistemic considerations of wisdom,

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understanding, counsel, and knowledge. The workings of the mind play a pivotal role here. This ties in with the long-standing definition of courage as a disposition of the mind to overcome fear and endure all hardships. The mind relies on the shield of patience and virtue to fight the war of human afflictions, whether it be famine, death by the sword, or any other misfortune (Gregory 1844, 3:9). Nonetheless, the church and its martyrs are far better models of courage compared with philosophers. They show the way to overcoming the fear of parting with things that men desire and that make them prosperous. Guided by reason, their hearts and minds succeed in subduing the flesh and eschewing “the gratification of the present life.” To prepare themselves for their heavenly destination, they let the four rivers of Paradise cool their hearts “from the heat of carnal desires.” The virtues they cultivate stand like the four corners of a strong house or the entire world, all designed to withstand man’s impulses and the mighty wind of temptation (Gregory 1844, Pref. 11; 2:76–77; 35:15). Given such strength, they never complain about their fate or fall into despair. Actually, they take pleasure in the roughness of this world for the sake of eternal rewards (Gregory 1844, 3:21; 7:24; 23:50). The joy they take in preaching God’s word allows them to rise like Arcturus and Orion, illuminating the night sky. Their ascent lasts until they face the bitterness of cold and storms of tribulations in the winter season, and “the life of this mortal condition passes away” (Gregory 1844, 9:14; 29:72). Perfect souls grow fortitude by arming themselves with steadfastness and patience, the kind that is tested and reinforced by many wounds. Anger and malice are mastered along the way by exercising foresight, which is the best remedy against all feelings of anguish. Humility is in order here. A pious Christian must bear in mind his own offences and misdeeds towards others, including evil-minded men (Gregory 1844, 5:81). The apostle Peter showed the way. He demonstrated great courage and endurance by confronting wicked rulers and defying evil forces with the freedom of his words. Yet he also showed humility by listening to and taking advice from Paul. He exhibited by the humility of his gentleness submission in good counsel even to his younger brethren … In the conduct then of Peter a line of authority and

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humility is extended as it were before our eyes, lest our mind should not attain to the standard through fear, or should exceed the limit through pride. (Gregory 1844, 28:27)

The ongoing battle against temptation and the state of confusion that ensues are particularly beneficial for honing the sense of self-discipline taught in lessons of humility. Accepting correction or chastening from the Lord or the church without too much grief or weeping also helps (Gregory 1844, 2:28, 78, 86; 6:41). Gregory subordinates the wisdom-based notion of fortitude to Christian lessons of martyrdom and humble fulfilment of God’s will. From a political perspective, the overall message seems to be one of submissiveness and fear as opposed to one of strength and loving hearts. But this is not the case. For one thing, wisdom and humility can lead to real victories in war. When Job knew that defeat was inevitable, he wisely chose to retreat and wait for a battle he could fight more successfully. “For courage was not wanting to the opportunity, but an opportunity for his courage” (Gregory 1844, 31:58). The story suggests that fighting wisely helps win wars for the glory of God. The same message is made elsewhere. In his letter to Gennadius, exarch of Africa (c. 591–598 AD), Gregory uses the rhetoric of Christian soldier-­ like fortitude to summon the governor to thank God for his military achievements. He must face the “enemies of the Church with all activity of mind and body” and “bravely fight ecclesiastical battles as warriors of the Lord” (Gregory 1895b, 1:74). In Pastoral Rule, a treatise on the responsibilities of the clergy, Gregory encourages perfect souls not to shrink from occupying the office of episcopacy and exercising supreme authority within the church while waging war against its enemies. His exhortation concerns all those who are eminently endowed with virtues, and for the training of others are exalted by great gifts, who are pure in zeal for chastity, strong in the might of abstinence, filled with the feasts of doctrine, humble in the long-­suffering of patience, erect in the fortitude of authority, tender in the grace of loving-­ kindness, strict in the severity of justice. (Gregory 1895a, 1:5)

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Fear must be celebrated like other virtues; after all, if there is one thing that must be feared, it is the mind thinking that it should have no fear (Gregory 1844, 2:78). Dreading the Day of Judgement and seeking protection from its terrors are essential if the mind is to place its hope in achieving glory in the “heavenly country.” All the same, the brave are summoned to exercise authority over evil men without fear. Faith in God enhances their prospects of achieving power and military gains, sustained by “the courage of the superior sex” (Gregory 1844, 1:17). But the gift of faith also sustains the softer spirit of Christian love, which has greater merit than fear, self-confidence, and pride (Gregory 1844, 1:48; 2:77; 6:46). In the end, if the faithful ought to face terrible suffering in this life, it should be out of love for their neighbour, for the sake of charity and the life of the Spirit (Gregory 1844, 7:18). In the writings of Gregory, expressions of faith are combined with intellectual wisdom, fear with love, martyrdom with victory, and humility with authority. Evagrius Scholasticus also attempts to bring together different Christian and Aristotelian ideas about what it means to be brave. The Syrian intellectual lived in the sixth century and was an aide to the patriarch Gregory of Antioch. He portrays the Eastern Roman Emperor Maurice as a virtuous man capable of striking the right balance between courage and prudence. During his reign (582–602 AD), Maurice banished both ignorance, the mother of audacity, and also cowardice, which is at the same time a foreigner and a neighbour to the former, that with him to face danger was an act of prudence, and to decline it was a measure of safety; while both courage and discretion were the charioteers of opportunity, and guided the reins to whatever quarter necessity directed: so that his efforts were both restrained and put forth, as it were, by measure and rule. (Evagrius 1846, 5.19)

Another weaving of “pagan” ethics into Christian doctrine can be found in the seventh-century writings of Alcuin of York, a leading teacher at the Carolingian court (c. 735–804 AD). In his Book about the Virtues and the Vices, Alcuin draws on the ideas of Augustine and the early Church Fathers to support Christian soldiers’ war against all vices and their efforts to conquer “pride through humility, greed through

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abstinence, fornication through chastity, avarice through wisdom, anger through patience, weariness through constancy of good works, bad sadness through spiritual joy, vain glory through the charity of God” (Alcuin 2015, 42). He calls on those heading the church to act as leaders of the cardinal virtues, including fortitude, viewed as “great patience of the mind and long-sufferingness and perseverance in good works and victory against all forms of vices” (Alcuin 2015, 35). The perfection of these four virtues serves to uphold the dignity of the Holy Church, the entire world, and the square-shaped City of God (Alcuin 2016, 1:4–5; 21:6). Again, each virtue has a day of the week and is supported by other virtues; while reflection calls for courageous action, courage and confidence must be sustained by careful reflection, for instance (Alcuin 2016, Preface). In the end, however, all good habits “are light and sweet to those loving God from the heart” (Alcuin 2015, 42–43). In his Book on Virtues and Vices, aimed at his royal patrons, Rabanus Maurus (780–856 AD) follows in the footsteps of his teacher Alcuin and makes similar points, with a Senecan focus on the politics of virtue in the service of ruling authorities. Other church leaders propose a narrower set of modifications to the original message of meekness and fear conveyed through the Scriptures. Acts of the Third Council of Constantinople (1900), held at the end of the seventh century (680–681 AD), illustrate this approach. The focus is on the merits of exercising power, a stance reminiscent of the views advanced by Eusebius, Severus, Theodoret, and Jerome. The Council addresses thorny issues regarding the nature of Christ and related polemics dating back to the sixth century. Evocations of fortitude appearing in the Acts show deference to church authority, converting the virtue into a designated attribute of the Pope with military overtones. While portrayed as gentle, pious, and clement, his “God-crowned Fortitude” is said to be unconquerable and can be counted on to protect the integrity of the Christian faith and repel those who stray from the path of truth. The Pope’s “empire of fortitude” is so strong that it can achieve vengeance and far-reaching victories against enemies of the church. His powers are such that the nations of the Gentiles, being impressed by the terror of the supernal majesty, may lay down most humbly their necks beneath the sceptre of your most powerful rule, that the power of your most pious kingdom may

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continue until the ceaseless joy of the eternal kingdom succeeds to this temporal reign. (Third Council 1900, III)

The High Middle Ages has more to offer in terms of supporting a Christian rethinking of moral philosophy. In this period extending from the twelfth to the early fourteenth centuries, prominent intellectuals delve deeper into the teachings of classical antiquity, especially those of Aristotle. Averroes’ defence of Plato and Aristotle deserves recognition here for reviving Western Europe’s interest in the wisdom of classical Greece. However, his views on courage are also noteworthy for their rationalisation of military-political campaigns fought in the name of God from an Islamic perspective.

Islam in Greek Garb: Averroes (Ibn Rushd) Scholars do not take up the difficult task of synthesising faith and philosophy until the twelfth century, using abstract theory and logic to merge the two into a coherent whole. Christian theologians are not the only ones to step up to this challenge. The Spanish-Arab Muslim philosopher Averroes (Ibn Rushd, 1126–1198 AD) is an influential lawyer and physician who defends the Platonic ideals and principles of a virtuous city governed by warrior-like philosophers. He trusts the latter “guardians” with the mission of defending Aristotle’s theoretical science as the companion and foster sister of the Sharia. While Averroes does not cultivate the Bonaventurian spirit of fear as a driver of courage, he makes important concessions to the politics of aggressive war. I now turn to his understanding of courage, a disposition of “the spirited soul” to exercise control over the “desirous soul,” under the practical and theoretical guidance of the “cogitative soul,” in support of the ruling law and just wars of Islam. Averroes views the cogitative, or calculating, soul as the noblest expression of humanity. It has two parts: the practical and the philosophical, or theoretical, sciences. The philosophical part takes human activity to its highest level. It plays a leading role in all activities of the intellect,

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including lower parts of the soul (Averroes 1974, 68:1–2, 10–14; 70:4–30; 73:12–14). The primacy of this part over the other parts of the city resembles the primacy of intelligible existence over sensible existence. It may be seen from this treatise that the practical arts—be they faculties, or ruling or ministerial arts—exist only because of the theoretical sciences. (Averroes 1974, 71:5–12)

The “desirous or appetitive” part of the soul occupies the lowest position. Driven by pleasures of the senses, it is dependent on the body and material things that never last (Averroes 1974, 49:25–31; 52:15; 72:20–32; 74:5–10). “For those pleasures perish rapidly because opposites are mixed in with them, while the pleasure of the intellect has no opposite” (Averroes 1974, 104:22–24). While each part of the soul procures pleasure, the man of wisdom brings order to these pleasures, using experience and reasoning to organise them into a coherent and well-functioning whole (Averroes 1974, 103:16–29). Virtues play a central role in connecting the two parts, a theme that brings us to the “spirited part of the soul” (thymos), the middle ground between the intellect and the senses. Its role is to keep the appetites of the desirous soul in check under the ruling intellect led by the theoretical sciences. In general, the relation of all these virtues to the parts of this city will be [as] the relation of the faculties of the soul to the parts of a single soul, so that this city will be wise in its theoretical part through which it rules over all its parts in the manner in which a man wise in the rational part rules through it over all the faculties of the soul—i.e., the part [of the faculties of the soul that is] linked to reason rules the spirited and appetitive part in which the moral virtues are to be found. (Averroes 1974, 23:17–24)

Since it lies in the middle, the spirited part is “appetitive” in its own way. It is concerned with harmful things and may trigger feelings of anger, revenge, and honour that accompany the exercise of lordship and manly dominance over others (Averroes 1974, 51:19–23; 72:15–17;

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81:30–31; 89:12–17). Its love of honour is thus “something intermediate between excess love of the desires and love of virtue” (Averroes 1974, 89:22–27). Left to itself, the spirit of honour will transform the city into a power regime driven by haughtiness, the love of victory, and the rule of tyranny and timocracy (Averroes 1974, 103:16–29). Converted into a virtue, courage turns its anger against the tyranny of desire and tempers man’s spirit with reason (Averroes 1974, 51:25–27; 87:7–13; 88:17–21). Under the guidance of the intellect, the spirited part embraces the ideals of honour and renders the city wise (Averroes 1974, 87:1). Averroes, like Aristotle, sees all moral virtues as the middle path between extremes. Moderation is the middle way in drinking and copulation (Averroes 1974, 49.25). Likewise, courage is the disposition of the “spirited soul” that seeks the rational mean between rashness and timidity. The habit expresses virtue in that it involves the exercise of judgement and is deployed equitably, i.e., at the appropriate time, to the right degree, and in the proper way, according to the circumstances (Averroes 1974, 24:15–20; 26:20–24; 72:8–13). It is on account of such habits, those governed by reason, that a city may be said to be wise, courageous, and moderate (Averroes 1974, 51:11–13). Ruled by the intellect, the city will be courageous in [its] spirited part, but at the place and in the measure and in the time required of it by wisdom, just as a man will be courageous in [his] spirited part only when he uses it in the case, time, and measure required by intellect. (Averroes 1974, 23:25–27)

For human beings to act morally, the cogitative soul must have the strength and will to regulate the appetites of the desiring soul, knowing that the aim of virtue is not pleasure in this life (Averroes 1974, 36:1–4). A man is not courageous, just, or faithful so that he might copulate, drink, or eat (Averroes 1974, 31:18–19). Virtue for the sake of sensual pleasure is a sham. Its true purpose is to preserve and strengthen philosophical wisdom so that the rule of reason, self-control, and justice can prevail in the virtuous city (Averroes 1974, 48:10; 51:10). The courageous individual is the one who “always preserves what cogitation orders and commands him—by ‘always’ I mean through times of fears and anxieties and desires” (Averroes 1974, 52:5–8; see 49:1–3). Being “of enlarged

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thought,” the man who possesses “political courage” yearns for knowledge of the whole and all things that exist. As such, he is weary of unexamined opinion passing for truth, and he despises uncompelling arguments learned in his youth (Averroes 1974, 62:7–12). In the virtuous city, citizens obey the great ones, namely the king-­ philosopher and elderly rulers (aged fifty years and older), who uphold the theoretical sciences and exercise lordship over others as Nature commands (Averroes 1974, 5:5–7; 60:17–18; 69:27; 70:1). Inspired and guided by their wisdom, citizens exercise self-control, shun the acquisition and accumulation of unnecessary possessions, and “become chiefs ruling over the pleasures rather than those whom the pleasures rule” (Averroes 1974, 32:26–31; 41:22; 42:22; 88:26–29; 92:26–28). They do not live in a hedonistic or democratic regime governed by the desiring soul, the love of wealth, and the pursuit of immoderate pleasure (Averroes 1974, 87:1–3; 91:26–30; 94:1–4). Unlike the virtuous city, pleasure-­ seeking regimes are doomed from the outset. They condemn a great many to poverty, including those of nobility and courage, by inciting them to squander their wealth and envy or blame others for their misfortunes (Averroes 1974, 92:15–27). Averroes is committed to the reign of reason in all parts of the soul and the city. Reason is nonetheless geared to support a military ethos dating back to Greek antiquity, expressed with strong Islamic fervour. Unlike moderation and justice, which cut across different parts of the city, courage is a virtue ascribed to guardians and warriors, i.e., rulers or protectors of the community esteemed for their military prowess and heroism. Preparing for and improving the art of war is what courage is about; it serves to further develop the virtue among members of this class (Averroes 1974, 26:22–31). Men’s physical strength, keen senses, and quickness of movement increase their capacity for courage. As a result, guardians hold a greater status than artisans, some of whom are forced to perform manual labour because of their frailty and cowardice on the battlefield. In passing, Averroes remarks that women should not be excluded from the warrior class and that their martial potential should not be underestimated or underused (Averroes 1974, 24:9; 28:10–11; 49:17–22; 54:1–20; 58:15–18). Based on his reading of Plato, he actually recommends that male and female guardians and warriors protect the virtuous city from

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corruption and copulate with one another for the preservation of their kind, like dogs of the same special race (Averroes 1974, 54:27–55; 87:25–29). Contrary to what Aristotle says, fighting to protect one’s country is more of a mission than a necessity. Armed victory over the enemy is not the ultimate goal. More to the point, war is a means to instil courage in citizens and bring civilisation and God to other nations, a mission that calls for the imposition of a proper regime and a system of education that elevates the soul (Averroes 1974, 26:21–24). Well-trained guardians, warriors, or fighters may be spirited by nature and apt to “become heated” and repel the enemy. Their mission, however, is to reconcile two dispositions in their souls: hatred and the superior wisdom of love. The highest quality they possess “is that they have utmost love and feeling for the citizens; and the other, utmost force and grief for their enemies” (Averroes 1974, 28:11–20). Through courage and other virtues, notably justice and moderation, they can serve others in the city and guard them against the enemy (Averroes 1974, 72:15–17). It is a condition for being a guardian, therefore, that he by nature love the one whom he knows. This nature is, without a doubt, a philosophic nature, for in choosing the thing with a view to knowledge and wisdom he is by nature virtuous. And he will hate whomever he does not know, not because of some prior harm the other had caused him, but for his very ignorance of him… namely the enemies without. (Averroes 1974, 28:24–27; see 29:4–5)

The brave are the antithesis of tyrants who feel hatred for their own citizens and exercise power by purging the city of men of might, courage, and greatness (Averroes 1974, 97:9–13). Guardians combine theoretical and moral virtues (Averroes 1974, 39:24–25). They are philosophers by nature, i.e., “lovers of knowledge, haters of ignorance, spirited, quick of movement, strong in body, and with keen sense[s)” (Averroes 1974, 29:7–9). They develop virtues not for the sake of personal benefit or to ward off misfortunes. Their ultimate hope is not to preserve their bodies against pain and death (Averroes 1974, 65:29–66:5). They do not seek honour, power over others, and victory at war above all. Nor do they enjoy pleasures of the senses or the

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intellect on their own (Averroes 1974, 66:5–12). These are counterfeits of happiness, if not vices, that primarily bring suffering and punishment. The divine science of philosophy and the knowledge of eternal things reign supreme in the guardians’ hearts and minds (Averroes 1974, 29:26–27; 104:19–21). They use all their might to uphold the truth of divine Law and the Sharia that leads to God, knowing that the end of man consists in obeying God’s will as revealed through prophecy. But they also rely on their abstract knowledge of what the laws say about moral virtues and their translation into human action. The teachings and purposes of prophecy and philosophy actually coincide (Averroes 1974, 6:10–18). All point to “the way in which matters are arranged in those Laws belonging to this our divine Law that proceed like the human Laws” (Averroes 1974, 26:16–18). The contribution of philosophy is that it provides a rational explanation of the divine Law beyond simply believing. While the courageous are afraid of death, they worry more about being deprived of immortality, which is a greater evil. But fear is not what drives them. As Plato teaches, guardians are not frightened by forewarnings of what will happen to them after death (Averroes 1974, 31:13–14, 25–27). If they prefer to die at war, it is because they choose not to be oppressed and enslaved out of fear. Accordingly, they refrain from weeping over their companions’ deaths or paying attention to women’s songs of mourning. Instead of behaving like weak and effeminate souls, prophets and chiefs endure sorrow with patience (Averroes 1974, 32:1–9). In this perspective, philosopher, king, lawgiver, and imam are all interchangeable. In Arabic, “imam” means “one who is followed in his actions. He who is followed in these actions by which he is a philosopher, is an Imam in the absolute sense” (Averroes 1974, 61:10–17). All guardians are chiefs governing the city, lovers of learning and truth who despise money and the rule of fleeting desires (Averroes 1974, 61:27; 62:8; 94:12–16; 98:12–25; 99:10–12). In his reading of Plato, Averroes asks how politics can help implant a culture of courage and virtue in the ideal city, especially among the young (Averroes 1974, 22:17–20; 24:22–24; 25:1–3; 30:17–18). His answer is that youths will acquire good habits by growing up with them and improving them over time (Averroes 1974, 27:30). Developing virtue and the potential for human perfection, culminating in philosophical

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learning, must start early in life (Averroes 1974, 73:15–23). However, Averroes adds that some nations are practically uneducable and must be coerced through war if they are to adopt the virtues. In keeping with both human and divine laws, just war and bodily chastisement must be used against ignorant foes and enemies who do not behave like humans (Averroes 1974, 26:4–8). They should be killed or enslaved, and their rank in the city should be that of “the dumb brutes.” Coercion can also be used within the virtuous city, but only for the purpose of military training and the learning of discipline and the art of war. Discipline through coercion may be applied on occasion to children, youth, servants, and unlawful citizens living in the virtuous city. Nations where youngsters were trained to be bold but lost the virtue as adults should be coerced indirectly by removing their children and instilling virtues in them (Averroes 1974, 27:15–24). Some people must be taught the hard way. People and cities that are naturally eager to learn, on the other hand, can be taught using either persuasive rhetoric and poetry or, in the case of the “elect few,” theoretical talk and logical proof. There are two ways of teaching them: One of them is the way of teaching the elect few; this is teaching by demonstrative arguments. The second is the teaching of the multitude; this is teaching by persuasive and poetical arguments. It is evident that this will not be fulfilled in him unless he is wise in practical science and moreover has the cogitative virtue by which those things that have been explained in practical science are brought about in nations and cities, and has the great moral virtue by which the governance of cities and justice are chosen. (Averroes 1974, 60:25–61:12; see 29:17–20)

The potential for learning based on persuasion rather than coercion is high among the Greeks. They are the ones most disposed by nature to receive wisdom (Averroes 1974, 27:3–4). Averroes concedes that many neighbouring nations, especially those living in moderate and steady climates, have great potential as learners of virtue. They stand to gain from receiving a proper education. These benefits differ according to people’s innate proclivity for particular virtues. For instance, the Kurds and the

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Jalaliqah are more apt to develop the “spirited part” of their souls (Averroes 1974, 27:9–14). However, teaching the theoretical sciences is the best way to discover truth and instil virtue in the soul. The method should be used whenever possible. It should be applied to young adults aged between twenty and thirty, notably the elect few destined to form the class of the wise (Averroes 1974, 25:16–19; 60:12–14; 77:12–17). The task involves demonstrating the wisdom of virtue through intellectual speculations, logical arguments, and theoretical reasoning concerning the finality of life. Relevant subject matters include logic and mathematics, but most of all physics and the divine science of metaphysics (Averroes 1974, 75:20–32; 76:30). Using rhetorical and poetical arguments to foster sound opinions and virtue is the next best strategy, more suited to educating the young and the multitude (Averroes 1974, 25:15–23; 29:20, 25; 48:10). Since they enhance health for the body and virtue in the soul, gymnastics, music, and its lyrics should be promoted as well, with adaptations to the circumstances of each class (Averroes 1974, 60:7–12). They are conducive to courage and perseverance in war (Averroes 1974, 35:6–8; 36:12–14). They can help men reach the utmost in self-control, courage, strength of soul, love of [beautiful] excellent things, and [in] their desire [for justice] in both small forms [and large], and in shunning pleasure. For there is nothing at all in common between a sound mind and pleasure. That is because pleasure throws a [sharp-] minded man into a perplexity resembling a madman’s, all the more when he goes to excess. (Averroes 1974, 35:20–25)

Inspired by Plato, Averroes discusses the complementary contributions of gymnastics and music to the development of courage. He claims that gymnastics strengthens the spirited soul and gives it courage, while “music renders it disciplined, submissive to cogitation.” “If these two parts grow up in accord with this description, they will turn to that other part and discipline it” (Averroes 1974, 51:1–12; see 29:12–14). Neglecting one over the other has consequences for the guardian and his achievement of happiness through honour. If the learner prefers gymnastics and hunting and rejects music altogether, he will overdevelop the spirited and desiring

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parts in him and not qualify to discharge the function of a guardian (Averroes 1974, 87:25–39). He will be inclined towards the love of lordship and tyranny, without basing “his claim to lordship on what he says or suggests but rather on his strength in war” (Averroes 1974, 84:23–27). His lack of musical wisdom will corrupt his soul and lead him down the path of misology, which is the hatred of reason and argument. This is because using music by itself renders the soul soft and lax in the utmost quietness and calmness, particularly when one makes use of its soft kinds. Gymnastic, too, by itself renders the soul savage to the utmost degree, impervious to persuasive arguments, becoming rather an extreme misologist, as we see happening in fighters of gross disposition and in the undisciplined. Hence these two arts, as Plato says, work on the spirited kind and the philosophic kind of the parts of the soul so that the virtue intended for guardianship is prepared from their mixture. That is to say, he will bear the utmost delight and love toward citizens, and strength toward those without. (Averroes 1974, 36:15–24)

Gymnastics and music bring discipline to the body and the soul, respectively. Simple music and basic gymnastics, suitable for war, should thus be taught to men and women alike from a young age (Averroes 1974, 29:9–15; 36:24; 37:7–9; 54:1–20; 78:11–15). Educating the multitude in both disciplines builds harmony in the city, the guardian soul, and the life of every citizen (Averroes 1974, 50:14–20). “The individual stamped with the nature of this city will be of the utmost virtue just as this city is of the utmost virtue” (Averroes 1974, 52:10). Each part of the soul does what it has to do, in the same way that every citizen performs the activity that conforms to his nature. This is how political justice and equity come to prevail (Averroes 1974, 51:25–29). The education received by men and women through gymnastics, poetry, music, storytelling, and even painting serves an important function in creating a virtuous city, which is to illustrate moral virtues and approximate natural and divine truth (Averroes 1974, 34:20–24). However, moral precepts and discipline passed on through basic methods have limitations. They represent the best education most citizens can get, given the natural limitations of their intellect and their tendency to yield

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before fear, anxiety, and desire (Averroes 1974, 49:6–17). As Averroes remarks, “not every man is fit to be a warrior or an orator or a poet, let alone a philosopher” (Averroes 1974, 23:7–8). In the end, education for the multitude is a mere imitation or pale reflection of knowledge obtained through theoretical arguments and speculations. It limits itself to the shadows of beings appearing on the walls of Plato’s cave (Averroes 1974, 75:20–21). All lower forms of knowledge and their corresponding actions are physical and affective imitations of higher forms, which are rational and divine. Practical arts and disciplines may take inspiration from the principles of moral philosophy and politics, which bear the likeness of the divine Law. But they are pale reflections of these laws and are bound to spread some falsehood (Averroes 1974, 30:7–9). When educating the masses, rulers and guardians must lie and deceive to some extent. The chiefs’ lying to the multitude will be appropriate for them in the respect in which a drug is appropriate for a disease. Just as it is only the physician who prescribes a drug, so is it the king who lies to the multitude concerning affairs of the realm. That is because untrue stories are necessary for the teaching of the citizens. No bringer of a nomos is to be found who does not make use of invented stories, for this is something necessary for the multitude to reach their happiness. Above all, they ought to reject statements that conduce to [preoccupation with the] pleasures. (Averroes 1974, 32:18–24)

One interesting lie concerns the story of immortality in heaven. At the end of his treatises on Plato’s Republic, Averroes addresses the rhetorical or dialectical argument that explains the idea of a soul that never dies. He focuses on Plato’s story and description of the bliss and delight that await the souls of the happy and the just, as opposed to what awaits tormented souls. Averroes remarks that stories of this kind are pointless. The virtues inspired by fear are not true virtues. “If one calls them virtues, it is [only] homonymously.” “They belong to the remote imitations” (Averroes 1974, 105:17–18). The idea of immortality is not the issue here. More to the point, what must be challenged is the idea of virtue driven by the hope for rewards and the fear of punishments in the next life. This kind of

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untruth should be avoided. It does not help a man become virtuous (Averroes 1974, 105:19–21). Likewise, education should leave no room for base poems, fables, or legends that instil fear and softheartedness in young souls (Averroes 1974, 30:3–22; 31:2–4; 34:14–16; 35:4). They are untrue and harmful. The life of virtue that prevails in Averroes’ quasi-perfect city is not without cost. The Islamic philosopher cites verses from the Quran where God shows kindness by creating the two sexes and giving us the Earth for a bed (Averroes 1921, p. 59). The Lord made the night for us to rest and the day to gain our livelihoods, under a lamp burning in the seven heavens. He sends down abundant rain from the clouds so that we may grow corn, herbs, and rich gardens. All the same, a good measure of courage is needed to enjoy so much kindness while also bearing the sadness and burdens of life on Earth. For Averroes, this is where high spirit and discipline make a difference. They help our intellect gain ascendency over the physical body and the body social, in pursuit of political objectives and victory in holy wars, towards an earthly imitation of the future life of the soul dwelling in an elusive “garden of paradise.” We know from history that the idea of a holy and just war is not exclusive to Averroes’ rendering of Islam. From the eleventh to the thirteenth centuries, many theologians and spokesmen for the church enthusiastically supported military expeditions to the Holy Land. The writings of Bernard of Clairvaux, Ramon Lull, and Bonaventure, to whom we now turn, reflect this crusading spirit and fear-based approach to the politics of courage.

