“So what good is power if it is a source of constant worry and fear? Like any of the rest of us, kings would like to live out their lives without these kinds of worries, but they cannot. And they boast of their powers. But if you see a man who cannot accomplish what he wants to do, do you think of him as powerful?”
—Lady Philosophy in The Consolation of Philosophy
I have long since taken to calling the first Tuesday in November National Alien vs. Predator Day, based on the franchise crossover’s seemingly apt marketing line, “Whoever Wins, We Lose.” And so it was again in 2024. Though there were plenty of true believers in both parties who find themselves in euphoric celebration or shocked mourning, polls continue to suggest that for many (most?) of us, neither option was particularly appealing. If you are in full-on celebration mode, cards on the table: this article may not be for you. For true-blue political partisans feeling blue, some solace might be had here. But I write this primarily as one for whom mourning was always going to be the inevitable result of this cycle’s campaign season.
We live, I believe, in a pagan, barbaric age. The pragmatics of political brinkmanship have left us with only two parties, each of which I would contend is inhuman in the ways detailed by Alan Noble in his book You Are Not Your Own. Indeed, though each party is polarized against its opponent, the ills of each are symptoms of a greater turn toward radical autonomy and self-service that superficially feels right but on more fundamental levels runs quite against the grain of how we have been designed.
In this way, it reminds me of another situation, an era of inhumanity and political cynicism in the waning hours of a once-great empire. In this season (as in so many), I find myself turning back to the sixth-century Christian philosopher and statesman Boethius. I firmly believe that there is never a bad time to read his magnum opus, The Consolation of Philosophy, but it feels even more poignantly apt now than in most other times. And in its pages, we can see perhaps a way to reflect on what it means to live faithfully in an era of sociopolitical barbarism.
Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius was born somewhere between 475 and 480, right at the time when the Western Roman Empire finally fizzled out. For the early decades of his life, he flourished personally despite the sociopolitical chaos of his environment. As a boy, he was adopted by the aristocratic scholar Symmachus, who cultivated his young charge’s love of learning—to the very end, Boethius would praise Symmachus’s character and thought. He would also go on to marry Symmachus’s biological daughter, Rusticiana, with whom he would have two sons. Boethius worked hard at integrating the seemingly disparate philosophies of Plato and Aristotle while also following his mentor and father-in-law Symmachus in defending Nicene Christian orthodoxy. And for a good while, his efforts met with worldly success, as he pursued a career in politics that culminated in his appointment to the role of Master of Offices under the Ostrogothic Emperor Theodoric.
The Consolation of Philosophy was perhaps the most influential book outside the Bible in Western Civilization for nearly a millennium.
But matters soured quickly for the idealistic philosopher-statesman Boethius. Though the specific details are still a bit murky, in hunting out corruption in government ranks, he seems to have drawn the ire of some who profited in those damaged systems, men who went on to target him. The capricious and volatile Emperor Theodoric turned against Boethius and had him imprisoned (though it is uncertain whether he was actually jailed or placed under house arrest). No reprieve was forthcoming, and around 526, he was executed.
In the space of his captivity awaiting likely death, however, Boethius would pen one of the masterpieces of Western literature and intellectual thought, The Consolation of Philosophy. Adopting the dialogue form of Plato but interspersing the sections with little flashes of poetry, Boethius would wrestle with all the anxieties that naturally follow from contemplating one’s own mortality. In the book, the fictionalized Boethius is bemoaning his fate by hosting the Muses, who indulge his grief in melodramatic poetry. Lady Philosophy, his onetime mentor, chases away the fickle Muses and surveys the scene in dismay. She all but facepalms at Boethius’s self-pitying indulgences and asserts that she will fortify his spirits with some strong medicine (cutting the bitterness of the cure with a spoonful of poetic sugar).
Lady Philosophy’s argument centers on the question of happiness. The temptation for earthly humans is to find our happiness in the changeable good things of this life, but these goods are governed by the unreliable mistress Fortune. In Boethius’s time, Fortune—luck, chance, happenstance—was envisioned as a woman spinning a wheel upon which we are all unwitting passengers, sometimes at the top but inevitably, finally crushed at the bottom. Lady Philosophy points out that until recent events, Boethius’s life has been pretty charmed by Fortune’s standards—good education, good job, good family—so even on that front, he has little to complain about. But the bigger issue is that he should never have been placing his happiness in Fortune in the first place.
