Stoicism is big right now, and it seems to be getting bigger.

Why is it so popular? A number of explanations make sense to me, including:

Our world has grown more chaotic and uncertain, and stoicism provides resources for navigating the chaos.

People are reluctant to join a religious community: stoicism emphasizes the deliverances available via individual disciplines. In other words, you don’t need a community to be a stoic.

Stoicism is practical: it offers down-to-earth wisdom that you can use today.

Finally, the current popular versions of stoicism are really a mishmash of ingredients from an ancient world, recooked and plated to suit the palate of 21st century Westerners. (This is why I’m capitalizing Stoic/ism only when referring to the pre-modern philosophy and its practitioners.)

That last point is worth chewing on, to extend the culinary metaphor. The practical writings of Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus—which many moderns find so helpful—are rooted in a view of the world and humanity which would seem incoherent to the modern readers. To the ancient Stoic, the world was a divine cosmos from which we should take our cues for how to act. Far be it from us to rebel against our place in the cosmos, whether we are a slave or master. Virtuous living means accepting one’s place within this divine order, not rising above it.

In the words of Marcus Aurelius, “The starting-point for anyone who is to live in accordance with nature is the universe as a whole and its governance. Moreover, one cannot make correct judgments about good and evil unless one understands the whole system of nature, and even of the life of the gods” (On Moral Ends).

This is why Stoicism—and any modern attempt to live as a stoic—must regard hope (longing for a better future) and nostalgia (longing for a better past) to be undesirable passions. French philosopher Luc Ferry puts it well: “Paradoxically (and contrary to popular opinion), Stoicism would teach its disciples to part ways with those ideologies that promote the virtue of hope.”

There’s a reason the Stoic philosophers laughed dismissively when the Apostle Paul mentioned the hope of the resurrection (Acts 17:18, 32).

Maybe you see where I’m going here: I’m concerned about the trend among Christians to embrace the techniques of stoicism as a way of dealing with the challenges of modern life. Christians, of all people, cherish the radical hope of a bodily resurrection. This hope for the future puts Christianity squarely at odds not only with the S/stoic worldview, but also with the many of the practices that accompany it.

Please don’t misunderstand me: I’m not saying that all the advice of stoicism is evil or antithetical to Christianity. You might even notice some overlap between Christian behavior and stoic behavior. What I want to point out, however, is that those overlaps are comparable to two people in the same waiting area in an airport. The two travelers sit side-by-side, but they are waiting for different flights, are traveling for different reasons, and will very shortly go opposite directions.

For example, the Apostle Paul writes, “I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content.” This might sound like a stoic acceptance of the circumstances outside of one’s control; in fact, however, it is far from that. Paul’s contentment, being Christian, was found in his relationship with the resurrected Christ through whom he could do “all things.” No Stoic would have sought contentment in such a preposterous hope. Instead, the repose of mind of the Stoic comes from the following line of reasoning: “I will pass away, be absorbed into this cosmos. Therefore it is foolish for me to wish for something better or to pine for something lost.”

Even more stark is the contrast when it comes to love. Jesus commands, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (Matthew 5:44). The Stoic can also show kindness, but the reason has far less to do with God’s love for all, but rather for the purpose of maintaining one’s mental equilibrium. Accordingly, there is no place for a radical self-giving love in stoicism, whereas this kind of love is at the very heart of Christianity, for God is love.

Someone might still ask whether stoicism in its modern iterations is a kind of common grace from which Christians may greatly benefit. Isn’t it a powerful way of achieving control of one’s emotions in a turbulent world?

I reply: unlike stoicism, the Christian faith sanctions, not settles, feelings of tumult and longing—and not as a concession to life in a disordered world. Rather, tears, anger, action, deep compassion, and even anxiety in proper doses, are the proper Christian responses to evil and suffering.

The psalmists were no Stoics. They poured out their sorrows, anger, and longings to God in a way that we still find startling.

John was no Stoic. Instead of positing the Logos — a concept central to Stoic thought — as an impersonal force in the universe, he identified the Logos as a peasant from Nazareth who died and came back to life. (Scandalous!)

Paul was no Stoic. He saw the world, not as an ordered cosmos, but as a world in travail of birth: “We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time.” And he knew that Christians, indwelt by God’s Spirit, groaned along with creation: “Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved.” 

Jesus was no Stoic. He preached, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” When he stood before the tomb of his friend Lazarus, he wept, was deeply moved, and even got angry (John 11). When he knelt in the garden of Gethsemane, facing an excruciating death, he did not control his emotions by bowing to the design of an impersonal cosmos; instead, he committed himself to the will of his heavenly Father.

Stoicism advocates detachment (not, to be clear, apathetic indifference—but it’s hard to see how detachment wouldn’t lead to indifference). But only Christianity—because of its unique hope for a future bodily resurrection, along with the Spirit-inspired longing to live in view of that future—could have built hospitals, orphanages, and other charitable organizations.

As Luc Ferry writes, “Christianity was to deal Stoicism a lethal blow, relegating it to a marginal position for centuries. . . . Stoicism tries valiantly to relieve us of the fears linked to death, but at the cost of obliterating our individual identity. What we would like above all is to be reunited with our loved ones, and if possible, with their voices, their faces —not in the undifferentiated fragments, such as pebbles or vegetables.”

So is Stoicism—whether its ancient form or revived modern iteration—a friend to Christianity? 

I’ll let you decide.