References Alcuin of York. 2015. Book about the Virtues and Vices. Trans. R. Stone. The Heroic Age: A Journal of Early Medieval Northwestern Europe 16. ———. 2016. Alcuin of York on Revelation. Trans. S. Van Der Pas. West Monroe, LA: Consolamini. Averroes. 1921. The Philosophy and Theology of Averroes, Tractacta. Trans. M. Jamil-Ub-Behman Barod. Baroda: Manibhai Mathurbhal Gupta.

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———. 1974. Averroes on Plato’s Republic. Trans. with Intro. and Notes R. Lerner. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press. Evagrius. 1846. The Ecclesiastical History: A History of the Church in Six Books, from A.D. 431 to A.D. 594. Trans. E. Walford. London, UK: S. Bagster and Sons. Gregory the Great. 1844. Morals on the Book of Job. In Three Volumes. Trans. J. H. Parker, J. G. F. and J. Rivington. London: Oxford University Press. ———. 1895a. Pastoral Rule. Trans. J.  Barmby. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 12. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. ———. 1895b. Register of Letters. Trans. J. Barmby. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 12. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing. Third Council of Constantinople. 1900. Trans. H. Percival. In Nicene and Post-­ Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 14. Ed. P. Schaff and H. Wace. Rev. and ed. for New Advent K. Knight. Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing.

13 Crusading and Dying for Christ

F ear and War: Bernard of Clairvaux and Ramon Llull Averroes’ Islamic reinterpretation of Plato is a high point in the mediaeval revival of classical philosophy. His religious take on virtue-based wisdom prepares the ground for explaining Christian doctrine in rational terms, adapting it to suit the rise of scholastic theology, a hallmark of the high mediaeval period. However, not all leaders of the church are ready to make the shift. Some hold on to the ethos of fear dating back to the Scriptures and, more importantly, the achievement of church power and its hegemonic role in history. Bernard of Clairvaux, Bonaventure, and Ramon Llull fall into this camp. An image that encapsulates their understanding of the meaning of fearful and noble courage is the lamb obedient to the Good Shepherd, a model of meekness vindicated by the two-horned Lamb of Revelation 17. Even more combative language is found in Llull’s well-armed knights mounted on horses trained for battle. John of Naples, Godfrey of Fontaines, and Henry of Ghent share similar views.

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Bernard of Clairvaux (1090–1153 AD) values the contribution of virtue-­based wisdom to church doctrine. However, his stance on fortitude is a melange of Aristotelian, Ambrosian, and Augustinian ideas peppered with allusions to godly fear, the exercise of church authority, and the politics of war in the Holy Land. When it comes to the rational foundations of courage, the French abbot argues for the delightfully harmonious connexion between the virtues, and their dependence one upon another. In the present instance, for example, Prudence is the mother of Fortitude, nor ought any deed of daring to be called fortitude, but rather rashness, if it be not the child of prudence. (Bernard 1908, 1:9)

In this unbroken whole of virtue, consisting of four cardinal virtues within seven virtues, fortitude is responsible for ensuring the efficacy of justice and the satisfaction of desire that conforms with the principle of moderation in all things (Bernard 1909, 16, 22). This is the Aristotelian mean, or “narrow channel which lies between too little on the one side, and too much on the other” (Bernard 1908, 1:10). At the risk of confusing everyone, he claims that observing the mean is a mark of fortitude, and indeed any virtue: Is not Fortitude above all things necessary to put forth its power and rescue Moderation from the assaults of vices which on every side try to strangle it? And once it is free, is it not Fortitude that makes it a solid foundation of goodness, and the abode of virtue? Therefore, to keep the mean is Justice, Temperance, Fortitude. (Bernard 1908, 1:11)

The power of fortitude is needed to enforce the rational mean in all matters. Christ, however, stands above reason and wisdom. He is the Lord of Virtues. Faith in him and his doctrine is the ultimate source of both prudence and fortitude. It shows up in acts of manly courage and patience that are rooted in humility, fear of the Lord, and suffering for his sake, as exemplified by the chief pontiff, Christian martyrs, and Jesus dying on the cross. Echoing the combative mood of the Nicene and post-­ Nicene Church Fathers, Clairvaux adds that voluntary suffering endured

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with joy and courage brings rewards other than redemption in heaven. One reward is the exercise of authority and the achievement of political power. Another is victory in war. The abbot believes in the sanctity of holy war, marching against the heathens in the age of the Crusades. Fortitude in faith enables the soldiers of Christ to instil fear among their enemies, repel their assaults, conquer kingdoms, possess their gates, subdue the tyranny of men, and secure the rightful inheritance of believers, to be enjoyed both on Earth and in heaven (Bernard 1908, 2:13; 1909, 16, 20, 22, 27, 43, 61, 70, 76, 85; 1920: 1920, Advent Hom. 2, 6; Christmas 8:2). Another telling example of how virtue-based ethics can mix with the fear of God and justify military activity is The Book of the Order of Chivalry, a classic late thirteenth-century manual on mediaeval knighthood. Ramon Llull (1232–1316 AD), the author of the book, was initially trained as a man-at-arms and became a carefree knight at the courts of James I the Conqueror, King of Aragon, and King James II of Majorca. At the age of thirty-one, Llull experienced several visions of Christ, leading him to become a prolific scholar and a devout missionary of the Christian faith. The book was written in the wake of the second crusade of King Louis IX of France (1214–1270 AD), which ended in utter failure. It proposes a total reform of the Order of Chivalry so that its members can regulate themselves and “rule all the people of this world” (Llull 2013, 2:7). The ethical framework presented in this propagandistic treatise uses the fear of God as a cornerstone of Christian chivalry. The knight must develop the habit of praying and fearing his Lord. “Through such a habit the knight will think of death and the vileness of this world and he will beseech heavenly glory from God and fear the torments of hell, and will therefore practise the virtues and habits that pertain to the Order of Chivalry” (Llull 2013, 6:18; see 3:2; 6:11). But if truth, justice, and peace are to prevail, each knight must inspire fear through his own display of courage and strength of arms (Llull 2013, 1:6, 11, 15; 2:12; 7:4). For Llull, the politics of fear are fully compatible with a rational view of Christian ethics and the fortitude of the soul. In his description of the knight’s way of life, he discusses the noble qualities of his rational spirit and sevenfold spirit of virtue, as envisioned by Philip the Chancellor and Aquinas (see Chap. 14).

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Every knight must know the seven virtues that are the root and beginning of all good habits and the pathways and roads to heavenly glory everlasting. Of those seven virtues, three are theological and four cardinal. The theological ones are faith, hope and charity. The cardinal ones are justice, prudence, fortitude and temperance. (Llull 2013, 6:2; see 3:4)

The treatise delves into the implications of each of the seven virtues. Even though fortitude does not rank highly in scholastic ethics, it receives considerable attention. The words “fortitude” and “courage” are used more than a hundred times, which is far more than any other virtue. This is understandable, given the focus of Llull’s book. A more important feature of the author’s thinking is his tendency to minimise human suffering as the litmus test of Christian valour. The ability to withstand terrible pain and hardship is practically absent from the text. Attributes that matter more include manly discipline and proper education, rational thinking, showing loyalty and mercy, resisting lust and pleasures of the flesh, conquering all vices (including avarice, envy, and treachery), and being patient and humble in all circumstances (Llull 2013, 1:2, 7; 2:17–18, 20, 27; 3:18; 5:5, 9; 6:9–16). These habits are closely associated with the nobility of courage, which is suited to those whose mission is not to become martyrs but rather to “vanquish and destroy the enemies of the Cross with the sword” (Llull 2013, 2:7; 5:2; 6:4). Valour guided by reason leads to victory. But what should we think of armed conflicts where non-Christians are recruited to serve in a just war? Should a Christian king hire brave Muslim mercenaries to fight for a Christian commonwealth? Is the king entitled to “use for his own good someone else’s evil”? This is the question that the fourteenth-century Dominican scholar John of Naples asks and answers in the affirmative. Anyone who fights for the commonwealth of believers against unjust attackers can show virtue and bravery, “since love of what is just and morally honorable seems to be natural” (John of Naples 2001, p.  336). However, several conditions must be satisfied. The church must not condemn it; there are not enough Christian soldiers to fight the war; the number of non-Christian soldiers is too small to take command of Christian troops; and believers are not at risk of being contaminated by

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unbelief. If these conditions are met, non-believers are allowed to fight a righteous war against attackers, rebels, dictators, and enemy rulers (John of Naples 2001, p. 341).

Logic, Causality, and Metaphor: Bonaventure Clairvaux and Llull see no problem in using philosophy to uphold their vision of Christian fortitude and hegemony. However, not all high mediaeval philosophers are convinced of the compatibility between fear-based ethics and the ancient lessons of moral wisdom. For some, serious precautions must be taken when using the logic of philosophy to establish the primacy of church theology. Bonaventure (c. 1217–1274 AD) provides an example of this conservative line of thinking, which is reminiscent of pre-Nicene Christianity. He shows considerable ambivalence with respect to the reasoned marriage of two traditions with radically different foundations. I now turn to his writings and his wavering between two positions on the question of virtue and courage. His first position consists of reiterating Aristotle’s notion of courage as an intermediary state between faintheartedness and rashness. Fortitude is the prudent middle path, forming a cohesive whole with other virtues and providing the strength to endure and withstand all forms of adversity. His second position downplays the wisdom of philosophy, using scriptural imagery and metaphors to reinstate the politics of fear and the promises of the Almighty. Being humble before the Lord is both the reason why Christians show courage and the source of rewards in real battles against enemies of the church. For Bonaventure, virtue in general is “strength of the mind for the performance of good and the avoidance of evil” (Bonaventure 1970, 6:13). Fortitude is a particular kind of strength, one that is concerned with fears and acts of valour. It is a disposition to bear terrible adversity with stable strength (Bonaventure 1970, 5:2, 7). The threat of death is the ultimate test of man’s fortitude (Bonaventure 1888, p. xxix). As in classical Greek philosophy, courage resides in the soul, not the body. It “lifts the spirit above the fear of danger, is afraid of nothing besides evil,

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and sustains adversity and prosperity with equal strength” (Bonaventure 1970, 6:29). Bonaventure expands on these definitions using three methods well known to the Scholastics: classificatory logic, causal reasoning, and metaphorical elucidation. As in Aristotle’s approach to ethics, classificatory logic helps him arrange virtues in categories and place them in a logical hierarchy. Causal reasoning helps him make sense of how virtues reinforce each other at the same time as they are driven by one of them, namely prudence. His metaphorical elucidation of the virtues adds another layer of complexity to the discussion, but it also pulls it in a different direction, more in line with a fear-based and crusading approach to Christianity. His use of metaphor includes “tropological” thinking on the moral lessons of a story (e.g., the soldier of Christ trope) and “typological” reflections on allegorical connections between events in the life of Christ and stories of Old Testament characters (e.g., Samson losing his hair). To this, Bonaventure adds “anagogical” interpretations based on Christian prophecies that concern the last judgement and the related hopes of life in heaven and fears of death in hell. Following Plato and Ambrose, the Seraphic Doctor uses classificatory logic to advance a fourfold framing of cardinal virtues, namely moderation, prudence, fortitude, and justice (Bonaventure 1970, 6:9). He also extends the Aristotelian logic of binarism and intermediation to the virtues, treating each good habit as the middle point between two extremes. Fortitude is the midpoint between the passions of fear and rashness, just as temperance is halfway between pain and pleasure. Those who possess the habit of fortitude are neither fainthearted nor rash (Bonaventure 1970, 5:2, 7, 12). As in the Stoic tradition, they also know how to ignore passions as opposed to moderating them. This inclines them to desire nothing and makes them incapable of anger (Bonaventure 1970, 6:31). Fortitude, however, does not occupy the highest rank within Bonaventure’s hierarchy of virtues. All virtuous deeds are rather dependent on the exercise of wisdom and prudence, which come first and guide the others. Fortitude prevents the soul from being terrified “as it recedes in a certain way from the body under the leadership of philosophy, nor horrified by the loftiness of the perfect ascent toward things on high”

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(Bonaventure 1970, 6:26). Because it helps achieve a happy medium in the pursuit of goodness, prudence is the driver of the virtues. Wherefore prudence says: I have found the proper measure; and temperance acts as a watchman and says: I too wanted this; and justice acts as a distributor, willing not only for itself, but also for the other; and because many adversities occur after that, fortitude acts as a defender, lest the proper measure be lost. (Bonaventure 1970, 6:12)

Moral goodness hinges on the rule of prudence. But the virtues are also causally interconnected. Each virtue is dependent upon the others. For temperance must be prudent, justice strong, while prudence must be sober, just and strong, etc. Gregory writes: “How can a man be strong unless he is prudent?” Foolhardy is he who attempts what is beyond his strength. And so, the virtues are interrelated. (Bonaventure 1970, 6:13)

Even though it ranks below prudence, fortitude causes all virtues to grow in strength, as Christ commands (Bonaventure 2008, 5:7). It helps develop and stabilise all good habits (Bonaventure 1970, 6:32). It takes courage to endure hardship, resist temptations, and persevere in fighting anger, envy, greed, laziness, pride, gluttony, and lust (Bonaventure 1855, 1:24, 70; 2:148, 150, 154, 230, 284, 345). Thus, something is called virtuous if it has stability and fortitude in resisting all sins of the flesh (Bonaventure 1854). The conduct is worth praising because it is perfectly strong and uplifting, and it is never “weakened by faintheartedness, as long as God chooses to flow into it” (Bonaventure 1970, 21:33). A finer aspect of Bonaventure’s approach to fortitude concerns its internal logic: the virtue contains three parts that evolve at a lower level, below the general definition. The comments he makes on this matter are not always consistent. In one passage, he claims that fortitude implies “magnanimity, confidence, security, magnificence, constancy, tolerance, and firmness” (Bonaventure 1970, 6:29). Elsewhere, magnanimity is on the same level as fortitude, in a list of six good habits that help combat “spiritual disgust, sloth and laziness,” leaving out any reference to the fear

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factor as the main concern (Bonaventure 1970, 5:11). To complicate things further, courage is sometimes contrasted with the sadness of someone who is disheartened and prone to despair (Bonaventure 1855, 2:131, 134). A clearer statement about the habit of fortitude is that it consists of “confidence in attacking, patience in confronting, and perseverance in enduring” (Bonaventure 1970, 6:17). The role of patience is particularly important here. A spiritual man who possesses patience is better than a warrior. He can conquer a city because he knows how to rule his temper (Bonaventure 1970, 5:2, 7). Despite its inconsistencies, Bonaventure’s classificatory and causal analysis of fortitude is generally consistent with Aristotelian philosophy. The same cannot be said of his metaphorical reflections on this topic. His typological, tropological, and anagogical commentaries point to what is essentially an ethos of fear and conquest, with practically no guidance from philosophy. Some of his metaphors echo Stoic and Neoplatonic comments about the place of virtues in the universe. Confident that order exists everywhere and at all levels, Bonaventure draws parallels between the four cardinal virtues and all other things divided into four parts, leading to a holistic view of all interrelated parts and aspects of the cosmos. In the larger scheme of things, fortitude is the virtue associated with the north, the river Tigris, the power of fire, the red dye of a ram’s skin, and the principle of efficient causality (Bonaventure 1970, 6:17, 21; 7:14, 17). However, his use of biblical imagery is bursting with greater imagination and aligns more closely with church doctrine and the politics of fear. Although the lessons he reads from the Scriptures are somewhat convoluted, the Franciscan theologian reaffirms a paradox at the core of the Christian creed: devotional fear, weakness, and infirmity breed the opposite habit of courage and moral strength, which in turn leads to victory in war. The dialectics of meekness and might are best illustrated in his evocations of the manly and womanly aspects of Christian fortitude. Many of his commentaries on virtue highlight the virile strength and manly heart required to perform the strong works of virtue (Bonaventure 1970, 6:23). Stories that illustrate this train of thought revolve around the hair of mighty Samson, the mighty archangel Gabriel acting as “the fortitude of God,” and the seven horns of the Lamb of God or Saviour struggling

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against the seven sins at the end of time (Bonaventure 2008, 5:6). Military images of the fortitude needed to weaken the violence of enemy attacks reinforce the message of manly courage. Believers who possess a perfect heart as strong as a castle and the “inexpungable shield of faith” are not afraid of the roaring lion prowling at night. They are made strong in war, which puts them in a position to “extinguish all the fiery darts of the worthless” and conquer kingdoms and the fortitude of the devil (Bonaventure 2008, 5:10). In the same vein, Bonaventure uses kingly metaphors to portray God presiding over the world like a monarch endowed with supreme fortitude. He declares the Lord to be perfectly authentic in establishing the laws, strong or virile in administering power, unconquered in overcoming enemies, so that He come forth as the Victor. Authority pertains to the Son insofar as He is in the Father; virility, insofar as He is in Himself; triumph, insofar as He is in the Holy Spirit. And these are the characteristics of the intermediate hierarchy of angels, which is appropriated to the Son, as will be evident. (Bonaventure 1970, 21:14, see 25)

In his capacity as monarch, the Lord exerts absolute power and presides with supreme fortitude. But fortitude also lies in the unwavering solace of hope he offers and the prospect of a future and eternal reward. Given this source of strength, the faithful “will assume wings as eagles, they will run and they will not labor; they will walk and they will not become weak” (Bonaventure 2008, 5:11). Moreover, with hope comes love. Fortitude provides the “inextinguishable kindling of charity,” hence a love that is strong as death and conquers all things. “If we have not been bound with the Lord through charity, we easily let go of our fortitude” (Bonaventure 2008, 5:12). Bonaventure sees manliness in the courage to conquer and impose the rule of Christian hope and love. However, womanly courage can also edify the people of God. The Mother Church and the Virgin Mary are models of spiritual fortitude in their own right. Signs of masculine strength can be attributed to them. Standing tall with necks resembling the Tower of David, they are said to possess the armour of the strong and powerful shields and ramparts to protect themselves and their land

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against evil enemies (Bonaventure 2008, 5:1–2; 6:22; 7:1–2). Images that are properly feminine are also relevant for describing the implications of fortitude. Evocations of the works of flax and wool are a good example of fortitude expressed in the feminine form. The virtue is compared to clothing that covers and protects the body and is made by the careful and “wise” work of women’s hands. As the body is embellished from habit, so the soul is embellished from fortitude; for that reason it is called a piece of clothing for the soul; nor is only fortitude a piece of clothing for the soul, and/or for the glorious Virgin, nay rather (also) for Mother Church Gifts. (Bonaventure 2008, 5:3)

Interestingly, fortitude is described as a “habit” in both senses of the word: a tendency or disposition of the soul and the customary dress or apparel of a particular rank. When properly dressed, the woman’s body acts as a womb-like enclosure, guarding the purity of life. She is an “enceinte,” the French word for “pregnant,” and an encircling fortification, walling people inside and out (Bonaventure 2008, 5:3, 8). Using another clothing metaphor, Bonaventure compares the protection that fortitude gives to a woman’s shoes; in it lies “the foundation of virtue” needed to walk the path of righteousness (Bonaventure 2008, 7:18). Fortitude can be either masculine or feminine. What is the point of this ambiguous use of symbols? Could it be just another way of establishing the middle way between two extremes, i.e., the right measure of man’s towering strength and woman’s struggle to preserve her purity? Not really. Bonaventure’s metaphorical commentaries call for a deeper analysis of the biblical dialectics of meekness and mightiness, an unbalanced relationship where feminine weakness and fear act as the ultimate source of godlike strength. The relationship between the two genders is inherently asymmetrical, just like the relationship between the Lord and his faithful servant. The moral is relatively simple: the Mother Church must be humble and fear her supreme Lord in heaven if she is to obtain protection from him and receive the blessings of manly fortitude needed to overcome the enemy. In this approach to Christian virtue, manly strength on its own is inherently flawed.

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The story of strong-haired Samson, who feared nothing and succumbed to the charm of the prostitute Delilah, drives the argument home. He was the strongest man and his fortitude went above nature. And why was his fortitude in his seven hairs? I say, that the seven hairs signified the septiform grace of the Holy Spirit, through which his fortitude was strengthened. But when he reclined in the lap of Delilah and had not his hair, he became in strength as all other men. (Bonaventure 2008, 1:11; see 5:8)

Because he dreaded nothing and let his guard down, Samson lost his hair and then had every reason to worry. “He who does not fear God, fear Him everywhere.” Although a man may be powerful, rich, knowledgeable, and strong, “unless he fears God, it is worth nothing to him” (Bonaventure 2008, 2:15). Fearlessness is a self-defeating sentiment that inevitably leads to overwhelming fear. By inverting the relationship between dread and daring, the Mother Church offers a solution to this conundrum. Because she fears God, she has every reason to trust him and feel secure everywhere, under his protection (Bonaventure 2008, 2:21). She is a model of virtue in that she does not desire the fortitude of a horse or the swiftness of a man’s feet. Nor does she take pride in her own fortitude. Rather, she delights in trembling before the Lord, knowing that her salvation is fraught with fear. Given her perfection in the fear of the Lord, she can run to her Lord and find safety under a tower of perfect firmness and trust (Bonaventure 1970, 23:33). Her fear of the Lord is a tower of fortitude. Infirmity is the source of true strength. Although a monarch, the Redeemer sets the example. He is mightier than any armed strongman “because what is infirm in God is stronger than men.” “The Son of God was made infirm for our sake” (Bonaventure 2008, 5:6). Showing himself to be “a most meek lamb,” Christ was “altogether dumb and silent before them that fleece him, mock him, and scourge him.” He willingly and patiently suffered wrongs and pains ranging from imprisonment to being spat at, drinking vinegar and gall, wearing a crown of thorns, and dying on the cross. He resisted the normal urge to run away from these ordeals and was thus able to subdue the devil inside him. By dying, he “destroyed

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death.” Valiant champions of Christ are expected to imitate him for the glory of God and save both their souls and those of others (Bonaventure 1907, pp. 49–50, 90, 289). As in the story of Samson, fortitude is a gift of grace from the Holy Spirit, a blessing that may be lost through acts of moral weakness and sin. This begs the question: is a show of moral strength required to obtain the grace of God, or is it the other way around? Bonaventure adopts the latter stance, after Augustine and the Scriptures. Fortitude is a gift from the Holy Spirit to the Mother Church. The latter is clothed with the “habit of fortitude” that comes from heaven, not from its army of soldiers (Bonaventure 2008, 5:6). Her tower of strength originates from the eternal God. Fortitude thus “descends from God protecting us as from the First Principle according to hierarchical dispositions; which fortitude renders every man rich and secure and powerful and confident” (Bonaventure 2008, 5:5). Fortitude is God’s reward for those who tremble in his presence. But where does this fear of God that gives strength come from in the first place, if not from God himself? According to Bonaventure, fear itself is a blessing from heaven and a necessary condition for developing the habit of fortitude, with God’s grace. As with magnanimity, the fortitude of fear originates from God, not from man (Bonaventure 2008, 5:11). Given this line of reasoning, fortitude ranks only fourth, well below the gift of godly fear, which comes first, followed by the gifts of piety and knowledge needed to pray, or to “ask well and avoid evils” (Bonaventure 2008, 2:5). In the end, it is the gift of pious fear that gives fortitude, creates trust, and relieves all fears. Provided that she fears God, the Mother Church can transform herself into an army of manly soldiers strong enough to resist evil and conquer the world. She then gains the power to stay away from “things lascivious and effeminate” and prevent any desire planted in the tree of evil from entering her heart. So long as she keeps her heart and body clean, “the winding serpent finds no entrance,” and “there is not found an effeminate thought, or if per chance there be, it is presently expelled with all violence and disgrace” (Bonaventure 1907, p. 51). The language used here is full of sexual innuendos and reinforces the idea that Christian men are in charge.

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Men and women who receive the gift of pious fear are rewarded with fortitude and relief from anguish and despair in this world. Surrounded by the shield of his truth, they are no longer scared of wandering in the dark at night, arrows flying at them during the day, or being invaded by evil forces (Bonaventure 2008, 2:21). But the gift of fortitude brings other rewards as well. It enables the faithful to accomplish manly things, most notably the Mother Church’s strong works of providing wise counsel and patiently holding the spindle, a symbol for teaching Christian doctrine. Fortitude also serves to “cast down the powers of the air.” That is, anyone blessed with it can be a prince of the Christian militia, leading an army to conquer the malignant one (Bonaventure 2008, 5:13–14). Believers who receive the gift have the power to endure worldly tribulations for the love of God and thus set an example of virtue for all. They walk cleanly and strongly, girding their loins with fortitude in the service of God. They ask the Lord to rule and guide them in this mortal life so that “they may be able to obtain the aforesaid gifts of the Holy Spirit and arrive at that ineffable joy, in which there lives and reigns He, whom we will see, love and praise” (Bonaventure 2008, 5:15). Pious fear and the fortitude it provides are gifts that God bestows. But the Lord can take his gifts away without compensation. While they can be prayed for, gifts can be lost as God wills.

 od, Courage, and the Common Good: G Avicenna and Albert the Great Bonaventure is a leading figure of the Franciscan order, founded by Francis of Assisi in 1209. Unlike Bernard of Clairvaux and the secular Franciscan scholar Ramon Llull, his views on courage speak little to matters of war outside the realm of metaphor. His understanding of moral strength tends to be inward-looking, building on the Augustinian and Neoplatonic traditions with some elements borrowed from Stoicism and Aristotelian ethics. Albert the Great (c. 1200–1280), an influential member of the rival Dominican order, takes an approach that is considerably more rational and Aristotelian in spirit. The German friar and bishop

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shows less concern for the politics of devotional fear and hegemonic dominance and more for the rule of deliberative wisdom, justice, and charity towards the common good. Inspired by the intellectualism of Philip the Chancellor, he views the habit of courage as the virtue that brings rational order and perfection to human emotions. The habit is aroused from without (illata) and formed through experience. It has four “inferior parts,” a list borrowed from the Stoic tradition and further discussed by Aquinas: namely, magnificence, confidence, patience, and perseverance (Albert 2001, pp.  135–36). Unlike courage, temperance is a virtue concerned with carnal desires, which are generated from within the person (innata). Both virtues involve the sense of touch and result in pleasure or pain (Houser 2004, pp. 122–23). The unity of such virtues achieves its highest level through the perfection of grace, which affects the entire soul, and through the exercise of charity and the gaining of related merit. But it can also be enhanced through the rule of justice, which “directs us to others as we ought” (Houser 2004, pp. 148–49). Albert’s understanding of philosophy is influenced by the writings of Aristotle, as interpreted by Avicenna (Ibn Sina) (c. 980–1037), the first major philosopher in the Islamic tradition. In The Metaphysics of the Healing, the Persian polymath follows Aristotle’s logic in arguing that courage is the opposite of “noncourage,” a negative term that brings together both qualities of rashness and cowardice (Avicenna 2005, VII 1:17). He holds that courage involves “moderation in all the irascible passions, such as fear, anger, depression, pride, rancour, jealousy, and the like” (Avicenna 2005, X 5:11). The disposition or habit forms part of a triad of virtues that comprise temperance and practical wisdom, both of which pertain to worldly actions and behaviours. Temperance calls for “moderation in such appetites as the pleasure of sex, food, clothing, and comfort.” As for prudence, it is moderation in all matters. When the three virtues are brought together, they add up to justice, understood as the prescription of laws regarding morals and customs for the protection of reciprocal transactions, human partnership, and the survival of the species. Without justice and lawmakers defending it, people simply follow their own opinions, “each considering as just what others owe them, unjust what they owe others” (Avicenna 2005, X 2:3). However, Avicenna goes on to claim that the happy man is the one who reaches an even

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higher level by combining justice with speculative wisdom; he has knowledge of God and the first and ultimate causes of everything that exists. Also, “whoever in addition to this, wins the prophetic qualities becomes almost a human god” (Avicenna 2005, X 5:11). The imam philosopher, as a prophet, is closer to the divine than the Greek philosopher. “Worship of him, after the worship of God, exalted be He, becomes almost [h]allowed.” “He is indeed the world’s earthly king and God’s deputy in it.” Avicenna and the Scholastics share the view that knowledge of God, or divine science, ranks above the four cardinal virtues. There is nonetheless some dispute about the relative position of courage and justice in relation to other virtues. For Philip the Chancellor and Aquinas, justice is not high on the ladder of virtues. Albert’s view of how justice plays a unifying role is more in line with Avicenna’s conception of virtue. This brings me to Albert’s analysis of different kinds of danger and levels of courage in relation to justice and their direct implications for the exercise of civic duty and the use of legitimate force in social history. In Albert’s mind, courage is the special habit that concerns “the greatest externally impressed difficulty” and “the arduous and resolute for the sake of the [civic] good.” The habit changes as it ascends from lower to higher levels. The lowest level of courage deals with death-related hardships, such as infirmity, sieges, persecution, and shipwrecks. Being brave in the face of disease or bad luck comes second. However, saints raise the bar even higher by embracing the general struggle against desires of the flesh and the devil himself. A form of courage that comes close involves death that is freely accepted and is displayed by martyrs and warriors alike (Houser 2004, pp. 61–62). This is the level where courage expresses the “political” or “civic” character of the cardinal virtues by helping governments reach perfection and create the best conditions for their citizens (Houser 2004, p. 124). Courage, like other virtues, is required to “produce a good state of one person with another within the order of citizenry” (Houser 2004, p. 136). Understood in their strict sense, “civic” virtues are the dispositions that citizens have towards one another. They differ from military virtues, which are used to wage just wars against the enemy (Albert 2001, p. 100).

