Is a Meaningful Universe Really a Non-Starter?

I’m currently working my way through Lawrence Becker’s A New Stoicism, a difficult but rewarding book that reconstructs Stoic ethics without any appeal to cosmic purpose or divine order. First published in 1998, the book still reflects the dominant outlook among modern Stoics today. Thinkers like Massimo Pigliucci and Donald Robertson have similarly emphasized Stoicism as a philosophy grounded in reason, practical ethics, and psychological resilience—rather than in metaphysical claims about a providential universe. In this view, the cosmos is neither hostile nor benevolent but impersonal, and Stoic practice becomes a way to cultivate inner strength and practical wisdom in the face of its unpredictability.

This view of the universe is one I’ve struggled with—both intellectually and emotionally—for nearly all of my adult life. My logical mind accepted it; my intuition never quite did. And while I’ve done my best to live with that internal divide, I’ve recently found myself more open to perspectives I once dismissed.

Thinkers like Bernardo Kastrup, Steve McIntosh, and Thomas Campbell have challenged the assumption that consciousness is a latecomer in a mechanical universe. Kastrup and Campbell argue that consciousness is fundamental—that reality itself is mental. McIntosh, though not an idealist, sees value and direction woven into the evolutionary process. Whether it’s Kastrup’s vision of individual minds as fragments of a universal consciousness, or Campbell’s model of life as a kind of virtual reality in which individuated consciousness evolves by lowering entropy, the common thread is clear: mind—and perhaps meaning—is not incidental, but essential.

I don’t claim to fully grasp or endorse these views, but they’ve made it harder for me to treat the modern Stoic rejection of cosmic purpose as inevitable. If the universe is truly indifferent, then Stoic virtue still holds—anchored in reason and resilience, defiant and dignified. But if the universe is in some sense alive, intelligent, or striving—if logos is more than a metaphor—then perhaps Stoicism isn’t just a noble stance in the face of silence, but a meaningful collaboration with something real. That possibility doesn’t undermine Becker’s ethic; it animates it. It suggests that to live according to nature might mean aligning not just with our own rational capacities, but with a deeper logic unfolding all around us.

Consider the example of a Stoic teacher. One version of this teacher—grounded in a naturalistic worldview—shows up each day with quiet strength, doing what is right not because it will change the cosmos, but because it aligns with reason and integrity. He teaches because it’s worth doing, even in a universe that offers no reward for doing it. Another version of that teacher is guided by a different intuition. She believes that the act of teaching is not just ethically valuable, but cosmically significant. For her, awakening minds and nurturing growth are not only good in themselves, but expressions of a deeper harmony. She still teaches with care and discipline, but her motivation is colored by something more: the sense that her work resonates with the universe itself. In practice, their behavior might be indistinguishable. But the experience—the emotional tone of the work—is not quite the same.

I don’t know where this line of inquiry will lead. I’m still working through the tensions—between what I want to believe and what I can justify believing, between Stoicism as a discipline of the will and Stoicism as a reflection of the world’s deep structure. But I’ve learned to treat the questions themselves as part of the path. And if the universe is, in fact, more alive, more intelligent, or more purposeful than I once imagined, I don’t want to be called out for not listening.