Dr. Jay Forrest

Regret often shows up as a desire for a do-over. We replay the past: “I should have done this,” “If I knew then what I know now, things would be different.” These “could have, would have, should have” scenarios can run endlessly.

Sometimes there is real regret; sometimes just a wish to have acted differently. Either way, the mind stays stuck in what cannot be changed.
The Stoics offer a clear response: the past is not under our control, so we must let it go. Replaying alternate outcomes does not undo anything. It only keeps us from moving forward.

We can still learn from the past. A mistake can yield a principle. For example, when faced with choices, choose the path that does the most good. But learning is not the same as dwelling on the past.

If thoughts of “what could have been” arise, remind yourself: the past is not under my control. What matters is what I do now. We move forward by focusing on our present beliefs, actions, and attitudes. Life is not behind us. It is happening now. Be here now.

Socrates, who lived in Athens from 470 to 399 BCE, is often regarded as the founder of Western philosophy and the first moral philosopher. But his life looked nothing like that of a modern academic.

He had no degree. He learned his father’s trade as a stone worker, served in the military, and lived simply. In his spare time, he questioned others, testing their claims to wisdom. In doing so, he exposed their ignorance, which ultimately led to his trial and execution.

He was also indifferent to appearance and comfort. By most accounts, he lived plainly, even neglecting basic concerns like clothing and hygiene.

If we take Socrates seriously as a model, the challenge is uncomfortable. Philosophy, for him, was not a career but a way of life, a relentless pursuit of truth that risked reputation and security.

Today, philosophy is often professionalized, confined to institutions, and treated as abstract or impractical. Socrates suggests something far more demanding.

Do we actually want to follow his example, or only admire it from a distance?

Before offering guidance, we must define what a philosopher is. Today, the word refers to at least two kinds of people: academic professors and lovers of wisdom.

Only recently have lovers of wisdom begun reclaiming the title. In academic settings, philosophy has often become abstract, technical, and detached from life. It was not always so. Philosophy once meant a lived pursuit, a disciplined search for wisdom and the good life.

Some institutions claim that becoming a philosopher requires formal degrees. But if that were true, Socrates, Confucius, and the Buddha would not qualify. Such credentials may be required for teaching, but not for philosophy itself.

The essential requirement is simpler: to pursue wisdom and the good life through reason, observation, and deep reflection.

You may call yourself a philosopher, though academia may not accept it. But philosophy is not about recognition. It is about learning how to live well.

Many academic philosophers study and teach the ideas of others. That has value, but it is not the same as the original pursuit.

The title is not the point. The pursuit is.

Some early interpretations of Christianity included the idea of reincarnation. Certain passages in the New Testament have been read in this light. For example, Jesus identifies John the Baptist with Elijah (Matthew 11:13–14; 17:10–13), which some take to imply a return or reappearance of a previous figure.

This idea may have been part of a broader cultural context. When Jesus asks who people think he is, the disciples reply that some believe he is John the Baptist, Elijah, Jeremiah, or another prophet (Matthew 16:14). Since these figures had long been dead, this suggests that some people entertained the possibility of their return.

While later orthodox Christianity rejected reincarnation, it persisted in some early movements. Certain Gnostic groups retained similar ideas, and the early theologian Origen spoke of the soul’s preexistence and its development across different conditions of life.

Over time, these views were set aside in favor of a different theological framework. Even so, they remain part of the historical landscape of early Christian thought.

Christianity functions as the foundational myth of Western civilization. Myths provide the framework through which we interpret reality and make sense of our lives. In the West, Christianity has long supplied that framework.

For centuries, the Bible stood at the center of cultural and intellectual life. Its language, symbols, and narratives shaped the imagination and influenced countless other works. It provided the shared vocabulary through which meaning was expressed.

But being foundational does not mean being literally true. The Bible is not best understood as strict history. Rather, it operates as myth, a symbolic structure that organizes meaning, value, and purpose.

This is why Carl Jung argued that complete liberation from Christianity is an illusion. Its patterns remain embedded in the Western psyche. The task, then, is not to discard it, but to engage it properly in order to transcend it.

Christianity can be approached as myth without reducing it to literalism. In that sense, it remains true, not as history, but as a living framework for understanding human experience and Western civilization.

Many have recognized that the root of all sin is selfishness. It separates us from others and lies at the center of every moral failure. Sin, at its core, is the will turned inward upon itself. Sin is a breaking of the moral law written in our hearts, impartial benevolence.

Sin is a violation of what is right, and what is right is grounded in benevolence. Because benevolence is not selfish, sin is selfishness. It is the refusal to care for others fully, choosing instead to put oneself first.

Sin is not merely what we do, but why we do it. It is the aim of the will, while actions are its expression. The problem is not just behavior, but the underlying motive. A selfish aim produces selfish acts.

Too often, people try to change their actions without changing their aim. But the root must be addressed. Either the self is central, or what is good is central. Both cannot rule.

True change comes from reorienting the will. It is not only about feeling sorry or trying harder, but about shifting the center. When the aim changes, the actions follow. A good tree naturally bears good fruit.