Wisdom: Socrates, the Psalmist, and the Serpent

In the Meno, Socrates discusses the question of virtue and its acquisition with the young man from Thessaly after whom the dialog is named. Meno is wealthy, handsome, and a student of the sophist Gorgias; now he is inquiring after Socrates. Specifically, Meno wants to know whether virtue can be taught, if it can be achieved through practice, if it is simply a natural aptitude, or if there is some other way one may acquire virtue. With Socrates, however, questions rarely stay in one place for long and soon Meno feels at a loss to even define virtue, much less understand how it is acquired. He soon admits: “My mind and my lips are literally numb, and I have nothing to reply to you. Yet I have spoken about virtue hundreds of times, held forth often on the subject in front of large audiences, and very well too, or so I thought. Now I can’t even say what it is” (80 b).

I can certainly relate to Meno’s sentiments, for I often feel this kind of consternation over many things that others glibly throw about. I am not always certain that this admission is a virtue, though I do take a degree of comfort in what Socrates says later. Before we progress into these dealings however, let us include a friendly reminder from Dr. Robert Harris in his brief article Why Christians Should Examine All the Wares in the Marketplace of Ideas:

Now it is doubtful that Dr. Harris specifically had the Meno in mind when he penned these words. Nonetheless, we must admit that while many of Socrates’s ideas (or at least Plato’s) uncannily resemble those found in the Pauline epistles, there are many others that do not. Allow me to note two things concerning this issue. The first is a matter of idle speculation: I have often wondered to what degree the Apostle Paul was influenced by the Socratic dialogs. The timeline fits—Plato, who wrote most of the Socratic dialogs, lived from circa 428 B.C. to 347 B.C.—and we know that Paul, writing about four hundred years later, was well versed in pagan philosophy as well as the Torah, evidenced, among other places, in his accountings on Mars Hill. Second, I want to reiterate that Plato wrote most of the Socratic dialogs; Socrates apparently never wrote anything. For this reason, scholars are in contention about whether certain ideas really were those presented by Socrates, or if when Plato was composing the dialogs, he took a certain poetic license and ascribed some of his own speculations to his teacher. For this reason, the only thing we can say with complete confidence is that Plato put forth these ideas as truth, regardless of what his master thought of them, though for the sake of convenience, we will henceforth refer to them as the beliefs of Socrates while implicitly remembering that they have traveled through Plato’s quill to reach us. With these two asides out of our way—and a reminder that plainly bad ideas can help clarify better ones—let’s proceed back to Meno; also let us briefly note that Meno and the other Socratic dialogs can be accessed online at the The University of Adelaide Library (Australia) for those interested in furthering their “Platonic education.” (Do note that Benjamin Jowett translates the Meno here; this newsletter references the version translated by W.K.C. Guthrie in Protagoras and Meno.)

We learn in the Phaedo, another Socratic dialog that takes place hours before Socrates’s execution by the poison hemlock, that Socrates believes the soul is immortal. In his proof, he goes through an elaborate argument about reincarnation, claiming that knowledge is not something that we are taught, but rather something that we remember. In fact, we learn from Socrates’s myth in the Republic that each time our soul is born into a new life, it must first drink from the river Carelessness which causes it to forget everything it knew before (Book X, 621 a, b). The things that we “learn” in this life, then, are things that we are merely remembering from lives gone by. The obvious hole in the argument, which is never tied up satisfactorily in the Phaedo, is that of “infinite regress”: such an explanation ultimately does nothing to explain how we know anything, for what constitutes knowledge in the very first lifetime we lived? What was it we were remembering then? And doesn’t this appear to collapse the whole idea of knowledge as remembering, unless some other argument can be found to prop it back up again? Isn’t it just as easy to posit that we have only lived this lifetime and seek some other explanation for how and why we learn as we do? Yet perhaps Socrates is not so far away from a Christian conception of truth after all when he picks the argument back up again in the Meno in response to the question of how virtue may be acquired. We will look at that conclusion in a moment, but first we should follow the pathway that leads up to it.