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Other thirteenth-century theologians follow Albert’s lead and use scholastic reasoning to promote church power and the politics of courage in civil society. They nonetheless bring a new focus to the ethics of courage by debating the relationship between self-interest, battles for the common good, and the love of God. Claims and counterclaims about the political and military implications of selfishness and selflessness will garner more attention in the early modern period, starting with the sixteenth-century writings of Machiavelli. In this regard, Henry of Ghent and Godfrey of Fontaines lay the groundwork. Their focus is on man’s happiness and loyalty to his country, from a mediaeval Christian perspective. Henry of Ghent (1217–1293 AD), a contemporary of Aquinas and student of Albert, seeks to reconcile Aristotelian ethics with Augustinian theology. He believes that both Christians and non-Christians ought to lay down their lives to protect their friends as well as the laws and the freedom of their community or country, if necessary. The Doctor Solemnis is of the view that all virtuous souls should choose this course of action, whether they be socially and politically active citizens or contemplative individuals cut off from society. This is what reason and the laws of Nature dictate, for the sake of what is good, which is the goal of virtue. But there are also personal benefits to virtuous behaviour, most notably the avoidance of harm or displeasure. Someone who dies for the common good would be more miserable were he to remain shamefully alive and put himself in danger of spiritual death. This does not mean that acts of self-sacrifice should be inspired by some rash decision or any selfish motive such as glory, honour, greed, or the fear of penalty. Henry disagrees that “dying for the sake of the commonwealth is not only better in itself (because it is for the sake of more people) but also better for the individual,” as Aquinas and Aristotle thought (Henry 2001, p. 263). The gesture does not bring happiness. At best, the benefit of making the ultimate sacrifice is a “negative good,” which consists of avoiding the evil of guilt. Addressing the same topic, Godfrey of Fontaines (c. 1250–1309 AD) brings into question Henry’s distinction between the negative goodness of self-sacrifice and the positive goodness of a truly selfless act. This leads him to defend Aquinas’ view of the organic relationship between a person’s happiness and the well-being of the community. He models this

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relationship after the bond that unites the love of self with the love of God. Natural reason requires that the love of self be perfected through the love of others and the love of God above all, because God is the common good of all things. Pious souls that die bravely for the commonwealth must not first and foremost seek their own greater good or happiness, as some readings of Aristotle suggest. Nor should contemplative individuals lay down their lives mostly for the personal good of not feeling guilt, as Henry suggests. Rather, “reason and the natural order demand that each individual should so love himself that he wills the best goods for himself and does what is suitable for himself by loving God more than himself because this is his most perfect act” (Godfrey 2001, p. 282). His approach to Christian courage, unlike that of Henry, aligns more closely with Aristotelian ethics than with the Augustinian tradition. Henry and Godfrey reflect on the relationship between faith-based selflessness and the pursuit of personal happiness and the common good in the present world. They do not articulate, however, a novel and coherent framework for the ethics of courage. The same can be said of Clairvaux, Llull, Bonaventure, and Albert. Clairvaux acknowledges the unity of virtues, guided by the epistemic principles of middle-of-the-road moderation and prudence in all matters. But most of his comments on fortitude underline the absolute primacy of religious belief over rational understanding and suffering over wellness in this life. They also reaffirm the fear-based politics of Christian faith, with an emphasis on the soldierly approach to the exercise of authority and the use of force against enemies of the church. Unlike Clairvaux, Llull is not inclined to sublimate weakness and martyrdom in the name of God. He also has more to say about fortitude, its properties, and its relationship to other virtues. His endorsement of the Order of Chivalry nonetheless shows an equally strong commitment to the warlike spirit of his age. The crusading politics of faith, fear, and military strength take precedence over all other considerations. Bonaventure brings a more systematic approach to the ethics of courage and looks deeper into the epistemic implications of Platonic and Aristotelian philosophy. Yet his teachings waver between different definitions of fortitude. More importantly, his metaphorical commentaries indicate a strong inclination to fall back on the politics of fear, the ethics of humble submission to God’s will, and the sublimity of pious suffering

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in this world. The same ambivalence is found in the writings of Albert, except that he comes closer to tipping the balance in favour of love and civic justice over the ethos of fear. The high mediaeval period saw the rise of several highly influential thinkers who worked towards a more complete incorporation of Aristotelian ethics into church thinking. As discussed in the following chapter, Peter Lombard, Philip the Chancellor, and other theologians keep a safe distance from real-world politics and the Crusades and proclaim the higher rule of Christian love and charity. Their use of scholastic logic and reasoning to promote Christian doctrine culminates in the Summa Theologica, written by the Dominican priest and friar Thomas Aquinas.

References Albert the Great. 2001. Questions on Book X of the Ethics. In The Cambridge Translations of Medieval Philosophical Texts, Vol. 2: Ethics and Political Philosophy, ed. A.S.  McGrade, J.  Kilcullen, and M.  Kempshall, 12–168. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Avicenna. 2005. The Metaphysics of The Healing. Trans. M.E. Marmura. Provo, Utah: Brigham Young University Press. Bernard of Clairvaux. 1908. On Consideration. Trans. G.  Lewis. Oxford: Clarendon. ———. 1909. St. Bernard’s Sermons on the Canticle of Canticles. Trans. and Intro. J.C. Hedley. London: Washbourne. ———. 1920. Sermons of Saint Bernard on Advent and Christmas. In Two volumes. Trans. priest of Mount Helleray. Dublin: Browne and Nolan. Bonaventure. 1854. Les vertus: Les degrés de la fortitude. In Oeuvres spirituelles de S.  Bonaventure, trans. M. l’Abbé Berthaumier, Tome deuxième. Paris: Louis Vivès. ———. 1855. De l’avancement spirituel des religieux. In Oeuvres spirituelles de S.  Bonaventure, trans. M. l’Abbé Berthaumier, Tome sixième. Paris: Louis Vivès. ———. 1888. The Life of Christ. Trans. and ed. W.H.  Hutchings. London: Rivingtons.

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———. 1907. That Is, the Goad of Divine Love. Trans. B.L. Augustine and ed. W.A. Phillipson. Glasgow: Washbourne. ———. 1970. Collations on the Six Days. In The Works of Bonaventure, Vol. 5, trans. J. De Vinck. Paterson, NJ: St. Anthony Guild Press. ———. 2008. Collations on the Seven Gifts of the Holy Spirit. In Works of St. Bonaventure, Vol. 14, Intro. and trans. Z. Hayes. Allegany, NY: Franciscan Institute Publications. Godfrey of Fontaines. 2001. Does a Human Being Following the Dictates of Reason Have to Judge that He Ought to Love God More than Himself. In The Cambridge Translations of Medieval Philosophical Texts, Vol. 2: Ethics and Political Philosophy, ed. A.S.  McGrade, J.  Kilcullen, and M.  Kempshall, 271–284. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Henry of Ghent. 2001. Is It Rational for Someone without Hope of a Future Life to Choose to Die for the Commonwealth. In The Cambridge Translations of Medieval Philosophical Texts, Vol. 2: Ethics and Political Philosophy, ed. A.S.  McGrade, J.  Kilcullen, and M.  Kempshall, 257–270. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Houser, R.E. 2004. Introduction. In The Cardinal Virtues. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies. John of Naples. 2001. Should a Christian King Use Unbelievers to Defend his Kingdom? In The Cambridge Translations of Medieval Philosophical Texts, Vol.  2: Ethics and Political Philosophy, ed. A.S.  McGrade, J.  Kilcullen, and M. Kempshall, 326–348. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Llull, Ramon. 2013. The Book of the Order of Chivalry. Trans. N.  Fallows. Woodbridge, UK: Boydell.

14 Reason, Faith, and Charity

Levels of Fear and Love: Peter Lombard From roughly 1100 to 1700 AD, mediaeval scholastic philosophy dominated university instruction in Europe and gave rise to several intellectual currents. Bernard of Clairvaux, Ramon Llull, and Bonaventure draw some inspiration from the Greco-Roman framing of virtue. But they weaponise the fear of God and the gift of courage to support church hegemony in the material world. Albert the Great takes scholastic reasoning in a different direction, towards a more rational, civic, and God-­ loving approach to Christian fortitude. Peter Lombard, Philip the Chancellor, and Thomas Aquinas share Albert’s positive outlook on the relationship between faith and philosophy. However, they go much further in synthesising the lessons of Aristotelian ethics and church doctrine. The focus of this chapter is on their pivotal contribution to moral philosophy and theology: teachings that shift the focus from politics to the ideals of human fellowship, free will, and devotional love. Born a century before Averroes, Archbishop Anselm of Canterbury (1033/4–1109 AD) sets the tone by emphasising the freedom of the will, the rank-ordering of “goods” (sought for their usefulness or for their own sake), the pursuit of justice above happiness, and the role of reason in © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32739-1_14

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supporting the Christian faith. However, while he makes many passing references to virtues and principles of moral psychology, his treatment of the subject is unsystematic, and little is said about fortitude as such. Peter Lombard, also known as “the celebrated theologian,” has more to say in this regard. He addresses many fundamental questions of Christian doctrine, including a long-standing issue in church history: the fear of God. His major work, The Sentences, written in the mid-twelfth century, was one of the most widely read and commented texts in mediaeval church history (Lombard 2014). Following the recommendation of the Fourth Lateran Council (1215 AD), it became the primary text for theology instruction in thirteenth- and fourteenth-century universities. The last section of Book Three lays out Lombard’s views on the theological and cardinal virtues (Dist. 23–33), the gifts of the Holy Spirit (Dist. 34–35), and the role of charity in Christian morals (Dist. 36). They are inspired by the writings of Augustine and, to a lesser extent, Ambrose, Gregory, Jerome, and Bede. Not much is said about fortitude, save for a short definition in his Augustinian list of cardinal virtues: “Justice consists in helping the wretched, prudence in guarding against treacheries, fortitude in bearing troubles, temperance in controlling evil pleasures” (Lombard 2014, Dist. 33). Lombard is more interested in answering questions pertaining to the higher virtues of faith, hope, and charity. One critical question he asks, however, concerns the politics of fear and the role it should play in placing one’s faith in Jesus compared with other motivations and goals in life. The issue, also raised by Augustine, is at the heart of church history. Is the fear of God to be exalted, as in early Christianity and the later teachings of Bernard of Clairvaux? Is it a virtue, the true source of moral life in all its manifestations, including courage in bearing trouble? Or should higher motives prevail, such as wisdom in the virtuous city ruled and protected by warrior-like philosophers, as in Averroes’ reading of Plato? Even though it is incomplete, Lombard’s position on this issue is clear: virtue is about charity, humility, and love, not about fear, let alone war. Following Ambrose, the Bishop of Paris mentions the fear of God as the last virtue in a list of seven gifts of the Holy Spirit. Six spiritual virtues come before it: wisdom, understanding, counsel, fortitude, science, and piety. Like Bede, he wonders if the fear of God will vanish in the future

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or if it will still be felt in heaven, as it is with all the virtues bestowed by the Holy Spirit. To the faithful, all that is good is promised at the end of time. But how can pious fear persist in heaven, in the presence of God? To resolve the dilemma, Lombard revisits and expands on Bede’s notion that there are different types of fear. The most basic expression of fear involves an inclination ingrained in human nature since the Fall of Adam and Eve. The fear that comes naturally to humans is both the consequence and the cause of evil and the original sin. It involves preoccupation with the dangers of walking in the flesh and the loss of worldly goods. “Servile fear” is the second type. It is characteristic of a servant who shows obedience mostly to avoid punishment for wrongdoing. Lombard admits that the journey on the path of justice and wisdom is initially motivated by the servile fear of burning with the devil in hell. Next comes “initial fear,” as he calls it. This is where charity and the love of God step in, and “what used to be hard begins to be loved.” Fear turns into an expression of respect for a loving father and the desire not to be separated from him. The faithful fear losing the good things they desire and start behaving virtuously for good reasons, willingly and wholeheartedly, because “we fear the bridegroom be late, lest he go away, lest we offend him, lest we be left without him.” “This fear comes from love.” A similar metaphor is that of a wife who is faithful in marriage for fear not of being punished but rather of being abandoned by the man she loves. This “fear of offence and separation” from a loving friend can evolve over time, increasing with charity and the greater sharing of God’s love. It eventually gives way to the perfection of love and wisdom in heaven. This calls for “chaste fear,” which is pure reverence and loving submission with no lingering trace of fear. When the kingdom of heaven comes, it is the holy fear or reverence inspired by the perfect love of God that prevails and lasts for eternity (Lombard 2014, Dist. 34). The Sentences is more concerned with exploring the implications of faith, love, and charity than human or servile fear. Little is said about the way courage enables the faithful to cope with fears in life. Thomas Aquinas, John Duns Scotus, and William of Ockham will explore the issue more fully. Lombard nonetheless makes it clear that all the virtues and gifts of the Holy Spirit are founded on the principle of charity, or the

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love of Christ, who gave his life for both his friends and enemies. Charity is loving God for his own sake. It stands as the mother of all virtues and comes before everything else. But charity is also about loving one’s friends and enemies alike, hoping that all become perfect and deserve blessings in heaven. We should love others in the same way that we love ourselves, for the sake of God. To embrace the spirit of charity, one must have faith in Christ. As with charity, faith is a gift from God, a virtue that involves beliefs in things that are not visible in this world and can be known only later, in heaven. Believing that Christ, who died on the cross, was God is an instance of having spiritual faith in something that cannot be known with one’s own eyes. It rests on evidence provided by an inner vision or hearing of the heart and the intellect. The evidence is available to anyone in this world who understands this. The truth that the Catholic (Latin catholicus, universal) faith brings to the world is universal and not just for the elect (Lombard 2014, Dist. 23–26). Belief in God and all matters that concern faith are driven by the hope of future resurrection and heavenly salvation. But faith is not enough and is not a virtue if taken by itself. It is empty if it does not work through love. Quoting Augustine, Lombard insists that “love itself is called the work of faith” (Lombard 2014, Dist. 23, 26). The essence of God’s love is constant and eternal. It existed before the foundation of the world. Things are different when it comes to the faithful, as should be expected: charity takes various forms and follows a certain order. The elect must love God first and foremost, with all their power. The love of neighbour comes second. Charity towards enemies comes last. Since they too are humans, they should be loved, if only by not holding them in hate and, what is difficult for most people, by treating them with kindness. Lombard adds that those who love themselves above God and others are not good to themselves; they hate and harm themselves without knowing it. To complicate things further, Christian love comes in different degrees and may grow over time, on a continuum from “beginning charity” to the “most perfect” love enjoyed in heaven, a blessing that never fades. Love may never be perfect in this life because humans are born in the flesh, and the body is less deserving of love. But as long we live in this world, there is no greater love than to lay down our lives for our friends or enemies that may

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become friends. These are the principles that inspire “chaste fear of God.” They also guide the four cardinal virtues designed to help us live well in this world, following the perfect example of Christ, who died on the cross for our sake (Lombard 2014, Dis. 27–32). Like other mediaeval scholars, Lombard wonders whether those who possess the virtue of charity must also be virtuous in all other respects, because no virtue can exist on its own. Or should we concede that virtue has many faces, that it may fluctuate over time, and that it varies in degrees and differs from one person to another? The scholar adopts a middle position regarding this matter. On the one hand, virtues vary when translated into action. A man may have more of one virtue and less of another, or even lack one of them. He may be just, but he is married and lacks “continence in act.” On the other hand, virtuous habits are inseparable “essences,” and all of them emanate from the spirit of charity, “by which we love God and our neighbour and which is the root of all goods” (Lombard 2014, Dist. 36). Direct echoes of Lombard’s framing of courage can be found in Robert Bellarmine’s catechism, composed in 1598, more than four centuries later. The widely used catechism describes the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, which now comprise the three theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity and the four cardinal virtues of prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance (Bellarmine 2016, 10). According to Bellarmine (1542–1621 AD), prudence governs the virtue of understanding, whereas justice governs the will and temperance keeps the concupiscible appetite in check. As in Stoicism, fortitude is a disposition to control the irascible appetite. When adapted to the Christian creed, courage makes a man eager to overcome difficulties and suffer death at the hands of God’s enemies. He does so for the sake of his heavenly glory, after the example of the martyrs and soldiers of Christ. Fear and rashness in the face of danger are the opposites of fortitude (Bellarmine 2016, 12). Elsewhere, however, the Jesuit theologian cites a different list of gifts from the Holy Spirit, borrowed from the prophet Isaiah (Isa. 11:1–2), and portrays them as rungs in a ladder that Christians must climb. The fear of the Lord is the first rung on the ladder leading from earth to heaven. This is where the sinner considers himself to be the enemy of the Almighty. While not mentioned in Isaiah’s original list, piety, viewed as obedience to God,

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comes next. Step three is the knowledge of God’s holy precepts and laws, which can be learned from books, preachers, or directly from God. The fortitude required to conquer all difficulties that form part of the Christian way of life—those of the world, the flesh, and the devil—is the fourth step. It is followed by the gifts of counsel, which prevents Christians from being deceived by the devil, and understanding, which promotes contemplation and insight into the divine mysteries. Wisdom is the higher gift. It connects affect and intellect. The Christian who has it “acknowledges the first cause with the intellect and orders and disposes all things to his final end by charity” (Bellarmine 2016, 13). In hindsight, Lombard can be credited for ushering in a new age of philosophy and theology dedicated to a sevenfold understanding of Christian virtues and the unmerited gifts received from God. Following Abelard (see Chap. 15), he argues that all virtues are founded on the principle of charity, or the love of Christ, who gave his life for both his friends and his enemies. Like Ambrose, he underplays the fear of God and bumps it down to the lowest gift of the Holy Spirit. He nonetheless extends the logic of hierarchy to a fine analysis of four different degrees of charity and perfections of love, to which he adds different types of fear. The latter range from earthly fear that haunts the flesh to the highest expression of submission and reverence for God in heaven. Instead of avoiding the issue of fear, Lombard redefines its proper meaning and place within Christian morality.

 ourage Perfected with Divine Love: Philip C the Chancellor The Sentences explores the different expressions and levels of fear and love in the light of the mutual implications of philosophical wisdom, Christian faith, and the overarching principle of divine love. Instead of pitting freedom against the rule of fate, the exercise of free will and the intervention of God’s grace are viewed as complementing each other. The text, however, says very little about Christian fortitude and the various ways it connects with other virtues and virtue as a whole.

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The immediate task of further developing the sevenfold framing of virtue from a Christian perspective falls on Philip (c. 1160–1236 AD), Chancellor of the University of Paris and patron of the Dominicans, born in the year that Lombard died. Philip maintains the distinction between theological and cardinal virtues but integrates them into a single framework. Taking his cue from Aristotle, he defines the four cardinal virtues as habits formed and perfected through repeated acts. Each corresponds to a different object or external cause. Also, each emanates from one of the three powers of the rational mind or soul, as conceived by Augustine. The first power is reason, which lends itself to acts of prudence and justice. The second is desire (concupiscibili), the source of joy and hope. It involves inner desires or passions of the mind that may be controlled through self-restraint. The third power is in the realm of emotion (irascibili), the source of present sorrow and fear of expected pain or suffering. Prudence and justice follow the rule of reason, whereas temperance and courage address physically based desires and emotions (Houser 2004, pp. 88–93, 96). In his Summa on the Good, Philip recognises that there are different ways of ranking the cardinal values, depending on the criterion used and the authority worth citing. However, given that reason has the power to instruct and regulate desire and emotion, the virtue of prudence must take precedence over the other cardinal virtues. This is nothing new. In second and third positions, respectively, are temperance and fortitude. They are based on passions; one deals with affections that reside in us, and the other with emotions introduced by others. Temperance ranks higher in moral goodness “because it concerns us, while the act of courage concerns others” (Houser 2004, p. 96). Justice occupies the fourth position, because it is “nearer our end.” These chief virtues are like the four hinges (Lat. cardo) on which the door of the human soul turns. Two of them are based on action, namely prudence with regard to actions that concern us and justice with regard to actions that concern our neighbour (Houser 2004, p. 98). Cardinal virtues are grounded in the material world and are acquired through habit. As such, they are human and “political” in nature and belong to the inferior part of reason. By contrast, the superior part of reason contemplates the enjoyment of eternal things, which is the

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supreme goal of life, not the means to attain it. Quoting Augustine, Philip argues that the correct order of things “consists in enjoying what should be enjoyed and using what should be used” (Houser 2004, p. 89). For the soul to enjoy the highest good, it must be reformed and perfected through faith, charity, and hope. These theological virtues, three in number and divine in nature, are not acquired but rather infused by the grace of the Holy Trinity. In its superior part, the human soul thus stands as the image of the one and triune God (Houser 2004, p. 88; see pp. 99–100, 111, 113). Philip then wonders if we can argue that someone who has one virtue also has all the others. The Platonic unity of virtue is a well-trodden theme. The common denominator of virtue consists in achieving the mean between “removing excess and deficiency” and achieving pure goodness in every act (Houser 2004, p. 102). Virtues are united in that they follow the same rational principles and depend on each other. For instance, courage and prudence are needed to confront the arduous task of achieving justice. In fact, all virtues deal with difficult matters and require perseverance. This is the stance that Philip adopts, but with important qualifications that will have a lasting impact on mediaeval thinking in the field of moral psychology. In an effort to reconcile church teachings with those of Plato and Aristotle, he distinguishes the proper meaning of the power associated with each virtue from its analogical meaning, to which he adds a third set of considerations of a theological nature. This literal, analogical, and theological view of the unity of virtues sheds new light on the ethics of courage and its various meanings. In its literal sense, each virtue is “the ultimate end of a power with regard to a determinate matter” (Houser 2004, p. 10). Courage, understood in this strict way, is a virtue that addresses the emotion of fear, a motive power that belongs to the world of emotion as distinct from the realms of desire and reason. Acts that are properly brave consist in doing everything that one is capable of when confronting the fear of an external thing felt to be physically fearful or frightening, including passions or vices that come from others (Houser 2004, pp. 93–94, 103). Philip adds that courage in its narrow sense consists of two different parts or subordinate dispositions (Houser 2004, see pp. 50–51). One is perseverance, an inclination to actively confront the arduous. The other is patience, a habit

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needed to passively withstand or suffer the difficulties of life. Strictly speaking, these subordinate dispositions do not mutually entail each other. The same can be said of other cardinal virtues. A good example of this is chastity, an expression of temperance that someone may practise with respect to some desires of the senses but not others. Someone may be chaste and still give in to greed or gluttony. Also, chastity does not entail all other virtues, which are many and have their own optimum states and ends. While a person may not be chaste and unchaste at the same time, he or she may be good in one way and bad in another (Houser 2004, pp. 103–7). When understood literally, virtues are not necessarily connected. But when interpreted analogically, virtues must align with one another, as taught by Plato, Seneca, and many Church Fathers. For instance, “confronting the arduous” is an emotional habit that can be extended to anything that may be hard to achieve, including the exercise of reason and the satisfaction of desire. When understood in this broad sense, prudence needs to be brave, courage needs to be wise, and so on. Virtues must work together if they are to reach their highest level of perfection and give the soul the most power and happiness possible. The highest degree of perfection, however, is not analogical but rather theological. According to Philip, when perfected by the grace of charity, each cardinal virtue takes on a superior meaning and unites with all the other virtues (Houser 2004, pp.  112–13). As it reaches its maximum potency, courage thus turns into what Augustine calls “love readily enduring all things for God” (Houser 2004, p. 92). Its ultimate end consists in not letting any impediment stand in the way of achieving the highest good and perfection of the rational soul. The soul is truly brave when it easily endures adversity or pain for the sake of what it loves above all, namely God. True to his Christian faith, Philip adds that martyrdom is the crown of courage worn by the emotional part of the soul. Virtues are connected under the spirit of charity, defined as “general love,” which is the reason and cause behind every virtue. When God is loved above all things and for himself alone, all virtues come together, and the soul loves everything that is good.

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Therefore, since discerning good from bad choices and distributing to each his own and making moderate use of pleasures and dealing with terrors bravely and with perseverance are goods which lead to him, therefore one loves these. Consequently, without this love prudence would not be a virtue, nor would justice nor anything else. (Houser 2004, p. 114)

Love cannot exist alone. The soul that possesses the divine habit of charity has all virtues. They become like the strings of a lyre, an instrument that cannot produce divine music if one of the strings is broken. The one who plays all the strings possesses divine grace and is worthy of glory and complete happiness in heaven. For this to happen, all virtues must unite in charity and the love of God, the highest aim of the rational soul. Because of its universal power to acquire merit, charity is worthy of eternal life and perfect glory. Unlike faith, it is the mover of all virtues, just like the sun, which is “involved in all generation and destruction.” It also acts as the best antidote against evil: “Solely by the resistance of charity does one resist every sort of sin” (Houser 2004, p. 116). Summa de Bono, written about 1230 AD, is a milestone in the history of theories of courage. Philip’s system, using the logic of subordination through rank and degree, is comprehensive and elegant. By meshing the teachings of Lombard, the post-Nicene Church Fathers, and classical antiquity, the Chancellor lays the foundations of a comprehensive system of ethics imbued with a Christian spirit. The building blocks of his moral framework, later picked up by Aquinas and Albert the Great, include the sevenfold rank ordering of theological and cardinal virtues, all governed by the spirit of charity. Another building block is the primacy of rational thinking, subject to the ultimate end of divine charity and love. Also, virtues are connected only in the analogical sense and in relation to the overarching principle of charity. Lastly, cardinal virtues have subordinate parts that lend themselves to variable degrees of rational and spiritual integration. Acts that are brave in the narrow sense do not have to be virtuous in all other respects. Likewise, one may be courageous in one respect but not in another—by exhibiting a lot of patience in suffering hardship but little perseverance in combating it, for instance. Under the rule of charity, however, courage that reaches the highest level of perfection must be morally good in every way.

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 od, Reason, Justice, and Fortitude: G Thomas Aquinas As suggested at the beginning of this book, the root system of courage raises issues of knowledge and truth, freedom and fate, trust and fear, command and obedience, as well as suffering and wellness in the present world. Lombard and Philip the Chancellor propose an open-minded approach to the epistemic question of knowledge and truth by providing well-reasoned grounds for upholding the Christian faith. Like churches built on the prime sites of pagan temples, scholasticism rededicates the logic of virtue handed down from classical antiquity to the sevenfold hierarchy of cardinal and theological goodness, as proposed by Ambrose. On matters of polity and social living, Lombard and Philip are clearly committed to putting fear in the service of the higher rule of Christian love and charity; faith and virtue take their distance from the older ethos of fear. In keeping with this climate of good will and love, power relations between God and his followers are softened through a subtle mix of free will and dependence on the work of divine providence. The finest virtues, such as the fortitude required to suffer everything in the name of the Lord, come from the grace of God. The importance of these advances in church doctrine and philosophy should not be underestimated. But they also have their limits. On matters of truth, faith and reason are not on an equal footing. The perfect fit between logical reasoning and church doctrine is overstated, and the whole edifice leaves no room for uncertainty or doubt. On the existential plane, the focus is on the traditional ethos of patient suffering and endurance in the face of adversity. Courage is low on the ladder to heaven, and no concession is made to human beings’ battles for eudemonic living in the material world. On the political front, little attention is paid to the workings of free will and their implications for understanding the properties of courage. The emphasis is rather on the assistance that must be received from God when ascending to the highest levels of moral strength. Finally, for all their wisdom, discussions of faith-based courage tend to leave out questions of power and the role of state and church affairs in human history.

