Stoic Practices: Role Models

The Stoics believed that we learn virtue through example. Marcus Aurelius wrote to himself as if he were a friend, modeling how to live by holding himself accountable to an imagined mentor. Seneca pointed to Cato as a guide. Epictetus told his students to picture a sage. This practice of role models is simple but powerful: we ask, “What would this person do?” and in answering, we shape our own choices.

For me, role models have been both personal and public. My mother, a nurse for thirty-six years in our local schools, cared for generations of children and called them “my kids.” She held our family together after Dad’s untimely death and lived a life of quiet service that rippled through our community. My band director, Donald Deal, taught discipline and teamwork that lasted far beyond the music hall. Rev. Dr. R. Earle Rabb showed courage in welcoming all God’s children into his church. And figures like John Lewis, Harvey Milk, and Mahatma Gandhi remind me that justice, hope, and service are lived realities, not abstractions. To practice role models is to remember that we are guided by others—and that we, too, may be the model someone else is following.

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Hope in the Ripples

When 150 people filled the hall at Hyde Park United Methodist Church, the room carried more than a discussion of housing, immigration, education, and inclusion. It carried hope. The kind that comes when people realize their voices matter more when joined together. The Stoics referred to this as sympatheia, the understanding that our lives are intricately woven into a larger fabric.
That same truth also lives in smaller, quieter ways. My mother’s 36 years as a school nurse left ripples she never saw. Children who learned, grew, and passed her care forward to their own families. Hope is born in those ripples. It is sustained when we draw our circles of concern closer, strengthen the hive, and trust that even small acts of justice will carry further than we can measure.

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Sympatheia — The Web of Our Shared Humanity

There are moments when the illusion of standing alone falls away. Sitting at my mother’s bedside, I watched nurses adjust her blanket, a caregiver whisper encouragement, and my sister lean in to hold her hand. In that small room I saw a truth that philosophy and faith have long tried to teach. Our lives are braided together. The Stoics had a name for this: sympatheia, the recognition that we are bound together in a single web.

Marcus Aurelius urged himself to “meditate often on the interconnectedness and mutual interdependence of all things in the universe.” To him, nothing existed by itself. A hand could not live apart from the body, nor could a person live apart from others. Epictetus called it being a “citizen of the universe.” To forget this bond was to forget who we are.

In our own time, Pope Leo XIV put it this way: “The earth will rest, justice will prevail, the poor will rejoice, and peace will return, once we no longer act as predators but as pilgrims. No longer each of us for ourselves but walking alongside one another.” The Pope’s words echo the Stoics, calling us to remember that the fate of one is tied to the fate of all.

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The View from Above

I walked the hospital garden and followed the path of grace. At the end a bronze plaque carried lines from Psalms nine and ten. Refuge for the oppressed. God hears the afflicted. The metal was warm under my hand. Nothing was fixed. Yet something in me settled enough to breathe.

The Stoics call it the View from Above. Rise in your mind. See the room, the floor, the building, the town, the small blue world. The pain stays real, but it finds its size. From there the next right act appears. Ask a clear question. Hold a hand. Eat. Pray. Sleep if you can. The practice pairs with the dichotomy of control and with evening reflection. It opens the frame, then helps you learn from the day.

Tomorrow I head to Boone while my sister and a caregiver sit with Mom. Those mountains have taught me to climb, look, and return. The Wesleyan way names that rhythm as grace. Action without contemplation is unrooted. Contemplation without action is inconsequential. In a brittle season for our republic, this practice steadies my voice and keeps my heart useful.

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Am I A Stoic? AI Says…meh

I get some “Prompt-A-Day” emails. One asked for a 10-question Enneagram quiz. I’m fascinated by these personality tests, though I dislike taking them. This time, instead of answering it myself, I fed the prompt into Claude, an AI system, and answered the quiz it created. What followed was more interesting than I expected.