After Meno’s admission that Socrates has him nonplussed to even define virtue, much less expound upon its acquisition, Socrates claims he does not know what virtue is either and replies (in part): “I am ready to carry out, together with you, a joint investigation and inquiry into what it is” (80 d). To this proposal, Meno expresses misgivings, prompting the following dialog:

It is precisely at this point that Socrates introduces the idea of the immortal soul passing through many lifetimes, though, unlike in the Phaedo, Socrates merely appeals to the pagan theology rather than attempting to supply a rational argument to prove its viability. Specifically, he has heard it from priests, priestesses, and the poet Pindar. Therefore, taking this doctrine as a given, Socrates continues:

Plato’s student Aristotle was later to disagree that we remembered truth in this way, though such does raise the question of how much knowledge is innate (or perhaps more to the point, how is knowing possible). It has often been said that the important thing in life is not so much knowing the right answers as asking the right questions. While Christians would deny that such a truth is a reflection of reincarnation, it does suggest that there have been certain aspects built into us that enable us to learn new things. For example, we often talk about logic and reason. To some degree, logic and reason are learned. Yet in another more profound sense, who or what instilled the capacity within the human mind to be able to make such deductions? It would seem that the mind is itself “innate,” or, in distinctively Christian terms, created in the image of God we were given the tools needed to learn and uncover truth about the universe and the God who created it.

At the end of the day (or the dialog one) Socrates comes to a very similar conclusion. Where does virtue come from? In the words of Socrates, it is “acquired neither by nature nor by teaching. Whoever has it gets it by divine dispensation” (99 e). A bit earlier, he led up to this premise by noting that “We are right therefore to give this title [that is, diviners] to the oracular priests and the prophets that I mentioned, and to poets of every description. Statesmen too, when by their speeches they get great things done yet know nothing of what they are saying, are to be considered as acting no less under divine influence, inspired and possessed by the divinity” (99 d). That then, is ultimately how wisdom, the preeminent virtue for Socrates, is acquired: it is, as it were, a gift from God. But why is wisdom the preeminent virtue?

Socrates suggests an exercise to find out if virtue is a form of knowledge. He wants to know if virtue is teachable, or, in keeping with his earlier theories, if we are capable of being reminded of it. He and Meno agree that the only things that are teachable are the things that are some form of knowledge; that if something is not a form of knowledge, it will not be teachable. So, he reasons, if we can determine if virtue is able to be taught, we can decide, based on the answer, whether virtue is a form of knowledge.

To begin their discussion (at 87 d), they first assert that virtue must be something good. And if it is good, that must also mean that it is advantageous (because all good things are advantageous). So if it is advantageous, is it health, strength, good looks, wealth, or other things that profit us? But if it is these things, shouldn’t we also note that such things can cause harm if they are misused? So therefore, virtue must not be these things necessarily but the “right use” of such things. Continuing the discussion at 88, they then consider that perhaps “spiritual qualities” such as “temperance, justice, courage, quickness of mind, memory, nobility of character and others” would also qualify. But even in these instances, courage when thoughtless can cause harm (think of the proverbial bull in a china shop). Temperance and quickness of mind can be misused just as readily if guided by improper motives. Socrates summarizes the matter by stating: “In short, everything that the human spirit undertakes or suffers will lead to happiness when it is guided by wisdom, but the opposite, when guided by folly” (88 c). He then goes on to add:

But, if this is so, Socrates posits, then “good men cannot be good by nature” (89 a). And if goodness does not come by nature, does it come through learning? If it is teachable, then where are all the wise teachers? In the pages to follow, he points to a number of prominent men in Athens who are recognized as possessing great virtue and asks why it is, when holding nothing back from their children, supplying them with the best education, they nevertheless are not always able to impart virtue. Based on the behavior of some of their sons, it is not teachable; if it were able to be taught, it would thereby indicate that virtue was a form of knowledge. Apparently then, based on such reasoning, virtue is not a form of knowledge. We might at this point justifiably interject several objections: does something have to be knowledge to be taught? even if it does, if a son does not follow in his father’s footsteps is it necessarily an indication that he was not taught it? Could it merely be that the boy did not choose to follow what he nonetheless knew? This is what Aristotle would later argue, for he said that one must have the will to act: the knowledge alone is not enough. For Socrates, however, such a suggestion would be unthinkable, for anyone in his right mind (as he argues in the Apology) would not do something that was disadvantageous to himself. And harming one’s neighbor is disadvantageous; vengeful neighbors tend to pose grave threats to one’s well-being. And if he does do harm to his neighbor, presumably it is because he lacks knowledge or because he is not in his right mind. So then, if virtue is a form of knowledge and it is able to be learned—and if it were taught to the boy and he still lacks its defining features—the only possible explanation left for his behavior is that he is out of his mind, a reflection not on the state of wisdom, but a condition of the physical gray matter we call his brain. But since the young men who Socrates referenced were clearly not out of their mind, then virtue must not be able to be taught and must therefore not be a form of knowledge. But has Socrates been holding out on us? Is knowledge the only way to the correct answer (or in this case correct behavior)?

Of course, Meno now wants to know why knowledge would be preferable to right opinion and Socrates replies that knowledge helps tether the truth to one’s mind whereas it is inclined to slip away without it. In any case, while it lasts, right opinion is just as useful as right knowledge. Yet both of these are acquired: there are no naturally good men according to Socrates. So if virtue cannot be taught, it must not be knowledge. Yet it is acquired somehow. And that, then, is how we get to the idea that wisdom is a divine gift: it is “right opinion”—a believing of the truth without knowing it—which sounds suspiciously like the idea of faith, for what is faith if not the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen? Is this one of the earliest examples we have of the interplay of faith and reason as mechanisms by which truth is uncovered?

Whatever the case, I am not entirely convinced that Socrates’s arguments are wholly sound. What I do know is that they give us much to ponder that we might not otherwise have considered. And, if Socrates be right, this is a step toward true wisdom. If we are uncertain whether something is correct or not, we are inclined to seek out the answer. But if we believe we already know the answer, we will not seek. We must turn to an earlier point in the dialog when Socrates attempts to demonstrate that when we “learn” we are merely remembering what was acquired in prior lives in order to see this borne out. Since Meno is a wealthy young man, he has household servants and Socrates makes use of one of them in an attempt to demonstrate his point. After one of the servant boys is summoned, Socrates draws a square in the sand and asks the boy to ponder it. Translator Benjamin Jowett summarizes the events to follow quite well in his introduction to the text:

Now certainly Christians do not believe in past lives. In fact, many people who are not Christians tend to be somewhat suspicious of this whole premise, just as Aristotle was. What this does seem to demonstrate is that the best methods of teaching usually involve asking the right questions. And this is not so far from what Socrates posits, though he keeps trying to prop up his “proof” of past lives because some of his premises (particularly in the Phaedo) hinge off it. In any case, the slave boy is certain he knows the answers to the questions because they seem obvious and intuitive. But when the answers prove counter-intuitive, he loses his confidence and despairs of offering any kind of coherent reply. With the boy left standing there, Socrates pauses from his interrogation for a moment to speak to Meno:

A few days after reading this passage, I was sitting in church and the primary text came from Ephesians 5:15-17: “Therefore be careful how you walk, not as unwise men but as wise, making the most of your time, because the days are evil. So then do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is.” Of course, I was a bit bemused, because I am acutely aware at how lacking in wisdom I truly am. But it struck me as an irony that such was an indication that I was on the path to wisdom, for in the many delicious paradoxes of the Scriptures—in keeping with the weak things of the earth shaming the wise—only the wise realize they lack wisdom; the fool realizes neither wisdom nor his need thereof. In the same message, James 1:5 was also laid out on the table: “But if any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all generously and without reproach, and it will be given to him.” So then, it would seem that wisdom is a divine gift and that one must first have some degree of wisdom in order to seek wisdom. And how is it that one gains such initial wisdom? It is quite clear that it requires honesty with oneself, and what is honestly with oneself if not humility?