No one wants ill for themselves—we all, Lady Philosophy insists, want to live out our understanding of the Good Life, pursuing happiness. And once we get this good, she maintains, we would rather keep it than lose it. But this, then, is the problem with Fortune—her goods don’t fully satisfy, and we don’t get to keep them. Yet since we can recognize them as good, we must be measuring them according to some unlearned standard. All temporal goods of Fortune, concludes Lady Philosophy, are shadows of a complete, unchanging Good, one we have intuitive knowledge of and must be constantly pursuing, whether we realize it or not. And this Good can only be the consistent and unified God. So we find that God is himself the Good, and therefore the experience of him is true happiness.
Boethius’s text then explores the implications of this chain of reasoning. Because God is supreme existence, wickedness is not only a flight away from the Good, it is an escape from ultimate reality. In a sense, the wicked don’t really exist, and as such, they deserve not our hatred so much as our pity. God in his divine love, power, and goodness ultimately rules over all things, which he can do because he is not only beyond all physical space but outside of time as well, equally “present” in all moments at once.
Though not as famous as certain other great texts of antiquity, The Consolation of Philosophy was perhaps the most influential book outside the Bible in Western Civilization for nearly a millennium. From the medieval world into the Renaissance, it was read by virtually every educated or literate person, and its core principles were directly cited, implied, or just assumed by countless texts from this period. Its English translators included King Alfred the Great, Geoffrey Chaucer, and Queen Elizabeth I. Only in the last few centuries has its influence waned, yet it has always retained some readership; C. S. Lewis considered it one of the ten most influential books in his life, and it remains a favorite in Great Texts programs and classical Christian circles.
In the Phaedo, Plato had his Socrates claim that “a man who has really devoted his life to philosophy should be cheerful in the face of death.” This is why in the Consolation Lady Philosophy is so disappointed with Boethius at the beginning—because he is failing the truest test of his calling to be her disciple. And while the book’s popularity is due in part to its lucid prose, engaging dialogue style, and lovely poetry, I think another reason is that, in the end, we all know that Boethius put his money where his mouth was. Unlike so many other intellectual works, we know that The Consolation of Philosophy is eminently practical, because its author was forced to live it out to the last full measure.
And this is why I return to Boethius time and time again when set against difficulties, which in my case hitherto are far less extreme than his own travails. Theodoric’s decree against him represented the ultimate “cards on the table” moment—could he die as he lived? The answer was, “Yes.”
Lady Philosophy reminded Boethius that the wicked are those who have doubled down on the wrong forms of happiness.
Realistically, once we excavate the reality of our politics from beneath the polarized apocalyptic rhetoric, we can realize that the personal stakes for most of us are not as high as they were for Boethius. But as Christians, our cards are his cards—if the God we profess is real and if he is the God we claim he is, then Boethius’s consolation ought to be our own. Left-leaning or moderate Christians now might be in shock or mourning or denial, even as our conservative brethren were four years ago. But this oscillation is exactly what should expect from Fortune, even as Lady Philosophy pointed out. Chances are, sooner or later, the wheel will spin again, and for those whose happiness is bound to temporal things, the celebration and lamentation will once more be reversed.
And what if the consequences are more severe—significant national or global distress? Well, that would make our situation even closer to Boethius’s. He lived in a realm surrounded by people uneducated in virtue, and he could only watch as his idealistic dreams of creating a space ruled by the principles of reason, philosophy, and faith were crushed—and cost him his life. He died at the hands of the state, victim of a politics of power as Europe collapsed into an insular competition of barbaric tribalism.
I don’t know that Boethius would have regretted attempting to reform the Gothic Roman Empire; surely he would have resumed his work if given the chance, seeking an educated government that pursued justice. It is not wrong to seek the good of our land, nor to mourn when our efforts seem futile. But Lady Philosophy’s words hold a reminder for the Christian who looks ahead to a bleak regime governed by power and caprice, just as they do for the fellow believer rejoicing at the current turn of Fortune’s wheel. We can and should do our work; yet our final happiness can never lie in the vicissitudes of the history we inhabit, for those goods will, sooner or later, be stripped from us.
Lady Philosophy reminded Boethius that the wicked are those who have doubled down on the wrong forms of the good life. Their power is illusory, fleeting, and it is thus a form of weakness, for they cannot succeed in their true goal—nothing less than happiness. Facing his own execution, Boethius could maintain that the man who ordered his death deserved not his hatred but his pity. This too is a vital reminder in this midst of our own polarized era. I would prefer us not to see those on the other end of the political end of the spectrum as enemies—but even if we do, those are the very people we are told to love and to pray for.
I think I need a few more conversations with Lady Philosophy before my medicine kicks in and I can face the future with the same peace that Boethius emerged with. But once again, I can go back to The Consolation of Philosophy to be reminded—of my true home, the source my true happiness—even when the world and the walls around me may seem dark.
