Category: Uncategorized

  • AI, Seneca, and Jeeves

    There’s a lot of work remaining to be done, and if you want to be successful you must devote all your waking hours and all your efforts to the task personally. This is not something that admits of delegation.

    . . .

    A sound mind can neither be bought nor borrowed.

    —Seneca, Letters from a Stoic, Letter XXVII

    I recently read a P. G. Wodehouse novel for the first time, and I don’t think any other book has made me laugh out loud while reading to myself the way his did. Anyone who appreciates British humor would enjoy his works. While reading Thank You, Jeeves, however, I was struck by the way that Bertram Wooster relied on Jeeves to fill in gaps in his knowledge of quotations. Shakespeare, the Bible, other cultural references: Jeeves proved himself a wealth of knowledge pertaining to these subjects and quick to help Wooster fill in the blanks in the moment:

    “Oh? Well, let me tell you that the man that hath no music in himself…” I stepped to the door. “Jeeves,” I called down the passage, “what was it Shakespeare said the man who hadn’t music in himself was fit for?”

    “Treasons, stratagems, and spoils, sir.”

    “Thank you, Jeeves. Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils,” I said, returning.

    —P. G. Wodehouse, Thank You, Jeeves

    Separately, I’ve been working my way through Seneca’s Letters from a Stoic as part of a philosophy book club. This is really my introduction to Stoic philosophy, and it’s been very eye-opening and inspiring. Here’s the tie-in: in Letter XXVII, Seneca relays the story of a man whose “memory was so bad” that he had to take similar measures to Wooster, yet even more drastic:

    But this didn’t stop him wanting to appear a well-read man. And to this end he thought up the following short cut: he spent an enormous amount of money on slaves, one of them to know Homer by heart, another to know Hesiod . . . He would have these fellows at his elbow so that he could continually be turning to them for quotations from these poets which he might repeat to the company . . . Sabinus was none the less quite convinced that what anyone in his household knew he knew personally.

    —Seneca, Letters from a Stoic, Letter XXVII

    The human tendency towards laziness manifests itself in the persistent desire to offload our work—to externalize it. I keep a to-do list so I don’t have to memorize what I need to get done throughout the day. Wooster had Jeeves as a personal valet to help with much more than just remembering quotations. And Sabinus had, by Seneca’s account, at least eleven slaves to memorize and recall the works of specific authors for him.

    But it’s that last line that stands out the most to me: he “was none the less quite convinced that what anyone in his household knew he knew personally.” And herein, I think, lies the risk of artificial intelligence, particularly the chatbot-style large language models like ChatGPT that so many are interfacing with today: with so much information at our beck and call, we no longer feel the need to retain that information ourselves, in our own minds. We can just ask our personal valet, our eleven slaves, our ChatGPT what was it Shakespeare or Homer said, or how to solve this or that sort of problem, or who such and such was.

    I think Seneca would agree with me that this easy access to so much information—and not just information now, but problem-solving, too—weakens the mind and quickly becomes a crutch. What if one finds oneself without access to the Internet, or without one’s smartphone? What if one finds oneself in a bind without Jeeves by one’s side to concoct an elaborate solution to the problem? Suddenly, the curtain is pulled back and the lack of knowledge revealed plainly, and like Sabinus, we become ripe for the picking-on. The real problem is that we can delude ourselves into thinking that we’re smarter than we actually are: we can become convinced that what ChatGPT knows we know personally.

    This is not to say that artificial intelligence doesn’t have any benefits. Certainly, there is benefit to offloading certain information or tasks: we each have our own strengths and proficiencies, our own areas of interest and expertise, and I think it’s wise to lean on others when it comes to scenarios outside of our own wheelhouses. In such situations, leaning on ChatGPT can be a boon, a timesaver, and a smart strategy. But it’s important to be able to discern when you’re leaning on others’ strengths versus outsourcing your own abilities.

    I’m admittedly a late adopter and something of an AI pessimist. But I like to look at LLMs as a tool—a tool that we’re still actively trying to create and refine, mind you. And if ChatGPT is the hammer, I’m still trying to figure out what the nail is. In the meantime, I’d prefer to focus on building my own skills and proficiencies. I’ll end with an admonition from Seneca to utilize the capabilities of our own minds to create valuable works:

    It is disgraceful that a man who is old or in sight of old age should have a wisdom deriving solely from his notebook [or his favorite AI agent] . . . What have you said? How much longer are you going to serve under others’ orders? Assume authority yourself and utter something that may be handed down to posterity. Produce something from your own resources.

    —Seneca, Letters from a Stoic, Letter XXXIII

  • The Joy of Cleaning

    Something that I’ve been musing about lately is the relationship between brewing beer and doing the dishes.

