Stoicism's Popular Return: Tech Bro Optimization, Therapeutic Philosophy, and Religious Decline

PART III Concluding Thoughts

The Turn Toward the Stoics and Speaking the Sacred: Lessons

So, it seems that Stoicism is attractive once more, because humans still suffer. And as Tillich observed in a declining religious milieu, Stoicism is the only religious sensibility our society will have left. For those who have everything one could ever want, Stoicism addresses the unfillable existential needs we humans have. This leads me to my particular interest: what does the growth and climbing influence of Stoicism today suggest for religious speech in this day and time?

First, the growing interest in Stoicism suggests that there is still an openness to sacred ideas within our culture. By its focus on wisdom, virtue, the inner life, and placing one’s existence within a cosmic framework, Stoicism reveals that humans have a need that perhaps only spirituality can answer. The growing interest in it – like the young men joining my book club (see above) – shows that people are seeking spiritual answers to life’s questions and that existential needs are not being met by late modern life. Perhaps that is why so much of modern religious speech is styled in an advice-like manner. But this is not enough. I think popular Stoicism hits deeper than mere advice; it addresses the hard issues of human finitude without resorting to simple, saccharine shortcuts.

Speakers of the sacred would do well to pay attention to Stoicism and make use of its more perennial elements, those that overlap with other traditions, such as the Judeo-Christian tradition. Three specific elements found in Stoicism are helpful jumping-off points for further religious communication in today’s age: Memento Mori, Primacy of Virtue, and Amor Fati.

As mentioned above, memento mori is the remembrance that one will die. Rather than a morbid fascination with one’s own death, memento mori uses contemplation of one’s death to take the brevity of life seriously, and induce a healthy awareness of mortality to push one into taking life more seriously. Ecclesiastes 7:2 even commends attending funerals to prompt reflection on one’s own mortality. We all know that we are going to die, but life has a way of lulling us into complacency through mundane living. What I find most useful about memento mori, from a personal perspective, is that it supports healthy detachment, so that more important things can be focused on.

Memento mori is baked into so much of the traditional liturgical life and calendar of the Christian faith. There are All Saints and All Souls, days when we are supposed to honor and remember the dead—and if you are so bold, be inspired by their lives of witness. Any reflection upon those who have gone before us in life and in death ought, no doubt, to bring our own finitude to mind. Yes, these traditions are still very much alive in many communities and denominations. But amongst the fastest-growing movements of the faith, there is not much reflection on grief, death, the dead, mourning/lament, or memento mori in corporate worship. The reason is simple: those practices are replaced by more attractive elements of faith and practice to avoid alienating new worshippers. Yet, it cannot be denied that the practices in question are faithful ways to engage spirituality with the whole of human experience. They, like actual biblical material, engage the entire human person; thus they can assist in human development and healing. To the church leaders that forgo such practices, I repeat the charge of British historian Tom Holland (who recently has been seen lauding Christianity, though he remains an agnostic, yet wishes to be Christian) to “keep Christianity weird.” Its weirdness, he suggests, lies in how it is life-changing and how it can really speak to society's needs.

The other practice that is quite well known to arouse the memento mori is Ash Wednesday. Each year on Ash Wednesday, the church, to put it bluntly, reminds the faithful that they will die one day. It is a somber reflection of the mind, met with the physical reality of ash imposed on one’s forehead—a sign to wear, feel, and accidentally smear throughout the day. This is a more than cognitive assent to an idea that we will all die one day. It is fully embodied and ritualized. As a somatic experience, the lesson is seared into one’s experience. Through it, we carry the truth of our finitude in our minds and on our foreheads, perpetually beckoning us to ask whether the way we live is worthy of our brief time in this world.

And then there is the primacy of virtue. Stoicism’s conviction that the primacy of virtue is the key to a flourishing life gives Christian preachers fertile ground for bridge-building. For the Stoics, virtue is the highest good—it is better to be just, wise, and courageous than to be rich, healthy, or powerful, because only virtue endures when circumstances change. A Christian preacher can readily affirm this, for the Sermon on the Mount itself suggests that blessedness does not arise from external advantage but from purity of heart, hunger for righteousness, and peacemaking. In both traditions, the measure of a life is not comfort but character. By beginning here, the preacher can establish common ground with Stoic moral seriousness and then extend the conversation toward the deeper Christian claim: that the virtues are not merely human achievements but are animated and perfected by the Spirit of Christ.

Additionally, in our own day—when values are fiercely contested, and a sense of meaning often feels elusive—there seems to be a growing hunger for lives shaped by virtue. The popularity of movements such as wokeness or MAGA suggests that people are searching for moral frameworks, for codes to live by. The pressing question, then, is not whether we seek virtues, but which virtues are worthy of our allegiance. In this cultural moment, when so many are yearning for guidance that places a moral claim upon human action, the language of virtue is not one to be avoided by those who speak the sacred word. Stoicism and Christianity both suggest that a virtue tradition might not only be necessary but appealing for today’s hungry audiences.

Yet it is at the point of amor fati—the Stoic call to “love one’s fate”—that the paths of Christianity and Stoicism diverge. For the Stoic, the highest wisdom is to affirm all that happens, even tragedy, as the necessary unfolding of Nature. Christianity, by contrast, does not baptize fate as good in itself but acknowledges the fragility of life, the horror of death, and the reality of sin. Here the Christian vision both meets and challenges Stoicism. Like the Stoic, the Christian is called to courage and acceptance, but not because the universe is fated and immutable. Rather, the Christian trusts that God redeems suffering and fragility in Christ, transforming them into the site of resurrection hope. Thus, where Stoicism counsels resignation, Christianity proclaims restoration: the fragility of life is not merely to be endured but is taken up into God’s promise of new creation. Communicators of Christianity’s sacred vision can speak to the usefulness of amor fati, but they can also go beyond it to a more hopeful vision of life. This final point is important. Amongst the reasons for its importance is that if one is too focused on amor fati, they might be held complacent towards many of the world’s injustices. Christianity, on the other hand, can meet Stoicism in offering a useful way to navigate life’s challenges, but its more hopeful vision demands that the present state of the world (with its pains, injustices, etc.) is not the end; a better life of flourishing for all must be worked toward.

Conclusion

In the end, what emerges from comparing Stoicism and Christianity is not a matter of choosing between two equal options, but of discerning how each tradition answers the deepest human questions. Stoicism’s call to virtue, resilience, and tranquility resonates across time, offering wisdom that continues to shape lives. Its modern resurgence is therefore significant: in an age of anxiety, secularism, and fragmented meaning, Stoicism provides a language of strength and stability that many find compelling. Christians should not dismiss this appeal but take it seriously, for it reveals deep longings in our culture. Yet Christianity presses further. It does not simply invite us to accept our fate, but proclaims a God who enters history, suffers, and redeems. Where Stoicism steels the will, Christianity transforms the heart. While Stoicism teaches us to endure what must be, Christianity reveals that even amid fragility and death, there is hope of resurrection. For the Christian preacher, this dialogue is fertile ground—Stoicism can open the door to reflection on human limits and courage, but only the gospel can carry us beyond resignation into the fullness of grace.