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This overall assessment of scholasticism generally holds true for Thomas Aquinas, save for one important thing: the subordination of fortitude to the higher aims of justice. Admittedly, his insistence on the ethics of patient suffering and endurance for the sake of God creates the impression that man’s combative will has no place in the Christian soul. But this is not the case. In his view, fortitude is a chief virtue that points to a man’s strength of character (Aquinas 1922, 2:123 Art. 10). It involves a wilful and “conative” (action-oriented) habit of the soul to face terrible things (Aquinas 1923–1929, 2:60). Like other virtues, courage must be perfected through the wisdom of goodness and the exercise of reason. It must receive guidance from prudence, the top-ranking virtue. This is so because “the greatness of a virtue is measured according to its goodness rather than its difficulty” (Aquinas 1922, 2:123 Art. 12). However, if it is to serve noble ends, fortitude must also receive guidance from justice, the second-ranking virtue, the one that establishes the order of reason in human affairs. Fortitude in the service of justice moderates the “irascible” fear of death in the pursuit of just ends. Following Ambrose, Aquinas condemns fortitude in support of injustice. Temperance is the last cardinal virtue. It helps by restricting the “concupiscible” pleasures of food and sex, which is easier than facing the fear of grave danger and death. In keeping with the teachings of Aristotle, Aquinas argues that fortitude is about daring and dreading, both moderated by reason. The same point is made by Jean Buridan (1292–1363 AD) when he says, after Seneca and Aristotle, that all virtues are “reasons and prudences.” Courage is wisdom and knowledge; it is not “thoughtless rashness or love of dangers or appetite for fearful things but knowing how to distinguish what is evil from what is not” (Buridan 2001, p. 545). As Aquinas puts it, the virtue involves an inclination to observe the rational mean between two vices, i.e., excessive fear and immoderate daring. While some fear is natural and justified, immoderate fear of danger and hardship results in timidity or cowardice. Committing suicide to end all difficulties in life is an instance of this. To quote Aristotle, “to die in order to escape poverty, lust, or something disagreeable is an act not of fortitude but of cowardice: for to shun hardships is a mark of effeminacy” (Aquinas 1922, 2:125 Art. 2). Daring to live without fear of suffering is an expression of fortitude, especially when facing adversaries, pursuing justice, and performing good

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deeds (Aquinas 1922, 2:123 Art. 3, 11). But this is not to say that immoderate daring is commendable, especially when motivated by excessive pride, a lack of love, or foolish thinking. People who are brave should still fear what should be feared, and brazen attacks should always be tempered by common sense. When coping with terror, brave souls are daring in the sense of being moderately aggressive. Aggression consists of two parts. One part is magnificence. By this, Aquinas means the execution of great things that are hoped for, even though they are costly and difficult by nature. Magnificence requires constancy and greatness of purpose, as well as letting go of one’s possessions in the process. The other part of aggression is confidence of mind. Courageous souls hope they can accomplish great and honourable deeds. Because of the confidence they have in themselves and others, they can brave many dangers for a noble end. Confidence also enables them to display magnanimity by not giving way to despair or feeling insecure in the face of hardships (Aquinas 1922, 2:128–29, 134). Fortitude that serves justice and is moderately aggressive should not be confused with acts of daring based on sheer ignorance or the reassurances of past success and practical experience. It cannot be motivated by the pursuit of honour, pleasure, or gain, and even less by the avoidance of blame, pain, or loss. Nor can it be driven by impulse or uncontrolled anger (Aquinas 1922, 2:123 Art. 1). Using anger to strike at whatever may cause sorrow is nonetheless legitimate, so long as it is guided by reason. Anger serves to curb fear and protect all that is good against the onslaught of evil (Aquinas 1922, 2:123 Art. 11). It allows the senses to assist the work of reason, making people more daring by acting faster. This is the Aristotelian view. The Stoics thought differently. For them, anger and all other passions—immoderate feelings, emotions, and desires involving the senses—stand in the way of achieving perfection. They are ailments of the soul. According to Aquinas, adepts of Stoicism fail to see how anger can assist reason and help the brave (Aquinas 1922, 2:123 Art. 10). Aquinas adds that fortitude is best displayed in situations of sudden and lethal danger. The way the brave react in these situations shows the extent to which the habit of fortitude is firmly seated in the mind. When danger can be anticipated, plans can be made to reduce the blow (Aquinas

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1922, 2:123 Art. 9). Of all situations of sudden danger, those involving the risk of death in battle are best suited to demonstrations of fortitude. The truly brave risk their lives as they defend the common good in a just fight or war designed to secure a well-earned victory and peace (Aquinas 1923–1929, 3:34). Fortitude denotes firmness of the mind, a requisite of every virtue. It involves a readiness to endure and withstand grave dangers or to stand firm against things that are most difficult to bear (Aquinas 1922, 2:123 Art. 2). Aquinas goes on to say that the greatest threat is death, which is by far the most fearful of all physical evils. To expose oneself to death for noble reasons goes far beyond the abandonment of one’s possessions, for instance (Aquinas 1923–1929, 3:132). Fortitude is a virtue that “binds the will firmly to the good of reason in face of the greatest evils: because he that stands firm against great things, will in consequence stand firm against less things, but not conversely” (Aquinas 1922, 2:123 Art. 4). Thus far, the habit of fortitude is a reasoned expression of daring and aggressive confidence in the pursuit of great things where grave danger and the threat of death cannot be anticipated. This approach echoes the views and ideas developed by Aristotle. But rational daring represents only one side of Aquinas’ thinking on the ethics of courage. The other side speaks of personal suffering, patience, and endurance in the service of God. People who stoically endure and withstand grave dangers are more deserving than those who control their aggression. Aquinas writes at some length about this. It takes more courage to endure and allay one’s fear in the face of grave danger than it does to fight back, even with moderation, as reason dictates. “The principal act of fortitude is endurance, that is to stand immovable in the midst of dangers rather than to attack them” (Aquinas 1922, 2:123 Art. 6). Fearing something for a long time and being strong and determined in the face of a stronger opponent deserves praise, more so than running towards danger and attacking the cause of fear, which is usually done from a position of strength and for a short time. Fortitude is the strength of mind displayed by anyone who shows patience, bears bravely with infirmities, and overcomes obstacles on the path of justice and human goodness (Aquinas 1922, 2:123 Art. 1). Patience and perseverance are the principal manifestations of fortitude.

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Patience is the voluntary and prolonged endurance of arduous and difficult things, especially those inflicted by others, for noble ends. Instead of yielding to sorrow or pain, those who are patient endure certain evils for the sake of something that is good. This does not preclude rising against and fighting off enemies of the common good and followers of Satan, as one should. As for perseverance, it is “firmness in matters wherein it is most difficult to stand firm.” It calls for strength of will, understood as “the fixed and continued persistence in a well considered purpose” (Aquinas 1922, 2:128, 136–37). This helps fight off weariness and the fear of failure. Patience and perseverance are like aggression displayed with confidence and grandeur: all are signs of fortitude, as long as they involve men risking their lives for a good cause. In short, fortitude is the strength of mind and exemplary patience and perseverance required to endure and withstand great peril in battle. The habit strengthens human beings “in the good of virtue, especially against dangers, and chiefly against dangers of death, and most of all against those that occur in battle” (Aquinas 1922, 2:124). Danger may also arise when attending to a sick friend despite the fear of contracting a deadly infection. People take equal risks when they set out on a long journey and are afraid of shipwrecks or robbers. However, facing death due to illness, misfortune, or murder meets the requirements of fortitude on one condition: noble goals must be pursued. But what does Aquinas mean by noble ends? Can they vary in degree? Aquinas’ response is a familiar one. The brave who are martyred for their steadfast faith in Christ and their battle for charity and divine justice express the highest form of courage. Because they serve God and never yield before death and other hardships leading to it (such as being imprisoned, exiled, or stripped of one’s property), they stand as models of superior fortitude. While commendable, their display of aggression or daring in moderation is of secondary importance. Christians who take the virtue to its highest level are martyred because of “the fight that is waged against their own person, and this for the sake of the sovereign good which is God” (Aquinas 1922, 2:123 Art. 5). What the faithful pursue is not fortitude for its own sake. Neither is it happiness in this life. Rather, their immediate intention is to make sure their deeds conform with the principle of fortitude and its ultimate purpose, which is “love ready to bear all things for God’s sake,” as Augustine

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teaches. Happiness in God’s love is the final goal, achieved at the end of time. Meanwhile, the brave must endure so much fear and physical harm that they cannot take pleasure in being brave. What they do is painful by nature and overshadows the spiritual joy derived from practising the virtue. This is so true that God’s assistance and grace are needed to elevate the spirit above bodily pains and help the brave achieve “the spiritual delight of virtue” (Aquinas 1922, 2:123 Art. 7, 8). Aquinas concedes that human beings are naturally inclined to show firmness of mind when doing good and enduring evil. Achieving happiness in this life depends on it. However, assistance from God is required to accomplish overwhelmingly difficult works and cope with dangers that surpass human nature. The faithful are more apt to achieve this level of fortitude given their hope of everlasting life, which is the ultimate end of all good deeds. This promise, at the root of Christian fortitude and martyrdom, is a gift from the Holy Ghost. “A certain confidence of this is infused into the mind by the Holy Ghost” (Aquinas 1922, 2:139). The French theologian John Capreolus (1380–1444 AD), known as the Prince of Thomists, remarks that Christ and the martyrs possessed the gift of courage in the sense that the bodily pain they suffered did not get the better of them; in fact, their souls experienced more pleasure than pain (Capreolus 2001, p. 313). Unlike natural courage, the gift of fortitude contributes to the pursuit of perfection at a superhuman level, towards supernatural ends. The virtue thus forms part of the Divine Law and is demonstrated by the faithful who adhere to God and do what is necessary for right living, as the New Testament teaches (Aquinas 1922, 2:139–40). The Divine Law should not be confused with moral instructions that may follow, like in the Old Testament. These are human laws that aim for earthly possessions and victory over real enemies, to be followed whenever necessary, with caution, depending on place and time. Fortitude involves facing grave threats and sudden dangers of death in battle and, more importantly, patiently enduring terrible suffering for the sake of God. The virtue is subordinate to and guided by prudence and justice. But the ultimate end of Christian fortitude is to achieve happiness through the love of God, with the assurance that suffering will be rewarded in heaven and that assistance from the Holy Spirit can be obtained whenever the situation becomes unbearable. Through the

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intervention of the Holy Spirit, the wounds and rock-like strength of Christ offer hopes of love and a refuge against terrible suffering and death. The symbolism of the dove captures these ideas perfectly. With the rise of scholasticism, a new order centred on faithful “members of the Dove,” as Aquinas dubs them, substitutes for older regimes of faith inspired by the warlike lion of Homeric times, the wise owl of Athens, and the lamb slain of the New Testament. The Christian dove is a far cry from Homer’s portrayal of the cowardly man who flees from the battlefield like a trembling dove pursued by a fearsome hawk (Homer 1923, 22:139–40). In the Summa Theologica, the dove is mentioned about a hundred times, holding the number one position in terms of frequency. The lamb comes second (eighty-eight times), and the lion comes third (fifty-eight times). The owl is evoked only twice, in passing. The ascent of the dove above his rivals is not surprising, given the primary role attributed to the Holy Spirit in scholastic thinking. Ambrose also placed the dove imagery well ahead of the lamb or the lion. Intrigued by this symbol, Aquinas asks why the Holy Ghost appears as a dove when Christ is baptised. His lengthy answer to his own query pushes the formal logic of scholastic analysis to its limit. It is nonetheless remarkable in its subtlety. He starts out by reminding us that the Holy Spirit did not become incarnate, unlike the Son of God. The Spirit descending from heaven only had the shape and semblance of a dove. Later, he argues that the properties of the dove illustrate perfectly the seven gifts of the Holy Ghost. The passage is worth quoting at length. For the dove dwells beside the running stream, in order that, on perceiving the hawk, it may plunge in and escape. This refers to the gift of wisdom, whereby the saints dwell beside the running waters of Holy Scripture, in order to escape the assaults of the devil. Again, the dove prefers the more choice seeds. This refers to the gift of knowledge, whereby the saints make choice of sound doctrines, with which they nourish themselves. Further, the dove feeds the brood of other birds. This refers to the gift of counsel, with which the saints, by teaching and example, feed men who have been the brood—i.e. imitators—of the devil. Again, the dove tears not with its beak. This refers to the gift of understanding, wherewith the saints do not rend sound doctrines, as heretics do. Again, the dove has no gall. This refers

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to the gift of piety, by reason of which the saints are free from unreasonable anger. Again, the dove builds its nest in the cleft of a rock. This refers to the gift of fortitude, wherewith the saints build their nest, i.e. take refuge and hope, in the death wounds of Christ, who is the Rock of strength. Lastly, the dove has a plaintive song. This refers to the gift of fear, wherewith the saints delight in bewailing sins. (Aquinas 1926, 3:39 Art. 6)

Other relevant attributes of the dove mentioned in the Summa Theologica include the idea that the creature descends like a gift from heaven. Also, the bird is a symbol of regeneration and may serve as a sacrificial offering, typically presented by the poor. Aquinas points out that the dove is known for its meekness, simplicity, gentleness, gregariousness, peacefulness, and loving disposition (the male and the female cling to each other when looking after their young). The Song of Songs (6:9) thus speaks of the church when it says, “One is my dove, my perfect one.” Although inspirational, the spiritual dove imagery confirms the Christian downplaying of being-in-the-world and the courage of life in the body. If Aquinas insists that the Holy Spirit appears merely in the likeness of a dove descending from heaven, it is because of what he and other theologians dread the most: the idea that the divine dwells in the heart of Nature and all forms of life on Earth. Like other animals laden with Christian meaning, the dove is a mere shadow of itself, a visible token for something that is inherently invisible and escapes the material realm. The death wish embedded in the imagery is reinforced by the bird’s gifts of piety, good counsel, and intellectual understanding. All three dispositions encourage the faithful to take refuge in the teachings of the wounds and death of Christ and build their nest in the cleft of the rock of salvation, towards the blessings of life in heaven. It is from this immaterial rock that church “members of the Dove” can sing their plaintive song and ensure that their concerns about sins of the flesh are heard throughout the world. The experience of joy and feeling well at home in this world is not what this song is about. The dove imagery also suggests a turning away from politics. The bird is not prone to anger and is known to generously feed the broods of other birds. This is commendable. However, all the qualities exemplified by the bird are gifts from God rather than reflecting

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the creature’s natural inclinations or efforts. As for life in society, the bird is a messenger of the love of God above all, not the pursuit of human justice and fellowship. Even if Aquinas has more to say about justice than Lombard and Philip, it is still not a priority issue. Nor does it appear in his analysis of the dove imagery. The meekness, gentleness, and sacrificial spirit of the dove matter considerably more. As already seen, more politically minded schoolmen would have problems using the dove as an emblem of Christian fortitude. Some find more inspiration in the lamb slain and vindicated by the two-horned Lamb at the end of time. For those with a more combative spirit, the just and the righteous have every right to exercise authority, conquer the world, and reign supreme. This was undoubtedly the view of crusading King Louis VIII (1187–1226 AD), also known as the Lion. While Aquinas opposes an overly aggressive understanding of justice, he has little to say about the politics of courage. On an epistemic level, the dove symbol helps reconcile the rule of logic with religious doctrine. However, the human imagination and its appeals to ordinary language and earthly metaphors are props for the higher-level mind or spirit. The observation is particularly relevant to the garden imagery that Aquinas uses to illustrate his abstract thinking. It is taken from Matthew (27:57–61) and John (19:41), where Jesus is laid to rest in a stranger’s rock-hewn tomb in a garden. The scene depicts a soul seeking solitude in a garden, despite the presence of plants and animals. The symbolism illustrates the life of Jesus: he is alone with God, who dwells in heaven, and has no home while living on Earth, even when surrounded by a society of angels and human souls. At best, birds and gardens are ghostly reminders of Adam’s deadly sin committed in the original paradise (Aquinas 1923, 1:31 Art 3). Aquinas’ scholastic imagery is meant to open everyone’s heart to the entrance of the fear of God. “And since naught besides Him must enter into our hearts, a great stone is rolled against the door” (Aquinas 1926, 3:51 Art 2). The here and now is a great stone of solitude and imprisonment in a foreign land. The message is deeply Christian. In the end, humans find the true meaning of being in signs of non-being. In God’s presence, the co-mingling of all living things is destined to vanish from human hearts and the visible world.

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References Aquinas, Thomas. 1922. The Summa Theologica of St. Thomas Aquinas. Part II, Second Part. Trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province. London: Burns, Oates & Washbourne. ———. 1923. The Summa Theologica of St. Thomas Aquinas. Volume 1. Trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province. Chicago, London, Toronto: William Benton. ———. 1926. The Summa Theologica of St. Thomas Aquinas. Part III. Second Number. Trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province. London: Washbourne. ———. 1923–1929. Summa Contra Gentes. Trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Fathers. London: Burns, Oates & Washbourne. Bellarmine, Robert. 2016. Doctrina Christiana: The Timeless Catechism of St. Robert Bellarmine. Trans. R. Grant. Post Falls, Idaho: Mediatrix. Buridan, Jean. 2001. Questions on Book X of the Ethics. In The Cambridge Translations of Medieval Philosophical Texts, Vol. 2: Ethics and Political Philosophy, ed. A.S.  McGrade, J.  Kilcullen, and M.  Kempshall, 498–586. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Capreolus, John. 2001. On the Virtues. Trans. with Intro. and Notes by K. White and R. Cessario. Washington DC: The Catholic University of America Press. Homer. 1923. The Iliad. In Two Volumes. Trans. A.T. Murray. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Houser, R.E. 2004. Introduction. In The Cardinal Virtues. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies. Lombard, Pierre. 2014. Les Quatre Lives des Sentences, Troisième Livre. Intro. and trans. M. Ozilou. Paris: Cerf.

15 Intentionality and Powers of the Will

Discussions of courage spanning from classical Greece to the high Middle Ages can be mapped on two planes, the vertical and the horizontal. Vertical thinking helps locate and integrate the habit of courage in the laddering of moral priorities. The aim is to find the proper place of courage in a hierarchy of goodness. Philosophers and theologians view courage as serving a higher priority, an end that matters more or most. Higher considerations are those of freedom from tyranny, happiness in difficult circumstances, the pursuit of just ends, theoretical wisdom for its own sake, the domination of reason and prudence over passion, blessings of the afterlife, or the sublime reign of charity and divine love. By and large, the more politicised the idea of courage is, the higher the position it occupies on the ladder of moral principles. The imperative of fighting for one’s life, country, or God predictably calls for demonstrations of great daring, strength, and endurance. In contrast, the value of courage in the grand scheme of things decreases as wisdom and love become more important on their own. Horizontal thinking involves looking at the complementarities and mutual implications of several aspects of courage. Different inclinations mutually imply or depend on each other, even when they appear to head in opposite directions. Thus, courage can be seen as the proper blending © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32739-1_15

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of two things, i.e., daring and dreading in the writings of Aristotle, masculine might and feminine meekness in the teachings of Bonaventure, or the fear of God and the fearlessness of faith, as in the Scriptures. These more subtle aspects of courage show how the virtue helps to achieve higher goals, such as the wisdom of eudemonic living or the blessings of the afterlife in heaven. The overall framing of courage on both planes lends itself to the study of levels and degrees of moral goodness. Scholastic discussions of the sevenfold laddering of virtue are eloquent in this regard. Ambrose is the first to speak of the three higher gifts from the Spirit (wisdom, understanding, and godliness) and the four cardinal virtues emanating from them, including strength and the fear of God but not of the world. The schoolmen build and expand on this logic of rank subordination and incorporate philosophical insights into a comprehensive framing of Christian ethics. They also allow courage to vary in form and degree. Fortitude is no longer an either-or proposition. Despite its complexity, the approach is well suited for the reinterpretation of rival ethical systems and the development of elaborate behavioural norms in support of new regimes of goodness and truth founded on the primacy of charity. The emphasis on faith, the love of God, and its applications in everyday life marks an important departure from the early Christian ethos of fear. It also strays from the ideals of theoretical and metaphysical wisdom going back to Plato. The scholastic approach nonetheless hinges on maintaining an old assumption: whatever perspective is adopted, philosophical or religious, the reasoning must be based on sound knowledge and firmly established truths. As I explain below, Peter Abelard is the first to dispute the matter, if only timidly, at some cost to his good standing in the church. The scholar, born seventeen years before Lombard, becomes a key figure in the early growth of scholastic theology and logic. A fundamental part of his thinking sets him apart: namely, man’s will to act according to his intention, freely and consciously. Courage expresses a person’s informed consent and determination to face danger and adversity with charitable intentions that are pleasing to God. Later, I show how Dun Scotus and William of Ockham, two Franciscan theologians and philosophers of the late Middle Ages, expand on this approach and make

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even greater allowances for the human will acting on its own, independently of the dictates of reason or faith.

Charity and Intentional Consent: Peter Abelard Peter Abelard (1079–1142 AD) is well remembered for his tragic affair with Héloïse d’Argenteuil and the public denunciation of his rationalistic views by Bernard of Clairvaux. Unlike Averroes’ reading of Plato, his adaptation of virtue-based wisdom is not concerned with issues of governance and war and is more in line with post-Nicene notions of Christian virtue, piety, and love. In Ethics and Dialogue between a Philosopher, a Jew, and a Christian, the influential scholar meshes principles of classical philosophy with religious doctrine in support of the rule of faith, love, and what is morally good in this world, towards the blessings of life in heaven. But the scholar adds a caveat that runs counter to every unquestionable truth: virtue is best shown when there is a firm and steady intention to uphold justice and face fear and hardship in the process, willingly and knowingly, regardless of other people’s convictions. Abelard does not discuss the subject matter of courage at great length. However, his views on virtue are worth examining for their impact on the scholastic framing of moral goodness. Much of his thinking revolves around the rule of reason. Many of the philosophical and theological ideas he advances will resonate with later schoolmen, starting with the subordination of courage to justice and prudence. The Philosopher appearing in the Dialogue discusses four virtues: prudence, justice, courage, and moderation. The order is not fortuitous. Prudence, understood as the knowledge of morals, comes first. Instead of being a virtue on its own, prudential reasoning is present in the exercise of other virtues. Since it is the science of good and evil things, it stands as the origin, the mother, or the nurse of all virtues (Abelard 1995, Dial. 256–57, 277; Ethics 227). “Through it we learn about the virtues in advance, and are able to distinguish them carefully not only from their contrary and plain vices but also from the adjacent vices” (Abelard 1995, Dial. 270). The ability to discern between good and evil and to assess a person’s moral worth is what guides and inspires people to practise the virtues.

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Justice comes second. It is the ability to distribute merits based on the knowledge of “what is due to whom.” Justice is what makes a person good. A soul endowed with good will is essential to achieving and preserving the common good (Abelard 1995, Dial. 280). The Philosopher sums it up: “Justice is the mind’s steady will that reserves for everyone what is his own” (Abelard 1995, Dial. 293). The virtue is complex in that it is composed of reverence, beneficence, truthfulness, and vengeance. Reverence is obeying and paying respect to those who have earned it. Beneficence is the readiness to help other people meet reasonable needs, using gestures of clemency or liberal giving. Truthfulness is striving to keep a promise made to others. Vengeance is inflicting the due penalty for the evil that someone has committed (Abelard 1995, Dial. 274–79). All contribute to the pursuit of justice, for the good of all. The exercise of prudence in the pursuit of justice is commendable. But it amounts to nothing if carried out without the daughter virtues of courage and moderation. Abelard’s Philosopher defines courage as the considered (that is, reasonable) enduring of hardships and the taking on of dangers. This is the virtue that makes us ready and able to take on dangers or tolerate hardships, insofar as that’s appropriate. It depends especially on the love for justice we call a “good zeal” in warding off or avenging evils. (Abelard 1995, Dial. 268)

Fortitude is persistence in the pursuit of a reasoned cause or plan fraught with difficulties (Abelard 1995, Dial. 287–88). Elsewhere, the Philosopher includes “forbearance” and “magnanimity” in his description of courage. While the terms vary, they converge on the same idea: humans demonstrate courage when they uphold justice with a steady mind, despite the fear and danger they face. Courage serves a just cause by shielding the soul against fear. Moderation is also a shield, but one that protects the soul against desire. Both virtues involve toughness, firmness, and steadiness of the mind, which are required for effectively seeking justice. Mental weakness is the opposite. Feeble minds lack the ability to resist the temptations of faintheartedness and immoderation. They cannot resist the demands of shameful impulses and unreasonable wants (Abelard 1995, Dial. 266, 293).

