Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 6.10

The Universe is either a confusion, and a mutual involution of things, and a dispersion; or it is unity and order and Providence.

If then it is the former, why do I desire to tarry in a fortuitous combination of things and such a disorder? And why do I care about anything else than how I shall at last become earth? And why am I disturbed, for the dispersion of my elements will happen whatever I do.

But if the other supposition is true, I venerate, and I am firm, and I trust in him who governs.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 6 (tr Long)

The intellectual fashion of the age is to assume that the Universe is random, unaware, and without any inherent purpose. It all happened for no reason, I have often been told, and now it is falling apart. The very meaning of science becomes that there is no objective meaning.

Another model, not in vogue at the moment, suggests it is hardly reasonable to claim that effects can proceed without causes, or that something can come from nothing, or that action is not directed toward an end. Rather, everything is filled with purpose, given order and direction by Providence.

Marcus Aurelius argues, however, that either view should lead us, though for very different reasons, not to worry about the events of our lives, the duration of our lives, or the end of our lives.

If life is nothing but a chaotic expulsion, followed by a gradual decay, then there is little cause for clinging to such an existence. Let it play itself out, perhaps even the quicker the better, and be done with it. Lacking any directed goal, serving no innate function, I may numb myself with gratification, but there will be no ultimate fulfillment. Why worry about it all ending?

If life, however, follows a design, where change is a constant unfolding, and every ending is also a new beginning, there is also little cause for clinging to such an existence. This is not because there is a lack of meaning, but precisely because there is such an abundance of meaning. Whatever may happen, whenever I may come and go, is as it should be. Why worry about it all ending?

Yet whichever camp we may find ourselves in, we still fret, and gnash our teeth, and struggle to hold on. Is that really necessary, whether nothing can make sense, or everything can make sense? I will either muddle my way through the disorder, or I will develop the deepest trust in the presence of order. This or that circumstance, or more or less of living, will make no difference either way.

I may reject Providence, or I may embrace it. The choice will be an expression of my freedom, and it will determine everything else about my own awareness of what is true and good. Even so, neither path requires me to fear death, or to merely survive at any cost. 

Written in 1/2007

IMAGE: M.C. Escher, Contrast (Order and Chaos) (1950)