Humility is a word we often dislike, along with meekness. In both instances, we tend to associate these words with weakness. But one of the first things that an addict learns in the process of recovery is that he is trapped by an illusion: he clings desperately to his (false) sense of control, unwilling to offer the reins to God. But what he can’t admit is that he has never been in control to begin with. He is not giving anything up (save a delusion); he is simply admitting the truth. Humility and meekness, then, are both a form of quiet strength, for they know what they know—and part of that knowing includes knowing that there is much that they do not know. There is no need for us to posit past lives in order to derive benefit from Socrates’s dialog. What is required of us to learn—whether from Socrates or elsewhere—is that we remain pliable, humble, teachable. Regarding Hebrews 3:13—“But encourage one another day after day, as long as it is still called ‘Today,’so that none of you will be hardened by the deceitfulness of sin”—Forunner Commentary expresses the following:

Indeed, the very pride that makes a man unteachable is the very pride that also blinds him to his need for repentance and his proper place before God. We may spend hours in profitable speculation about where knowledge comes from and whether it is learned or innate, but in the end, we must not only agree with but go further than Socrates and admit that ultimately all things are divine gifts. I did not create myself, and yet I exist. I did not create the air that I breathe, the water that I drink, or the food that I eat. I did not create the sun that gives me warmth or the rain that makes things grow. And yet all of these things and more exist. And not only that, but I owe a great debt to my fellow man as well. I did not build the computer upon which I am typing, much less the alphabet I employ or the layout of the letters on the keyboard. I am sitting in a chair someone else made in an apartment someone else has constructed financed by money I did not mint. In a moment I will be leaving in a car I did not manufacture on a road I did not pave to sit in a movie theater I did not build to enjoy a film put together by hundreds of people I do not know. And what of that wisdom and knowledge I do posses? I did not invent it, much less the words with which to articulate it. Indeed, it is as Sir Isaac Newton uttered: “If I saw further than others it is because I was standing on the backs of giants.” To the man or woman of God, all things point back to the Maker. If they do not point directly back in terms of good ideas, they do so indirectly by the rate of contrast between themselves and the truth.

Socrates tells Meno that wisdom is acquired by “divine dispensation.” Or, in the translation by Jowett, Socrates begins his final paragraph in the dialog with these words: “Then, Meno, the conclusion is that virtue comes to the virtuous by the gift of God.” In some ways, such a statement seems circular—virtue comes to the virtuous—but perhaps in this case appearances are deceiving. Did we not say that there is a sense in which one must first have a degree of wisdom in order that he might seek after it? If we are to accept such a statement along with Socrates’s claim that wisdom is the preeminent virtue, then we could truthfully say that “virtue comes to the virtuous by the gift of God.” If we were to have any contention at all with Socrates’s claim that wisdom is the preeminent virtue, it would surely be because we felt that love should take that place. It would make for a very profitable discussion to determine whether it is true that wisdom is what love does by default or if there is some other relationship between the two. Whatever the case, wisdom is certainly important, and, while the NIV is not my personal favorite for Biblical translations (though it was the first translation I really cut my teeth on as a young Christian and I know it well), I do particularly like the way it phrases Proverbs 4:7: “Wisdom is supreme; therefore get wisdom. Though it cost all you have, get understanding.” The KJV reads: “Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom: and with all thy getting get understanding,” which typifies the thought of more word-for-word translations. The reason I like the NIV so much in this case, whether faithful to the original to the same degree or not, is because of the degree it emphasizes wisdom and understanding: “Though it cost you all that you have . . . .” We could (correctly) argue that the pearl of great price is ultimately Christ Jesus Himself just as we could argue that love is the primary virtue that informs all others. But we should also hastily add that wisdom and love are bedfellows and of all the persons who walked upon the planet, Christ was not only the most loving but also the wisest. (See Mart de Haan’s short newsletter Wisdom, particularly noting his conception of “redemptive wisdom.”) And, while we are at it, we could safely say that when one “puts on the mind of Christ,” both wisdom and love are certain to follow. Yet not everyone sees the wisdom in doing so.