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The Philosopher concludes that “justice makes a person good, but courage and moderation make him capable, because what we will through the former we are able to bring about through the latter” (Abelard 1995, Dial. 294). Without courage and moderation, the wisdom and good will of justice lack strength and are never put into action. While prudence guides everything and justice distributes merits, “courage possesses discernment in taking on dangers or tolerating hardships, and moderation, as was just said, possesses restraint in holding back our craving” (Abelard 1995, Dial. 270). The framework is clear and leaves no doubt about its classical origins. One question remains. To what extent does this philosophical approach to virtue tally with the Christian creed? Abelard does not raise this question or provide a direct answer to it. However, a close reading of his fictive dialogue between a philosopher, a Jew, and a Christian provides additional insight into what makes Christian courage unique and why it is intrinsically superior. The three protagonists agree on some important issues. For one thing, they are of the same view when it comes to proclaiming ethics as the goal and sum of all disciplines (Abelard 1995, Dial. 148). They also agree that the end goal of ethics is to reveal what the ultimate good is and the path required to achieve it (Abelard 1995, Dial. 150–53). Seeking the path of true happiness and the salvation of one’s soul is what moral philosophy is essentially about. However, for the Christian, the study of ethics must tie all moral matters to the divine law. That is, good morals hinge on the knowledge of Divine Justice and faith in the teachings of Christ, which include the promise and hope of a future life. Ultimate happiness cannot be found in the practice of virtue for its own sake, as in Greco-Roman philosophy. Rather, it lies in the obligation to practise virtue and resist the weaknesses of the soul and temptations of evil (Abelard 1995, Dial. 194–206). Speaking to the Philosopher, the Christian points out that the commandments and exhortations of Christ are used for the purpose that all good fortune might be despised and adversities put up with in the hope of that higher and eternal life… Christ’s doctrine is the more perfect and better one insofar as it exhorts us to virtues with better reason or hope. For you [the Philosopher] suppose instead that

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virtues or their contraries are to be striven after or shunned for their own sakes more than for the sake of something else. (Abelard 1995, Dial. 211–12)

Seen in this way, virtue is the divine justice of “what obtains merit with God,” leading to eternal salvation for good souls and damnation for the wicked. When it comes to finding the path to the kingdom of heaven, however, charity matters above everything else. Citing Augustine, the Philosopher says of charity that it embraces every virtue (Abelard 1995, Dial. 233–34). It is what differentiates the children of God from those of the Devil. “In fact, love is the fulfillment of the Law” (Abelard 1995, Dial. 232). A charitable soul is patient and kind. It is not envious and does not act badly. It does penance for all its sins, not out of fear of judgement and eternal damnation but rather out of love for God (Abelard 1995, Ethics 152, 166–68). Following Christ’s example, it bears and suffers all things, including death; no one has more love than someone who lays down his soul for his friends (Abelard 1995, Dial. 232). Prudence and justice take on new meaning when seen in the light of Christian charity. The wisdom of happiness rises to a heavenly plane, and justice is the merit that comes from the greatest love, which is the love of God and fellow human beings. In the writings of Abelard, the love of virtue gives way to the virtue of love, pursued in the name of God, who stands as the ultimate human good (Abelard 1995, Dial. 335). Faith in the Christian creed confers a sublime meaning on courage as well, for it is the practice of charity that gives strength and courage. Only charity may be referred to as a virtue. “But if it’s understood as what makes one just or strong or moderate, then it’s correct to call it justice, strength or moderation” (Abelard 1995, Dial. 234). Charity makes the soul courageous in the fulfilment of God’s Law (Abelard 1995, Dial. 242–43). By implication, true Christian courage is showing steadiness of mind when facing peril or hardship while practising charity. Unlike Cicero, Abelard considers all virtues to be distinct from one another and from charity as well. Furthermore, charity and other virtues come in degrees, and humans exemplify them unevenly and in different ways (Abelard 1995, Dial. 234–36, 240). This holds true for courage: some acts and some people are more courageous and more deserving than others. The argument is not original. As we know, Aristotle makes the

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same point about variations in expressions and levels of moral excellence. Abelard adds nonetheless another set of considerations that will generate controversy for centuries to come. In his mind, whatever its level of excellence may be, courage assumes human intentionality and the exercise of free will. In Stoicism, every virtue is “the mind’s best habit” acquired by practice, deliberation, and struggle (Abelard 1995, Dial. 254). For Seneca, moral conduct is a conscious assent to what the intellect commands. In Ethics, Abelard takes the argument a step further. All actions and their effects are essentially indifferent things, which means they cannot be evaluated without understanding the intentions behind them. For something to be truly good, it must be done with good intention. For example, if someone is hanged, it may not be out of hatred but rather because a court has ordered it as punishment for a crime (Abelard 1995, Ethics 404). Christian courage cannot be directly observed in any outward deed or effect. Rather, the defining feature of a courageous soul lies in its readiness to face fear and hardship when consenting to doing what it believes ought to be done. Consent exists when something is done voluntarily, not out of coercion or because it naturally stems from the exercise of reason (Abelard 1995, Ethics 33–34). The person is prepared and willing to perform the action, come what may, knowingly and intentionally, for reasons that are deemed appropriate (Abelard 1995, Ethics 29). Given these principles, children and the mentally impaired cannot consent to good or evil (Abelard 1995, Ethics 44). Likewise, ignorance and disbelief in the Christian creed may excuse wrongdoing committed by those who should be forgiven because they “know not what they are doing.” Ignorance is not a sin, and neither is disbelief when it is sincere (Abelard 1995, Ethics 110–13). The same logic applies to sin. According to Abelard, sin should not be confused with an evil intent (e.g., desiring another man’s wife), which is inherent in human nature and cannot be avoided. Nor is sin the same as an evil deed (e.g., going to bed with another man’s wife). From a moral standpoint, wants and deeds are indifferent things. To commit what is properly called a sin, a man must give his free and informed consent. That is, he must be prepared to follow his vice and satisfy his want voluntarily if given the opportunity (e.g., by deciding to sleep with a woman knowing full well that she is married to another man). The man knows

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that it is within his power to behave otherwise and do the right thing. A man falls into sin when he agrees to do everything in his power to carry out an action that he considers to be morally wrong. Abelard’s perspective on sin comes down to this: consenting to what is deemed evil is morally reprehensible. The actual deed and the vice or desire that drives it are of secondary importance (Abelard 1995, Ethics 1–3, 6, 10, 21, 27–29, 51–53, 72–73, 90, 92–99, 133). When asking himself what mental vice and sin are, Abelard illustrates his response with the story of a man who sees and craves delicious fruit growing in someone else’s garden. The question is whether the man is willing and ready to consent to his craving and commit theft as a result, should the opportunity arise. The virtuous man is the one who is strong enough not to be drawn into consent (Abelard 1995, Ethics 28). The question is not whether he commits the deed or not. In the end, someone who does everything he can to steal the fruit and fails is just as guilty as one who does the same and succeeds. “It is just as if he too had been apprehended in the very deed, as blessed Augustine remarks” (Abelard 1995, Ethics 30). Moral consent is the disposition or readiness to act according to one’s conscience if given the chance. Something is right if it proceeds from a good intention and the person believes it to be right. Abelard goes so far as to acknowledge that those who persecute martyrs or put Jesus to death may genuinely think they are doing well in the eyes of God (Abelard 1995, Ethics 91, 106). He does not endorse, for all that, the full implications of moral subjectivity and relativity, which are incompatible with his Christian faith. He claims that ignorance may excuse well-intended people from accusations of sin, but this is not to say that what they do is actually good (Abelard 1995, Ethics 107–8). An intention cannot be called good simply because it is perceived as such. Another condition must be fulfilled for goodness to be real: when if one believes that what he is aiming at is pleasing to God, he is in addition not deceived in his evaluation. Otherwise the infidels themselves would also have good deeds, just as we do, since they too believe no less than we do that through their deeds they are saved or are pleasing to God. (Abelard 1995, Ethics 109)

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A definition of courage based on this nuanced understanding of good intentions would therefore be as follows: Christian courage is steadiness of mind in taking on dangers or tolerating hardships when acting with charitable intentions that are truly pleasing to God. Abelard questions the certainties of moral doctrine and acknowledges the natural goodness of human reasoning, untrammelled by leaps of faith in religious mystery. Despite this, he finds a way to save church doctrine from the temptations of intentional relativity. His schooling of theoretical and analytical minds leads to foregone conclusions that continue to elevate the Christian faith in God’s love above everything else.

The Will Above All Else: Duns Scotus Scholasticism distances itself from the ethos of fear and the fortitude displayed by the martyrs and soldiers of Christ. Doctrinal rigour gives way to the development and improvement of moral reasoning and the spirit of charity and love in everyday life. Room is made for the exercise of free will and human intentionality. These are significant advances in systems of ethics. However, in hindsight, the scholastic movement is not without problems and challenges, most of which revolve around the subordination of material life, politics, and the exercise of free will to reason, God’s will, and the precepts of the Christian faith. Theories of courage are premised on • the dictates of reason—logical thinking is the main way for the mind to accept the ultimate good; • the formation of habits—acts show that a man has a virtuous disposition only if he has done similar things in the past and is likely to do them again in the future; • the love and grace of God—the highest levels of virtue and courage require direct help from the Holy Spirit and are driven by the love of God and the spirit of charity. Grace and the love of God are central tenets of scholastic thinking. While the same can be said of rational wisdom and moral habituation,

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they have a longer history, dating back to classical Greece. Dun Scotus (1265/66–1308 AD) offers highly provocative ideas in this regard, more so than Abelard. As with previous scholars, the Franciscan friar known as the “Subtle Doctor” uses many ideas from Aristotle to enhance the teachings of Christian faith and theology. As with Aquinas, fortitude is shown primarily through patience and endurance in the face of danger and suffering, guided by prudence and justice. Like other cardinal virtues, courage must be inspired by the theological virtues, which are infused by the grace of God: namely, faith, hope, and most of all, charity. These principles are dictated by reason and must be respected out of friendship-love for God and his “affection-for-justice.” The latter themes are not necessarily new. Scotus’ approach to the relationship between knowing, willing, and acting is nonetheless groundbreaking. As I explain below, the Scottish priest rejects a basic tenet of classical Greek philosophy and the teachings of Aquinas: fortitude and other cardinal virtues are not dispositions of the intellect to moderate passions of the senses. Rather, the courage of doing what is right points to a superior principle operating independently from both the senses and the intellect: namely, the human will, made in the likeness of God’s sovereign will. To be sure, the faculty of willing is informed by the intellect, the knowledge of good and evil, the process of deliberative thinking, and concerns for human and divine justice. However, the will is always free to decide between two or more options at the moment of choice, with the goal of acting rationally or giving in to the “appetites” of the material world. The idea that a moral act is a matter of free choice and voluntary consent has a long history. Scotus proposes a more robust formulation of voluntarism for the advancement of Christian morals. Its far-reaching implications are discussed below. It means, among other things, that rational thinking and courageous willing do not necessarily go hand in hand. Also, intentions and resolve matter more than wisdom or the actual deed. Another implication is that moral and theological virtues may combine in various ways. They do not form an undivided whole and may vary in degrees of perfection and modes of expression. Finally, the will can make the right choice for the right reason, doing it for the first time,

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as it were, without having developed a firm habit or virtue through proper education or practice.

F ighting Off and Enduring What Needs to Be Fought and Endured According to Scotus, human behaviour is shaped by the natural inclinations of the senses and “appetites” for their corresponding objects, which are of two kinds. Humans are drawn to “the pleasurable good,” also known as the “concupiscible,” a primary object that is desirable on its own. One has only to apprehend a naturally desirable object, such as food, to act on it (Scotus 2017a, III 34:34–35). But humans are also attracted by the “arduous good,” which lies in removing whatever interferes with our ability to satisfy our appetites. Anger and a desire for revenge thus express an “irascible appetite” to will-against what is naturally offensive and counter whatever gets in the way of living a pleasant life. “The irascible fights off the offensive thing willingly: it does not merely desire that what is imposing the obstacle be removed, it desires to remove it and, further, to punish it” (Scotus 2017a, III 34:36). An irascible response may be triggered by the lack of something that appeals to the senses, such as food, or whatever stands in its way, such as a thief stealing one’s food. Scotus explains that the anger and revenge directed against the obstacle can provide some pleasure and be gratifying in their own right; “a man’s anger is like honey,” says Aristotle. If the obstacle remains and anger persists, sadness may result. One form of sadness is the failure to secure the desired object (or to avoid what is undesired). Another comes from a failure to achieve the desired vengeance. When nothing is served by fits of anger, the fight response gives way to fear and flight (Scotus 2017a, III 34:46–37). Humans are not entirely ruled by the inclinations of the senses. It is in their power to regulate them, using rational thinking to avoid outbursts of passion. They can develop good habits or dispositions, known as virtues. Two of them should be singled out for their role in controlling excessive emotions or desires. Temperance is the general virtue that

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regulates the pursuit of concupiscible pleasures such that the person will desire them in accordance with the moderation of right reason. Likewise, irascible appetites can be moderated by good habits, which consist of fighting off what needs to be fought. Courage is the virtue that controls responses to fear and the desire for revenge. It is the proper habit of the irascible (Scotus 2017a, III 34:51). A person of virtue can show some aggressiveness and courage when fighting off what needs to be opposed. However, a show of patience and endurance is preferable. Like Aquinas, Scotus is of the view that not fighting off what should be endured is more difficult than demonstrating courage. Showing patience is also a nobler victory, for “one who endures patiently is a victor” (Scotus 2017a, III 34:38). Courage may therefore go under the name of “patience,” and the most perfect expression of courage is found in those who suffer persecution for moral reasons (Scotus 2017a, III 34:63, 75). People who fear death, imprisonment, maiming, or rape lack steadiness and end up transgressing moral laws of their own free will. But no fear can make someone with a steady character and a rational mind commit a grave sin, which is the greatest evil and the worst kind of suffering (Scotus 2017a, IV 29:25). Courage is the habit of moderating excessive fear or anger and enduring suffering with exemplary patience in the service of good ends. The idea has a long history in the teachings of philosophy and Christianity. In this regard, Scotus is merely harping on the classic topic of virtue lying at the crossroads of soul and body, or reason and passion. A closer reading of his few passages on courage nonetheless reveals a radical shift in the conception of courage and virtue, with a focus on volition as a distinct force and the overarching principle behind moral conduct. As with other virtues, courage is driven by powers of the will that remain autonomous and free from the dictates of reason, inclinations of the senses, and even the grace of God’s will.

The Mind Proposes, the Will Disposes In a Scotist perspective, courage is not an expression of the rule of reason in the realm of action. The courageous do not set an example by acting on the basis of their rational knowledge of right and wrong built into the

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laws of Nature. Rather, it is how they exercise free will in the face of adversity and death that distinguishes them: despite natural tendencies to seek either the pleasurable or the arduous good, they choose to endure suffering. At the very instant they opt to behave courageously, they could decide otherwise, regardless of what reason dictates. That is, they are entirely free to choose between doing one thing or its opposite, or not doing anything. Freedom, understood as the power to choose between opposites, is a defining feature of the human will. Free will has a power of its own. For Scotus, this is a fundamental rule of human action, applicable to all manifestations of both virtue and evil behaviour. Knowledge of the necessary laws of Nature does not dictate what the will commands. Natural necessity is not compatible with freedom. Proof: nature and will are active principles that have opposite modes of principiating; therefore, nature’s mode of principiating is incompatible with the will’s mode of principiating. Now the will wills an end freely; therefore, it cannot will an end by natural necessity or, consequently, necessarily in any way. (Scotus 2017a, I 1:80)

The will freely wills an end, not out of rational necessity. The same can be said of God. Because he is perfect, he does not create or will anything into existence out of necessity. Humans are made in his image; nothing causes the human will to will anything. There is no cause other than “the will is the will” (Scotus 2017b, IX 29; see 44). As Augustine puts it, “nothing is so much in the power of the will as the will itself ” (Scotus 2017a, I 1:149). While natural necessity governs the intellect, freedom is a defining property of the will (Scotus 2017a, I 1:67). The will is therefore a unique principle, superior to all other powers in that it is a free cause and not a natural cause (Scotus 2017a, II 40:13). Contrary to what Aristotle and all rationalists hold, the intellect is a less noble power in that it is naturally inclined to do only one thing, which is to apprehend, reason, and agree or disagree with whatever statement is made. It has no power to act by itself. Without the will, knowing cannot transform thinking into action because it has no immediate control over external things (Scotus 2017b, IX 41, 44–45, 67).

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The intellect apprehends the difference between action “a” and action “b,” which is a prerequisite for willing and choosing either one or the other (or neither of them). Knowing and thinking thus precede willing (Scotus 2017a, Prol. 5:329). The mind allows us to understand what is naturally pleasing or stands in its way. But it cannot impose itself by commanding one action instead of another. The will, on the other hand, is the power to choose between them. This is true, but not in the sense that the will can choose one thing one moment and then the opposite the next, based on wisdom and prudence. Rather, the will is an active power that “can do this act or an opposite act, and can also act or not act” (Scotus 2017b, IX 22). The same can be stated of God’s will: at every instant it chooses one thing, it could will the opposite (Scotus 2017c, IA 39–40:42, 55, 65, 67). The power to choose freely is active power at its best, one that remains free at all times, even when a choice is made. At the very moment when the human will chooses one thing, it retains the power to will the opposite. For Plato, wisdom is both the leading virtue and the generic term applicable to virtue as a whole. Scholastic philosophy grants the same preferential treatment to prudence over other cardinal virtues. According to Buridan (2001, p. 545), all virtues “are reasons and prudences.” Scotus has no qualms about using the logic of subordination by class and rank to understand the workings of virtue. However, the powers of volition now surpass those of the intellect and encompass them as well. His argument is that no act can be praised or condemned unless it is from the will (Scotus 2017a, II 40:9). Of course, the will must rely on the intellect to recognise the difference between “a” and “b”; it makes the right choice based on rules that are universal or that vary according to circumstances, such as the proper time and place for acting in a certain manner (Scotus 2017a, I 17:62). But the will is still in command. It even has the power to direct “the intellect to inquire as to what sort of good it is and how it ought to be willed, and then it can assent to that object accordingly” (Scotus 2017a, I 1:67). Unlike the intellect, its assent does not depend solely on the object and the circumstances of an act. The will is free to pursue its own ends, knowingly and wisely, with or without a good intention (Scotus 2017a, I 44, 48:5; Prol. 5:257). Willing is intending and exercising “free choice as a whole,” which involves both the intellect and

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the will. It is “an act of free choice by reason of the will” (Scotus 2017a, II 38:12). This is genuine praxis and rational power at its best (Scotus 2017a, Prol. 5:228; see also 235). Its role is not to simply consent to the rule of wisdom and its battle against ignorance, hoping that correct conduct will automatically follow. Rather, moral praxis is governed by the will. It allows us to move and control our natural pursuit of happiness with the assistance of deliberative and discursive reasoning (Scotus 2017a, I 17:99, 355; see also III 33:35–36; 36:78). The will wields such power that it can actually interfere with and blur the work of the intellect. When it chooses the opposite of what reason dictates, the will may not allow the intellect to focus very long on the correct dictate. Instead, it directs the mind to think about counterarguments or be distracted by unrelated things (Scotus 2017a, III 36:74–75). The wrongdoer thus avoids the remorse that is normally felt when choosing a foolish end and adopting the means needed to achieve it (or to overcome obstacles in its way). The fact that the will may keep making bad choices and develop foolish habits goes to show that it has the power to override the intellect. It can determine its end goal or perfect good. In short, the intellectual awareness of what is right and wrong does not carry enough weight to cause the will to act in one way or another (Scotus 2017a, I 1:149; II 39:17). The mind does not necessarily incline the will towards what is perfectly good or compel it to resist what is perfectly evil. Aquinas errs in thinking that the will is driven by what is truly good, provided the intellect apprehends it and presents it in the right way. He wrongly assumes that the intellect controls the will whenever it grasps general laws and the specific circumstances of an act (Scotus 2017a, III 33: 11–13, 28). Scotus insists that “an unqualifiedly correct dictate can remain present in the intellect without any correct choice in the will in accordance with that dictate” (Scotus 2017a, III 36:72). This leads him to reject the unity-­ of-­virtue theory. While virtues may be like sisters, the exercise of free choice may vary at each moment of willing, which means that each virtue can keep or part company with others at any time (Scotus 2017a, III 36:30, 41). It is true that demonstrations of justice, temperance, or courage cannot occur without prior thinking and reasoning (Scotus 2017a, III 36:80–82, 91–92). However, a habit of moral understanding does not

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necessarily translate into a habit of choosing correctly (Scotus 2017a, III 36:64, 85, 121). A person may possess the virtue of prudence and still commit an act of injustice, cowardice, or intemperance, willingly and knowingly. Likewise, someone may develop temperance but not courage, or vice versa (Scotus 2017a, III 36:32–33, 82). Each virtue exists only in the plural and can mean different things. There is no “universal, all-inclusive temperance or justice, one that concerns everything [within the domain of the relevant virtue]—but rather someone possesses particular species of justice for the particular matters [that fall within the domain]” (Scotus 2017a, III 34:29).

The Body Predisposes, the Will Disposes The mind proposes, and the will disposes. Likewise, the senses predispose us to act in certain ways, but the will decides. The power of free will is not the outcome of a commanding idea in the mind. It is not a way of acting performed at one moment or repeated over time (Scotus 2017a, I 17:60). Actions do not speak for themselves. Scotus thus rejects the notion that “it is morally better to act courageously than to think about acting courageously” (Scotus 2017a, Prol. 5:256). In his view, the dictum rests on a false dichotomy. For an action to be praiseworthy, two conditions must be met. It must have the right intention; the correct choice must involve the correct reason (Scotus 2017a, Prol. 5:233). Also, the will must intervene freely so that action may follow. This voluntaristic approach to ethics has major implications for understanding how courage relates to the inclinations of the senses, whether natural or learned. To begin with, the will can choose to give free rein to our craving for pleasure, as perceived and dictated by our senses, achieving it through direct or indirect means (Scotus 2017a, Prol. 5:235). However, it is also free to restrain it. The laws of Nature governing our senses cannot deprive the will of its inherent freedom (Scotus 2017a, II 6:80). But what about inclinations towards goodness that are acquired over time? Aren’t virtuous habits designed to free us from the task of having to assess and choose between right and wrong in every moment of our lives? On this matter, Scotus readily concedes that virtue can take root in

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the senses and be implanted in the actions of the body, like art that becomes second nature in the hand of a painter (Scotus 2017a, III 33:60). Right choices form a habit in the sensory appetite, inclining it to be moved pleasurably toward similar things by reason’s command. And although this habit that is left behind is not properly a virtue, because it is not a habit concerned with choice or a habit that inclines toward choosing, one can nevertheless concede that it is a virtue in some sense, because it inclines toward those things that are consonant with right reason. (Scotus 2017a, III 33:45)

But an “appetitive virtue” can take hold of the senses, one might object. According to Aristotle, virtue is “a habit concerned with choice of the mean as determined by right reason,” an established disposition to regulate immoderate passions by restraining them (Scotus 2017a, I 17:6, see also 56, 58; III 33:7). The intellect ensures that virtues such as courage and temperance take root in the feelings of the senses (Scotus 2017a, III 33:3). Moral training and education play a crucial role in developing such habits. They teach and incline our senses to make the right choice as dictated by reason. They create an “appetite for correctness and goodness” in the way we handle our feelings, emotions, and desires. Scotus rejects this approach to ethics. Contrary to what Aristotelians hold, the goodness of an act is not a matter of correct habituation or training, at least not in its essence. The formation of a good habit is a secondary cause of moral conduct, less fundamental than the will’s constitutional power to choose (Scotus 2017a, III 33:61). One proof of this lies in any first act that is carried out for the right reason: it is morally good even if no habit has been formed. While an inclination to make the right choices may develop over time, no habit can explain why the right choice was made in the first place (Scotus 2017a, I 17:93, 100). Deliberative willing and choosing can command the right act even in the absence of an “upright virtue, inclining the will to choose rightly” (Scotus 2017a, III 33:43; 34:70). Also, an act may be good even if it is not perfect and is not carried out with pleasure and ease, which spring from practice and habit. Lastly, the same behaviour may be repeated over time through habit but for different reasons. Someone may possess courage and do

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courageous things on a regular basis, but not always do them courageously. That is, the same action may be performed at different times for reasons that may change from being wrong to being right (Scotus 2017a, I 17:57, 94). “And yet nothing about that habit in itself has undergone change; it’s just that now the habit is conjoined with prudence, whereas before it wasn’t” (Scotus 2017a, I 17:65). The will is always free to choose what is right or wrong and to transgress the laws of moral conscience if it so chooses (synteresis) (Scotus 2017a, II 39:19–20). At the very instant the man opts to behave courageously, he could decide otherwise, regardless of natural inclinations or previous conduct. Many courageous decisions made over time lead to the development of the virtue of courage, a “habit of principles” involving the immediate assent of the intellect (Scotus 2017a, III 33:7–9). In essence, however, the good habit is still the result of a number of correct choices made by the will (Scotus 2017a, III 33:58). It is “a habit of choice” formed through repeated instances of deliberative reasoning and willing, likely to be repeated in the future. An upright disposition inclines the will to similar acts. “I call that a virtue” (Scotus 2017a, III 33:24). A habit in the will, generated through right choices repeated over time, is virtue in the most proper sense (Scotus 2017a, III 33:44). Free action that springs from an undetermined power is then moulded by habit, predisposing people to choose and act rightly, with promptness and even pleasure (Scotus 2017a, III 33:32). Those who develop the virtue of courage can act more quickly and more appropriately in the face of sudden danger (Scotus 2017a, III 33:25–26, 37, 64, 77). The will has the primary role in commanding action and receiving praise or blame for it (Scotus 2017a, III 33:33, 37, 73). The powers of the will are those of willing and willing-against, or loving and hating. Both acts imply free choice and deliberation. The willing of pleasure is more fundamental than hating or willing-against, which is directed against secondary objects that act as impediments to obtaining pleasure (Scotus 2017a, II 6:27). Using this terminology, Scotus reframes courage so that endurance, or “undergoing” (pati) suffering, becomes its highest form. The virtue is now viewed as “a kind of permitting, a willing to impose no hindrance to something that is frightening” (Scotus 2017a, III 34:57). The lower form of courage, the one that comes without patience, is not a

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virtue. However, the will is still expressing itself, through the habit of willing-against through fighting. This habit of fighting off what needs to be fought should be called “pugnacity” (bellicositas) or something to that effect (Scotus 2017a, III 34:38). Willing and willing-against should not be confused with desires for pleasure or avoidance of pain as perceived by the senses. The pleasure that is sought by the will does not necessarily involve a natural inclination of the senses. Honour is a prime example. While it is pleasing, honour belongs “to the will as will, in the way that an angel’s will can desire a pleasant good even though it is not associated with a sensory appetite” (Scotus 2017a, III 34:56). Likewise, temperance that moderates sensual pleasures (taste, touch, or sight) is better described as “humility” when it is a matter of honour. This means that not all pleasures find expression in the organs of the body and related effects of heat and cold, or constriction and dilation. Scotus concludes from this that the “pleasurable good” is one of two things. It is whatever appeals directly to the will in its own right, independently from the senses. People may prefer intellectual activity over the satisfaction of material wants in the same way that they may prefer sex over food, for instance (Scotus 2017a, III 34:57). Or it is whatever is suitable and provides pleasure to both the will and the senses. The same argument applies to “irascible objects”: the will may have its own reasons to will-against them, in conjunction or not with the senses’ natural inclinations to fight them off (Scotus 2017a, III 34:48).

