Joy in an Unfinished World
Two weeks ago, my pastor Rev. Magrey deVega mentioned the Stoics during a sermon on Ecclesiastes. That immediately caught my attention. Magrey first introduced me to Stoicism about eighteen months ago, and since then, I’ve been reading and writing about it. His sermon inspired me to write All the Seasons at Once, an essay about learning to live through overlapping seasons of grief, uncertainty, and happiness.
This past Sunday, Rev. Sally Campbell-Evans continued the series with another passage from Ecclesiastes. I don’t recall her mentioning the Stoics directly, but as I listened, I kept recognizing ideas I’d encountered in their writings. Sally approached them from a different perspective, one formed by Christian faith, her years in ministry, and experiences that have clearly influenced how she understands the world.
Her sermon focused on Ecclesiastes 8:14–17, where the Teacher points out a problem that has bothered people for centuries. Sometimes good people suffer while those who behave badly do well. Hard work doesn’t always lead to success, and doing the right thing doesn’t always mean things will go our way. Sally started by asking if we’ve ever looked at the world and thought, “This is not how it is supposed to be.”
I suspect most of us have said those words, maybe more often lately than we’d like.
When the World Doesn’t Make Sense
Most of my life, I’ve believed that problems deserve careful thought and that things usually get better when people are willing to work at them. That belief helped me throughout my career. I learned to look at evidence, figure out what was wrong, and find practical solutions. I’ve used the same approach in my civic and social justice work.
Sally asked similar questions in her sermon. When we see suffering, she suggested we think about who has been harmed, who has benefited, and whether the systems around them have contributed to that harm. She challenged us to notice suffering that has become so common we barely see it anymore.
That’s a clear example of the Stoic virtue of justice. Marcus Aurelius believed we are part of a larger community and have obligations to one another. In Meditations, he reminds himself that we are meant to work together and that our actions should serve the common good.
I’ve written before about justice as a call to get involved in the world around us. Sally’s sermon made that idea feel even more urgent. She talked about helping people in need, organizing, voting, speaking up, and challenging systems that diminish human dignity.
Sometimes the problems seem so large, and others’ willingness to address them so limited, that I wonder whether all the effort makes any difference. I’ve felt that frustration frequently enough in my own civic work. But the Stoics understood that our responsibility rests in making wise choices and acting on them, even when the results remain uncertain.
That thought reminds me of a comment from singer-songwriter Jana Stanfied, which I’ve adopted as a bit of a motto for that work: “I can’t do all the good the world needs, but the world needs all the good I can do.”
That brings me to something Sally said that could have come straight from Epictetus.
“You are responsible for your faithfulness. Yes. But you are not responsible for controlling the outcomes.”
Epictetus begins his Enchiridion by explaining that some things are within our control and others are beyond it. Our judgments, intentions, and choices belong to us. Other people’s decisions and many of the circumstances which shape our lives remain outside our control.
It’s a simple idea, but it can be hard to follow. When I was unemployed, I could reach out to people, apply for jobs, and get ready for interviews. But I couldn’t make anyone hire me. Some days I understood that, but I still spent hours worrying about what others would decide.
The same thing happens when we try to make the world more just. We want to believe that if we work hard enough, we’ll get the results we want. When that doesn’t happen, it’s easy to feel discouraged and wonder if our efforts matter.
Sally offered a way of looking at responsibility through her faith. God asks us to be faithful with the part of the world placed before us, she explained. For Epictetus, the foundation is different, grounded in our capacity for judgment and choice. Yet both recognize that we can be committed to important work without carrying responsibility for every outcome.
I find something enlightening in that understanding, particularly when the problems around us seem overwhelming.
The Wisdom of Not Knowing
Another moment in Sally’s sermon stood out to me when she said, “Wisdom includes knowing where our knowledge ends.”
I smiled because I’ve been dealing with that question for much of this year. In Whittling Away at Uncertainty, I admitted that I wasn’t entirely sure how to define wisdom, much less explain how someone acquires it. I’ve begun to suspect that accepting the limits of our knowledge is an important part of becoming wiser.
Ecclesiastes is especially honest about this. The Teacher says people search for understanding, only to discover that even the wise cannot comprehend everything that happens.
I’ve always liked having answers, especially when they help me make decisions or solve problems. But I’ve learned that some questions stay unanswered no matter what we do. Why do good people sometimes face terrible losses? Why does one opportunity show up at the right time while another disappears, even when we’ve done everything we can?
We can look into these questions, and often we should. Sometimes our efforts lead to useful answers. Other times, we have to keep living and making choices, even if we never fully understand what happened.
That seems close to what the Stoics meant by practical wisdom. We use the best judgment available to us while accepting the limits of our understanding.
I’ve found comparable ideas in Taoism, which encourages attentiveness to life’s changing conditions and cautions against trying to force every circumstance to conform to our wishes. Islam offers another related idea through tawakkul, trust in God accompanied by responsible effort. These traditions understand the source of that trust differently, but each recognizes the need to act while accepting that some outcomes lie beyond us.