    At least in the circles that I run in, it seems that most men either don’t do, or resent doing, the dishes. I think that’s understandable, to an extant: doing the dishes is squarely in the category of a chore, and as such it’s tedious, unskilled work that never really comes to an end. It has to get done, whether one likes it or not, or else there won’t be any more clean dishes to use; but one may as well put it off in favor of more enjoyable activities until it becomes unavoidable. I seem to have landed somewhat outside of this camp, though, and I actually don’t mind doing the dishes. It’s a way that I can help out more around the house; its monotony gives me an opportunity to think and reflect, or enjoy an audiobook or podcast; and—feeding into my other quirks, perhaps—it helps me keep the kitchen organized and tidy.

    Brewing, on the other hand, is a wonderful intersection of art and science—at least in my experience, a joy to participate in. But when you crack open the lid, when you really boil it down, brewing is mostly just… doing the dishes. The fact of the matter is that you dirty a lot of equipment during brew day that must be cleaned up, and cleaned up right away, lest your equipment become infested with mold, and, heaven forbid, eventually contaminate a batch of beer. And, so, a good portion of my brew days are actually spent cleaning things in the sink. And I don’t mind that either.

    So, I’m left now pondering whether I like to brew beer in part because I don’t mind doing the dishes, or if I don’t mind doing the dishes because I like to brew beer and have gotten used to the cleaning. Does one feed into the other? Do I, at my core, enjoy the ritual of cleaning something well, and therefore find the process of brewing more enjoyable for the cleaning? Or have I, through brewing regularly, simply accepted the necessity of cleaning, and adopted the dishes as a household chore I can tackle with some level of experience?

    It’s probably worth pointing out at this point that our temporary living situation does not include a dishwasher, so both brewing utensils and household dishes are being washed by hand. Perhaps there’s something about this manual contact with my work that makes cleaning less painstaking—perhaps even joyful.

  • Reflections on Lent, Part 1

    I haven’t truly participated in Lent before this year. But several factors coalesced in the beginning of 2025 that led me to fast during this season.

    Firstly, admittedly from a vain and human perspective, I found that, after the past holiday season and for the first time in my life, I no longer fit into my size 32 jeans. My metabolism (and probably my homebrewing hobby) had finally caught up with me and caught me off guard.

    Secondly, I’ve been tangentially exploring the Orthodox church over the last couple of years, and while I still consider myself firmly in the Reformed tradition, I have found that I greatly admire the emphasis on participation in the Church calendar that exists in Orthodoxy. Lent presented the perfect opportunity to bring more of the Church calendar into my life.

    Thirdly, as I began to consider fasting for the Lenten season, I determined that I wanted to fast from something that I would actually feel—giving up social media, for example, might be inconvenient or annoying for me, but wouldn’t really impact me the way that giving up food would by leaving me physically hungry. And, in fact, that’s exactly what I landed on: I chose to give up both breakfast and lunch for the full duration of Lent.

    Parameters and Goals

    To get specific, this is the criteria I decided on for the fast:

    • No food for breakfast or lunch.
    • No beverages except bulletproof coffee and water until dinnertime.
    • No restrictions on food or drinks starting at dinnertime.

    I had a primary goal and a secondary goal for this season:

    1. For my physical hunger to draw me closer to God, particularly by using it as a signal to pray.
    2. To lose the holiday weight and fit back into my size 32 jeans.

    Reflections

    On this twelfth day of Lent, I have some initial reflections on how this fast has affected me.

    Firstly, I have been consciously trying to redirect my focus from physical hunger to prayer whenever I feel hungry throughout the day. I’ve had moderate success with this but I think I will continue to improve throughout the season as I practice this. I’m recognizing that I need to be much more intentional about my prayer.

    Secondly, I have a much greater appreciation for food. Eating only one meal per day means that meal is much more satisfying and enjoyable, even if it is comprised of simple or plain foods. God could have created us to get all the nutrients we need from breathing, but instead He gave us tastebuds and the ability to enjoy the food we eat, and I’m really appreciating that gift during this time.

    Thirdly, skipping meals frees up a fair amount of time. I’m still making breakfast for my wife and daughter in the mornings, but there are fewer dishes to wash afterward, and I don’t have to stop midday to make lunch and clean up from that. In effect, I have more time in the mornings before work, and fewer interruptions during the workday.

    Finally, because this is only a season, this fast is quite effective at building up a sense of anticipation in me. I’m already eagerly looking ahead to Easter, if only for the feasting that entails. If this was a permanent lifestyle change, it could quickly become wearisome and discouraging; I’m grateful for the seasonality and rhythm that this introduces.

    I hope that the next few weeks help me to focus more and more on Christ, and less and less on my hunger, as I attempt to shift my heart posture, both permanently and in preparation for Easter. In the meantime, as I sip the last drops of my third coffee today, I look forward to a beer and a filling dinner this evening.