Charity as the Highest Perfection of the Will Thus far, the discussion about reasoning, willing, and acting is mostly philosophical, with few references to questions of faith and church doctrine. Scotus, however, has much to say about the religious aspects of moral willing. Taking his cue from the contemporary writings of Aquinas, he revisits the sevenfold hierarchy of virtues using his voluntaristic approach to moral thinking. As already seen, habits of prudence, justice, temperance, and courage become virtues of the will to moderate natural “appetites” and seek higher pleasures. They differ from each other and do not form an undivided whole. While intellectually inclined, prudence

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differs from habits of speculative thinking (e.g., metaphysics) and practical knowledge (e.g., carpentry). As a moral disposition of the will, it provides rational guidance and direction in support of the other cardinal virtues. But it is not the highest perfection of the will. For that matter, neither is “moral virtue” the highest perfection of the will. In the grand scheme of things, theological virtues take precedence over the four moral habits. They include faith, hope, and charity, habits of the will that can be developed to varying degrees and separately from each other (Scotus 2017a, III 34:24–31, 52, 54). These higher virtues take human goodness to its highest level, closer to the divine. Two of these theological virtues stand above all others: faith and charity. While faith is the highest perfection, charity is even nobler, because it is the “highest perfection of the will” (Scotus 2017a, III 33:57, 64). According to Scotus, far from being a matter of opinion or even faith, the hierarchy of virtues and positive habits is based on what natural reason shows to be necessarily true. The priority granted to faith and charity is fairly evident: it reflects what the mind apprehends as the ultimate good, which is infinite and therefore divine. As humans, we experience the desire for something that is greater than any finite good known to us; finite pleasures cannot be the end of moral willing or praxis. The enjoying power is brought to rest only where there is the most perfect being, and thus only in the supreme being (Scotus 2017a, I 1:10). Divine goodness enjoyed for its own sake is what natural reason dictates (Scotus 2017a, I 1:13–16). Above all else, loving God is an act that conforms to natural right reason, which dictates that what is best should be loved the most, and consequently the act is right in and of itself. Indeed, its rightness is self-evident, as the rightness of a first principle in the domain of possible actions. For something should be loved the most, and that is nothing other than the highest Good, just as nothing other than the highest Truth should be most firmly held as true by the intellect. And this argument is confirmed by the consideration that moral precepts belong to the natural law. (Scotus 2017a, III 27:14)

The command to “love the Lord your God” is a natural law compelling the intellect to acknowledge the existence of an Infinite Good. Nothing

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else deserves equal or greater love, not even the common good. Aristotle was wrong in this regard. He extolled the courageous citizen who is willing to face death for the good of the commonwealth, which is greater than his own life, without hoping for some reward in the next life. In this view, the courageous fight to experience the supreme goodness and pleasure of virtue, however fleeting, is preferable to a life of shame and disgrace. This means that “one intense act is better than any number of non-intense acts; so in this the courageous citizen is not choosing his own non-being but his best possible being through an act of virtue” (Scotus 2017a, III 27:49). Scotus begs to differ. For him, it makes more sense for the courageous to face death for a much greater good, the greatest of all, which lies in the love of God (Scotus 2017a, III 27:48). But here again, the will has the power and is entirely free to choose this love above all else or will-against it (Scotus 2017a, III 27:47). It can elevate itself to the highest level of perfection, close to the divine, if it so chooses. To help us grasp this higher calling of the will, Scotus cites Augustine’s description of two cities in the City of God (XIV): “Two loves created two cities. Love of God, to the point of contempt for self, created the City of God; love of self, to the point of contempt for God, created the city of the devil” (Scotus 2017a, II 6:38). Expanding on this point, he distinguishes between two kinds of willing or love. Desire-­ willing is the willing of an object treated as a means, something “that I will for some other loved thing” (Scotus 2017a, II 6:34). Friendship-love, on the other hand, is the willing of an object as an end, one for which “I will good.” Both happen to go wrong in the city of evil. They are ruled by the devil’s friendship-love for himself and his use of any necessary means to satisfy it. Excessive self-love is the fallen angel’s original crime, a sin of the will rather than the intellect. It demonstrates contempt for God and willing-against him, the most serious transgression of all (Scotus 2017a, II 6:53, 63, 69, 70, 79). Scotus clarifies his thinking by proposing a distinction between two kinds of affections, which he borrows from Anselm. One affection is for the advantageous, a non-free inclination ruled by what the intellect and the senses perceive as satisfying a natural appetite (Scotus 2017a, II 6:22–23). The other is affection-for-justice (Scotus 2017a, II 6:49). There can be no sin in the latter, as it involves the human will moderating the

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natural “affection for the advantageous” and obeying a higher will in the process, freely and willingly (Scotus 2017a, II 6:51–52, 57). In the affection-­for-justice lies the highest manifestation of human freedom: the will chooses to act “in conformity with the rule determined by a superior will, and thus justly” (Scotus 2017a, II 6:60). Those who seek perfect happiness by directing all their affection towards the advantageous (e.g., through avarice) stray from the right path. Instead, they should seek the most pleasant thing or end goal of happiness, which is to honour the Lord and his supreme love, to be enjoyed in the proper way, for God’s sake, and not as a means towards another end (Scotus 2017a, II 6:40–41, 59, 62). Scotus’ discussion of the different levels of goodness completes his voluntaristic reframing of the cardinal and theological virtues (Scotus 2017a, II 7:28–33). The first level is called generic; it involves the will pursuing an object according to “a dictate of right reason.” An example is almsgiving, which is generally a good thing. The second level is more specific. The will commands an act of goodness that suits the circumstances. Alms are given to the needy out of natural piety, in the right way and at the right place. The highest level of moral goodness takes the same act to another level, governed by the rules of merit and grace. The act is then performed in conformity with the principles of charity and divine justice. Almsgiving aligns with a divine command. The act is performed out of friendship-love for God, who sees it favourably and rewards it in due time. All acts that express affection-for-justice follow this higher rule of divine love, charity, and grace (Scotus 2017a, II 34–37:48, 51). Happiness achieved in this way, in a spirit of charity, requires time and must be earned by the grace of God. Scotus believes that the highest level of moral goodness can turn into a theological virtue, an affection-for-justice that is the defining feature of charity. Unlike faith, the habit of charity is not based on understanding or believing (Scotus 2017a, III 27:15–17). Nor is it hope, which is a willing for the advantageous rather than “superfriendship” and love of God for his own sake (Scotus 2017a, III 27:68). But, one might ask, what exactly does the virtue of charity

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entail? Addressing this issue, Scotus proposes the following definition: it is “the habit by which God is held dear (carus)” (Scotus 2017a, III 28:9). Like hope, the habit is infused by the grace of God and is the most perfect expression of the pleasurable good that humans can ever will for, knowing that God cannot be willed-­against (Scotus 2017a, III 34:51, see 31). Another distinctive feature of charity is that it inclines human beings to share their love of the universal good with others as opposed to keeping it for themselves. The habit inclines the faithful to will that God be possessed and loved by others, or at least by those whose friendship is pleasing to him. Charitable souls will that God be loved by everyone, to the extent that they are capable (Scotus 2017a, III 28:11–12). This is love inspired by affection-forjustice. It does not preclude self-love, which can be a virtue even though it has no name (Scotus 2017a, III 34:33). Nor does it prevent people from loving their neighbour and forming friendships whereby “one gives oneself to one’s neighbor” and is “possessed by him” to the greater extent possible (Scotus 2017a, III 34:59). Friendship of this kind is the most perfect form of justice, superior to sharing material goods or the necessities of life with others who become equals and reciprocate. But loving others can also be an expression of charity, provided that friends come second to God, who is the infinite good and therefore the first and ultimate object of love (Scotus 2017a, III 28:15). Instead of loving themselves and others for their own sake, those who practise charity will something unqualifiedly good for everyone. “If I love God perfectly, I will that he be loved by everything that is capable of loving him ordinately and whose love is pleasing to him” (Scotus 2017a, III 28:27; see 29:5, 8). In its proper sense, charity in this life is the habit by which we will and crave for justice and “love God, who is truly Justice, in himself ” (Scotus 2017a, III 34:68). The love that Scotus has in mind is not the soft, gentle, and sweet enjoyment of a pleasurable good. Rather, charity is the firmness of love in the face of adversity. It is the readiness to show courage and endure great hardship to protect the well-being of what Christians love most (Scotus 2017a, III 27:58).

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Evil Can Be Willed: William of Ockham William of Ockham (1285–1347 AD), also a Franciscan friar and a contemporary of Scotus, is generally on the same page. He is remembered in history as a leading proponent of the separation of religion and politics, arguing that the state should run its own affairs without interference from the church. His moral philosophy, however, is more in line with the scholastic movement. In an attempt to reconcile Aristotle with patristic theology, the English commentator of Lombard’s The Sentences adopts the widely held view that courage is one of the three moral virtues (along with justice and temperance) that must be ruled by prudence, or the habit of moral discernment, in the service of faith and the spirit of Christian charity. Courage is the readiness to curb one’s “vicious passions” (Ockham 1991, 2:15). This is not to say that virtues have a common origin or need to support each other. Since they are distinct and have different ends, virtues can exist separately, in the same way that the science of physics can be applied without the use of geometry (Ockham 1991, 2:18). Courage is not always accompanied by temperance, and vice versa. Someone may act bravely and still be a drunkard. Courage is independent of the other cardinal virtues. It also exists apart from theological virtues. The rule is simple: “One virtue suffices to support itself without any other virtue” (Ockham 1997, 3:114). But prudence is a requirement of all virtues and unifies them, one might reply. On this point, Ockham follows Henry of Ghent in arguing that prudence exists only in plural form. For instance, reasoning to grasp universal principles and ultimate ends is one thing. Exercising judgement about objects and actions in particular circumstances is another. Similarly, showing prudence to support the practice of justice is not the same as acting wisely and courageously in the face of danger posed by others. Each virtue requires its own form of moral reasoning. The three moral virtues are therefore not united under the higher rule of prudence and theological virtues. The converse is also true: demonstrations of intellectual and theological virtue are not necessarily accompanied by displays of courage or justice. Someone may exercise moral wisdom or practise charity without showing much courage.

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Adding nuance to his critique of the unity-of-virtue thesis, Ockham examines different levels of virtue, using two criteria: levels of intensity and ultimate purpose. The latter is particularly important in the sense that a person’s intention, duly informed by the circumstances, matters more than its outcome or related action. In his words, “no act is praiseworthy or blameworthy unless on account of a good or a bad intention” (Ockham 1997, 1:132). A woman may protect her chastity for the wrong reason, such as the fear of marriage. One may walk to church for the sake of vanity, only to change one’s mind and do the same thing for the sake of God (Ockham 1991, 1:18). As for levels of intensity, five degrees must be considered. The first degree of moral virtue is illustrated by ordinary and imperfect people who are simply doing the right thing. The second degree entails a more general commitment, a higher purpose, and a readiness to undergo sacrifice. The person intends to persist in virtue at all costs, including possible death if necessary. The third degree is true virtue, dictated by reason, with no motive that is not moral in nature. The fourth degree, driven by the love of God and obedience to his Law, is the perfect and true moral virtue that the saints speak of (Ockham 1997, 2:137). Heroic virtue comes last. It builds on the third or fourth level and occupies the highest place because of the actual danger and suffering that one must face, according to reason and for the sake of God. This level should not be confused with heroic suffering at the hands of others in the name of justice alone. An example of this is the Emperor Zaleuchos, who tore out his own eye to maintain the law he had established for others (Ockham 1997, 4:725). His act of self-mutilation may be heroic, but it is not an instance of the highest virtue. From a Christian perspective, the greatest hero is someone who chooses to take a beating from his enemy or go to prison instead of giving in to injustice, intemperance, or fornication, which is the same as defying reason and God’s love (Ockham 1997, 4:740). According to Ockham, it is only at the fourth and fifth levels of perfect and heroic virtue that moral intentions must reinforce each other and eliminate any vice or goodness that is only partial. In both instances, people are inclined to follow rational and divine precepts, adopting a uniform orientation towards virtuous actions. Because they have the same ultimate purpose, all virtues are required to sustain these higher

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levels of perfection over time. The unity-of-virtue principle thus holds true at levels where what is intended is inspired by the love of God, obedience to his Law, and the spirit of martyrdom and heroic sacrifice. Siding with Scotus against the Scholastics, Ockham argues that fortitude, informed by prudence and charity, is not dependent on specific actions. Rather, it is a habit of the will meant to curb human passions and, more importantly, endure war and religious persecution at the hands of enemies, after the examples of early church martyrs and soldiers of Christ (Ockham 1997, 4:640). All virtues are habits of the will, motivated by the right intention and faith in the Lord (Ockham 1991, 2:16; 3:18). However, unlike Scotus, Ockham acknowledges that humans can choose evil willingly and deliberately, at the peril of their own souls, without having to misrepresent it as something good, as most Scholastics would claim. People can will evil and their own demise by choosing something that goes against their nature. Sinning and misery can be embraced willingly and knowingly. Despair caused by the depravity of the human will is a real possibility. In the writings of Scotus and Ockham, the intellect no longer plays a leading role, using the will as its faithful and obedient handmaiden, so to speak. Since it is not chained to the exercise of reason, a soul’s knowing intent to act in certain ways can become an overarching principle that governs all expressions of virtue. A good metaphor to explain this is church “members of the Dove,” a phrase borrowed from Aquinas—birds that now escape the long arm of reason and Christian doctrine and fly on their own wings. They can choose evil freely and even knowingly, as Ockham suggests. But they can also choose the right path, the one that leads to meekness, peacefulness, gentleness, and gregariousness. They can fight off evil and bravely cope with persecution by taking refuge in the love of Christ, the Rock of strength. The choices made signal the end of fear and may be enhanced by the soothing sound of turtledoves (Turtur auritus), as in biblical times. Turtledoves are known for their tenderness and loving devotion. They are reassuring creatures. To use scholastic imagery, they observe their time of coming, always reappearing in the spring after the darkness and the rains have passed. Upon their arrival, flowers bloom on Earth, the season of

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singing returns, and cooing can be heard in all the gardens of the land. Birds of love that fly high in the sky of their own free will herald the end of fear and sombre fate. However, not everything about these creatures is comforting. In their own plaintive way, they are birds of ill omen. On the existential plane, their mission is to stand for the Holy Ghost and the blessings of happiness in a heavenly paradise, at the expense of life on Earth. The ghostly birds are clearly detached from the visible lands and gardens below. On the political plane, while efforts are made to promote everyone’s “affection-­ for-­justice,” super-friendship with the Lord and sacrificial suffering in his name take precedence. Despite their gentleness, turtledoves bring back memories of ancient offerings required for the expiation of the sins committed by evildoers. As for the pursuit of knowledge, Scotus and Ockham make room for the power of the human will, driven by its own intentions. Still, church members must follow rules born on the wings of divine spirits with greater claims to knowledge and ultimate truth. Abelard, Scotus, and Ockham challenge long-standing assumptions regarding the powers of the human intellect guided by faith in God. They show the centrality of human intentionality and the gift of free will in the workings of the soul. In their view, rational thinking governed by articles of faith is not the be-all and end-all of Christian virtue. The next chapter turns to an even more radical questioning of the scholastic idea of courage, this time from leaders of the Protestant Reformation and detractors of the Roman Catholic Church.

References Abelard, Peter. 1995. Ethical Writings: His Ethics or “Know Yourself ” and His Dialogue between a Philosopher, a Jew and a Christian. Trans. P.V. Spade, Intro. M. McCord Adams. Cambridge, Indianapolis: Hackett. Buridan, Jean. 2001. Questions on Book X of the Ethics. In The Cambridge Translations of Medieval Philosophical Texts, Vol. 2: Ethics and Political Philosophy, ed. A.S.  McGrade, J.  Kilcullen, and M.  Kempshall, 498–586. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Ockham, William of. 1991. Quodlibetal Questions. Volumes 1 and 2. Trans. A.J. Freddoso and F.E. Kelley. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. ———. 1997. On the Connection of the Virtues. Trans. R. Wood. In Ockham on the Virtues, R. Wood. West Lafayette, Ind.: Purdue University Press. Scotus, John Duns. 2017a. Ordinatio. In Selected Writings on Ethics, Trans. and ed. T. Williams. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. 2017b. Questions on Aristotle’s Metaphysics IX, q. 15. In Selected Writings on Ethics, Trans. and ed. T. Williams. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. 2017c. Reportatio IA.  In Selected Writings on Ethics, Trans. and ed. T. Williams. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

16 Challenging and Reforming the Church

The scholastic movement relies on philosophical thinking to strengthen the foundations of Christian ethics and theology. Its reasoned outlook on the nature of courage and virtue in general continues to dominate university teaching from the early fourteenth century through the end of the seventeenth century. However, as we know, this period in church history is not entirely committed to using logic to resolve key issues of religious faith and practice, including those of human intentionality and powers of the will. Some prominent thinkers distance themselves from theoretical concerns and mesh mystic experiences and ascetic lives with critical views of the church. Influential figures such as Catherine of Siena and Bridget of Sweden abandon the logic of scholastic disputation to describe their direct encounters with God through spiritual visions and divine revelation. Like the schoolmen, they extol the fortitude needed to renounce the flesh, love one’s neighbour, and show compassion for the sick and the poor. But they also turn these principles against the church in the hope of saving it from the sins of avarice and self-love. John Wyclif, an authoritative figure of the fourteenth century and forerunner of the Reformation, delivers an even more scathing indictment of the leading “sects” of the Roman Church, accusing them of waging a cruel war against those who are predestined to salvation. Led by the Holy Spirit and armed with © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32739-1_16

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spiritual fortitude, the elect are soldiers of Christ struggling to preserve the loving fear of God and the seven virtues of Christian ethics. Leaders of the Reformation build on these ideas to transform church doctrine and conduct, with an emphasis on the holy gifts of fear and faith as the true sources of righteous fortitude. These new directions in moral thinking revert to early Christian views on faith, fear, meekness, suffering, and fate, but with an entirely new political twist. The teachings are once again directed against the powers of Rome, except that Rome is now in the hands of a persecuting church.

 he Selfless Love of Catherine of Siena T and Bridget of Sweden In her dialogue with God, Catherine of Siena (1347–1380 AD) adopts the scholastic stance on the unity of virtues: Christian wisdom brings them together as different aspects of the same whole. She nonetheless observes that God distributes the virtues in varied ways. “To one I will give principally love, to another justice, to another humility, to one a lively faith, to another prudence or temperance, or patience, to another fortitude” (Catherine 1907, pp. 34–35). No one receives all their gifts right away. True to the scholastic tradition, she resolves the apparent contradiction by appealing to the common denominator of all virtues, which is love for God and for one’s neighbour. The point she makes is not that pious souls must be virtuous in all regards for the love of God, following the teachings of Augustine. Instead, she adapts Aristotle’s summation argument—the idea that virtues are placed in human souls in the same way that material goods are distributed, i.e., never together. This is for the benefit of everyone and the welfare of society as a whole. God placed humans in diverse stations and ranks so that they might “make use of the virtue of love.” Everyone performs an act of love by making use of their respective gifts: “One she helps with doctrine, that is, with words, giving sincere counsel without any respect of persons, another with the example of a good life, and this indeed all give to their neighbor, the edification of a holy and honorable life” (Catherine 1907, pp. 34–35). Each person’s

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chief quality is drawn to all other virtues, which are bound together by the spirit of love. However, since people receive different blessings, both spiritual and temporal, everyone has some flaws when it comes to love. The principle that gives rise to every virtue is “Love, love, love one another” (Catherine 2017, 24). When elevated to a mystical experience, love is expressed through the mystical wedding and union of one’s soul with God himself (Catherine 1907, pp. 167–70; 2017, 23, 37, 41). In a letter written to a nun living in a convent in Pisa, Catherine muses on the bridal joy of the Holy Church’s mystical body. She enjoins her to be a mirror of virtue, bathe herself in the blood of Christ crucified, and behave as a true bride, wearing not a ring of silver but rather Jesus’ foreskin, or the “ring of His Flesh” (Catherine 2017, 28). But there is more to her thinking than an erotic and mystical sublimation of church suffering in the name of her heavenly bridegroom. Catherine is also remembered for promoting compassion and acts of caring and attempting to reform the church towards the rule of ecclesiastical virtue. Her understanding of charity involves a radical and unwavering commitment to caring for the sick and the poor, with a deep sense of compassion that attracts many followers and establishes her reputation as a paragon of Catholic virtue. She extols those who make “themselves infirm with those who were infirm, so that they might not be overcome with despair, and to give them more courage in exposing their infirmity” (Catherine 1907, p. 176). Holy compassion means weeping with those who weep and rejoicing with those who rejoice instead of being jealous of them. For Catherine, self-love is the greatest vice, the source of all evil, and the root of social injustice imposed by evil and corrupt rulers. Self-love ruins the city of the soul and destroys affection and charity in all cities of the Earth (Catherine 2017, 36). All scandals, hatred, cruelty, and every sort of trouble proceed from this perverse root of self-love, which has poisoned the entire world, and weakened the mystical body of the Holy Church, and the universal body of the believers in the Christian religion and, therefore, I said to you, that it was in the neighbor, that is to say in the love of him, that all virtues were founded; and, truly indeed did I say to you, that charity gives life to all the virtues, because no virtue can be obtained without charity, which is the pure love of Me. (Catherine 1907, p. 33)

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The wrongdoings of “passionate lovers of themselves” (Catherine 2017, 50) bring us to the church reform sought by Catherine and the fortitude required to achieve it. In her letters and dialogue, strengthening the Holy Church’s mystical body calls for demonstrations of compassion and charity towards the sick and the destitute. All of this takes unselfish love and courage, understood in a sense that is well rooted in the Christian tradition, i.e., as patience and perseverance in virtue and in facing pain and adversity (Catherine 1907, pp. 30, 225; 2017, 26, 35, 39, 54). Catherine does not challenge the conventional wisdom of fortitude centred on inward battles of the soul. In her view, those who wish to be wedded to God’s love and saved by his grace must have the manly courage to make themselves “dead to their own sensuality,” purge their souls of all “sensitive love” and pleasure, and bear with terrible pain and suffering until death (Catherine 1907, pp. 29, 64, 175, 201, 215; 2017, 29, 41, 54). As children of God, they must use patience and “the fiery coals of love” to dispel the hatred and anger of the wicked and endure their injuries and sinful transgressions. Fortitude grows when tested by many temptations, vexations, and injuries from others (Catherine 1907, pp. 37, 124; 2017, 26, 29). It is strengthened through constant prayer, displays of humility and discretion, and efforts to honour God in all things rather than seeking one’s own honour and pleasure (Catherine 2017, 9). Holy discretion is a “fortitude which cannot be beaten, a perseverance from end to end, stretching from Heaven to Earth, that is, from knowledge of Me to knowledge of self, and from love of Me to love of others” (Catherine 2017, 26). Manly fear of God is another manifestation of fortitude. Unlike servile fear, the fear of God calls for the vows of poverty, true obedience, and continence, all of which grow stronger through penance and punishment administered by religious superiors and God himself (Catherine 1907, p.  215; 2017, 6, 14). In recompense for their courageous suffering and display of humility, the meek can drink the blood of the Spotless Lamb and wear the Holy Cross as armour. They can act like manly men, covering themselves with fortitude and charity and not being terrified of the devil or other people (Catherine 2017, 14, 41–43). The meek thus receive the blessings they seek from the “Ruler and Helper of the ship of Holy Church,” which include providence, safety, and joy (Catherine 2017, 55; see 29, 33, 41). Armed with God’s

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might and the spiritual strength that comes from divine grace, the church can be strong in every battle, remain invincible, and even launch a “sweet crusade” against the infidels in accordance with God’s will (Catherine 2017, 14, 17, 18, 28, 56). Catherine’s conception of fortitude combines elements of mystic love with lessons of devotional suffering and fear that can be turned against God’s enemies. While the overall mixture is her own, all themes are reminiscent of ideas dating back to early Christianity. Where she strays from tradition is in the way she uses them, by calling for a reform within the church. She reproaches the institution for not having the courage to uphold the standards of selfless love and virtue within its own ranks. Too many ecclesiastics succumb to pride and avarice. The battle is of a spiritual and moral nature. That is, the beauty and fortitude of the church must “not be restored to her by the sword, nor by cruelty or war, but by peace, and humble continual prayers, tears and sweat, poured forth from the grieving desires of My servants” (Catherine 2017, 56). In her letters to Gregory XI and Urban VI, she beseeches the popes to show the kind of manliness that comes from humility and the fear of God, which means practising virtue, reforming the church, and raising only virtuous men to the position of cardinal. Any failure to abide by these principles would be disastrous and a great insult to God (Catherine 2017, 21). On the matter of appointments, she plainly asks Urban VI “that when shepherds are to be appointed in the garden of Holy Church, let them be people who seek God, and not benefices: and let the means of asking for the post be such as act openly in the truth and not in falsehood” (Catherine 2017, 45). Bridget of Sweden (1303–1373 AD), a contemporary of Catherine, also has spiritual revelations, cares for the sick and the poor, and uses her position of influence to pressure popes into reforming the church. Although scattered and rather brief, her remarks on the nature of courage are in the spirit of the age. She says of God that he “gave the human soul two goods, namely a rational mind to order to distinguish opposite from opposite and better from best; and fortitude in order to persevere in the good” (Bridget 2006, 2:17). The faithful demonstrate their soldier-like courage through a steadfast mind and soul that resist the love of worldly thoughts and affections (Bridget 2006, 1:13; 4:133). They journey through life by travelling with fortitude and patient suffering, the

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opposite of pride, which puffs people up above and beyond themselves (Bridget 2006, 4:17). They overcome worldly obstacles such as impatience, a lack of discernment, and old habits that are not suited to God’s work (Bridget 2006, 2:2). Perfect souls surmount these obstacles through the cheerfulness and fortitude of a good intention that ignores fear and obeys reason, according to God’s will (Bridget 2006, 1:54; 4:74). They combine words of faith with acts of courage, divine charity, and the contemplation of the life to come (Bridget 2006, 4:129). On the need for reform, one letter she writes to Pope Clement VI speaks of “how greed and ambition flourished and increased in the church during your time, or that you could have reformed and set many things right but that you, lover of the flesh, were unwilling” (Bridget 2006, 4:136). She addresses similar reproaches and threats of divine retribution to Urban V and Gregory XI (Bridget 2006, 4:138–44). Bridget’s position on the necessity of brave reforms could not be clearer.

 redestination, Filial Fear, and the Unfaithful P Church: John Wyclif Catherine and Bridget portray the corrupt church as a garden full of the smelly flowers of impurity, avarice, and pride. They should be replaced by faithful lambs and fragrant flowers, namely the Virgin Mary, martyrs, the elect, and all priests and rulers who are true servants of Jesus Christ and fathers of the poor (Catherine 2017, 23; Bridget 2006, 1:52). The English scholastic philosopher and reformer John Wyclif (c. 1330–1384 AD) is equally critical of what has become of the church—a pale reflection of the dove or virgin mother and bride of the humanity of Christ (Wyclif 2019b, 5:21). Written towards the end of his life, his polemical tract entitled “On the Seven Gifts of the Spirit” is a scathing indictment of the abuses of faith and authority by the ruling Catholic Church and clergy. It discusses the seven gifts from the Holy Spirit listed in Isaiah (Isa. 11:2–3): wisdom, understanding, counsel, fortitude (might, strength), knowledge, godliness, and fear of the Lord. Taken together, these gifts form a system of knowledge that can satisfy the entire human soul. They have been

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revealed through Jesus Christ and the Scriptures and imparted to the faithful, who are predestined for salvation. They inspire the supreme power of the intellect towards the love of God. However, the ruling church and its supporters interpret these gifts in ways that cannot be trusted. Wyclif firmly condemns the teachings and practices of “the four sects” that observe the papal traditions and obey the Roman Curia. The secular clergy, monks, friars, and canons that pretentiously call themselves “the religious” betray the Lord by maintaining “useless aspects of human tradition and other sciences because of their pride or greed” (Wyclif 2019a, 1, 2). They blaspheme against God when they muddy the fountain of living water. This is what they do when they add their own doctrinal conclusions and fictions to the law conveyed by God, which should be the sole object of true faith (Wyclif 2019a, 3). Wyclif ’s approach to the seven gifts or virtues of the Christian faith is mostly polemical, without pretending to advance scholastic thinking on the subject. His sevenfold list starts with the wisdom of God’s love and the proper understanding of his law established in the Scriptures. Both are speculative gifts of the mind. Counsel received from God comes next. It enables the church militant to act wisely, guided by the Spirit of God, especially in hard times. Idleness in this regard is sinful; in the words of James (2:26), “faith without works is dead.” Too many seek learning for the sake of curiosity and, what is worse, greater material prosperity and the enjoyment of carnal pleasures. The gift of knowledge completes the list of blessings of the intellect. It involves deductive reasoning in the service of faith, charity, and the love of God. Supporters of the ruling church are shamefully lacking in this regard. This is because they are devoted chiefly to activities through which they become rich in endowments and other worldly goods, just as monks in the human arts are said to be devoted to civil and canon law, both publicly and in private. The cause of this seems to be that this is lucrative knowledge, and the desire for worldly goods demands it through a consequent malice. (Wyclif 2019a, 6)

Members of the true and universal church must cultivate the three gifts of the intellect, maintain their state of innocence, and renounce the pursuit of worldly goods. Instead, friars seek an infinite number of friends

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and allies and cover themselves with ornaments. They make commerce out of their faith by selling the paltry sermons, prayers, and writings of their brotherhood. The Church Fathers would have found no use in these traditions and practices inspired by the Devil. Wyclif does not mince words. The church is led by children of the devil who persecute the community of the predestinate and true followers of the Holy Spirit. Even though exposed to great physical danger, the latter never give up and always preserve peace of mind in the face of adversity. They follow in the footsteps of the apostles, who used to work in teams of two, not in assemblies of religious orders under the rule of powerful prelates who ignore the counsel of God. Their peace of soul and mind, nurtured by the virtues of patience and faith, is far superior to the safety and peace that neighbouring kingdoms normally seek (Wyclif 2019a, 4). Wyclif makes several comments about the strength of mind that God bestows on the elect. Listed before knowledge, this fourth gift is sorely needed to uphold God’s law and withstand bodily persecution from those in power. “Philosophers have spoken about that strength, suggesting that it is one of the cardinal virtues, which they say are justice, strength, prudence and temperance” (Wyclif 2019a, 5). By way of example, the apostles were strong in war, showing constancy when fighting with other soldiers against the ancient serpent. Unlike them, crusaders for the devil show their strength by supporting their leaders’ evil ends. They are like soldiers of the world, strong in their bodies but not in their souls. They seek secular glory and personal fame. “Likewise, clerics expose themselves to the dangers of land and sea for the sake of acquiring a benefice in the Roman Curia, but do not dare to speak the faith of Christ the Lord to insulting adversaries, or make one of Belial’s footsoldiers known to men.” Wyclif finds another counterexample to Christian fortitude in unnamed friars who slander and attempt to kill dukes and princes bent on threatening their religious order. The passage refers to John Latimer, a Carmelite friar who attempted and failed to assassinate John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster and Wyclif ’s close friend, in 1384. Wyclif goes on to portray bishops as warmongering soldiers who seek victory through brutality, driven by pride and worshiping the material world. As “people of the world,” they possess fiery tongues and use the sword, physical strength, and military power to satisfy their greed (Wyclif

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2019a, 5). By contrast, the soldiers of Christ are “people of the spirit.” They lead humble and simple lives, armed with the weapons of patience, the mildness of judgement, and the promise of future life. They possess spiritual fortitude, strength of purpose, and divine love. The well-­ established “soldier of Christ” imagery is reminiscent of the early Christian idea that the faithful are fated to lose battles on Earth, mostly against Rome, but win the war, leading to immortality in heaven. Bernard of Clairvaux thought differently. He portrayed Christ’s soldiers as conquerors of the world rather than victims. Since they were without reproach, they could launch successful crusades against the Muslim world. Wyclif opts instead to locate the battle within the Catholic Church, against the Roman Curia. His praise goes to the faithful, who are “like soldiers,” the opposite of real men-at-arms fighting and promoting violence under the banner of Christ. He uses military language to prove that spiritual soldiers who give up all claims to wealth and power are morally superior to their enemies. They may lose real battles, but they will win in the end. The sixth gift is piety, defined as charity, a twofold principle involving respect for one’s neighbour and reverence for God. All forms of knowledge must serve this twofold purpose. Importantly, piety should not be confounded with gestures of false charity, such as bestowing useless goods on a guest. Other signs of impiety and disrespect include crediting or blaming a religious order or the whole of Christianity for any good or bad deed performed by one of its members. It does not make sense for anyone to denounce someone’s misconduct within a religious order in the hopes of punishing the whole religious community. This contradicts the inherent character of piety, which is a personal virtue and not a collective disposition (Wyclif 2019a, 7). The last gift, the fear of God, brings us back to the original spirit of Christian fortitude. Fear of God, according to Wyclif, is the source and foundation of all other gifts. As we have seen, the Scriptures make the same point. What is advocated here, however, is the scholastic notion of filial fear, as conceived by Lombard, not natural fear, which has no relevance to virtues or vices. Nor is it servile fear, which “has the flavour of sin through its inherent senselessness” (Wyclif 2019a, 8). What the English philosopher has in mind is a holy fear, the kind that motivates the children of God to preserve themselves from sin and evil at all times,

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for the love of God. It involves suffering and dying to protect God’s seven gifts and the blessings that follow. Filial fear is not dreading “temporal lords” and worrying about punishments for offences committed against them. Nor is it fear that leads to violence, as when the clergy take measures to punish or kill a king, prince, or church member (including Wyclif himself ) who may pose a threat to their collective order. Clerics that yield to servile fear fight for their community above all, which they consider more worthy of love than any person within it or the virtues practised by its members. In his concluding chapter, Wyclif wonders whether the unfaithful sects and ruling authorities of the church should be destroyed. For reasons of consistency, he answers in the negative. To be sure, the Lord and the gospel never taught, explicitly or implicitly, that sects and rulers should exercise power over the Church of Christ. Nonetheless, “the orthodox individual should be measuredly peaceful” and long for unity based on reason and God’s law, with the assurance that evil sects will vanish on the Day of Judgement (Wyclif 2019a, 9). God could eliminate these sects if he so wished. Since he does not, a Catholic should show wisdom when responding to their actions and teachings, however misguided and offensive they may be.