The analysis suggested I’m an Enneagram Type 7, “The Enthusiast.” Energetic, future-focused, quick to act, and sometimes scattered under stress. It also noted I may lean on a Type 6 wing, which adds loyalty and a concern about what others think. Claude then connected this to Stoicism and told me I had some Stoic tendencies—but also some traits that make the Stoic life harder.
That led to a deeper exchange about the practices I’ve been turning to during hard times. When asked which practice mattered most, I answered quickly: memento mori. For me, remembering death isn’t just philosophy. I grew up in the funeral industry, worked in it during the early days of the AIDS epidemic, and cared for friends in their final days. Those experiences taught me more about life than death—and made Stoic practice feel like coming home.

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Bi-Vocational Martyrdom and the Pronoun Police: Crying Wolf in a Library

Tony Perkins is mad again. This time, it’s because his “bi-vocational” pastor buddy got fired from a public library job for refusing to call a coworker by their chosen pronouns. Perkins calls it persecution. I call it what happens when someone mistakes rudeness for righteousness. This essay cuts through the drama, mocks the martyr complex, and reminds Pastor Luke that if you want respect, you might try giving some. Being a public employee means treating the public like people — all of them.

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A Way Out of No Way: John Lewis and the Moral Will

“Lewis did not need a theory of justice. He lived one.”
Five years after the death of Congressman John Lewis, his words and witness still call us to the hard, necessary work of moral courage. Drawing from Christian theology, the Black church, and the discipline of nonviolence, Lewis embodied a philosophy of action that mirrors the core of Stoic thought—and resonates just as deeply with the teachings of Judaism, Islam, and Buddhism. He did not merely protest injustice. He met it with clarity, hope, and a soul unshaken by cruelty. His legacy extends beyond American history. It is human wisdom.

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When Facts Fail: Political Psychology Meets Trump’s Epstein Files Debacle

Ever wonder why some people refuse to change their minds even when presented with clear evidence? Scientists have discovered that our brains are wired to protect our beliefs, not seek truth.We see it in Donald Trump’s spectacular mishandling of the Jeffrey Epstein files controversy proves just how dangerous this psychological quirk can be, even for master manipulators.

For years, Trump expertly exploited this mental bias, convincing his supporters to dismiss investigations as “hoaxes” regardless of the evidence. But his attempt to brand concerns about the Epstein files as just another Democratic conspiracy has backfired spectacularly. Unlike previous scandals, this one taps into his base’s deepest fears about secret cabals and hidden power. Beliefs so central to their identity that when Trump dismissed their concerns, they turned on him instead. The result? The worst internal revolt of his political career, with major allies like Mike Pence and Elon Musk publicly breaking ranks.

This isn’t just political drama, it’s a real-time case study in how the psychology of conspiracy theories can eventually consume even those who try to control them. When belief becomes currency, losing trust costs more than any scandal ever could.

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Warriors for Justice: A Stoic Response to Robert Reich

Your first thought might be: One more warrior is exactly what we do not need in this moment. The world feels overrun with conflict already. But what if the kind of warrior we need now is not one who fights for dominance or control, but one who stands calmly for conscience, who chooses clarity over chaos and courage over comfort? That is the kind of warrior Robert Reich wrote about — a woman on the front lines of immigration defense, who meets injustice not with rage, but with a quiet joy rooted in purpose. Her story holds a lesson as old as the Stoics and as current as the morning’s headlines.

This reflection is part of the ongoing “Stoicism Journey” series, which explores how ancient Stoic principles can offer clarity, strength, and moral direction in today’s world. Each piece connects Stoic thought to real-life challenges, often intersecting with faith, justice, and the pursuit of a meaningful life. In this installment, we respond to a story shared by Robert Reich, considering what it means to be a warrior for justice in dishonorable times.

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“Healing or Hiding?”

What if the peace you’re chasing is actually keeping you asleep? In a world that rewards quiet compliance, true healing might look less like serenity and more like staying present, even when it hurts. This post explores why “wellness” without justice isn’t peace—it’s sedation.

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No Longer as Predators, But as Pilgrims

In the wake of a cruel and deeply unjust budget bill passed by the U.S. Congress, I feel compelled to speak out—not just as a citizen, but as a Christian, a United Methodist, and someone at retirement age who will soon depend on the very programs now under attack. This essay is a moral response to a political failure. It is a call to conscience. We are not meant to live as predators. We are meant to walk together, as pilgrims.

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