The book of Ecclesiastes is perhaps best known for the opening eight verses of the third chapter which begin with these words: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up” (Ecclesiastes 3:1–3). It also contrasts weeping with laughing, mourning with dancing, casting stones away and gathering them together, embracing and refraining from embracing, getting and losing, keeping and casting away, rending and sowing, remaining silent and speaking, loving and hating, and war and peace. To this list we might well add that there is a time for taking truth apart and a time for putting it back together again. In Where is the Wisdom we have lost in Knowledge?, Foundations Magazine waxes eloquent about the difference between knowledge and wisdom. Knowledge is not a bad thing, of course; we could say that to great degree, wisdom is knowledge judiciously applied. But knowledge is something like the “spiritual qualities” Socrates named for us earlier that must themselves be guided by a higher principle. Such a thought is perhaps best exemplified in the quotation Foundations cites from John A. Morrison: “Knowledge comes by taking things apart: analysis. But wisdom comes by putting things together.” Or again it is as Bradley writes in the entry THE Story from his Yumbrad blog: “God encourages us to seek knowledge, but knowledge without life is, well, dead. Knowledge with life is what we were meant for.”

Isn’t it interesting that Psalm 110:10 reads: “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom”? In the article referenced above from Foundations Magazine, Ashley Montagu is cited as saying that “To admit ignorance is to exhibit wisdom.” And that really is what takes place when we stand in the presence of our Maker, awed by His sheer essence. We do not have to see Him to know that He is there. All we have to do is look around and realize that we created almost nothing of what we see and what we did create merely makes use of what was already there.

Archive note: See also the discussion forum thread regarding this newsletter.

For many years I was agnostic, but I never could quite commit myself to total atheism, though my life philosophy might have been called “practical atheism.” My reason? Because I could never satisfactorily answer the metaphysical question of origin. We could spend lifetimes searching out the answers to such questions. But in the end, we must admit our utter ignorance and say with the Psalmist “Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain unto it” (Psalm 139:6). There is nothing anti-intellectual about such a claim; it is a simple admission of the truth. If this were not the truth, what kind of a God would we serve? He certainly wouldn’t be God as we understand the term. No, I am quite happy reading in Isaiah 55 that as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are His thoughts higher than our own. If I was all that there was, to what could I aspire in my quest? But I am not perfection nor will I ever be. And the beginning of wisdom is surely this: to realize that I am creature and He is Creator. As Bradley writes in the Yumbrad blog: “The life of God will always elude definition, for it is not finite. There will always be a way to look at any explanation or story through eyes of faith or through the eyes of the serpent.” Through the serpent’s eyes however, our wisdom is limited to the finite stature of man, a rather pathetic god standing in the midst of a universe he did not create and cannot sustain, shaking his fist in the face of a God he claims not to believe exists. But through the eyes of faith, the heavens open and the Son of God shines through: majestic, robed in splendor, eyes of flaming fire, many diadems upon His head, and a name written which no one knows but He Himself, eager to call forth His bride to the Marriage Supper of the Lamb.

“Every morning, lean your arms awhile upon the window-sill of heaven and gaze upon the Lord. Then, with the vision in your heart, turn strong to meet thy day.”

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