Love Out of Faith and Fear: Martin Luther Wyclif preaches submission to God’s will. Like Jesus on the eve of his crucifixion and death, he reminds his followers of the inherent weakness of the flesh, the value of meekness and humility, and the inevitability of suffering and despair. Reformation leaders echo the same principles, to which they add the full weight of God’s grace and providence in mustering human courage among the elect. Martin Luther (1483–1546 AD) insists that the elect cannot win God’s grace by becoming holy and atoning for their sins, or by sweating up blood and trembling because of anxiety and grief (Luther 2014, 28:16; 45:11). Nothing can earn them God’s blessings. If they are afflicted, God may choose to console them and

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convince them that they live in a beautiful garden. But he will not remove the affliction from the heart or the valley of the shadow of death (Luther 2014, 58:32). Instead, he may subject his own followers to suffering while letting the ungodly live comfortably in a rose garden (Luther 2014, 98:6). Throughout his sermons, Luther endorses the original message of the Scriptures, with a particular emphasis on the imperative of faith in Christ’s word as recorded in the Gospel. The elect who place their faith in his teachings will gain eternal life in heaven. They will receive the precious gift of courage and the strength to face adversity and evil in this life. Thus, courage stems from hearing, believing, and trusting God’s word, good news, and counsel, along with the promise of eternal salvation (Luther 2014, 16:3; 23:4; 94:11; 97:10; 111:18). “If it were not for this promise, who would have the courage to pray?” Luther asks (Luther 2014, 51:3, 6). The assurance of heavenly salvation gives the faithful courage, strengthens their confidence in God, and brings them joy for as long as they live (Luther 2014, 65:5; 87:16; 120:13). Another core idea inspired by the New and Old Testaments is that there is no faith without fear. Luther makes it clear that the fear of God and trust in him are inextricably linked. The faithful who have both are never so arrogant as to believe they can achieve true happiness on their own (Luther 2014, 13:9). Courage, strength, and confidence are only granted to the humble, who see their unworthiness and are afraid of God’s wrath (Luther 2014, 1:31; 12:196; 37:3, 43, 70; 50:22; 60:36; 67:7; 89:15; 112:23; 123:32). The order everywhere indicated and observed by Scripture is this, that sin must always be acknowledged and fear of God’s wrath be realized, through the preaching or experience of the Law, before there can be such comfort as proceeds from forgiveness, the purpose of this order being that men may be led to long for grace and be made fit to receive the comfort of the Gospel. Those, therefore, who are yet without any fear of God’s wrath, who are secure and hardened and unyielding, must be strongly admonished and urged to repentance by the threats and terrors of that wrath, that is, to them no Gospel is to be preached, but only the Law and Moses. (Luther 2014, 76:45)

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In The Complete Works of Martin Luther, the word “fear” appears about 650 times. However, the word “love” is used twice and a half as frequently. More strikingly, connections between love and courage inspired by the fear of God are more clearly developed than in the Scriptures. Out of fear and faith grow the love of God and the confidence and strength needed to suffer anything and put one’s life at risk for his sake (Luther 2014, 5:28; 120:13). The courage obtained from the fear and love of God is best expressed through joyful preaching and praying. Christians bravely preach the gospel and convey the divine promise of resurrection to the poor (Luther 2014, 3:30; 36:2; 95:1). But courage also involves putting the gospel into practise, beyond words. To accomplish this, Christians must help their neighbours and care for sinners and the poor (Luther 2014, 74:39; 89:16; 114:24). On these demonstrations of faith and brotherly love “hangs our highest comfort and courage against sin, death, Satan, hell, law, and against all misfortune, both of the body and of the soul” (Luther 2014, 30:10). When it comes to their own needs, the faithful are content with whatever God provides. Those who have faith and confidence in God do not worry themselves to death about trivial matters like a little smallpox mark appearing on the body. Instead, they “journey onward cheerfully and courageously, whatever their calling may be” (Luther 2014, 81:34). They have enough to live on and are amply supplied with all of life’s necessities, as if they lived in a garden of roses (Luther 2014, 76:12; 91:21). The love of God and of others is inconsistent with the love of money and the confidence it provides, which is the root of many evils (Luther 2014, 22:10; 85:3). Trusting in God removes any anxiety about material needs and riches. How contemptible this carcass! Shall a penny have more weight in my heart and give me more courage than God himself, who holds heaven and earth in his power, who gives us the air we breathe and the water we drink, who makes our corn to grow and gives us all things? It is so scandalous that it cannot be uttered, that God should not amount to as much with us as a hundred guilders. Why not think that God, who has created me, will surely feed me, if he wants me to live? If he does not want this, very well, I shall be satisfied. (Luther 2014, 87:19–20)

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Those who trust and fear God and preach the Gospel are given the courage to “declare kings and princes, wealth, pleasure and power but creations of a dream, in the face of the mad rage of earth after such things” (Luther 2014, 115:6). While they fear God, they do not dread the terrible afflictions that might befall them, not even persecution (Luther 2014, 48:18; 124:94). They preach God’s word fearlessly, knowing that God stands on their side and rewards them in heaven (Luther 2014, 37:43; 56:16; 74:10). Disciples boldly go forward and spread his word regardless of the persecution and violence that the world and the devil can inflict on them (Luther 2014, 50:9). False spirits do the opposite. They have no fear of God and do not trust his word or his promise. Accordingly, souls that show themselves to be bold, hard, proud, and impenitent should expect the worst. When death comes, terror overwhelms them, and their arrogance gives way to cowardice and despair (Luther 2014, 102:18). “If there be a Christ who terrifies, he is and desires to be such only to these obstinate heads” (Luther 2014, 37:17). Those who have no fear should fear the worst. Faith and devotional dread, happy praying and preaching, God’s love, caring for the poor and humble living, and fearlessness in the face of horrific suffering and persecution are all expressions of the gifts and strength received from heaven, as described in the Scriptures. God imparts courage and other blessings according to his will, and the Holy Spirit can bless anybody he pleases. This includes women. While they are timid by nature, God can empower them to do things that are daunting even to men (Luther 2014, 32:4). Through his intervention and kindness, all Christians are given “light and courage and a heart which burns with love and delights in whatever pleases God” (Luther 2014, 58:12, 14; see 120:13). Believers recognise that it is God who instils faith in the hearts of men and women because they cannot produce it by themselves (Luther 2014, 13:8). This is a core idea that runs like a thread in Luther’s work, with an emphasis that becomes a cornerstone of the Reformation. Human beings are not rational creatures that actively develop and sustain good deeds and habits meant to earn them happiness on Earth and in heaven. On the contrary, when left on their own, they are feeble creatures prone to fear and despair. It follows that Christians must accept their lot in life, which is to live in the terror of suffering and sin with a conscience that is

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broken, troubled, and humbled (Luther 2014, 3:30; 37:17; 55:51; 103:19). They must keep in mind that the devil can corrupt even the purest works and turn them into sins (Luther 2014, 72:51). Faith and courage cannot originate from the natural faculty of reasoning and understanding (Luther 2014, 16:3; 23:4; 40:6). Nor do they come from human laws and books, let alone from any king or emperor of Rome (Luther 2014, 55:14; 58:12, 14). When salvation is at stake, being at one with Christ and believing in him are the only things that truly matter. This means that any law that violates the conscience should be despised and banished (Luther 2014, 72:17). The rule applies to all “papistical” teachings that are man-made and contradict what God has ordained. Christians should be brave enough to protect their freedom, follow the gospel, and challenge established norms about mass, prayer, dressing, and meat consumption. They should do so knowing that the papists will take offence and shout, “Our teachings must be observed!” “He who disregards them is a heretic, a heathen, a Jew, and disobedient to the Church” (Luther 2014, 116:8). For the papists, faith is just a vague idea and a dead letter. They ignore the true nature of faith, which is “a fearless and strong courage that, with all boldness of heart, relies on Christ, in defiance of sin, death and hell” (Luther 2014, 55:51). True Christians do not depend on reason or any church doctrine to sustain their faith in God. Rather, it is by trusting God and the Holy Spirit that they gain courage and confidence in the face of suffering, evil, persecution, misfortune, and death (Luther 2014, 32:4; 40:4; 46:18; 50:9; 55:14; 58:32; 60:2, 5; 102:18). Also, when they lose faith and courage, as inevitably happens in life, they rely on the Lord to comfort them and no one else. Such comfort gives a person a fearless heart and courage against the ravings of the world and the devil. It enables a Christian to endure hardship and ultimately triumph, as did the apostles and martyrs, as well as pious women and young virgins (Luther 2014, 60:7) Luther’s view of courage could not be more at odds with the teachings of Scholasticism and classical antiquity. Courage is no longer a stable habit of character. The only well-established disposition shared by all humans is that of sinning and despairing, which is what happens when they are left on their own. It is in their nature to sin, stumble, and feel so

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much terror as to be “frightened at a rustling leaf ” (Luther 2014, 41:7; see 124:94). No one can reach perfection to the point of no longer experiencing inner struggles, not even the apostles and great saints like Joshua (Luther 2014, 58:32). Men should not overestimate what they can do on their own without divine assistance (Luther 2014, 14:16; 36:2; 41:8; 45:11). All must grasp who they are and expect to be tested so that their faith may continue to grow and become stronger (Luther 2014, 58:24; 109:11). Those who follow God may stand strong for a while with a good conscience. But then God hides from them and causes them pain, possibly because he is angry with them. Thus, persecution, sickness, poverty, sin, the devil, and death all surround them and are ever present. Because of these trials, their faith weakens, and they lose courage. They flee from the enemy and become afraid of the whole world (Luther 2014, 45:28). In the end, the arrogant learn the hard way that they cannot “accomplish everything in their own strength” (Luther 2014, 13:8). All Christians are sinners prone to fear. Nonetheless, Luther observes that misfortune is beneficial because it makes Christians more courageous and joyful in trying times (Luther 2014, 40:6; 53:27; 60:87; 119:37). Also, pitying ourselves for being poor Cain-like sinners is pointless. Instead, we should “consider what Christ is and what he has accomplished and still accomplishes for us.” “The point is not our nature, but the grace of God” (Luther 2014, 124:93–94). The faithful should thus rejoice in the fact that the Lord tests those he loves, knowing that he will patiently heal and comfort them so they can grow in faith and fearlessness (Luther 2014, 41:10; 45:1; 60:8). The Word of God and the Holy Spirit will ensure that they become strong, cheerful, and courageous (Luther 2014, 16:3; 36:23; 45:21). The Bible does not remove adversity, suffering and death. No, it simply reveals the holy cross—Paul calls it the Word of the Cross—therefore patience is necessary. In the midst of suffering, however, the Bible consoles and strengthens, that our patience may not fail but press on unto victory. Under the strong comfort of God’s solacing assurance that he is present to direct, the soul bears up with courage and joy beneath its sufferings. (Luther 2014, 116:36)

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Christ sends the Holy Spirit as the almighty Comforter who “trumpets courage” into poor sinners, those who are weak and frightened by death (Luther 2014, 37:17; 45:29; 56:7; 94:77). He does not remove hardships from life—the kind that terrifies everyone, such as death, sin, and all forms of distress where material possessions are of no help. Instead, he gives the timid, trembling, and troubled person a heart that is fearless, bold, peaceful, and joyful. “This, then, is a true and constant peace, which remains forever and is invincible as long as the heart clings to Christ” (Luther 2014, 40:6). The word of Christ brings true peace (Luther 2014, 57:5; 60:58). Without the Holy Spirit, the conscience remains weak and cannot conquer evil. It cannot resist the enmity of the world and vanquish sin, however trivial it may be (Luther 2014, 56:13). Nor can blessings of peace and comfort in this world be trusted, for they are uncertain and not meant to last (Luther 2014, 60:84). People rely on transient things to achieve happiness, whether it be gold, material possessions, power, honour, or the friendship of men. But they lose confidence and courage as soon as they are gone. Although such things are under their control, they are no substitute for the true eternal peace and joy of receiving God’s favour and grace (Luther 2014, 60:84). For Luther, fearless courage springs from Christian faith, piety, love, humility, and fear of the Lord. All of these are gifts that God can bestow or withdraw at any time, as he wishes. Whatever they do, believers, the clergy, and rulers cannot secure these blessings on their own.

Fortitude Without Merit: Jean Calvin Jean Calvin (1509–1564 AD), a French theologian and pastor, held many of the same beliefs. While he vehemently disagreed with Luther on issues such as the Eucharist, he too argued that God is the one who grants spiritual fortitude to those who preach his word because they fear, pray, and love him. The reasoning is straightforward and runs through all of Calvin’s biblical commentaries: only foolish men and nations extol their own valour and attribute it to their fortune or, worse, their own free will, military force, or superior wisdom (Calvin 2013, Deut. 31:6; Josh. 2:9; Ps.

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18:32; 20:7; Isa. 19:3; 36:18; Jer. 45:5). God is the one who “girds the loins” of “those whom he supplies with strength and courage and renders victorious.” Only when the Lord gives men his power and strength do they have courage. Without his assistance, neither weapons nor military power can accomplish anything. Nothing happens by chance, and God decides the outcome of all wars and grants victories to whoever he pleases (Calvin 2013, Isa. 45:5). Calvin is critical of the “outward man,” who takes pride in gifts of the mind such as “prudence, courage, acuteness, judgment, skill in the transactions of business” (Calvin 2013, Isa. 40:6). By contrast, the “inward man” lives humbly in the hope that the Lord will bless him in due time and for his own reasons. God is the one who will enlighten us with the light of wisdom and understanding, will impart to us counsel in difficulties, will make us strong and courageous in battles, will bestow on us the true fear of God, that is, godliness, and, in a word, will communicate to us all that is necessary for our life and salvation. All gifts are here included by the Prophet, so that it is excessively foolish to attempt to conceal those which do not belong to the present enumeration. (Calvin 2013, Isa. 11:1)

The Lord implants the virtue of fortitude in the hearts of the faithful who live in the fear of God (Calvin 2013, Eze. 3:12; see Gen. 35:10; Ex. 18:22). This is what happened to David. Because he called God his strength and persevered in his faith, he was blessed by God and went from being a country shepherd to a mighty warrior in spirit (Calvin 2013, Ps. 144:1). However, if the faithful acquire strength, it is not because of the moral merit they obtain from their good works and displays of faith and piety. Calvin stands by his principle: the only way that fortitude may be obtained is through the grace of God (Calvin 2013, Gen. 49:22; Dan. 8:25; Josh. 18:8). If this is so, then why should God and his preachers exhort believers to “be of good courage,” “shout with joy,” and proclaim the name and glory of the true God (Calvin 2013, Jer. 10:11; 31:7)? Why does it matter, given that rewards cannot be reaped through good works? Calvin answers that any exhortation that comes from God or the church is merely an

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invitation for Christians to rely on God to protect them from the assaults of evil (Calvin 2013, Gen. 49:22). In his reading of Psalm 31, Calvin drives the point home: We are first, then, calmly to commit ourselves to the protection and guardianship of God, and to endeavor to have the experience of his goodness pervading our whole minds. Secondly, thus furnished with steady firmness and unfailing strength, we are to stand prepared to sustain every day new conflicts. As no man, however, is able of himself to sustain these conflicts, David urges us to hope for and ask the spirit of fortitude from God, a matter particularly worthy of our notice. For hence we are taught, that when the Spirit of God puts us in mind of our duty, he examines not what each man’s ability is, nor does he measure men’s services by their own strength, but stimulates us rather to pray and beseech God to correct our defects, as it is he alone who can do this. (Calvin 2013, Ps. 31:24; my emphasis)

The faithful need God’s help to support their strength, lest they lose courage and zeal and succumb to the many temptations devised by Satan (Calvin 2013, Ex. 4:24). On their own, humans are easy prey with faint hearts. They may be courageous in defending a good cause, but only until they expose themselves to great danger and face the madness of the wicked. “No sooner are we brought into action, than in the smallest matters we conjure up to ourselves lions, and dragons, and a host of frightful dangers” (Calvin 2013, Ps. 91:13; see Ps. 119:87, Jer. 26:24). Wisdom, inward peace, and courage do not come naturally to human beings (Calvin 2013, Ps. 94:12). Likewise, the strength and stability of the church are not those of a well-fortified city (Calvin 2013, Isa. 37:27). Rather, true fortitude is founded on consolation from the Holy Spirit, the promise of heavenly salvation, and the assurance of divine protection against attacks that bring ruin to the world (Calvin 2013, Ps. 46:3; see Isa. 37:27; 50:7). Knowing how difficult it is to stay strong, a true believer “presumes neither to attempt nor undertake any thing unless with His assistance, and, depending wholly on His providence, commits all his plans to His sovereign pleasure” (Calvin 2013, Ps. 119:26; see 26:1; 125:3). Given their inherent weakness, the faithful have no choice but to rely on God, to call upon him, to praise his grace, and to stay confident,

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even in the face of death (Calvin 2013, Ps. 35:18; see Ps. 83:5; 119:26; Gen. 48:15; Mat. 26:33). In the end, God’s strength is displayed in the humble nature of men who tremble, hoping to be placed under his protection (Calvin 2013, Isa. 26:20). God is the only one who can uplift the fainting courage of his people (Calvin 2013, Ex. 6:2). He is there for those who are weak and prone to despair, giving them the fortitude and constancy they need to endure terrible afflictions and defeat the onslaught of evil foes, fearsome kings, and wicked tyrants. They also receive the strength required to wrestle against inward temptations and desires of the flesh (Calvin 2013, Ps. 37:24; 39:1; 82:2; 109:28; 119:46; Lam. 28:3; Eze. 11:19; Dan. 2:45, 3:7, 18; 3:28; 4:32–33; 11:32; Mat. 25:34; Jer. 1:17, 19). Most of all, the faithful are made strong enough to resist boasting about their own strength. God makes war on arrogant men who make war on him and refuse to accept that all power and energy originate from him. They forget that their lives are in his hands and that they cannot do anything without him. Sooner or later, God will pass judgement on those who are in the habit of showing off their strength and fortitude (Calvin 2013, Dan. 4:32). The reprobate are prone to boasting about their courage, even after being chastised. In doing so, they head for their own ruin (Calvin 2013, Ps. 83:17; Jer. 20:9). Since their courage does not come from God’s word, they are condemned to losing strength and becoming like worms and dead men (Calvin 2013, Isa. 41:14). As powerful as they may seem, their fortifications, armies, and wealth count for nothing (Calvin 2013, Ps. 119:49; Isa. 31:7). God has the power to destroy them with a simple nod, the movement of his finger, or the mere breath of his mouth. He can “make their hearts effeminate, render their hands unfit for war, and annihilate their whole strength” (Calvin 2013, Ps. 76:5; see Isa. 30:17). He can cause the most warlike nations to be overwhelmed by fear and become less courageous than women (Calvin 2013, Isa. 19:16). Those who forsake the Lord because of their foolish pride are bound to incur his vengeance; the fright they experience at his hands makes them lose all courage in battle (Calvin 2013, Isa. 22:2). Some still spread fear, but this is done on purpose so that those who are persecuted for their faith may be moved to praise God’s work.

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Instead of swelling with pride, believers must behave as obedient children or sheep flocking behind the Shepherd. They must bravely study and observe his Law as they head towards their promised inheritance (Calvin 2013, Josh. 23:6; Ps. 77:19). God endows his humble servants with the manly armour of strength and fortitude they need to defeat their foes and make all the enemies of God weak and helpless as women (Calvin 2013, Ps. 8:2; 27:1; 31:5; Isa. 66:7; Jer. 21:22). But he also tests their faith and increases their fortitude through suffering and sorrow. “For if we are enabled by the invincible strength and power of faith to endure, the fitting season of our deliverance will at length arrive” (Calvin 2013, Ps. 40:1). As the incarnate God, Christ on the cross shows how essential it is for humans to suffer in the flesh. On this point, Calvin quotes Ambrose, who thought it was necessary that the Son of God “should experience grief, that he might overcome sorrow, and not shut it out; for the praise of fortitude is not bestowed on those who are rather stupefied than pained by wounds” (Calvin 2013, Mat. 26:37; see also 26:42; 27:28). The faithful should expect God to test them throughout their lives. This means that God will keep taking back the gift of fortitude and manly bravery from those who possess it, whenever he pleases (Calvin 2013, Gen. 35:5; 39:18; 50:4; Harm. 23:24; Ps. 27; Josh. 2:9; Isa: 3:2, 4). While his help can invigorate the timid and give them hope, the Lord can also strike fear and the terror of sin, divine wrath, and eternal death into the hearts of brave men and their bold enemies alike (Calvin 2013, Ex. 23:27; 33:4; Ps. 9:3). No one is immune to losing confidence and hope. Even the greatest servants of God may sink into despair when battling against the devil and a cruel world prone to shedding the blood of the innocent (Calvin 2013, Ps. 6:7; 9:12; 13; 55:4; 119:28; Jer. 45:1). They may become discouraged, complain about being rejected by God, doubt his providence, and no longer embrace his law (Calvin 2013, Ps. 119:61; see Isa. 37:1). When that happens, prayer, humility, and hope in the grace of God are the only possible means to regain confidence, calmness, and peace of mind (Calvin 2013, Ps 40:5; 71:12; 86:11; 116:7; 119:10; Dan. 9:21; Isa. 37:6; Jer. 18:1–6). The faithful must persevere with unwavering fortitude, knowing that God will look after his church in due time (Calvin 2013, Isa. 1:9; Eze. 14:10; Num. 23:24; Ps. 9:12). He will

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supply his people with every kind of armour and thus be “a strength to the poor, a refuge from the storms, and a shadow from the heat” (Calvin 2013, Isa. 25:4). Calvin remarks that Stoic philosophers such as Cicero’s Brutus upheld the doctrine of Divine Providence. But they only paid lip service to it. Brutus was a man of great courage. However, when vanquished by Anthony, he bitterly complained that all his beliefs about virtue were mere inventions of men and had no foundation in truth. Fortune has the final word in human affairs, he thought, and all the pains taken to live honestly and virtuously are in vain. The lesson to be learned from this story is that pagan sentiments are fickle; they “fluctuate with the fluctuation of events.” In contrast to them, godly men rely on God’s help and grace to keep them from questioning their own faith, even when his word generates contradictions and confusion in their own minds (Calvin 2013, Ps. 73:1; Harm. 39:2). A sombre fate awaits the reprobate and unbelievers who are as bold as lions, presume to be all powerful, do not fear God, and refuse to bow humbly before him (Calvin 2013, Gen. 35:5; Josh. 2:9; Jer. 41:18; 43:3). God will turn these fearsome lions into fearful dogs (Calvin 2013, Jer. 48:41). He will bring terror to cowards whose disbelief, impiety, and “imbecility of heart” prevent them from persevering in faith and prayers (Calvin 2013, Josh. 1:6; Ps. 37:24; 40:5; Ex. 1:22). He will castigate “the proud, who, trusting to their own wisdom, fortitude, and opulence, make not God their refuge” (Calvin 2013, Ps. 119:26; see Eze. 7:17). Papists and those boasting to be rulers of the church are the worst offenders in this regard (Calvin 2013, Jer. 15:18). Since the true doctrine stems directly from the mouth of God, the faithful must use their enduring faith to repel the attacks of those who boast to be the church of God and “render that sacred name a laughing-stock by their use of it” (Calvin 2013, Eze. 2:6). Armed with the power of celestial truth, the elect working as teachers persevere in their mission with unconquered fortitude, as God directs. He expects them to never flinch in the face of universal hatred, as well as slanders, curses, threats, and terrors of all kinds (Calvin 2013, Eze. 2:6; see Dan 11:34–35; Jer.1:10; 43:10). John Robinson uses Calvin’s “arrogant lion trope” in his puritan attacks against the English church. Inspired by Calvin, the English pastor

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(1576–1625 AD) says of the exceedingly proud that they are fierce and terrible towards their underlings but forget they have a master in heaven. The terrors the Lord can instil in them should serve as a reminder of what arrogant souls are: lambs among lions. Robinson admits that man’s fear of evil and of God’s anger and punishment may be a sign of weakness; the fearful are not in the likeness of God, who has no fear. Unlike fear, courage and “stoutness of heart” command respect from others; one kingly lion is thought more highly than many oxen, lambs, or doves. And yet humble creatures are more useful in the eyes of God, especially when it comes to offering labour and meat in his name. That is, “God loves rather a good, than a great heart.” “And in the law, God’s sacrifices were to be offered of lambs and kids and doves and pigeons, fearful creatures, and innocent withal; and not of lions and eagles; though they be the kings of beasts and birds” (Robinson 1851, 1: pp. 208–10). For Calvin, the hearts of lamb-like men are entirely in the hands of God. “According to his pleasure, either those who formerly were timid or cowardly persons suddenly acquire fresh courage, or those who formerly boasted loudly of being bold and daring lose their fierceness and become effeminate” (Calvin 2013, Isa. 13:14; see 19:1). While Luther defends the same views, Calvin seems to borrow some elements from the scholastic lessons of virtue. He concedes that virtues such as prudence, fortitude, clemency, and justice are integral parts of God’s dominion over the four quarters of the globe and the animal kingdom (Calvin 2013, Eze. 1:4; 20:13; Harm. 30:23). He also remarks that fortitude is brutality unless combined with the spirit of prudence and sound judgement, a well-­ trodden idea dating back to classical Greece (Calvin 2013, Gen. 24:67). In complex situations, it is important that we perceive, with a composed mind, what is necessary, what is lawful, and what is expedient to be done; then shall we be prepared promptly to meet any danger whatever. For, that our minds should be carried hither and thither by hastily catching at wicked counsels, is not less perilous than that they should be agitated by fear. (Calvin 2013, Gen. 19:8; see 42:27)

The concession, however, is minor, if not misleading. For Calvin, acting prudently in all things does not mean following one’s judgement

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based on the exercise of reason. The point, rather, is to make the Law our master. The precept should not be confused with having the right intention, imagining ourselves to be wiser than we are, or mixing our own counsel with divine commands (Calvin 2013, Josh. 1:6). Once again, faith in God’s providence and obedience to his Law take precedence over all other considerations. Through the word of God and his prophets, Luther and Calvin summon the faithful to courageously pray for the gifts of faith, fear, and fortitude. Failing this, they may suffer the rejection of God and be denied all possible gifts, including being predestined for salvation in heaven. As many have noted, there is an apparent contradiction here. Calvin is aware of it and, unlike Luther, prefers to address it head-on. In his view, the Lord enjoins the faithful to cultivate a spirit of fortitude and courage such that they can sustain all the calamities they are bound to endure and never yield to temptation or cease to trust in God (Calvin 2013, Ps. 44:19). To obtain God’s assistance, we must bear with patience and fortitude the crosses and afflictions inflicted on us; we must “subdue our passion, restrain our impatience, and keep our sorrows within due bounds, waiting until our afflictions call forth the exercise of his compassion, and excite him to manifest his grace in succouring us” (Calvin 2013, Ps. 10:18). But the most important thing is that we should never abandon hope. Nor should we despair that we are mere mortals, that Fortune is blind, and that resisting necessity or fighting against fate is all in vain (Calvin 2013, Ps. 94:12). Those who hold such views hide their opposition to God. The fact that God is all-powerful and dictates what happens to us, irrespective of what we do, should not stop us from seeking “manifest signs” of his presence and favour in our lives. One such sign is the manly courage we display when we pray for his divine assistance and submit to his Law (Calvin 2013, Josh. 1:6). While church members deserve nothing for being courageous, their fortitude and fear of God are signs that give them hope of being the elect—the chosen who embrace faith and reap the blessings that follow (Calvin 2013, Ps. 129:1). Exhortations to demonstrate God-given courage are not in vain (Calvin 2013, Jer. 1:17; Eze. 3:9).