Sally’s sermon then took an interesting turn. After acknowledging injustice, uncertainty, and the boundaries of human understanding, Ecclesiastes tells us to enjoy life.
Making Room for Joy
In Ecclesiastes 8:15, the Teacher commends enjoyment. Sally interpreted that invitation as encouragement to appreciate life’s gifts while still tackling the problems around us. She talked about shared meals, laughter, music, friendships, and the ordinary experiences that make our days worthwhile.
It reminded me of something I’ve written about before: the holiness of ordinary days.
For much of my life, I measured progress by accomplishments and goals. I wanted to do meaningful work and feel that my efforts mattered. I still care about those things, but losing my mother and facing uncertainty this past year have changed how I value small moments.
I enjoy my morning walks along Bayshore Boulevard, watching the sunrise over Tampa Bay. I like sitting with friends over coffee, sometimes talking about important things and sometimes nothing particularly significant. There’s pleasure in an interesting book, a nice meal with friends, or a conversation that keeps me laughing long after it’s over.
Seneca knew how easily worries about the future can take over the time we have now. In On the Shortness of Life, he urges us to notice how much of our limited time we let slip away. The Stoic practice of memento mori has helped me focus more on everyday experiences and the people I share them with.
Sally shared a moving example about people living with ALS. When someone knows their time may be short, an ordinary conversation, an afternoon with family, or even a taste of ice cream can become especially precious. These moments can’t change the illness, but they remain part of the life that person is still living.
I think we can learn something from that without waiting for a serious crisis. We already know that life is finite, and most of us have experienced how quickly circumstances can change. Yet it’s remarkably easy to forget those truths as we move through an ordinary day.
Dancing Through Grief
The most powerful part of Sally’s sermon came from her time living in Nicaragua during the Contra War.
She described attending a gathering of women when word arrived that one woman’s third son had been killed. The room became filled with grief as everyone struggled to absorb another terrible loss. Then another woman stood and reminded those gathered that life remained a gift worth celebrating.
She invited everyone to dance, and they did.
Sally recalled how the women danced together for the rest of the evening. Their grief remained, and the terrible injustice of another young man’s death had not changed. But in that room, they found a way to honor life while admitting their sorrow.
As I listened, I thought of Magrey’s sermon the week before and Yehuda Amichai’s take on Ecclesiastes 3. Amichai said we can go through several seasons of life at once. Grief and happiness can happen at the same time, and something can end while something else begins. Sally’s story brought that idea to life in a powerful way.
I also thought about my own experience after my mom died. Some days, a memory brought tears, and another moment brought unexpected laughter. Sometimes those feelings came so close together that I wondered how I could move between them so easily. I’ve learned to accept that as part of grieving.
Sally described the dancing in Nicaragua as an act of resistance. Those women had experienced terrible loss, yet they were still capable of noticing the goodness of life. Their joy affirmed their humanity in circumstances that tried to diminish it.
This ties into Stoic resilience. The Stoics believed that hard times don’t have to shape our character or stop us from acting well. But Sally’s story adds something important. Resilience can be shared, and sometimes we get through tough times because others are willing to grieve with us and help us find reasons to keep living fully.
A lot of what has helped me through hard times has come from people who stayed present in my life. Sometimes that means a thoughtful conversation or someone asking how I’m doing. And sometimes, it just means knowing when to turn on the music.
The Next Faithful Thing
Near the end of her sermon, Sally suggested that although we cannot repair everything wrong with the world, we can figure out what’s ours to do and take the next faithful step.
That brings me back to Epictetus and the distinction between our choices and the outcomes we cannot command. It also brings me back to justice. I’ve noticed that the more deeply I care about an issue, the harder it becomes to accept the limits of my influence. Yet real change often comes through steady efforts that offer little immediate evidence of progress.
The Stoic virtue of justice asks me to be engaged with the needs of others. Wisdom helps me decide how best to use the time and abilities I have. Temperance reminds me to recognize my limits, while courage helps me continue when the results remain uncertain.
I’m learning that these virtues often work together in everyday life.
Sally also reminded me that part of our responsibility is making room for joy. We need friendships, laughter, and time to rest from the demands we put on ourselves. We can care about suffering and still appreciate the good things in our lives.
In her Beyond the Sermon talk with Michael Doherty, Sally said prayer is an active part of her life. Sometimes it means listening to someone who is suffering or finding the strength to be there for the next person who needs her. That practical approach felt familiar to me. Our beliefs matter most in what we do with them.
I started learning about Stoicism after Magrey sent me a text about memento mori. Now, two sermons from Ecclesiastes have given me even more to think about. Magrey showed me that grief and happiness can happen at the same time. Sally reminded me that accepting life’s uncertainty means we have responsibilities to others, but we can still enjoy the life we have.
I still worry about things I can’t control, and sometimes I feel discouraged by problems I can’t fix. But I’m learning to recognize those moments sooner. I can get back to the work that’s mine, enjoy time with people I love, and appreciate the ordinary days that continue to offer reasons for gratitude.
There’s always more to learn about living well. And, apparently, my pastors intend to keep giving me plenty to think about.