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The reasoning will appeal to the converted. However, one cannot help but think that if the reprobate are unworthy of God’s help, it is because they do not willingly choose to trust and pray for his grace. If so, they are responsible for being struck with fear and suffering all the calamities that follow. Whatever Calvin says, his evocation of God’s instruction to “fear not, lest I should make thee to fear” sends a clear message: one can choose to fear or not to fear (Calvin 2013, Jer. 1:17). This is the paradox that haunts any belief system committed to the idea of predestination. It is hard to ignore. The enigma dates back to the Scriptures and patristic literature: pious fear and fearless strength are both gifts from God and conditions for receiving the gifts. There is no devotional fear without a prior expression of Christian courage, and no Christian courage without a prior expression of devotional fear. In the absence of one gift, the other is withdrawn. Only those who fear God can be granted the fortitude that believers need to face the many trials of human existence and dedicate their lives to serving God and his children on Earth. On the other hand, no one receives the gifts of fear and faith unless they show fortitude in the face of evil and adversity. The contradiction is glaring. However, in all fairness, puzzles at the heart of human ethics are the norm rather than the exception. Any moral theory that claims to provide a full explanation of its own presuppositions is suspect from the start. Fearlessness that is so consistent as to fear nothing can be accused of harbouring the worst anxiety of all: the fear of fear. The same can be said of any rational system that dispenses with all acts of blind faith and canonical thinking. Rational minds exempted from showing faith in something are self-deluded. Greek philosophy is founded on blind faith in the wisdom of the mind. Ultimately, the challenge that we face does not consist in either understanding everything or believing despite all. The real challenge is to both understand and put our faith in whatever constitutes reasonable grounds for believing. The question is whether the challenge calls for God’s assistance, without which there is no hope. The answer is essentially a matter of faith.

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References Bridget of Sweden. 2006. The Revelations of Saint Birgitta of Sweden. Trans. D. Searby, Intro. and Notes B. Morris. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Calvin, Jean. 2013. Calvin’s Complete Commentaries. Riverside, CA: The Ephesians Four Group. Catherine of Siena. 1907. The Dialogue of the Seraphic Virgin Catherine of Siena. Trans. and Intro. A. Thorold. London: Kegan Paul. ———. 2017 [1905]. The Letters of Saint Catherine of Siena. Trans. and ed. with Intro. VD. Scudder. New York Saint: St Athanasius Press. Luther, Martin. 2014. The Complete Works of Martin Luther, 6 Vols. Colorado: Delmarva. Robinson, John. 1851. The Works of John Robinson, Pastor of the Pilgrim Fathers. Memoir and Annotations R. Ashton, 3 Vols. London: John Snow. Wyclif, John. 2019a. On the Seven Gifts of the Spirit. In Selected Latin Works in Translation, trans. and ed. S. Penn. Manchester: Manchester University Press. ———. 2019b. The Church and the Christian Life. In Selected Latin Works in Translation, trans. and ed. S. Penn. Manchester: Manchester University Press.

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In their discussions of courage, precursors and key figures of the Reformation rely on the Scriptures to promote divine grace and the spirit of fear suffered by martyrs or inflicted by soldiers of Christ. By contrast, leaders of the scholastic movement propose a Christian understanding and adaptation of theories of fortitude dating back to classical antiquity. They pay attention to the powers of love and the human will and see value in placing the human intellect at the service of church doctrine. Grace remains nonetheless an article of faith: the higher their level of pious fear, suffering, and charity, the greater the need humans have for God’s assistance and strength, which constitute the highest form of courage. This is how Peter Lombard and many after him reconcile God’s providence in difficult times with the exercise of moral reason and freedom in everyday life. Divine Providence and the fear of God continue to play a central role in church doctrine, even as they are downplayed. God bestows virtues on the faithful in accordance with his supreme will. However, this does not absolve them of their obligation to always behave wisely and courageously, out of their own free will and for the love of Christ. The attitude of meekness before God runs across all Christian traditions. But even there, variations in meaning are noticeable. For the reformers, humility is a fundamental principle that must be strictly applied, © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. M. Chevalier, The Ethics of Courage, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-32739-1_17

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without any compromise or exception. For others, expressions of humility do not preclude the wise from trusting their own intellect or Christ’s warriors from achieving victory at war. Significant differences also play themselves out in the existential realm. By and large, gloomy thoughts about human existence prevail among strong critics of the church. Their sombre outlook on mortal life is generally shared by hardline advocates of holy crusades and church hegemony, all fighting for the greater glory of the Almighty in heaven. By contrast, a softer view of the potential for moral goodness on Earth can be found in the scholastic literature and among church “members of the Dove.” Despite these differences, all theologians agree on the notion that life should not be enjoyed on its own. No true Christian dares to imagine otherwise. Thomas More (1478–1535 AD) is a rare exception. His vision of life in Utopia foreshadows new developments in Renaissance humanism and modern ethics, leading to a complete rethinking of the political and psychological foundations of courage. At the same time, More is well remembered for his opposition to the Reformation, for which he paid with his life. This chapter examines the two streams of thought in his work and how they lay the groundwork for future discussions of the idea of courage.

Tribulation and Humble Faith: Thomas More In his Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation (1534), More adopts a conservative approach to questions of Christian morality, including the courage to live one’s faith and face the many tribulations that follow. Much of his thinking on the nature of courage aligns with the Protestant mistrust of philosophical rationalism. His ideas help shift the emphasis from the primacy of wisdom and love to the virtues of loving fear and pious faith. They also stress the weaknesses of the flesh, the certainty of sorrow and misery, and the value of leading a humble life. More wrote the Dialogue during his imprisonment in the Tower of London, just before his execution for his refusal to swear allegiance to the monarch as the Supreme Governor of the Church of England. It is a fictional conversation between Anthony and his nephew Vincent. It is set in 1528 AD in the Kingdom of Hungary, which is under threat of invasion

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by the Ottomans. While the story emphasises the trials and tribulations of Christian souls, the word “courage” appears only twenty-six times in the text. Book 1 is about men’s desire to receive comfort from God, his gift of faith, and the rewards of heavenly salvation, all of which are needed to cope with tribulations in the flesh. Trials may be caused by one’s fault or may be sent by God to punish sinners and prevent them from sinning again. They also help men develop the patience required to live a life of virtue. Anthony and his nephew discuss these issues without ever using the word “courage.” The other two books have more to say about the subject. Three important themes emerge in Books 2 and 3: strength given for one’s penance, despair turned into a remedy, and the sins of greed and pride. The first concerns the courage that God grants to those who do penance for their sins. Penance brings joy and strength to the soul of a man who willingly endures physical suffering to atone for his sin for the sake of God (More 2019a, 2:4). Those who do not feel sorry for their sins and fail to purge the spirit through suffering of the flesh may think they are bold and courageous. All the same, unless they repent, they should live in constant fear of never going to heaven (More 2019a, 2:7). The second theme concerns the “temptation of fear that leads to impatience or the exaggeration of danger.” More calls this “the night’s fear”— dreading those hours of darkness when the feeling of danger is intensified and threats look much worse than they are (More 2019a, 2:12). Cowardice caused by such fear leads to the temptation of suicide, which Vincent views as a sign of great courage and boldness. His wise uncle corrects him. In his mind, those who will their own death may seem bold, but they are guilty of pride, anger, and cowardice. A case in point is Cato of Attica, who killed himself after his defeat at the hands of Julius Caesar. More than anything, his suicide revealed his “plain pusillanimity and impotency of stomach”; the man could not bear another man’s glory and feared the tribulations that would follow. Some may believe that their despair and desire to kill themselves are a revelation from God. In such cases, comfort and counsel are required to make them aware of their delusion and help them gather enough strength and courage to let go of their irrational fear. Their anguish calls for “tender loving words to be put in good courage.” Anthony adds that they can muster courage by putting their trust in God’s

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mercy, doing penance, and being grateful for their own fall. Despair thus turns into a wholesome remedy and an invitation to show humility instead of excessive boldness and pride. It is also an opportunity to achieve greater wisdom, share it with others, and avoid falling back into sin (More 2019a, 2:15–16). The last courage-related theme concerns the possession or loss of outward things, such as “lands, possessions, goods, authority, fame, favour, or hatred of the world.” God comes down hard on those who acquire goods through crime; their “boldness and courage in sin” will not go unpunished (More 2019a, 3:14). Prosperity and a life full of light-hearted pleasure and courage may be a source of pride, but the feeling should not be trusted. Nor does the self-esteem gained by flattery strengthen a person’s courage (More 2019a, 3:10). Pride is like a deadly arrow shot into the air on a cold winter day, a time of the year otherwise known for its long nights of fear and related tribulations. Protection from this arrow lies in the shield of God (More 2019a, 2:16). Book 3 encourages those that suffer persecution, captivity, and martyrdom to seek comfort and courage from their faith in God (More 2019a, 3:18, 24). More expands on this theme elsewhere, in The Sadness of Christ, the last book he wrote in the Tower of London before his execution. A particularly interesting question he raises concerns the anguish and “fear of the night” that Christ felt in Gethsemane as he approached his suffering and death on the cross: did “the chief banner-bearer and captain of all martyrs” set a good example when he humbly prayed his father in heaven to spare him the cup of passion? More argues that while Christ actually felt the fear of having “his flesh cut,” he did not shrink from facing pain and death (More 2019b). He therefore stands as a model of courage. Instead of seeking comfort in the wisdom of abstract reason and philosophy, the Shepherd set an example of loving fear and faith in the will of his Father in heaven. God, who was made flesh, thus comforted his sheep with the following message: I myself have vanquished the whole world, and yet felt I far more fear, sorrow, weariness, and much more inward anguish too, when I considered my most bitter painful passion to press so fast upon me. He that is strong-­ hearted may find a thousand glorious valiant martyrs, whose example he

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may right joyfully follow. But thou now, O timorous and weak silly sheep, think it sufficient for thee, only to walk after me, which am thy shepherd and governor, and so mistrust thyself and put thy trust in me. For this self same dreadful passage lo! have I myself passed before thee. (More 2019b)

Comfort and courage are given to those who walk on the same path as God, joyfully and willingly, and ask for his help in overcoming their fear and weakness of the flesh. Inspired by the “manful hardy courage of Christ,” all valiant martyrs discover that “after heaviness comes joy and pleasure, and after fear, strength and courage” (More 2019b). After loathing death, they long for it, see pain in living, and gain in dying and being with Christ. But while these rewards may bring comfort, God, in his infinite mercy, does not encourage his followers to overestimate their own courage and show excessive zeal. They should not run to their own deaths or welcome trials that go beyond what they can endure.

Utopia and Life on Earth In Utopia, More explores an entirely different approach to life, one that evolves in a state of nature and primitive human association, without any reference to church doctrine. His description of Amaurot, the capital city of “The Best Kind of Republic and the New Island of Utopia,” is rich in detail (More 2019c). In this city, there is no private property, and all houses can be freely entered. Behind them lie beautiful gardens, which people cultivate with great care and pleasure. Vine, fruit, herbs, and flowers grow in abundance. These gardens are the most precious legacy of Utopus, the founder, who designed the town and trusted future generations to improve and bring it to perfection over time. In addition to living well, people show solidarity and value their freedom and equality. More echoes classical Greek sentiments regarding the inborn bravery of men who fight of their own free will to protect the commonwealth against outside threats and the rule of tyranny. In Utopia, the able-bodied are more likely to display courage and inspire others to do the same. However, not all men are courageous by instinct. When there is a threat of invasion, those who are not inclined to brave danger are posted in less dangerous

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places and contribute to defending their country in their own way. Warriors may be well trained and highly skilled in military affairs, but they exercise prudence by hiring troops to engage in battle. This way, they can protect their loved ones and avoid wasting their lives for no reason. The author adds that warlike discipline and fortitude are not attributes of the masculine gender alone. Women who are willing to go to war along with their husbands are encouraged and given praise. Close relatives stay together and fight with great zeal. “They will much sooner die than give ground,” confident that other Utopians will take care of their children if they fall in combat. In Utopia, instinctive courage enhanced by discipline serves the reign of freedom, equality, solidarity, prudence, and prosperity. While inviting several possible interpretations, the text is so playful and outlandish that it may be read as a reductio ad absurdum of life that strays from real history and moral standards. Be it as it may, save for the absence of private property and the role attributed to women, the vision harks back to the ideals of republican patriotism in classical antiquity. The gift of courage and its distribution reflect natural laws; people care for their loved ones and the good of all, and the rule of freedom and equality is preserved without divine assistance. In this vision, hopes for the blessings of Eden are pointless; real gardens are cultivated with pleasure and provide for everyone’s needs. While the book seems to have been popular, its author is mostly remembered for other writings and his own tragic story. The schoolmen would relate more easily to his real-life suffering, and the reformers even more. After all, the goal of theology is not to restore the original beauty and fellowship of this world, letting everyone share the Earth as if it were a universal church that governs this life. Reproaching theologians of the time for not glorifying social living in a natural state, after the example of the Romantics in the late eighteenth century, seems an anachronism, one might say. And yet the question is fundamental and remains unanswered to this day: how do we show respect for both the Nature that we dwell in and the Nature that dwells in us? To what extent should we rely on our own strength and courage to protect and cultivate all the blessings of life on Earth?

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The view taken by leaders of the Reformation is clear. Far from being the fruit of human deeds and wisdom, the strength to endure the many trials of life on Earth and to give oneself to God and others comes from heaven and is granted to the elect as God wills. The gift is even more necessary as the world created for us is not meant to last. Nor is it a garden of roses, as Luther puts it (Luther 2014, 58:30). Part of the Earth as we know it used to be a paradise, prior to the fall of Adam and Eve, before they ate the forbidden fruit of the tree of life and gained knowledge of good and evil. Calvin adds that Eden served as an image of celestial life and true happiness for God’s children in heaven. The garden was nonetheless located on Earth, somewhere in the east. It was God’s first gift to Adam, a place of great beauty, prosperity, abundant fruit, and delight. It was a most fertile and pleasant place granted to man so “that he should have dominion over the Earth, from which he might gather fruit, and thus learn by daily experience that the world was subject unto him” (Calvin 2013, Gen. 2:8). But why is it that Adam and the entire human race were not allowed to dwell in the Garden of Eden from the start and remain there? Calvin’s answer is that we aspire to celestial bliss, yet “we fix our foot on Earth long enough to enable us to consider the abode which God requires man to use for a time” (Calvin 2013, Gen. 2:8). God appointed Adam as an inhabitant of the Earth in order that he might, in passing through his earthly life, meditate on heavenly glory; and that he had been bountifully enriched by the Lord with innumerable benefits, from the enjoyment of which he might infer the paternal benevolence of God. Moses, also, will hereafter subjoin that he was commanded to cultivate the fields and permitted to eat certain fruits: all which things neither suit the circle of the moon, nor the aerial regions. (Calvin 2013, Gen 2:8)

Adam was given a taste of heaven and God’s fatherly love. Since he was not meant to be idle, he was made custodian of the garden and assigned the pleasant task of cultivating the soil. God expected him to be thankful for this, resist the temptation of exceeding his powers, and thus refrain from eating the forbidden fruit. The same principles govern the world

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after the Fall. The Earth is a gift from God, which humans can enjoy on the condition that they make moderate use of its fruits and take care of what remains. Anyone who possesses and cultivates a field must not squander its yearly produce or let it go to waste. He must protect the field from any harm and hand it down to posterity as he received it or in better condition. Moreover, that this economy, and this diligence, with respect to those good things which God has given us to enjoy, may flourish among us; let every one regard himself as the steward of God in all things which he possesses. Then he will neither conduct himself dissolutely, nor corrupt by abuse those things which God requires to be preserved. (Calvin 2013, Gen 2:15)

Adam was charged with the responsibility of tending the garden. Teachers of the true faith now have the same obligation. They are like gardeners who protect their fields or vineyards from being exposed to wild beasts. According to Calvin, “papists” fail miserably in this. They behave like pagans who worship false gods in sacred groves. Idolaters who adorn their gardens like temples err in believing they are living in a heavenly church and are pure in the sight of God. In reality, they pollute themselves with superstitions and behave like “withered trees that have lost their foliage” (Calvin 2013, Isa. 1:30). They spread Eden to all regions of the soul and the world, letting it be dominated by the greedy Church of Rome. Idolaters deserve to see their earthly dominion go to ruin and turn into a dry and barren land. This is what happened to Adam, who was abandoned by God and condemned to live in solitude, driven away from Eden by his own fault. Because of his sin, he was forced to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow and “till the ground from whence he was taken” (Calvin 2013, Gen. 3:23). In Eden, labour was a source of pleasure and fruit in abundance. It is only after the fall that it becomes drudgery, i.e., servile work, as in the mines. Calvin adds an important nuance here, which is that God is clement and allows mortal men to derive some pleasure from their labour. This goes to show that the fountain of God’s kindness never dries up, so long as the faithful do not succumb to evil. In the end, however, God alone decides who will receive his kindness, regardless of their deeds. He chooses those he will deliver from the season of death and grants

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them the strength to flourish like well-watered gardens of the Earth that resurrect every spring. Now these are proofs and very clear illustrations of the divine power and kindness toward us; and since it is so, ought men to doubt of it? Will not he who gave this power and strength to the Earth display it still more in delivering his people? And will he not cause to bud the elect seed, of which he promised that it should remain in the world for ever? (Calvin 2013, Isa. 61:11)

God has the power to transform the wilderness or desert into a fertile garden where the elect can gather to give thanks for the blessings of life. He grants them the fruit of trees and seeds that grow from the abundant waters and moisture of the Earth. But he can also inflict loneliness and sterility on the land because of the ingratitude of men. He can turn a greenery place into a desert and let chafers and worms take over the gardens of fig trees, olive trees, and vines. The idea that the universe as we know it is not a garden of roses and that humans must act as stewards of the Earth is understandable and commendable, to say the least. It resonates to this day. Calvin and Luther nonetheless ignore the centrality of human activity, wisdom, and fellowship in creating and taking care of the world we live in. For one thing, the future of humanity now depends on acknowledging a simple fact of our existence: we are part of the natural world and in a position to shape its future, for better or worse. We are earthlings not in a transient sense, as nomads on a painful journey between life in Eden and bliss in heaven or damnation in hell. As most readers will be aware, this is not an academic question. In this global age, the courage to pour our hearts into this life is more crucial than ever. Even when we contemplate the beauty of the sky above us, we continue to spring from the ground and are responsible for returning the gift. This is our calling, which consists of forever returning to our origins, like seeds of life that feed on the moisture and waters of the Earth. As “humans”—from Latin homō man and old Latin hemō, akin to humus ground, soil—we are now, more than ever, the primary “humus” that must give the Earth fertility and shape present and future life with unflinching courage and determination.

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Nature and the ground of Being provide us with everything we require to feed ourselves and care for life on this planet. This includes the power to be “mindful” when it comes to preserving and improving our fellowship with Nature and among ourselves. Blind faith in God’s will and providence is no substitute for going back to what may be the root meaning of man, namely men-, “to think,” making the ground sense of man “one who has intelligence.” Letting the mind and practical intellect shirk their responsibilities to the fate of humans and all forms of life, both cultivated and wild, has never been an option. Nor can we neglect or ignore our sense of companionship and shared humanity, i.e., the quality of being human, which means showing benevolence to each other in lieu of expecting it from spirits that remain eternally invisible. Life as we know it is not receiving grace from above and passing on the gift to inferior life forms and souls. Nor is it having to brave solitude in a harsh land outside the Garden of Eden, away from our Lord in heaven. Rather, our calling is to walk the only path that is consistent with our true nature: to be brave enough to embrace our global fellowship and reach our full potential, courageously and for as long as we thrive.

The Throne Shall Never be Empty In 1272, the young Edward I of England was in Palestine, lending his support to the Eighth Crusade. The passionate successor to the throne embraced political views that went against those of his father, Henry III of England, who was more inclined to reconcile local factions than take sides. Henry III died on the evening of 16 November, at a time when rebellion threatened his kingdom. To avert any possible war of succession, the Royal Council proclaimed: “The throne shall never be empty; the country shall never be without a monarch.” Edward was declared king immediately and reigned in absentia until he returned to England. This story serves to proclaim the new king. The words pronounced by the Royal Council were later converted to “The king is dead, long live the king!” They offer a fitting metaphor for the succession of regimes of courage dating back to ancient Greece. Ideas that rule are like thrones that are never left empty and are only occupied for a short time. Also, they are

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subject to many tensions and outright rebellions; the rules of succession never obliterate the game of thrones. In this study, three principles with deep roots in history keep fighting for the crown: the existential forces of Nature and physis; the authority of epistêmê, based on the powers of believing and understanding; and the laws of polis, which revolve around questions of fate and freedom, meekness and strength, as well as obedience and command. Throughout the ages, concerns for life, knowledge, and power have placed competing claims on the ethics of courage. The Age of Homer revolves around stories of epic strength and tragic destiny. It proposes what is essentially a political view of martial courage centred on the immortal fame of legendary heroes, with a fatalistic outlook on suffering and death at the hands of the gods. Abstract questions of truth and knowledge receive no attention. Classical Greece overthrows this old narrative and moral regime in favour of models of courage beholden to the higher authority of wisdom and intellect. Three ways of thinking about wisdom-based courage emerge and evolve over time: the civic, the mystic, and the stoic. The civic perspective, founded on visions of the ideal city-state, prevails in classical Athens and gives primacy to battles for freedom directed against outward enemies and forces of tyranny. The reign of wisdom governs all aspects of city-state life, or polis in the original sense of the term. By contrast, the mystic thinking of Pythagoras, Plotinus, and Philo of Alexandria is a God-centred perspective on reason and its relationship with the higher powers of the universe. It downplays the requirements of the human body and the body politic and stresses the courage of the intellect struggling to commune with its own divine principles. The Stoic perspective comes last and lasts much longer. It too is committed to the rule of reason, but with an existential focus. Less attention is paid to evocations of military or spiritual strength than to the core matters of physis—how to achieve happiness in life by using reason and keeping natural passions and inclinations of the senses in check. In the classical era, theories of courage proclaim the higher rule of the intellect; fittingly, the head wears the crown. Nonetheless, philosophers disagree on the properties and relative importance of divergent forms of knowledge (metaphysical or practical), power (city-centred or God-­ centred), and life in this world (ascetic or eudemonic). Mention should be made here of the dissenting voices of Epicurus and the fathers of scientific

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medicine and history. Epicurus puts the affirmation of life and natural existence at the centre of moral thinking and discussions of courage. Hippocrates also ranks core matters of human existence above all other considerations. In his case, the focus is on the courage it takes to live well in harsh weather. When it comes to ethics, physis determines everything and lays down the laws and values of the land. Thucydides and, to a lesser extent, Herodotus and Diodorus of Sicily, propose yet another view: laws and struggles in the realm of polis represent the driving force behind all major events in world history. The virtues of rational thinking and behaviour play an important role in the art of war and the governance of free men. But they do not take command of all aspects of the lives of citizens and fighting men. Wars and state affairs take on a life of their own. Christianity introduces a radically different approach to moral thinking. When it comes to preaching courage, the Scriptures establish a new political regime inspired by the fear of God and a holy struggle against sinners and enemies of the Lord. The claims of rational wisdom and wellbeing in this life are either denied or subordinated to higher aims, those of obedience to the Almighty and the blessings of life in the highest heaven. Philosophers wearing the wreath of wisdom cede power to martyrs wearing the crown of thorns. The principles and battles of polis give way to the politics of devotional endurance and suffering, towards redemption in the City of God. The contrast could not be more pronounced. But the near-absolute incompatibility between moral rationalism and the early Christian faith does not withstand the passing of time and, most of all, the growth of church authority and its ascent to the seat of power. The ethics of courage is key to understanding a 1500-year story of advances and setbacks in adapting moral philosophy to the Christian faith, putting the reasoned knowledge of epistêmê to work for church doctrine. It also involves a protracted process of rethinking the exercise of power in secular matters and the merits of freedom and love in demonstrations of moral strength. On the subject of physis, debates over issues of suffering and wellness in life reflect different positions on the inherent goodness of life and its denial through ascetic practices. However, generally speaking, the teachings of fortitude do not cast doubt on the commitment to suffering in the name of God.

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The Protestant Reformation closes the loop on this long and uneven process of amending and broadening the ethics of courage. Luther and Calvin trace Christian courage back to its biblical origins and revert to the founding ethos and politics of fear, fate, and frailty before God. Both revoke the licence granted to rational thinking and freedom of the will in the service of God. They also condemn in the strongest terms all hopes of clerical and secular power in the material world; they smack of complicity with the venality and tyranny of the Church of Rome. As already discussed, the life and writings of Thomas More reflect the upheavals of his time and deep changes in Christian politics and ethics. The social philosopher and Renaissance humanist nonetheless stands at the crossroads of two eras. The era coming to an end places God in the seat of power and calls on him and his church to adjudicate all disputes over the politics of fate and freedom, humility and strength, as well as authority and submission to the powers that be. Major debates about the place of reason in ethics are framed by the principles of faith in the Almighty. The new era that is dawning extends to the present day and constitutes the subject of the sequel to this first volume. In The Ethics of Courage, Volume 2: From Pre-modernity to the Global Age, I review and discuss five centuries of pre-modern and modern conceptions of courage and the centrality of physis and the laws of human nature in shaping moral thinking, advances in science, and the politics of life in society. New developments in the social and natural sciences and ways of understanding the world we live in represent a radical shift away from the primacy of the intellect and faith in discussions of moral goodness. As in More’s Utopia, modernity pays more attention to people’s happiness and best interests, their hopes of equality and freedom, and the many expressions of energy, passions, and powers of the human will. This new era is nonetheless complex and ridden with unresolved tensions and contradictions of its own. It too has a long history of uneven efforts to appropriate the lessons of the past, based on the exercise of reason and the politics of loyalty to either God or country. Despite new insights, our time continues to place significant limitations on the development of humanity’s full potential for courage in all aspects of our lives.

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References Calvin, Jean. 2013. Calvin’s Complete Commentaries. Riverside, CA: The Ephesians Four Group. Luther, Martin. 2014. The Complete Works of Martin Luther, 6 Vols. Colorado: Delmarva. More, Thomas. 2019a. Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation. In The Essential Works of Thomas More. Musaicum. ———. 2019b. The Sadness of Christ (De Tristitia Christi). In The Essential Works of Thomas More. Musaicum. ———. 2019c. Utopia. In The Essential Works of Thomas More. Musaicum.